Chapter Text
Harry scrubbed at his hair furiously, trying and failing to restrain another huff of anger.
“Look, I’m sor—”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“But I—”
“Just don’t,” Harry snapped. He wiped a thick drip of suds off his forehead with his forearm, then continued to lather like he might die if he didn’t. Which, you know, wasn’t impossible, thanks to the unmitigated tosser in the shower next to him.
“Can’t I just—”
Harry whirled around, eyes flashing. He locked eyes with Malfoy, who looked shocked, maybe even a little frightened. Harry reminded himself firmly not to look down.
“Listen, Malfoy. We have to work together? Fine, whatever. But we are not friends. We are not mates. We do not go to pub nights together, even when we end up sat across from our stupid friends who decided to get married to one another. We do not get coffee together. We do not eat lunch together, even though the cafeteria is miserable enough that even your company couldn’t make it much worse.”
Harry stepped forwards for emphasis, but only a little bit, because he was naked in a tiny fucking shower, after all. “What makes you think that I want to shower with you?”
Malfoy’s cool mask was back in place; it didn’t work as well when his hair was full of shampoo.
“You think this happened because I was trying to arrange some sordid little tryst? Rest assured, I don’t need to resort to subterfuge in order to pull, nor do I need to seek out underdressed, washed-up former child heroes when I want to get laid. I was trying to apologise because I understand that this—” Malfoy gestured with one sudsy hand at the tiny shower stall “—is not ideal for either of us. But if you’re going to be an utter prat about it, I guess you can just sod off.”
Malfoy turned round and began pointedly washing his hair again for a few moments before snapping. “Only the first look at my arse is free. Turn the fuck around so that we can finish and get out of here.”
Harry turned with a huff and stared up at the shower head while he continued to lather. Finally, a bell chimed and two little blue bottles appeared on the ledge. A voice echoed in the room. “Leave the shampoo, gentlemen, and let it sit. You’ll need to soap up twice to ensure lowered risk of contamination.”
“Tell Kingsley I’d like to recommend two contamination booths? Surely we can find the budget for that?” Harry snapped.
The echoing voice that replied was unamused. “If you work well enough together to be partners and you’re stupid enough to get exposed to contamination together, you can bloody well decontaminate together, too. Maybe next time you’ll be more careful.”
There was a click, then only the sound of the shower.
Harry reached out for the bottle of soap without looking and felt his hand brush Malfoy’s. Malfoy snatched his hand away.
Fifteen miserable minutes later, there was another chime, and the dispassionate voice returned: “Rinse, gentlemen. Your clothing has been disposed of, but we have supplied you with temporary garments.”
“What about our jewellery?” Malfoy’s voice demanded from behind Harry. Harry rolled his eyes. Honestly?
“It needs to be examined to ensure it was not contaminated. Your wands are being magically decontaminated—they have enough latent magic that they should be protected from permanent damage. If possible, all personal effects will be returned to you.” Another click as the speaker turned off.
Harry closed his eyes and dunked his head under the hot water with a groan. Once he had rinsed, he turned, griping, “I loved those boots. If you think I won’t—”
Harry broke off. Malfoy was leaning against the shower wall, shoulders hunched, head in one hand. His shoulders were trembling like—surely he wasn’t crying about his bloody jewellery.
“Water’s free,” Harry finally bit out, twitching open the shower curtain. “Don’t be too long; they won’t tell me anything without you there, I’m sure.”
When Malfoy emerged from the shower a few minutes later, he looked almost normal. Perhaps his eyes were a little redder than was typical, but considering how much soap they had just had to scrub into their bodies, Harry couldn’t swear that his weren’t red, too.
Malfoy’s foul temper was certainly back to normal.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked, holding up the lime green jogging suit in horror, towel wrapped round his waist. Since Harry was already wearing his, he wasn’t in a position to disagree, but he also didn’t have much sympathy.
“I promise you, I will not think any less of you for wearing a colour that clashes with your hair or whatever—”
“How sweet.”
“—because I couldn’t think much less of you than I already do right now. Now get dressed so that we can leave this place. They delivered a Portkey, too.”
Harry pointedly turned his back while Malfoy got dressed, turning back around when he heard Malfoy’s muttered, “Oh Merlin and Morgana both,” that Harry knew had to be in relation to the ugly little slippers they’d been given.
“Well, let’s get this over with so we can get home,” Malfoy said grimly, extending the naked Ken doll that served as their Portkey feet-first with distaste.
Harry had got more practised at Portkey travel—not that he liked it any better—and he only barely stumbled as they landed … somewhere.
“Where the fuck are we?” Harry muttered, chucking the Ken doll onto a squashy armchair and peering around. It looked like the most rustic hotel room Harry could imagine. Or maybe a tiny cabin? The walls were rough, unfinished wood, and there was a tiny kitchenette in the corner. Two chairs and a small card table were set up at the edge of the kitchenette. A door opened onto what he certainly hoped was a toilet, and there was a bed facing a television on a cupboard—and on the cupboard, Harry spied a purple Ministry file.
“Hang on,” Harry said, striding over to the cupboard. He flipped through the file; there were only a few sheets of paper.
“It says we—” Harry closed his eyes and took a breath. “Malfoy…”
“What!” Malfoy looked concerned, even frightened, as he stepped up to Harry. “What does it say?”
“It says that I’m going to be sacked for murdering my partner, because we’re trapped here together for a week of quarantine, you git!”
“What!” Malfoy gasped. “You must have misunderstood; give me that.”
“Leave off—I do know how to read.”
“Oh, sure you do, because that’s what everyone thinks about Harry fucking Potter: ‘Big reader, that Saviour,’ they all say. Give it—”
“I’m not finished, just stop!” Harry tried to pull back at the last minute, but his magic was always unpredictable when he was in a towering temper, and he felt the room judder, the lights flickering.
When Malfoy spoke, his voice was low, his tone one of forced calm. “Please do try not to kill both of us with your little temper tantrum. Surely you understand that I am just as eager as you for you to be wrong about—”
“Oh for Godric’s sake, I’m not wrong. Here.”
Harry thrust the purple file folder at Malfoy and sat on the bed, burying his face in his hands. Malfoy flipped through the loose leaves of parchment, muttering to himself.
“They can’t possibly—I mean, there’s no sign. All the tests—and I should be in the lab, really, I could prove that … and if they hadn’t sent me on a bloody field assignment in the first place—”
“Oh please,” Harry snapped. “You’ve been grousing about other people mishandling your data and demanding to go on field assignments for years. I should know, because I’ve been stuck in our bloody office listening to you make the same diatribe long enough to have it memorised.”
Malfoy scoffed but didn’t look up from the paperwork.
“We’re not allowed to go outside until further notice,” he said flatly. “So we’re stuck in this wretched hovel for the foreseeable future.”
“I wonder where we are, anyway,” Harry muttered, standing and peering out the window. It was a new moon, clouds obscuring the stars. The darkness was absolute. They could be at the bottom of the North Sea for all Harry could tell.
“‘Your emergency contacts have been notified that you were delayed by quarantine and will be out of London for one week minimum,’” Malfoy recited, his pitch rising with every word. “Minimum? Does that mean it could be longer?”
“You’re the one who’s a ‘big reader’—you tell me.”
Malfoy ignored him and continued reading.
“Based on the results of initial tests they will update us daily, but there is to be no contact beyond that. Well, that’s something; they’re evidently getting us clothing and toiletries via our emergency contacts. Will you end up dressed all in orange, then?” Malfoy said with a scathing glare.
“Hermione’s my emergency contact, you tit. I hope they tell Pansy you’re in a cabin and not on a catwalk—Merlin knows what she’ll send you.”
Malfoy didn’t even dignify that with a response, continuing to read. “The cabin is stocked with stored food; all deliveries, including fresh groceries—we’re not to starve, evidently—shall be delivered by quarantined Floo.”
“What the fuck is a quarantined Floo?”
“Well, if you were a big reader, you might have read the emergency guidelines for field manoeuvres, including chapter three, subsection C, which included quarantine procedures.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, Malfoy leaning against the TV cupboard, Harry against the windowsill.
“Assume I skimmed it,” Harry said at last, and Malfoy snorted. “The salient points?”
Malfoy closed the file and set it neatly on top of the cupboard, then gave a tired gesture towards the kitchen. One of the lower cabinets was flashing green.
“It flashes when there’s something new,” Malfoy said, walking over and opening the little door. He pulled out a canvas bag of groceries. “No clothes yet, so I suppose we’re stuck in these monstrosities for a while longer. We can presumably request other entertainment. Do you think the telly even gets Sky?”
Harry gave him a look as he walked back over, intending to find the remote. He wanted to be surprised that Malfoy knew what a telly was, much less about satellite, but he knew Malfoy well enough (unfortunately) that it wasn’t shocking at all.
“Is there anything in the kitchen but food?” Harry asked. He heard cabinets opening and closing. As he found the telly remote in the bedside table, he heard a crinkling sound. He looked up to see Malfoy opening a packet of Hobnobs.
“Just food,” Malfoy said, before taking a bite of biscuit. He gave Harry a long look, then slowly extended the packet. Harry shook his head.
Harry sat on the bed and fiddled with the remote as Malfoy prowled the room. He found a chessboard and a deck of Muggle playing cards, then returned from the bathroom even more incensed, if that were possible, than he had been in the decontamination shower.
“I certainly hope Pansy thinks to include a moisturiser,” he muttered as he returned to the room.
Malfoy made a sudden choked sound. Harry looked over; he’d just managed to find an Arsenal match, but the volume wasn’t working very well. Malfoy had stopped dead in the middle of the floor, staring at Harry, a Hobnob in his mouth. After a moment, he grabbed the biscuit.
“No.”
“What?”
“No, this must be a mistake.”
Malfoy swept back over to the TV cupboard, flipping through the file again. After a moment, he slammed it back down. “Absolutely not.”
“What are you on about?”
Malfoy glared at Harry. “Describe this room that we are not allowed to leave.”
Harry gave him a puzzled look.
“I don’t know, it’s a dodgy hotel-cabin thingy? It’s got a shit kitchen, and a loo, so I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”
“No, that’s a very good start,” Malfoy said. He reached for his wand, then scowled when he remembered he didn’t have it. He stalked over to grab one of the rickety chairs from the kitchenette, carrying it back and sitting himself down in the middle of the room. He crossed one leg over the other and finally started eating his biscuit. “It has a kitchen, and a loo. Go on: what else.”
Harry frowned. “Well. You found some games.”
Malfoy made a little “go on” gesture with the biscuit, then continued eating. His eyes were wide, like he’d never been more fascinated. He was clearly waiting for Harry to come to some sort of conclusion. He always did this sort of thing; it always drove Harry round the twist. Harry also always played along. He sighed and looked around the room again.
“Kitchen, special quarantine Floo, toilet, door that doesn’t open, windows that show us nothing, telly, cupboard, bedside table, bed…” Harry looked down at the bed, then at Malfoy in horror.
Malfoy nodded. “Ah yes, there we are. Bed. Singular. Not beds. Bed.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“Look at that: two years of partnership and we’ve agreed on something.”
Harry strode past Malfoy, still sitting in the middle of the room eating Hobnobs, then turned back and snatched the pad of paper on the cupboard. “They said we could send requests through the Floo?”
“They did.”
“Do I need to do anything special?”
“Just put your little note in the Floo cupboard. It will flash green when there’s a response.”
“Why aren’t you doing anything?”
Malfoy spun slowly on the wooden chair until he was facing Harry again.
“What do you think they would do if I demanded a second bed? I assume they would send back a note telling me I should be on my knees thanking Merlin for the chance to share a bed with the Saviour. They certainly wouldn’t offer me an alternative. If, on the other hand, the Chosen One makes enough of a stink, they might actually do something about it.”
Harry glared, then sighed. “You’re right.”
Malfoy looked gratified. “Generally. About what, at this moment, are you speaking?”
“Well, your animosity towards everyone in the Ministry, our offices in particular, have ensured that you have approximately zero goodwill stored up with anyone. I, on the other hand, am nice.”
“If by ‘nice’ you mean a pushover, sure.”
“People like me.”
“People like being close to celebrity, Potter.”
“But not you?” Harry’s tone was mocking, but if he were entirely honest, it rankled him, the way Malfoy had refused to soften to him in the two years they’d been partnered. Merlin, he was barely civil.
“People like being close to celebrity because they are parasitic, lowbrow, hare-brained ignoramuses who haven’t had an original thought in their entire lifetime. I should know, because I was raised by people like that. For one thing, I have infamy going for me, so I don’t need to press up against every celebrity arse I find—” Harry felt his cheeks warm “—but more importantly, the people I like are people I actually like. I don’t fake it.”
“You don’t fake what?”
Malfoy looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t fake anything.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, feeling very wrong-footed all of a sudden. “What do you like to drink?”
Malfoy looked off-balance at that. “What?”
“Alcohol? Or not. I’m sure we’re fine on food but I was going to ask for something to drink.”
“Pouilly-Fuissé, if I’m allowed to be discerning.”
Harry looked at Malfoy for a long moment, lip twitching. Then he leaned over the notepad and scribbled something down.
“White wine,” he said as he wrote.
“I’m impressed, Potter.”
Harry turned away. He didn’t know the first thing about wine; he just knew that he’d never once seen Malfoy with a glass of red. He pulled the note off the notepad and stuffed it in the Floo cupboard, then shut the door. The door flashed red twice. He peeked in. Empty.
He wanted to ask if the mechanism was similar to the Vanishing Cabinet, but they didn’t tend to discuss sixth year. Harry fiddled with the cuff of his awful jogging suit for a moment, then returned to the bed. The one, singular bed. Chosen One or not, Harry had a sinking feeling that they weren’t going to fit a cot through the Floo.
“I could try a wandless transfiguation?”
“For Salazar’s sake, do you understand nothing about magical theory?”
Harry glared. “Pretty much.”
Malfoy sighed. “Transfiguration requires stability. Charms are short bursts, as are hexes; they’re not easy to do wandlessly, especially without practice, but transfiguration requires longer, more stable draws from one’s magical core. That’s why it takes so long. If you tried, you’d more likely end up tearing a hole in the floor or something. Just don’t bother.”
Harry picked the remote back up and fiddled with it again. Eventually, the sound came up, though it was still low.
Malfoy was fidgeting in his seat.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“What do you think? I’m trapped in a hotel room with my erstwhile nemesis, who happens to be an utter arse, watching football, whilst wearing a lime-green jogging suit with no bloody pants. This is surely a low point.” Malfoy’s eyes flicked to Harry’s. Harry just smirked. Not the lowest, but he didn’t need to say that. Malfoy shifted again.
“How on earth was the lack of pants your breaking point?” Harry asked, arms crossed.
“Merlin, I don’t know, maybe my bits are more susceptible to chafing than yours. These joggers are awful.”
Harry didn’t disagree, but it seemed a little unnecessary to whinge about. Then again, it was Malfoy.
Half an hour later, Harry was starting to think about examining the groceries they’d received. Malfoy had scooted his chair closer and was watching the football match, though he kept scoffing that it would be more interesting with three goals and bludgers.
“Not a snitch?”
Malfoy grinned. “Honestly, it would be funny to watch someone run around after a snitch for a minute or two, but I think it would rather lose its entertainment value after that, don’t you?”
There was a chime from the kitchenette, and Harry jumped up. The Floo cupboard was flashing green. Harry pulled open the door to find a new purple file folder, a stack of clothes, two little toiletry kits—and neither booze nor bed.
Malfoy had followed Harry into the kitchenette. Harry handed the bundle over his shoulder to Malfoy and stood, opening the file.
“Unbelievable.”
“I suppose I have to take back what I said about the Chosen One getting whatever he wants?”
Harry sighed and read aloud. “‘Once more, you are partners; you can spend all day in an office together, surely you can manage a bed.’ Also, they say that they’re worried that alcohol might be dangerous in the event that we are contaminated, even in small amounts. But they included chocolate in our groceries, so at least there’s that, I guess. Oh, lovely. Questionnaires, too.” Harry brandished two thick packets of paper.
Malfoy was rifling through the clothing and scoffed. “Hermione really failed you as an emergency contact, Potter. Look at this. Ridiculous.”
Harry turned to find Malfoy peering at the jumper in Harry’s pile. He snatched it away, peeking at the clothing. Jeans, a few t-shirts, a pair of pyjama trousers, trainers. It was all perfectly normal. “Maybe Hermione understands that I don’t feel the need to dress up just to be locked in a room with you.”
“Surely she understands your need to wear pants, you idiot. She didn’t include any. I wouldn’t have expected her to be too shy to rummage around in your drawers.”
“Er, no, that’s not a mistake,” Harry said, feeling his cheeks warm.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The status of my pants is none of your business,” Harry snapped, grabbing his little pile of clothes and stalking off to the toilet. He could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him as the door shut.
When Harry emerged a few minutes later, much more comfortable—Malfoy was right, he had to admit; those joggers did chafe something awful—Malfoy was making a cup of tea. Harry saw his eyes flick to Harry’s jeans several times.
“So.”
“Stop talking.”
Malfoy had a little smile as he looked down at his teacup. He started to turn. “Commando? Really? In jeans, no less? No wonder you weren’t complaining about the—”
“My jeans and my bits are rather comfortable, thanks for asking.”
Malfoy leaned against the work top, holding his cup to his chest and smirking at Harry. His eyes flashed down again, then back up. Harry rolled his eyes and reached over to grab Malfoy’s clothes.
“For someone who was whinging so much about the horrible jogging suit, you certainly don’t seem to be too eager to change your own clothes. I’m sure you and your prissy—”
Harry stopped as he saw the pants in the neat stack of clothing. Boxer briefs. Exactly what he would have expected. Except. They were pink boxers. Decorated all over with hearts and little golden snitches. Harry couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face—couldn’t help the snicker of mirth that escaped him, though he did bite his lip to try to cut it off. Harry’s partner was the snottiest, most particular, most buttoned-up person Harry had ever had the misfortune to work with (he thought Justin Finch-Fletchley might be worse, but they didn’t work together). And to think, all this time, Malfoy was wearing pink snitch pants.
Harry looked up, still biting his lip around his smile, eyebrows raised. Malfoy’s cheeks were pink as he stared.
“Well,” Harry murmured, and Malfoy closed his eyes as if to await the blow. “If I’d known I could find pants like these, maybe I wouldn’t have gone commando.”
Malfoy exhaled, flaring his nostrils, and opened his eyes with a glare. “Hands off my pants, unless you have some sort of a fetish.”
Harry snorted and tossed them on top of Malfoy’s clothing. They lay there, pink and adorable, like they were begging Harry to take the piss again. Harry mustered up some restraint and tore his eyes away.
“Of all the people in the world who might wear cute pants, I didn’t expect it of you, that’s all.”
Malfoy set his cup down with a clatter and strode forwards, gathering his clothing. “I can be whimsical.”
“Clearly.”
“It helps—” he broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. I’m going to have a proper shower, without company.” He stalked off towards the loo and slammed the door behind him.
* * *
Harry sorted through the groceries, then took a quick inventory of the kitchen. He sighed. He didn’t love cooking, but he was passable enough. He emptied the grocery bag and surveyed the ingredients, then put the milk away in the mini-fridge and put a pot of water on to boil.
Harry glanced towards the toilet. He wondered if he should make something for Malfoy. No, he decided, Malfoy could make his own bloody dinner. And if he couldn’t figure out how to open a tin, he could eat biscuits. Harry was only in this position because of Malfoy. He scowled as he chopped half an onion. Then again, it was possible that their position, while entirely Malfoy’s fault … was not, in fact, entirely Malfoy’s fault.
Harry went through the motions of preparing a tomato sauce without paying much attention. He thought about how excited Malfoy had been to be allowed to go into the field—it was true that he was always complaining about damage to his evidence. And it was certainly true that some people didn’t take much care in the field; Harry had seen people do all sorts of dodgy things to their specimen containers, muttering about Malfoy while they did.
But the thing was, as maddening as he was, Malfoy was very, very good at his job. He was the best researcher they had, and the best potion brewer, and Harry had watched him work long enough, crammed as they were into that tiny office together in Mysteries, to know that Malfoy had an instinctual understanding of magic that Harry had never seen in anyone, save himself. So Harry raised an eyebrow or cleared his throat when he saw someone mess with specimens. Sometimes he even rolled his eyes and said, “I’m the one who has to listen to him complain; leave off, will you?” But Malfoy’s research was everything to him, and he sulked for hours whenever Harry was sent into the field and Malfoy was left behind, and eventually, Harry gave in and begged their boss to let Malfoy into the field, too.
The problem was, that as much as Harry respected Malfoy these days—as much as he sometimes thought he might even like him a bit—Malfoy wore on his last nerve. He seemed to delight in it, too. So when they went on their first field manoeuvre together, even after Levinson explicitly told Harry to keep an eye on Malfoy, because “you remember what it’s like to be green in the field, don’t you?” (Harry had been in St Mungo’s for three days after his first outing), Harry’s patience could only last so long.
About three minutes, as it happened, was how long his patience lasted before he stopped paying attention to Malfoy and began running his typical diagnostics. He supposed he should be grateful that despite Malfoy’s utter stupidity, touching unidentified magical plant matter while on a case involving a virulent pathogen that was believed to be transmitted via magical plant, Malfoy had not hesitated. He had cast a Bubblehead charm on Harry first, then himself. He had cast a stasis spell on the plant and stuffed it into a specimen container while Harry was still turning around. Before Harry had even grabbed his emergency quarantine Portkey or even, honestly, noticed that Malfoy’s finger was bleeding, Malfoy had taken a blood sample from the wound, healed it, and drawn his own Portkey, snapping, “Come on, Potter, we need to start decontamination procedures!”
It might have been entirely—fine: mostly—Malfoy’s fault, Harry thought, stirring the sauce while the pasta cooked, but he responded perfectly when everything went tits up. Sure, the two of them were trapped here together now, with Malfoy making fun of him for not wearing pants and wearing remarkably cute pants of his own—Harry shook himself and tested the pasta. Best not continue that line of thinking.
When Malfoy finally left the toilet, steam billowing after him, Harry was just sitting down at the little table, which he had tugged over near the bed to watch the rest of the football match. Malfoy stopped, glanced over at Harry, then at the (conspicuously empty) pan on the stove, and huffed.
He bent over the mini-fridge and peered inside, then filled the big pot back up with water and set it back on the hob to heat.
Harry’s eyes flitted between the match and the kitchenette as Malfoy worked. Malfoy seemed to have changed directly into his pyjamas, which were, somewhat unexpectedly, a pair of black joggers and a soft, long-sleeved t-shirt advertising a local Muggle half-marathon.
“Not bad,” Malfoy said, tasting the sauce on the edge of the sauté pan as he washed it. “They gave us fresh basil; why didn’t you use it?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Because I’m not as fancy as you, you prat.”
Malfoy huffed again and fell silent. A few minutes later, Harry looked over again. Malfoy’s sleeves were rolled up, and he was standing next to the little stove, stirring something. His joggers fit well—it was annoying. Harry looked away, then back. Malfoy’s arse didn’t ever look bad, no matter what he was wearing, but Harry didn’t usually get such a good view. He looked away as Malfoy turned back towards the sink, feeling his cheeks heat.
Some time later, Malfoy was striding past Harry and plopping himself on the bed, one long leg dangling off the edge. As the match ended a few minutes later, Harry gestured at Malfoy. “Change the channel? Or hand it to me if you’d like.”
Malfoy picked up the remote and peered at it. “It’s not like I’ve never used a telly before, I’m perfectly capable of—”
As Malfoy pressed a button, the channel changed, and sound came blaring out of the television. Malfoy screamed and threw the remote. Harry’s heart was thundering in this chest, but he couldn’t help laughing at Malfoy’s reaction. He picked the remote up and pressed the volume button.
“It’s fine, Merlin, it was just the volume was fucked up on the other channel, I think.” Harry sat on the side of the bed as he adjusted the volume.
Malfoy went very still.
Harry froze as he realised how close he was to Malfoy. Their thighs were almost touching. His heart leapt in his throat.
They both sat there, holding their breath. Then, Harry stood, mumbling something about the news, and Malfoy swept back to the kitchenette to finish his dinner, and the moment was broken.
Fifteen minutes later, the room smelled heavenly, and Malfoy came sauntering over with a steaming plate. He sat back on the bed, crossing his legs under himself and looking utterly uncaring about the white bedding below him as he peered at the television with interest. The scent of basil wafted towards Harry, who looked down at his empty plate, which had held perfectly passable pasta, and felt a little disappointed.
“What did you make?” Harry finally asked.
“Gnocchi,” Malfoy said, not looking away from the telly.
“There was gnocchi?” Harry asked. He hadn’t seen any.
“There were potatoes.”
“You—you made gnocchi from scratch?”
Malfoy sighed. “I’m a potions specialist, you idiot. Did you really think that I didn’t know how to cook?”
“You’re a toff—that’s why I thought you didn’t know how to cook.”
Malfoy finally looked at Harry and sighed.
“Here.” Malfoy shuffled off the bed and leaned towards Harry, holding out his fork.
Harry gave him a suspicious look, but Malfoy had turned back to the telly. Harry leaned forwards and took the bite, then bit back a moan. It was wonderful. Pillowy soft potato, bright tomato sauce that was just a bit rich, the herbaceous bite of basil over it all.
“Wow.” Harry said. Malfoy looked over at him again. “You don’t know how to cook, Malfoy.”
Malfoy frowned and opened his mouth, so Harry continued. “I know how to cook. You’re good at it.”
Malfoy’s mouth hung open for a bit longer. Then, finally, he closed it. He shifted again to sit properly on the bed. “Thank you.”
Harry nodded stiffly.