The Thunder in My Heart

A Candle to the Flame

Draco couldn't help himself.

He sat at the table, amongst the debris of discarded cracker paraphernalia and half-empty glasses of wine and watched as Harry cleared away the cooking things and tidied his kitchen. After Blaise and Hermione had left the table, the party had dwindled quickly and Harry busied himself with cleaning. For some unfathomable reason the man did everything by hand but it utterly fascinated Draco and he watched as if spellbound.

But although there had been the surreptitious glances and that brief moment of connection earlier, nothing more was said. And although Harry had poured himself another Firewhiskey, he hadn't offered one to Draco. And despite Draco lingering uncomfortably at the table and then moving to a stool at the island, conversation had not been forthcoming and he eventually took himself off to bed in a sulk. Not even saying goodnight to either Harry or Terry who was, much to Draco's chagrin, sitting on his stool at the island, swirling the remnants of his red wine around his glass and looking adoringly at Harry.

Draco wondered how he and Harry were going to cope over the next few weeks together alone.

He pulled on his pyjamas and threw himself into bed. He felt like he ought to be seething but, in all honestly, he didn't have the energy. His heart was in his boots.

He resigned himself for yet another sleepless night as he tried to decipher every movement, every word, every glance, Harry had directed his way. He tried not to think about the two boxes of chocolate which were now stowed away safely in his trunk at the end of his bed. And, by Salazar, he swore it was the best chocolate he'd ever tasted and the addition of Liquid Gold was ingenious. Sodding bloody Saviour with his sodding bloody skilfulness.

He harrumphed to himself and crossed his arms as he lay in bed sulking.

It's no use, he thought as he lay there futilely. He couldn't, for the life of him, work out what Harry wanted. He thought of all their heartfelt conversations but it all seemed too vague to make sense. Harry had asked him to wait, something had been holding him back, but then futilely here had been The Kiss. Maybe Hermione was right and they needed to talk some more.

He sighed deeply.

And Merlin-curse-it if that wasn't fresh bread dough out of the proving oven that he could smell. Harry was making bread again!

In a flare of anger and frustration about the whole situation, he threw back his duvet, stomped across the floor and threw open his bedroom door. He marched along the corridor and was halfway across the common room before he realised that Harry was not alone and Terry was still sitting watching him, on his stool, his fingers idly turning a near empty glass of Firewhiskey. Harry also had a glass but it seemed untouched, instead he was kneading his dough with particular ferocity. He was scowling, his dark brows pulled low over his fiery green eyes. The only amusing factor about the scene was that Hermione's cat was sitting bolt upright on the arm of one of the sofa's glaring at Terry with its disconcerting orange eyes, as only that cat could. Draco nearly appreciated it despite the heartache.

Draco was about to turn about but his arrival had obviously drawn the attention of the other two men.

He saw Harry's face lighten, he seemed to take a deep breath. Almost, Draco thought to himself, almost as if he's relieved to see me. There was a tentative smile and he rubbed a floury arm across his face to push back his hair.

Draco almost snorted at the predictability of it all, didn't the bloody man ever learn. He strode around the island, snatching up a tea-towel as he went and walked straight up to Harry.

'At what point do you think you'll stop rubbing flour over your face whenever you see me?' he drawled. He reached up to dust the whiteness away from his eyebrow and forehead.