Only Ash Remains

Chapter 3

Harry woke to a muffled thumping on his bedroom door. For a moment, he struggled against the cotton sheets in confusion, feeling dazed and trying to remember where he was. Then it all came back in a rush that left him lightheaded. He was in his bed. He hadn't slept in it in so long that it felt weird and unfamiliar. He winced, missing the lumpy couch cushions he'd grown used to.

The thumping grew more insistent, escalating to a repetitive pounding, and he finally wrenched himself free of the sheets and stalked barefoot to the door, stopping only to jam his glasses onto his nose.

A shout of "Potter!" echoed from the other side of the door and he sighed, some of his energy already draining away.

He wrenched the door open, rubbing at his eyes under the lenses. "What, Malfoy?"

Malfoy glared down his nose at him. He was only a few inches taller than Harry, but he knew how to use them to his advantage. Harry felt very small; he hated how defensive it made him. He reminded himself that Malfoy was a guest in his house, and he really ought to try to behave civilly.

"I require hair potion," Malfoy said haughtily, cutting into his mental pep talk. "And a comb. And clothes. Did you even think before offering us your dubious hospitality?"

Harry sighed again. He'd known it wasn't going to be easy, sharing a house with Malfoy, but he'd forgotten how annoying the git could be.

"I do have a house-elf, you know," he grumbled. He'd saved Malfoy and his family last night, from attackers and from dying with the Manor, and he thought he deserved a thanks at the very least. Not that he expected one, but still.

"And," Malfoy continued without seeming to hear him, "what do you mean— wait. You do?"

Harry couldn't help but grin at the way Malfoy cut himself off mid-rant, at the confusion and delight that darted across his expression before he slammed his Malfoy mask down.

"Kreacher," Harry called as he snapped his fingers, keeping his eyes locked with Malfoy's.

"Yes, Master?" came the grudging reply as Kreacher materialised before them with a crack, drawing Harry's attention from Malfoy. Kreacher was as disheveled and disreputable-looking as ever. His shrivelled body was covered only by a dingy tea towel and the necklace he'd sworn to never take off because it had belonged to Regulus. It reminded Harry of the war, and brought up memories he'd rather not remember, but he couldn't bring himself to ask Kreacher not to wear it. He usually tried not to look at it.

Hermione had tried several times to give Kreacher proper clothing, but he'd wailed and wrung his hands until she'd given it up. Harry wished he'd accept something. That grey tea towel didn't do anything to make him seem more approachable.

"We've guests," Harry said, ignoring Kreacher's familiar glare and trying not to look at his chest, where Regulus' necklace swung from its thick chain. "Malfoy and his parents. They'll be staying with us for some time. Please treat their requests as if they were coming from me."

Kreacher lit up. "Master!" he crowed, clasping his wrinkled hands together. "Guests! And proper guests at that!" He looked at Malfoy greedily, but his delight changed to a look of dismay as he took in Malfoy's appearance.

Harry looked Malfoy up and down. He'd been so focused on his words and face that he'd not noticed what the rest of him looked like. Malfoy was wrapped in a faded green bath towel with loose threads dangling toward his knees, and his hair was... Harry grinned again. His hair was a tangled mess.

"Master!" Kreacher squeaked, scandalised. "Master Malfoy requires clothes! And hair potion!"

"See?" Malfoy said. Then he frowned, realisation dawning on his face. "Hang on—" he said indignantly.

But Kreacher had already disappeared with a crack that echoed through both the hallway and Harry's head.

"Good luck with that," he said on a yawn as he closed his door, shutting out Malfoy's offended features. "He hardly ever listens to me."

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The sun was streaming through his bedroom window when Harry next woke, jolting from a pleasant dream about food, and he wondered how late he'd slept. Not that it mattered, except that he found himself itching to find out how the Malfoys were getting on. And if Kreacher was really taking orders from Malfoy.

Then he stretched and realised that he was feeling more awake than he had in... A long time, anyway. He didn't know how long he'd been drifting in a fog — since soon after Hermione and Ron had left, he supposed — but it seemed to have cleared away for the moment. The dazzling newness of the morning pumped through him, and he felt as if he were fizzing with energy.

The scent of frying eggs and bacon he remembered from his dream still hung heavy in the air, tugging at him. His stomach rumbled. He started for the door, then pulled up short. Now that the Malfoys were staying with him, he supposed he ought to get dressed for breakfast, in case he happened to run into one of them. The thought of Narcissa Malfoy pursing her lips at the sight of him in ratty pyjamas was not the sort of start to the day he envisioned. He groaned as he realised that Malfoy had already seen him in them, then shrugged the thought off. It didn't matter what Malfoy thought of him, and he hadn't been any better off anyway. Harry snickered to himself as he remembered the ratty towel. But Narcissa was another matter entirely.

He hadn't done laundry in long enough that he wasn't sure which of the piles of clothing on his floor were clean, if any. Shrugging, he pulled on the clothes he'd been wearing the day before. Then he bounded down the stairs in search of what smelled an awful lot like breakfast. He tried not to get his hopes up, reminding himself of Kreacher's miserable attempts at past breakfasts, but in the kitchen he found food — actual food. It even looked edible. Actually, he thought, eyeing it again, it looked fantastic.

"Kreacher?" He asked, amazed. He couldn't remember the last time Kreacher had cooked for him, and the results certainly hadn't smelled this good. Charred eggs and shrivelled bacon and burnt toast came to mind, as well as Kreacher's signature dish: that horrid lumpy grey porridge that stuck to the bowl and his insides alike.

"Yes," said a warm, amused voice, "but also me."

Harry looked up, startled, to find Narcissa Malfoy smiling at him. She was thinner than he remembered, dressed in a simple grey gown, with her long blonde hair pulled back and fading to grey at the edges. A checkered blue apron was tied around her waist.

"Don't worry," she said lightly, uncovering a heaped plate and sliding it across the scarred wooden table toward him. "It's not poisoned." Her voice sounded playful, and he was pretty sure she was joking.

Harry eyed the food dubiously anyway as he settled into his chair, wondering if he should believe her. He found to his surprise that he did. "I didn't know you could cook," he said without thinking, and then immediately wanted to smack himself.

Narcissa smiled, seemingly unoffended. She set down the pan she'd been drying and joined him at the table, where she poured them both steaming cups of tea. "I've been cooking for my husband and son and myself for over a year," she said, as if such a feat was nothing more extraordinary than pouring the tea.

He looked up from heaping sugar into his tea, startled. "But... You had house-elves." He'd be the first to admit that he didn't remember everything about the trials, but he did remember the Malfoys' trial. And he definitely remembered that their house arrest had included Ministry-assigned house-elves.

She shrugged, lifting her tea. "We did. The Ministry elves had a very limited set of things that they were allowed to do for us, however. In this case, they could purchase food but not cook it."

Harry nodded, still trying to wrap his brain around the idea of Narcissa Malfoy cooking. He lifted the fork to his mouth, eyed the innocuous-looking scrambled eggs again, and then took a cautious bite. The simple flavors of eggs and cheese filled his senses and he breathed out through his nostrils, savoring them. The plain but hearty fare was the best thing he'd tasted in months. He dug in with an appetite he'd nearly forgotten existed, looking up eventually to say, "This is delicious. Thank you."

Her mouth twisted into a wry smirk and Harry lifted his mug in a silent toast. "I'll help with dinner," he offered, again without thinking.

Narcissa's eyebrows rose in surprise, then her face brightened as her wry smile morphed into a much friendlier one. "I'd like that."

He stood and moved to clear his dishes away but before he could get more than a few steps toward the sink, Kreacher appeared and yanked the plate out of his hands.

"Kreacher will be doing the washing up, Master," he said, holding out his hand pointedly. Harry sighed and handed over his fork. He didn't want to get into a fight with his house-elf in front of Narcissa Malfoy — especially after she'd made him breakfast.

The last time he'd tried to insist on doing the dishes himself, Kreacher had served him lumpy porridge — and only lumpy porridge — for three days straight. That was back when he'd still deigned to cook for Harry at all.

"Thanks again, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, sticking his hands awkwardly into the pockets of his worn jeans.

She graced him with another smile. "Call me Narcissa, Mr. Potter. I insist."

"Er," he said, feeling his cheeks flame. "Harry will do. Please. I, er, I'll just be going then." He fled into the hall, hoping his face wasn't as red as it felt, wondering what other marvels the day had in store for him. On a day where Narcissa Malfoy had cooked his breakfast, it seemed like absolutely anything could happen.