cooking broccoli, no music plays
"Have fun!" one of his co-workers shouts after him, rushing through tidying the last of the files. Harry gives a simple wave in goodbye.
"Always so eager to get home, he is," he hears the same person mutter, before cursing at the loud thump of heavy paperwork hitting the floor.
Harry smiles to himself privately. The sun seems to beam with joy also, rays of light striking the world with blinding brightness. It's a pity the light does more harm than good to the thing he loves most.
It's a short walk to a dark little alley, and then with the pop of Apparation he is home.
He is home, and starving, and no doubt he isn't the only one.
Harry opens the door as little as possible and slips inside, walking straight to the kitchen.
"Draco?" he calls out, setting his stuff on the island table.
It's quiet— it's always quiet— but Draco is a very quiet person and he takes a bit of time to appear. Harry used to hate it— used to hate the quiet and how he felt like Draco would one day just disappear into it.
But it's no matter now, really. Harry can like the quiet too. He can like a lot of things for Draco.
The leftover casserole from last night sits in the pot still, and it's with familiar skill that Harry wraps it up to put in the fridge.
It's exactly one portion.