Rivaling Affections

Chapter 12

Draco couldn't stop himself from associating food with sex.

Every time he took a bite of even the most mundane dish he thought about sex, but not just any sex: no, it was always sex with Harry. No doubt that was the Gryffindor's intention, or else he was trying to fatten Draco up so that no one else would want him so that Harry could have him for himself. Either way, Draco was growing weary of being buttered up –quite literally- and decided to turn the tables.

Perhaps Harry already thought of food and sex as synonymous, it certainly would explain his ability to easily bat away Draco's many propositions and advances, but just in case, Draco was going to make certain that with every bite of cake, or roasted duck, Harry would think about fucking him, which in the end would solve all of their problems, he was sure of it.

It was those thoughts that found Draco Malfoy in utterly foreign territory early Saturday morning. Harry's copper pots and pans hung above his head and sprawling hammered metal surfaces sprawled out around him. He searched high and low for a cookbook, a recipe card or anything else that might inspire him as to what one of Harry's favorite meals might be but found nothing.

Apparently Harry was a true culinary genius and never even bothered with predetermined measurements or instructions. Draco used to think he could cook, but after only a week of Harry's delicious meals he soon realized that spaghetti and grilled cheese couldn't even be considered food next to Harry's Ahi-tuna stack with red pepper pesto or his vine-ripened tomato and buffalo mozzarella salad. Harry was just in a league of his own when it came to his perfect use of flavors and technique.

"But really, how hard could it be?" Draco muttered to himself as he checked the icebox for his ingredient options. After some introspection he decided to make his own rendition of an apple pie, feeling it was appropriately poetic as Harry managed to snag him with that very dish his first day here.

He tried to recall the recipe that had been passed down through his father's side of the family for decades and pulled out 6 large sour apples, a fresh lemon, sugar, flour and cinnamon and placed them on the large stone island.

Three slices into the first apple and Draco cut himself, wincing and cursing at the pain, but trying to keep quiet enough so as not to wake Harry. After getting another apple he decided to slice them with magic instead and was mostly successful in getting the thin slices he wanted.

As he moved on to stewing the apples, he knocked his head on a cabinet door, burned his palm on the stovetop, and squirted lemon in his eye. All of this before he even managed to add the apple slices into the saucepan.

"How is Harry such rubbish at potions and so good at this?" Draco mused with minor annoyance. Part of him hated the fact that Harry had him so thoroughly hooked on his cooking, something he would miss greatly when he finally moved out. Though the rest of him hated the fact that Harry's cooking was not the only thing he would miss about the powerful Gryffindor; he knew that if it weren't for the opportunity to see him at school, he might never want to leave.

Though if he wanted to be honest with himself – which he rarely was – he would know that despite the fact that he would still see Harry nearly every day, it just wasn't the same as being here with him.

As he started to mix the dry ingredients the bag of flour began tipping precariously toward the edge of the countertop, threatening to spill its contents all over Harry's rich hardwood floors. Draco dove for it, flinging his spoon to the side in his haste but was too late and ended up being covered head to toe in the fluffy white powder.

Utterly dismayed by the sheer mess he had made in the kitchen he just stared blankly for a moment at his half made pie and contemplated giving up. Finally he decided the least he could do after destroying Harry's kitchen was provide him with a finished pie and continued with his mission.