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Who cares for classes when there’s chocolate cake?

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Draco stares.

Silence drags on in the kitchen and the thing on the wooden table does not disappear from sight.

‘It’s chocolate,’ Harry offers from beside the table.

‘It’s a cake,’ Draco’s thoughts have come to a screeching halt, because people do not do nice things to him, even those he sleeps with. Not like this. Not ever. ‘ You made me a cake.’

‘Well, it is your birthday today, isn’t it?’

Draco hears the embarrassed hesitation in Harry’s voice, tears his eyes away from the cake (not an ostentatious affair, but a simple moderate-sized cake with white frosting piped all over the surface to look like roses, with a barely-there silver glittering at the very edges of the ‘petals’) and looks at Harry, who’s now scratching at the back of his head and Draco can spot the edge of a blush creeping out from under his shirt collar, even when he’s not pale enough for it to really bloom.

He stands up, cups Harry’s face between his palms and kisses him, all gentle and sweet, there’ll be time for ravishing later. ‘No-one has ever made me a cake for my birthday.’ Pert of him wonders still that Harry actually has.


Draco kisses him again for good measure. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers, in a small voice, because he’s still not used to Harry’s gentleness, his drive to make Draco happy, offer him a home that’s full of love, isn’t used to meaning it when he offers thanks, it’s only ever been a word. Harry kisses him back, lingering, hands wrapping around Draco’s waist to hold him close, even when Draco has no intention to shy away.

They stand there for a while, content in each other’s arms, everything forgotten but each other and the series of indulging kisses shared between them. There might be a clock ticking away their morning on the kitchen wall and stray background thoughts that it isn’t the weekend, but neither, if they think such inconsequential things, pays them much heed. Because this is more precious than anything, what they are building, this trust and affection they have for one another.

‘Happy birthday,’ Harry finally says, again, just as he had when he had put the cake down onto the breakfast table in front of Draco, completely derailing his usual breakfast of coffee and toast with strawberry jam and a hard-boiled egg. ‘We might as well get onto the cake or else we’ll be late for classes.’

‘Who cares for classes when there’s chocolate cake?’

And Draco slips from Harry’s loosened arms and goes for the cake, cutting himself a big slice, licking errant icing from his finger as he settles the plate down next to his now-cooled coffee and sits.

‘You’re a teacher , Draco.’

Draco feels childish and actually sticks out his tongue, even winking. ‘As are you , Harry. And I do not see you hurrying up.’ Then he plucks his spoon (because while Harry might have brought a cake onto the table he hasn’t brought silverware) from his cup and proceeds to taste the cake.

Harry might cut a slice for himself, Draco doesn’t know, because he’s eating the best damned chocolate cake he has ever had. It’s moist and not too heavy, chocolate melting on his tongue, complemented by the vanilla buttercream icing, which isn’t too sweet but just right, the cake is layered into three and Draco tastes strawberries and vanilla in the filling mixing with the rich chocolate. He craves more.

‘Good?’ Harry asks, offering him a plate with a neatly cut slice already upon it and there isn’t a smudge of chocolate around his mouth.


Draco takes the proffered plate and cocks his head before letting the cake lure him in again. ‘Are you not eating? It is good .’

The blush creeps a little higher and Draco has an urge to take the slice on his plate, smear it all over Harry’s abashed-smug face and then help him clean it. ‘I like looking at you eat it,’ Harry says.

‘Kinky…’ It slips out because of what he’s been thinking and he thinks that maybe they could take the cake to bed with them and… He knows that his cheekbones pink up and curses his pale complexion.

Harry’s eyes linger on his lips before snapping back up and he smirks. ‘Shut up and eat your cake.’

‘Yes dear.’


They are both late to teach their classes and there is a smear of icing on professor Potter’s cheek all day but no-one dares to comment, as there’s one on professor Malfoy’s nose, as well.