For What Is Broken | Drarry

Chapter 4

Harry stood outside of a nondescript blue door, hesitating. Twice now, he had tried to bring himself to knock. Both times, he had faltered before his knuckles could hit the wood. He didn't know exactly why he was there. He didn't even know exactly where he was, for that matter, though he had a good guess.

All week, he had found his eyes drawn to the calendar over his desk, newly functional and newly tormenting. A time. A place. A name. Hardly anything worth looking at, let alone obsessing over. And yet obsess he had, an endless loop of wondering what it could mean.

A time—Saturday evening, seven o'clock.

A place—a small building in London, two flights of stairs, and now a blue-painted door.

A name—

He knocked on the door. The person who answered it was not a surprise, and somehow still a shock.

"Potter," Draco Malfoy said. His state of casual disarray was disconcerting. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his cheeks were more flushed than usual, as if from heat or exertion. "You're late. I had almost given up on you."

"I—" Harry had not prepared for this. He had only thought ahead as far as knocking on the door, and now that Malfoy was here in front of him, he had no idea what he should say. Embarrassingly, the only thing that came out of his mouth was an uncertain, "I'm sorry?"

It was silly to apologise. He wasn't even ten minutes late, and half of that time had been spent outside of this very door, working up the nerve to knock. But the apology seemed to mollify Malfoy, who stepped back from the door, waving him inside.

The flat was Malfoy's, he knew immediately upon entering. He had suspected as much already, and his hunch was all but confirmed by the row of expensive, polished shoes arranged neatly inside the door and the encompassing scent of Malfoy's cologne, mingled with the smell of food.

Though, judging from the pink scarf tossed over the back of the sofa and the stack of Witch Weekly magazines on the sideboard, Malfoy didn't live alone. A roommate, maybe. Or a girlfriend?

For some reason, that idea struck a dissonant chord in Harry's mind.

He realized, distractedly, that Malfoy had led them to the kitchen. Malfoy's back was to him, occupied with stirring something on the stove. Whatever it was smelled quite pleasant.

Everything about the situation was bizarre. Here he was, on a Saturday evening, alone with Malfoy in his flat. And Malfoy was... making gravy?

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, at a loss for what to do. He had struggled all week to fathom what it was that Malfoy could want from him on a random Saturday night, but his imagination had hit its limits. A confrontation of some sort had been his best guess, or a barbed discussion at the least.

This... Harry didn't know what this was.

"Cooking you dinner." Malfoy pointed with a wooden spoon over his shoulder at the kitchen table. "Sit down."

Harry didn't sit. "You're cooking me dinner," he echoed.

"Yes, that's what I just said."

"Is that—?" Harry sniffed the air, eyebrows furrowing. "Are you making a roast?"

The wooden spoon continued its clockwise stirring even when Malfoy let go of it to bend down and take something out of the oven. The scent of herbs and root vegetables grew stronger, rich and warm.

"Surely you can't have a problem with a roast dinner."

Harry's mined was having a hard time catching up with what was happening. "It's not Sunday," he said, which was far and away not the real problem here, and yet it was the only response he could seem to form.