Flatmates (drarry)

Chapter Four

Draco sneezed violently, nearly sending the mug of tea next to him toppling to the ground. He sniffled, gave his red eyes a hard rub.

"There's no way you're going into work today," Harry said, sitting across the room from the blond on the couch.

"Not an option." Draco's voice was hoarse, scratchy. The phlegm in his throat was evident with each word he struggled through.

"You've practically got the bubonic plague. No one wants to innocently buy some heroin and end up in the hospital with a fatal illness."

Draco rolled his eyes. "It's just a cold, Potter."

"You're burning up and you're even more pale than usual. I'm surprised you made it out of bed."

"I'm fine." Draco stood from his seat and was hit with a headrush that sent him flying. He reached for the counter, seeking grip and sending his mug crashing to the floor. "See? Fine."

Harry observed the blond, who still clung to the slate countertop for his dear life, and the mug on the floor, completely shattered in a lukewarm puddle of Earl Grey. "I'm calling the record store."

Draco's long groan was his only form of quickly-dying protest as he collapsed onto the couch.

Forehead creased with worry, Harry paced back and forth down the hall as the phone rang, number of the record store alight on the screen. They picked up on the sixth ring, and Harry was met with the voice of a twenty-something girl.

"Hey, Bionic Records here."

"Uhh, hi. Just calling in to tell you that Draco's sick and can't make it into work today."

"And you are?"

"His flatmate."

There was a moment of silence, and then a chuckle. "Harry, right?"

"Um... Yeah. That's me."

"Draco's mentioned you. All good things, obviously."

"He... Talks about me?"

"Constantly. Can't shut that kid up, honestly."

Harry's face felt hot. Did Draco actually think about him that often? There was really only so much to say, right? Surely Harry was just the hardly-working flatmate who was always short on cash. Without Draco, the place would crash and burn. How much good could he speak of that?

"Um, hello? Harry?

Harry snapped back to the present moment, to the girl on the phone and the coughs of his blond flatmate in the living room. "Right, yeah. Here. That's sorted, then?"

"Totally understandable. Take care of him, Harry. He'll say he doesn't need any help - frankly, I'm surprised he let you call in - but he does. He needs you."

Those words seemed to ring out in Harry's head, repeating until they disappeared in a slow decrescendo. He needs you. With the short sentence still gripped by his mind, Harry padded back towards Draco, setting the phone in its place on the slate countertop.

"I'm making you some soup," Harry announced.

Draco didn't protest.

--

After three more dreadful days full of hacking and sneezing, Draco awoke feeling much better. He was still snuggled into the couch, tucked under the softest blankets Harry could find. Speaking of Harry, he was very much present in the scene - Draco's small, green-socked feet were resting on his lap as he snored away at the end of the couch.

They'd fallen asleep watching Arrested Development. Again.

A large part of Draco wanted to lift his foot and gently kick Harry awake, but he was stopped, mesmerized. As winter's cool greyness seeped through the glass wall, Harry's face was tipped into slight beams of light, his features lit gently. His cheeks were glazed with a slight layer of scruff, which led up into a sleepy mess of soft, black tendrils of hair. His forehead was uncovered, his jagged scar visible. With every deep, slumbering breath, his eyelashes fluttered against the cool marble of his skin.

And for this moment, Draco could realize only one thing: Harry Potter was just a little bit beautiful.

This time, Harry's eyelashes did more than flutter: they separated, allowing the pair of green/grey/blue (Draco couldn't decide) eyes to meet the morning.

Harry turned to look at Draco as he slipped on his glasses. "We did it again?"

Draco nodded towards the television where Netflix continued to ask whether or not they were still watching the show. "Old habits die hard."

Harry shook his head. "You're feeling better, though?"

Draco nodded, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, it didn't feel as though his head weighed eighty pounds. "Thankfully. For a few moments, there, I thought I was actually about to die."

The boy who lived laughed, but his giggles quickly descended into a fit of violent coughing. When he'd finally caught his breath, he looked up at Draco, absolute fear in his eyes.

Draco sighed and stood from the couch, hitting "Play" on the remote as a knowing smile slipped onto his catlike face. "I'm making you some soup," he said.

This time, it was Harry who didn't protest.