Classic, Chewy, Chocolate Chip Cookies
“Well it’s settled, then! Tomorrow we shall have breakfast at this Streetwise Maple place you seem to love so much.” Astoria smiled, and Draco couldn’t help but lean in and kiss her, because that smile was just so infectious, and wonderful. He loved it when she smiled like that. …
9:00, 9:30, 10:00… 12:00, 3:00, 7:00…
“Astoria was found dead this morning-”
Draco gasped as he woke, a cold sweat sticking to his pale skin. He blinked several times, trying to shake the feeling of overwhelming despair that was weighing over his chest. He looked around to see the room around him empty. Sighing, he laid back down, willing that heaviness away. It was then that the events of last night came to him. Being released from the hospital, being put under witness protection with Potter…
Potter.
Of all the people to now be sharing a flat with. Harry bloody Potter.
Draco could hear movement coming from the other side of his bedroom door and knew that it must be him. Well, maybe he hoped it a bit, too, lest he open the door to the black-veiled figure-
It must be Potter. It is Potter. Draco would know if something happened to Potter, Draco would know if he was in any danger. The locking charms and the alarm wards and…
Surely he would have heard something in his light and fitful sleep if he were in danger.
Draco got up from bed rather quickly following those thoughts, going to make his bed as neatly as possible, having o exert extra force on his fingers to stop the tremors as he pulled every corner taut and rid the sheets of any excess wrinkles. Just fix it, fix it, fix it, fix it…
He heard a crash come from the outside and jumped, his heart flying to his throat. It wasn’t until Potter’s soft cursing could be heard that he was able to force himself to relax. Breathe…
He would be there if something were to happen. It’s his job. That’s why he’s here.
Eventually, Draco decided that being in the main portion of his flat would reassure him enough since he could see out the windows and watch the door. Potter would be able to more easily protect him-
He doesn’t need protecting. He shouldn’t need Potter’s help. He shouldn’t, he…
Draco opened the door to see Potter serving up plates with eggs and bacon. He shuffled out the door.
“I see you made yourself comfortable with the kitchen.”
“Oh, I, well… I hope you don’t mind. I was getting hungry and you were asleep and…”
Draco sighed, noting that it was easier to forget about all of the danger he was in when he had Potter there to distract him. He moved toward the table fit for two and sat down in front of a plate. Potter could be heard rummaging around the kitchen and Draco forced himself to wonder what it would be like to be sitting here in complete silence, alone with his thoughts, like he had all this time…
He figured in that case that he probably wouldn’t be eating. Too much time to think, far too much. He would probably have resorted to more cleaning, or perhaps baking, or perhaps…
Perhaps he would be too scared to leave his room. More doors, more protection, in his room.
A gaping hole made itself present within Draco the moment he gathered a forkful of eggs with the intent to eat, and he found it felt terribly similar to scattered moments between waking and succumbing to unconsciousness on the cold, hard floor of the cellar. Too familiar, as if it were happening again, he felt open in a way that he should absolutely not feel. Like his insides were being exposed to the harsh, cold outside. Insides should never have the ability to feel outside. Draco reached to his stomach where jagged scar tissue could be felt beneath raw, trembling fingertips. He suddenly wanted to vomit.
“It can’t be that bad.”
Draco blinked, brought back to reality by Potter’s voice. He’d been speaking, but…
“Oh, I...”
“You can drop the look like you’re about to vomit,” he said, looking only slightly irritated. “Next time, I’ll just leave you to your own breakfast, if you want.”
Draco swallowed. Had he really looked sick, just then? He surely felt it, but…
He licked his chapped lips and moved his hand away from the jagged lines across his stomach.
“Since when do you cook?”
Potter faltered, as though he hadn’t been expecting Draco to ask that. And, well, yes. Draco from the past would have covered up with a snarky response- so much so that Draco wondered how the lines across his stomach had just rendered him so defenceless in the way of words that he changed the topic. They now burned, keeping that gaping, choking feeling of unnatural openness ever-present.
“I’ve always known how.”
Not always, Harry told himself. I had to teach myself, he added, but Malfoy didn’t need to know that.
It was another two minutes before Harry could hear the abrupt sound of chair legs scraping against the tiled floor. He turned just in time to watch Malfoy pass him and turn to the kitchen sink. He turned on the water and grabbed the soapy sponge. He began to scrub and Harry was too agitated with him to mention that he had planned on doing the dishes.
Soap, scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse, set aside. Draco repeated the pattern over and over, putting the utmost concentration into each movement, working to get his mind off of everything just for a second. It was barely working, not until he made the water go hotter, adding an element of physical sensation along with the mental preoccupation to distract him. When he finished, he almost wished there was more to wash. He peered over the serving hatch to see Potter with his wand against the far wall, probably checking on the wards. Off to the left, his couch-turned-Potter’s-bed sat a dishevelled mess. And that wouldn’t do.
By the 72-hour mark of living with Malfoy, Harry swore he might just explode.
The man was intolerable. The total neat freak spent his time cleaning and making messes to clean. And the worst part, he was finding every possible opportunity to start an argument with Harry.
“Get your feet off the coffee table.”
“You’re wrinkling the couch.”
“What are you doing in the kitchen?”
“Should you check on the wards again?”
“It’s no wonder you haven’t caught my assailant yet, with how messy your notes and files are.”
By then, Harry had just about had it. He slapped his notepad down onto the table and rose from his seat with gritted teeth.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Harry knew that if he didn’t walk away right that very second he’d end up yelling at Malfoy as he’d already done once before, and he didn’t fancy another argument less than 3 hours after the first.
And even the sodding bathroom was spotless, of course.
And then came the nighttime. Harry couldn’t stand the sound of shuffling and pacing coming from the bedroom and could only wonder what the hell Malfoy gets up to in there.
And the doors. The bloody doors. It’s almost like Malfoy doesn’t believe he locked them the first time. Or the second time, or even the tenth time. He was always double-checking them, and it got to the point where Harry could tell he wasn’t doing it to bother him, he just… did it. A lot.
And then was the baking… When Malfoy was in the kitchen, Harry was not allowed near him, not at all, not even for a question (what are you making?).
The answer was “Classic, Chewy Chocolate Chip cookies.” Malfoy showed him rather than told him, tossing his book down open to the recipe’s page and walking away to wash the bowls.
Draco was wondering why Potter couldn’t leave him alone.
Every minute he was fighting to keep his sanity, day in and day out he was doing everything and anything he could to get his mind off of things and… and he was running out of things to distract him. He could bake and clean and bake and clean but now he did it so often that he felt as though he had to. His mind went on autopilot when he did it and he’d be damned if he asked his mind to go more than a few hours without it.
He needed it. That’s what Potter didn’t understand. It numbed his mind and his heart and it allowed him to forget. He needed to forget. When he remembered, it was painful and took hold with a vice grip around his throat-
Just keep mopping.
And Draco had to admit that, for the most part, he guessed he must be managing half-alright, because here he was, and the security of having Potter there, no matter how annoying he may be, was keeping him in check. The nights were still rough. He would either wake up in a cold sweat or not fall asleep at all. But he could just clean and cook and make sure the doors were locked. Potter could do the rest. Potter was there.
And so when he had a particularly bad string of nights in which he couldn’t sleep at all, rotating between grieving Astoria and jumping at the slightest sound, worrying he hadn’t locked the door or that perhaps Potter’s wards hadn't held up and his assailant was about to burst through the window- when a few managed minutes of sleep were plagued with the image of being in the hospital, the feeling of such unnatural, grotesque openness- and he wakes up feeling his scars burn…
After four days of being stuck in that spiral of bad nights and difficult days, when he woke up shivering and with bile crawling up his throat, he repeated the mantra I’m safe, Potter is here. Potter is here. Potter won’t let me get hurt.
His heart dropped upon realizing he was alone in his flat. Alone, unguarded, and unsafe.