Not Nineteen Years Later

A/N: I will get back to my other stories but I need to get this one out of my system, there will only be one more chapter after this.
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The day when Harry finally got the chance, and the courage, to firecall Draco rolled around a week later. He’d been over the whole scenario in his head tens of times and couldn’t quite figure out what to say or why he’d even suggested meeting the blond. In the end he figured it would be rude to not call on Draco since Harry had been the one to bring it up. He tossed the floo powder into the fire and watched the flames shoot up emerald green. His stomach gave a flutter and for a brief instant he hoped the Slytherin wouldn’t be home.

“Malfoy Manor!” He stuck his head into the flames and looked around; he could see a large room with lots of dark wood and thick, white carpeting. Although it was furnished differently, he recognized the room as the one he had been brought to the last time he’d been to Malfoy Manor. It was the night Hermione, Ron and he had been captured by the snatchers and Draco had refused to identify him.

“Draco!” He heard footsteps approaching and he saw bare feet stop in front of the grate. Draco kneeled in front of the fire and smiled.

“Is that you Potter? I honestly thought you were a lost cause a few days ago. Want to come through? I was just in the kitchen.”

Harry, who had not expected such an immediate invitation, cocked his head in thought before nodding. He couldn’t imagine Draco doing anything in a kitchen besides possibly bellowing orders to house elves. Why not? Harry stood up and while the flames remained green he stepped into the grate and called out again. He landed in the Manor less then gracefully but stayed on his feet, he had never quite got the hang of the floo system. He now had full opportunity to examine Draco up close. The blond was wearing a pair of low-riding, comfortable looking jeans and a white t-shirt. He was barefoot and Harry noticed also without any trace hair gel. His wand was tucked into his back pocket and he was smirking at Harry’s almost fall.

“Alright there, Potter?”
“I never did get the hang of that, much more comfortable on a broom.”
“I noticed,” said Draco, still grinning. “Follow me, do you mind helping? I was in the middle of cooking. You could stay for dinner even, if you’re not busy.”

He wondered if Draco was just giving him an out on the dinner invite, because if he had been busy he would not have called, obviously. Perhaps it was a propriety thing, although Draco did not look physically as if he cared much about appearances at the moment. Not to say he looked bad, in fact Harry was surprised at how good the Slytherin looked when he was relaxed and not buttoned to the throat, so to speak.

“That would be great. I’m actually pretty good in the kitchen.”

Harry followed Draco out of the sitting room. He was filled with a sense of mourning for a second; he remembered listening to Hermione being tortured in this room, Dobby being stabbed and lastly wrestling Draco’s wand from his hand, that had been the only way that Harry survived that last Avada Kedavra in the final battle actually. Even though Harry knew it wasn’t Draco’s fault, any of it, he was still happy to leave the room and follow the blond into the hall. The wallpaper was an iridescent white that he did not remember. It seemed the new Master of the Manor had an affinity for light colors. Down the hall were various dark wood cabinets and vanities topped with gleaming trinkets and gilt mirrors and the occasional large wooden door or large vase with some type of exotic flower inside. The numerous portraits were all asleep and a few, Harry noticed, were covered like the large one in Grimmauld Place with thick velvet hangings. There was also a large set of Venetian doors on the right, near the end, that looked to lead onto a large bricked-in porch or garden area. A few more feet and they moved into a huge, polished kitchen. The smell was sweet and heady and there were daisies on the counter and a wok sizzling on a set of stacked stones with a brilliant purple fire beneath it. Numerous vegetables were set out to be chopped on a large wooden block in the center and a variety of glinting knives hung on the walls below stainless steel pots and pans.

“Whoa.”
“Yeah, it used to be just for show, we have house-elves you know, but I always liked to cook on my own. That way if I don’t like it I have no one to blame but myself.” Harry laughed.
“True.” He remembered the way Kreacher’s cooking had been before Harry had made amends for Sirius’s behavior, during the horcrux hunt. Harry was surprised he had been able to digest any of it.
“You know Potter,” said Draco nervously.
“Call me Harry.”
“H-Harry, I’ve been meaning to, uh, thank you for what you did. My mother told me about what happened and for you speaking during my trial, in my defense. I just never had the nerve.”

Harry had gotten a lot of flak for that but he couldn’t just let Draco go to Azkaban, same as he couldn’t let him burn in the Room of Requirement or not answer his mother when she had asked if her son lived.

“You didn’t deserve to go to Azkaban.” Draco looked thoughtful and his face darkened.
“I did, I was a coward. But thank you, nonetheless.” Harry blushed at the shame that was evident in Draco’s resigned tone and the pink tinge on the blonde’s high cheek bones.
“What are we having for dinner?” He had learned that the easiest way to deal with uncomfortable situations was to change the subject, it appeared to work marvelously.
“Steamed vegetables with a fresh lychee and pineapple glaze, steamed rice and hand-wrapped spring rolls. I have a soft spot for Chinese food.” Harry’s mouth was watering.
“That sounds awesome. Er, what’s a lychee?” He felt stupid but Draco answered without a sneer or insult…
“Lychee is a fruit. Sort of like you.” Well maybe a tiny insult.

Harry narrowed his eyes and wandered to the wok on the stove. Or rather the large stone cooking top that was usual in the more affluent Wizarding homes, it housed a large purple flame, obviously magical, in a small pit.

“Tsk, Draco, not very friendly.” He gave his host the benefit of the doubt and leaned in to smell the simmering glaze. It was warm and sweet smelling.
“You’re surprised?” Draco waved his wand and the knife resumed slicing the pineapple on the chop block and Harry saw the orange and pink sauce in the wok begin to change to a deeper burgundy color.
“No.”

Draco’s laugh tinkled over from the center of the kitchen and a chill ran up Harry’s spine. He imagined he must still be nervous for some reason because his stomach was flipping oddly and he felt unusually giddy.

“I would hope not. And it could have been very friendly really, if you look at it the right way, I could have meant sweet and sticky!” He was laughing again, harder this time and Harry couldn’t help but to join in. He’d never shared a real laugh with his old school rival, though he always thought Draco was funny.
“Only you didn’t, thank Merlin.”
“So you still fly, er, Harry?”
“When I get the chance, I fly with the kids too when they’re with me.”
“You should come by to fly sometime. I’ve had a small Quidditch pitch put in out back that I fly in some mornings, relieves tension. It’d be nice to play someone who’s decent for a change.”
“You don’t play with Scorpius?”
“I do but I said decent, didn’t I? That and his mother keeps encouraging him to play Quod-Pot, it’s an American version. Utter rubbish if you ask me.” Draco waved his hand flippantly and Harry saw when Draco’s sleeve rolled up that he must indeed still be flying quite a lot, his muscles were sinewy and long.
“One day he’ll be able to out fly you.”
“Not for a long time I hope. Ever since I’ve stopped playing you I’ve gotten a bit used to winning.”

Draco’s grin was wide and honest, reaching up to his eyes.

“We could change that, if you’re up for a night game after dinner.” Harry smiled when Draco’s grin fell and his eyes narrowed calculatingly.
“You’re on, Snitch race, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.”
“Still the competitive Slytherin I see.”
“At heart. I’d like to be able to say I beat you at least once. If I do of course I’ll have to make up a song about it. I still remember all the lyrics to Weasley Is Our King.”
“Me too! It was bloody brilliant, I just couldn’t say so before because it was my keeper that always turned green when he heard it.”
“I know, it clashed horribly with his hair.”
“Everything clashes with Ron’s hair.”
“How are the Weasels anyway,” said Draco over his shoulder as he charmed the vegetables into the wok.
“The WEASLEYS are just fine.” Draco threw a grin towards Harry and continued to work.
“That’s…nice. So how about that help you offered?”

Harry decided to let the remark about the Weasley’s slide. After all when he’d mentioned his tentative lunch plans to Ron and Hermione they had ask why he wanted to visit with ‘the Ferret.’ He still thought it was amusing that neither of them realized Ferrets and Weasels are in the same family.

“What do you need?”
“For you to wrap the spring rolls. I’ve laid out the dough you just need to fill and roll.”

Draco demonstrated with a couple flicks of his wand and when Harry got three right he walked away to watch the wok.

“How long have you been divorced?” Said Harry hesitantly.
“About eight years, when Scorpius was three. You?”
“Nine. It was the year Lily was born.”
“That’s positively depressing. Are you seeing anyone?” It could have been his imagination but Harry thought he heard a tremor in Draco’s voice.
“Nah. How about you, any lady of the Manor?”
“No actually, not recently anyway.”
“How recent is recently.” Harry watched Draco spell away the finished rolls and hold them over the flames, rotating.
“A few years.”
“Me too. It feels like everyone I’m introduced to already know who I am and I can’t start dating someone just because they want to be seen with the boy-who-lived.”
“Are they really still calling you that?”
“You’d be surprised.” Draco chuckled.
“I’m not really.”

Once Harry set the table and Draco levitated the food into the dining room they tucked in a talked less. They discussed Quidditch teams mostly and talked about how people were doing. Harry discussed his job in the Department of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry, pretty much ordering people around, going to events and taking breaks to visit Ron on Level Three in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Draco apparently wrote for the magazine ‘The Practical Potioneer’ and occasionally ‘Quidditch Weekly’ allowing him to be home most of the time.

“More wine Harry?”
“Are you trying to get me drunk so I can’t play properly?”
“Now why would I do that?” Harry narrowed his eyes at the coy expression on Malfoy’s face.
“No more wine then, thank you. Dinner was great but I think I’m in the mood for some Quidditch.”

Draco stood eagerly and Harry followed him out through the Venetian doors and after a few minutes’ walk onto a large, lit field. There was a large brown truck in the center and Harry could almost hear the screaming fans like when they were at Hogwarts.

“Ready to lose Potter?”
“Not a chance Malfoy.”