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Draco watched Harry from behind that day's edition of The Daily Prophet. He'd never admit it, but he liked to watch Harry cook. He liked the way Harry whistled to himself as he puttered around the kitchen, the way he narrated his actions as he cut, measured, and diced the ingredients, the way his brows knit together in concentration when he reached a particularly challenging portion of the recipe. Draco didn't even mind the fact that Harry had the habit of testing the food as he cooked, sticking his finger into creams and sauces and licking the liquid off. Unhygienic as it was, Draco certainly didn't mind watching Harry lick his own fingers clean. Harry preferred to cook the muggle way, and although Draco didn't understand, he never complained. The muggle way was slower and gave him plenty of opportunity to stealthily watch his boyfriend without Harry noticing.
The timer on the oven dinged loudly and Draco returned his attention to the newspaper as Harry slipped on a pair of oven mitts. Harry pulled his latest creation from the oven and set it on the counter, a wide grin plastered across his face.
Draco sniffed the air and had to admit, whatever it was Harry was making, smelled very good. He continued to feign disinterest a few moments more, but the aroma that was rapidly filling the kitchen overwhelmed him. He set his paper down and crossed over to Harry. Draco wrapped his arms around Harry's waist from behind and peered over the other boy's shoulder.
"A pie," Draco observed, a little disheartened. Harry didn't usually bake because he knew that Draco was careful about what he ate—which meant very few, if any desserts.
Harry leaned into the embrace, twisting his head so he could lay a soft kiss on Draco's cheek. "Don't worry, Draco, its not for us. It's Hermione's birthday tomorrow and apple pie is her favorite. She doesn't like for people to spend galleon's on her, so I thought this would be nice instead." Harry turned and wrapped his arms around Draco's neck, sliding his hands through his boyfriend's soft, white blonde hair.
"You've got a little, uh, right here," Draco laughed and tapped the tip of his own nose. Having never learned a simple baking spell in his life (that's what house elves and boyfriends were for), he couldn't remember the name of the pale white powder people used in pastries.
Harry blushed and rubbed his nose, although a trace of the flour remained. "Better?" he asked.
Draco brushed the rest off away before planting a small kiss on the top of Potter's nose. "Perfect," he smiled. He leaned in to give Harry a proper snogging when a loud, baritone voice cut through the silence of 12 Grimmauld place.
"Potter? Potter? Are you there?" it bellowed.
"Oh shit," Harry swore as he cast a quick tempus charm. "I forgot I had a floo call scheduled with Kingsley. We've got reviews in the Auror department coming up and we need to hammer out the schedule. Can you cast a few cooling charms on the pie while I'm gone? I want to take it to Ron and Hermione's tonight before dinner."
After Harry had slipped from his arms and hurried to the floo in the den, Draco turned and examined the pie before him. He had never had apple pie before. His mother has always turned her nose up at the dessert, claiming it was too common—and, she added with a shudder far too American—to grace the dining room table at Malfoy manner. The Americans had claimed the gooey dessert as a national symbol of their own and as far as Narcissa Malfoy was concerned, they could bloody well keep it.
And although Draco was careful with what he ate, he was particularly fond of apples. They were his favorite fruit by far. He couldn't imagine what one would taste like when baked in a pie. He loved the cool, crispness of the first bite of a fat green apple, the taste of the tart juice as is slid down his throat. What would an apple that had been forced into a pie, covered in sugar and spice, and baked for an hour taste like? Would it even taste like an apple or just cup loads of refined sugar in a pastry puff?
Draco cast a cooling charm, hoping that enticing scent that rose from the pastry would lessen as the steam disappeared. But it didn't. If anything, he found that with each passing moment, the delicious smell became more acute, as if the pie was demanding that he desire it. He paused and listened carefully. When he was sure he could hear Harry in the other room talking animatedly with Minister Shacklebolt, Draco quietly accioed a fork from table.
Harry had made the pie with a lattice crust top, which meant that if he was careful, Draco could pick out a piece of the gooey apple filling without anyone being the wiser. He speared a soft piece of apple and nimbly pulled it through the empty space between the crisscrossed pieces of crust. Steam continued to rise, so Draco blew on it gently in hopes of cooling it to taste. The warm scent of cinnamon assaulted his senses and damn it to hell, Draco didn't care if he burned his tongue,he couldn't resist any longer.
When the baked apple slid from the fork to his tongue, Draco's eyes rolled back in his head. He bit back a moan, not wanting to alert Harry to his theft. Merlin's fucking pants, this is glorious. The soft apple nearly melted on his tongue. It was sweet, but the sugar didn't mask the tart flavor he loved. He couldn't identify the different spices, but they—combined with the heat of the still uncooled pie—warmed his entire body. It was just what he needed after spending all morning in that drafty old house.
Stealing a quick glance at the door, Draco took another bite. He pulled this one from a different hole in the lattice so it wouldn't be obvious. When he swallowed, he still wasn't sated and stole just one more. And then another. At this point, he rationalized, he might as well poach an apple slice from section so the filling inside remained evenly distributed.
But then it happened. In his haste to grab just one last bite, his hand slipped and the fork broke through the delicate lattice crust.
"Bugger," he mumbled under his breath, trying to push the pieces of the broken crust back together. It only made the crack worse as more bits of crust flaked off. Draco wracked his brain for any mending spell he knew that would be suitable on food, but couldn't think of any.
He bit his lip in decision as he stared at the surprising delicious dessert. He knew that Harry would never give it as a gift in this state and even if Harry could fix it, Draco was going to be caught anyway. He might as well...
Draco stabbed his fork into the very center of the pie, digging out a large piece—apple, gooey filling, crust and all. The bite was so large he could barely fit it into his whole mouth, but there was no one here to reprimand him for his bad manners. Fuck. That is good. He moaned again. He grabbed an oven mitt from the counter and grabbed the pie—careful not to burn his hands—as he sunk to floor. He leaned back against the lower cupboards of the sink and relished the taste of the warm, gooey pie. He ate and ate, shoveling a new bite into his mouth before he'd even swallowed the one before it.
"Draco?" Harry called out questioningly as he came into the kitchen. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the sight before him. Draco Malfoy—his well-bred, pure-blooded boyfriend—was sitting splay-legged on the kitchen floor, covered in bits of pie.
Harry's questioning gaze snapped Draco out of his apple pie induced haze and he realized the extent of the mess he had made. The front of his crisp, white cotton shirt was covered in goo, as were his hands and face. Bits of crumbs stuck to the warm cinnamon filling like glue and dotted the floor around him.
Draco flushed furiously. He'd never felt so embarrassed, not even the time that Crabbe had walked in on him while he was having a wank in their fourth year. "I—I—" he stuttered. While he was usually a very skilled liar, there was no way he'd be able to talk his way out of this on. "I—uh-wanted a taste?" he offered lamely.
Harry's lips were pressed into a tight line, but not in anger. He was trying his damnedest to stifle a laugh. "I take it you liked it then?" he asked teasingly.
Not many would be able to pull such a haughty face while covered in pie crumbs, but Draco was a Malfoy and he manged. "It was...fair."
Harry couldn't hold it in any longer and burst out in laughter, which only made Draco blush again despite his attempt to appear unaffected. Harry dropped to his knees besides him and kissed Draco deeply, ignoring the sticky mess on his face.
"You're not angry then?" Draco asked, pulling away and eyeing Harry warily.
"I should be," Harry said with a grin. "But I think its actually kind of cute. This is definitely one for the pensieve."
"Potter, you wouldn't dare," Draco responded as threateningly as a grown man covered in dessert could do.
"Potter am I?" Harry asked as he brushed his lips against Draco's. Despite his embarrassment, Draco melted into the kiss. Harry's tongue against his own tasted almost as good as the apple pie had. Almost.
Harry pulled away and stood up quickly. "You've gone and gotten me all sticky! I'm going to need a shower now," he complained teasingly.
"What about Hermione's pie?" Draco asked, gesturing to the sad mess that still remained in the pan.
"Her birthday's not 'til tomorrow, I'll make another one then" Harry said with a shrug. "When you're not around, of course," he added with a grin.
"Shut it," Draco grumbled as he pulled himself from the floor. "Anyway, I think you said something about a shower?"
Harry gave a wicked grin. "I'll race you."
They sprinted off towards their bedroom, all thoughts of the decimated dessert they left behind forgotten.