darkravenwrote: (rose)
[personal profile] darkravenwrote
Author: [livejournal.com profile] darkravenwrote
Title: Where Will You Go From Here?
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Drarry
Word Count: 756
Rating: G
Warnings: Nope. Just have your toothbrush handy, it’s rather sweet
Prompt: For my ‘Warm’ tile on GYWO Bingo.
Author’s Notes: Thumbs up. First thing I’ve finished all month. Couldn’t think of a good title though, which is a shame.
Summary: Somehow, Draco ends up in Potter’s kitchen drinking tea and reevaluating his life choices.

When Draco knocks on Potter's door at 2am resembling something of a wet sewer rat he expects to be laughed back into the street.

Instead - because Potter is a do-gooding Gryffindor - he huffs self-sacrificing, smiles self-deprecatingly, and ushers Draco in. Draco follows him about five steps down his grimy, narrow corridor before Potter whirls around again. He frowns down at the puddle dripping around Draco's feet and swipes his wand. A shiver of warmth runs up Draco's spine at the sudden dry comfort of his clothes. Potter nods and resumes his travels.

Draco's always hated this house. It's drafty and dank and dark and no matter how many curtains Potter slides in front of Mrs Black's portrait it'll always be that way. He remembers sitting in the front parlour as a child, with its tatty sofas and even tattier doilies, listening to relatives he only knew by name and position on the family tree. He remembers being unhappy and forcing himself to nod politely and not lose focus on any conversations - because that sort of thing displeased his mother greatly.

Potter takes him down a rickety set of steps and into a long kitchen that smells...not at all how it does in his memory.

"Cup of tea?" Potter asks, pottering to his stove and setting up a muggle kettle. He swipes at his greasy fringe and pulls at his ratty, grey t-shirt. "I only have breakfast or green. Hermione's got me on a bit of a health kick." He huffs again and Draco can see the side of his mouth turning up.

"Breakfast is fine."

The kitchen smells warm. Like homemade biscuits and Sunday roasts and family.

"Sorry it stinks a bit in here. Aside from the fact I need a shower, I forgot a loaf of bread in the oven earlier today." Potter taps his fingers absently on the pale wooden worktops while he waits for the water to boil.

Draco's never forgotten a loaf in the oven. Well, he's never cooked one, but he's never left a potion simmering too long or let a plant wilt to death. Because he's watching and waiting all the time, hovering.

All he can think as he perches tentatively on a chair at the long dining table made for at least fifteen, is that he's never forgotten anything because he was busy having fun doing something else and it slipped his mind. He imagines Potter up in the Black family garden - which is probably overgrown and ramshackled compared to how he remembers it - playing with Teddy on height restrictive broomsticks or arguing with Weasley goodnaturedly about the Harpies or rolling his eyes as Granger rambles about her newest obsession.

"Do you take sugar? Milk?" Potter asks faintly, but he's putting half a teaspoon of sugar and the tiniest dribble of milk into one of the cups before Draco can reply. Then Potter seems to realise what he's doing and tries to move in front of the cups, hiding them from view.

"A little sugar and a smidge of milk, please," Draco says, because it's 2am and he's not sure how he ended up here.

Potter's shoulders relax and in no time Draco is blowing steam from a delicate little floral china teacup. The heat seeps into his fingers. Draco imagines he can see his skin lighting up from the inside.

Potter doesn't ask him why he's there. He doesn't try and make idle conversation or console him or start an argument. He simply swipes his own cup of tea from the counter - this one a more robust mug in brash Gryffindor colours with tea like pale honey - and settles himself across the table from Draco.

He looks comfortable in his own skin. Content but tired, which is fair enough as Draco probably woke him not ten minutes ago. His fingers curl around his mug and he smiles at nothing on the kitchen table.

It should be awkward. Draco should want to escape as soon as possible, as soon as he’s got a plan of action.

Then Potter looks up, all earnest green eyes and pretty lips, and says, “Do you want some? Bread, I mean.” It feels like Potter’s offering something else too, like he’s reaching across the table with his open palm waiting to see if Draco will accept it.

Draco could ask if it’s actually edible, or snark about carb intake. Instead, he hopes this won’t be the last time he sits in Potter’s warm kitchen under his dank, dreary house and says, “Yes, please.”


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