Fleur entered the kitchen and stopped, holding her breath and being as still as possible. It was rare for Harry to be in the kitchen, though he was always willing to cook for her.
"Whatever you want, I'll make it for you. If I don't know how, I'll learn." Those had been his words, a distant memory now, but it had struck her as incredibly kind, far kinder than she had been to him. And so he cooked, whatever she wanted, and they were happy, until she saw him cooking, and knew she had been horribly selfish. He hated it, she knew the moment she saw his face.
"It reminds me of...before Hogwarts. Before magic. Before you."
He had firmly refused to stop cooking for her, insisting that it was the highlight of his day, and so he did. Whatever dish she wanted. If he didn't know it, he would learn it.
And Merlin was his cooking divine.
The smug look on his face when she would take the first bite told her everything, and she would pretend to hate it, but his gaze, as if he could see directly into her soul, melted her every time.
Yet, here she was, standing in her kitchen, and he was humming while he cooked. Harry never hummed while cooking, he just didn't. Get in, get out, serve the dish. That was his routine. She walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around him, gripping him tightly.
"What are you humming, 'Arry?"
"I dunno," he said, "I just remember it's the tune that was playing the night of our first date, at the muggle restaurant. When you wore that long blue dress." She purred slightly into his back.
"Oh? And what brought that on?" He turned around, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his forehead against hers.
"Because I just realized that cooking no longer reminds he of bad memories. Not anymore. Now? Now it reminds me of you."
And so, Harry would continue to cook for Fleur, whatever dish she wanted. If he didn't know it, he would learn it.
Because memories were the gift of life. The best gift of all.