Flatmates (drarry)

Chapter Five

Draco Malfoy despised housework.

He'd figured that Harry would do the chores, and, for the most part, he did - but that didn't cease Draco's involvement. It had come: Harry's enforced Monthly Chore Day had arrived.

Harry was perched on the end of Draco's bed, watching the blond as he slowly woke. His lean torso was shirtless, uncovered. Rolling onto his back sleepily, he revealed ribs, softly poking out of his sides, stretching his marble flesh. His hair, white, his skin, white - Draco was composed of snowflakes and blending into the banks of his duvet.

Although Harry had grown used to admiring Draco's beauty, he never defined it as such. Draco was just... Draco. Untouchable, flawless, Malfoy.

Harry flopped down on his side, resting on an elbow to gaze at his sleeping flatmate. "You know what day it is."

Draco let out a soft, half-awake groan.

"Yeah, you do. Come on, then. The flat's a mess."

He made no move towards getting out of bed.

Harry grinned, resisting the urge to run a hand over Draco's soft hair. "I'll make you coffee," he promised, releasing the double e's with the hint of a singsong voice.

Draco sighed heavily, voice still laden with sleep. "I'll be right out."

Harry kept his word, retreating to the kitchen. He poured some organic coffee grounds into their French press (Draco had insisted that coffee tasted eons better made this way, Harry had rolled his eyes at first before reluctantly admitting that it was the best he'd ever had) before adding hot water. As it steeped, he took a look around the messy flat.

Blankets were spread sloppily around the living room, reminders of movie nights and casual mornings spent. Seemingly half of the books were off the bookshelf (Draco had a habit of picking one up, reading a chapter, and never touching it again). The slate counter was in need of a good scrub or three, as was the floor. Socks (Harry's, mostly) were littered around the room. A pile of dishes taller than Harry himself was stacked onto the counter. It was going to be long day.

"You know, I used to keep this place so nice and neat," Draco announced, stepping into the living room. He'd slipped on a shirt, an old, too-tight Quidditch tee from Hogwarts. "You ruined me, Potter."

"It won't be so bad, Malfoy. A bit of sweeping here, maybe a trip to the laundromat. We'll be fine."

Draco sighed dramatically, slowly pressing down the plunger on the French press before pouring the coffee into a mug (that would undoubtedly be added to the stack of dishes within the hour). "You always say that."

"And you always survive."

The blond always complained less when the cleaning began. He worked diligently, closing the books he'd left strewn about and placing them back on their shelves in their organized, alphabetical order. He folded the blankets, swiped the television clean of dust, as Harry swept and mopped and took out the trash.

"You've got to admit it: we're making good progress," Harry said as Draco came to aid him in the task of scrubbing the countertops.

"Maybe in your opinion. All I can see is the thousands of stains on this counter."

Harry laughed. "I can't even remember ever cooking here. All I recall are countless nights of takeout and pizza."

Draco shot Harry a teasing look. "This is still probably the aftermath of the Spaghetti Catastrophe."

Harry laughed easily at the memory. Draco had been having a difficult week: the record store was struggling in the economy, his high clients (highents?) were becoming more and more demanding. Harry had taken it upon himself to make Draco dinner, envisioning a beautiful, candlelit meal. He was halfway through the recipe, water overboiling and sauce in his hair, when he remembered that he couldn't cook for shit. They'd ordered Thai food.