The dinning room is washed in a golden orange hue that chases shadows across the walls, the ceiling. Draco sits at one end of the dinning table, a Bordeaux glass in one hand, as he swills the remnants of Merlot. The Merlot stains the sides of the glass with a deep red tint; it reminds him of something.

Another glance at the clock on the mantelpiece of the lifeless fireplace. 9:47. Draco sets down his wine, leans on one elbow with his head on his fist, and pushes food around on his plate. He had made Harry's favourite: Baked salmon roulade, served on top of a potato galette that dripped with the perfect amount of butter and rosemary. Topped with the tomato beurre blanc sauce and soft green peas, the salmon looked more like the Tower of Babel rather than a meal.

Now, however, it looks like it had lost a battle with a maniacal child—cut to bits and pieces, pushed around on the plate, picked and nibbled at but never truly savoured. Draco takes a moment to stare at his massacre, and then looks up to compare it to the plate on the opposite end, its contents still untouched, perfect; the chair behind it, still untouched, the seat tucked neatly under the table.

Well, Malfoy, he thinks, life is what you make it. Draco squirms, lifts up in his chair, and pulls out his mobile. He clicks through the menu on the phone, looking for missed calls. There are none. He navigates to the phone’s settings, his fingers dancing over buttons like an expert lover, and checks to make sure the ringer is turned on—it is—and that the phone isn’t set to go straight to voicemail—it isn’t. He checks the time on the phone. It’s 9:49.

After another moment, Draco downs the rest of his Merlot in one, pours another healthy glass, and downs that one as well before he stands and collects his plate and silverware. His serviette falls from his lap onto the floor. He leaves it. And the full plate on the other end of the table. The candles continue to burn down to their quick, and he’ll certainly leave them as well.

He walks to the trash can by back door and scrapes his plate clean. There’s water in the sink already, and Draco lets the plate slide into the lukewarm, barely soapy water. He stares at the cookbook on the counter, still opened to the page labelled ‘Salmon Roulade’. In the upper left corner, ‘Harry’s favourite’ is scribbled in red, surrounded by a heart and stars.

Draco can still see the dining table. He can still see the golden hues dancing with the shadows, chasing them around the walls of the dinning room, the ceilings. He can still see his Bordeaux glass, empty but for the red stains along its curves. It still reminds him of something. He closes his eyes and rolls his neck and shoulders, squinting with every popping joint, vertebrae. He turns his back on the sight of the dinner table and makes his way to the counter. Leaning on his elbows, he begins flipping through the cookbook, until he comes to another page marked with red hearts and stars.