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Summary
Draco froze in the doorway, his breath catching as his gaze fell on the figure in the kitchen. Harry Potter stood by a steaming pot, a brass ladle in hand, stirring with a rhythmic motion that suggested he’d been at it for some time. His messy black hair was a riot of curls, more disheveled than usual, and he wore an apron of all things, a rosy pink one dotted with tiny blue teacups and shiny silver spoons. The bow at his back was perfectly tied, as if mocking Draco with its domestic charm. Beneath the apron, Potter’s attire was almost laughable: worn-out shorts that left his knees bare and a faded t-shirt that clung to him.
Draco’s stomach growled again, louder this time, but he hardly noticed. Instead, he took a step back, slipping into the shadows just outside the door. Gone was the bumbling, untidy boy he had known, replaced by someone entirely different. Potter wasn’t simply cooking; he was weaving some quiet, hypnotic magic, as if the kitchen itself bent to his will.
And so, he watched.
Like he always did.