flowers and eggs
Harry loved flowers. He developed something of a green thumb early in his childhood, seeing as taking care of the garden at the Dursleys’ was one of his main chores. Keeping the grass trimmed, pulling the weeds, and pruning Aunt Petunia's rose bushes. He was proud to say their lawn was one of the most well kept in the neighbourhood and it was thanks to him (despite what his aunt might say).
Harry learned early on to appreciate the little things in his life, considering most of it left much to be desired. His idea of a perfect day consisted of cloudy skies and cool breezes, his relatives gone on some family trip he wasnt invited to, and Harry left alone to enjoy the himself in peace.
Harry's favourite part of the day was the hour and thirty minutes he could sit down amongst the roses and rest. Aunt Petunia inside reading her romance novels she keeps at the back of the shelves, Dudley at school, and Uncle Vernon away at work. When he's done doing everything else and he gets an hour and thirty minutes before his aunt remembers he's still outside, unattended, and unbothered. Where he can sit, touch the soft petals he meticulously grew from seedlings, bask in their scent, and pretend for a moment he's anywhere but here.
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“Did you burn the fucking eggs again?”
Harry stands at the kitchen's entrance looking at a petulant Voldemort. Petulant. Not a word I ever thought I'd use to describe him of all people, but here we are. The man was standing next to a smoking pan with burnt eggs and a spatula in hand. Harry never thought to put the scene on this year's bingo card but crazier things have happened.
“Look, not that I don't appreciate the effort, but why do you still keep trying? Don't mess up my kitchen if you can't even clean it up.” Harry says, taking the spatula from the glaring man and turning off the stove.
“There's no reason I shouldn't be able to do it. I'm following all the instructions, it's the egg's fault, not mine.” The overgrown child states, looking about a second away from crossing his arms and stomping his foot.
“Don't blame the egg, it's the one that has to succumb to the fate of incineration via burnt butter in a too hot pan.”
“I'll blame who I wish to blame.” Because he lived in a perpetual state of toddler.
Harry sighs and spells the pan clean before setting it back down on a much lower flame, adding a small pad of butter and cracking some eggs in before adding some bacon to the pan. He cooks them both some much less charred breakfast, and Voldemort has the decency to set the table and brew a pot of coffee. At least that he can do without setting anything on fire. Harry splits the pile of eggs and bacon to each plate, sets them down on the table, and they start eating.
“So how's progress on the escape plan going?” Harry asks, halfway through his eggs.
Voldemort glares at nothing in particular and replies with an incoherent grumble. Sigh.
Since waking up here about two weeks ago, they've tentatively developed a routine of sorts, Harry makes breakfast with Voldemort occasionally trying his hand at it and failing spectacularly, Harry cleaning up that mess while the other continues trying to hash out plans of escape from their cottage prison. Sometimes they'll talk and bicker, but it's weirdly domestic and somehow stable—and aren't those more words he never would've imagined using to describe him and the bloody Dark Lord— so Harry can't really complain.
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Sniffing the bundle of flora he accumulated from outside, Harry smiles. It was hydrangeas today, beautiful light purple, sky blue, and ivory white, that lit up the room as he set them into a vase in the kitchen. Last week it was lavender sprigs with white daisies and baby's breath. Voldemort never commented on the weekly flower arrangements, it didn't seem like he cared, but Harry knew how to appreciate the little things. Little things like stepping out into the vast field outside and sitting amongst the plant life. Almost wishing he could turn into one of them if he tried hard enough, where swaying in the wind and bee pollination would be his biggest concerns. But he couldn't do that. So instead, every week he tests out new bouquets to put into the kitchen.
With the new bundle placed on the kitchen table, Harry got started on lunch.
Taking a bite out of his generously filled BLT, he made sure to set some aside for the resident Dark Lord, lest he get grumpy without his midday meal. Not that he ever actually did, he seemed to forget about meals entirely when engrossed in his research. Which was honestly something Harry could deeply relate to. Not the research part, but being used to ignoring his hunger like that. He'd worked on it with Hermione for a while, to eat when the familiar emptiness gnawed at him, to remember that he was allowed that now.
Shaking his head to break out of his revere, he finished up his lunch and took Voldemort's plate with him upstairs.
Knocking before entering, Harry announced himself, “I bring BLTs.”
“What is a BLT?”
It's always so weird remembering how old and out of touch he is…
“Only the second best sandwich in the world, right after fried chicken sandwiches, of course. It stands for Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato, but I decided to be fancy and add some avocado.” Harry said, as he handed the old man his plate.
“Good right?”
Harry smiled, satisfied as he watched his former nemesis nod in agreement.