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.

"Hey," he said mock-defensively, "no one has ever complained about my cooking before."

"But have you ever cooked before?"

Draco's main memory of the night had been coming home to a hardworking boy, hair matted with tomatoes as he struggled to cook. The kitchen was beyond messy. Draco remembered laughing, stress evaporating, and, for whatever reason, fighting the urge to wipe a streak of sauce from Harry's cheekbone, to kiss a spot of it from his lower lip.

--

An hour later, Draco was perched on top of the laundromat's washing machines as loads of their washing spun beneath him. He kicked his shoes off onto the dated linoleum - a long five foot drop past the two stacked washers he sat atop. His small, green-socked feet swung back and forth as Harry stared up at him.

"You know this isn't as bad as you're making it out to be," Harry told his blonde counterpart through a dopey half-smile.

Draco grinned, trying not to blush - he loved that smile - and rolled up the sleeves of his flannel. "This is the best part. This short hour of washing is the only one that suits my aesthetic."

"Which means, essentially, that you feel cool sitting on the washing machines."

Draco shrugged, now certain that the blush was present.

The half-smile grew. "Let me remind you that I'm the one who boosted you up there."

Draco rolled his eyes, gently kicking Harry in the face playfully. "You're ruining it, Potter."

Harry looked up at the boy, his cheeks dotted with pink, prevalent against the white-blond strands of hair that escaped his beanie. An intrusive thought wormed its way to his conscience, and not for the first time: He's beautiful.

The washing machine dinged, waking Harry from his lovestruck, walking slumber. His eyes flashed down to the washers, his mind now processing that Okay, Harry, now we do the washing. Okay, Harry, now it's time to stop staring at the beautiful boy that you live with that you're supposed to hate. Okay, Harry, get your head in the game.

Harry opened the washing machine to move one load to a nearby dryer, but Draco stopped him as he moved away. "Potter, no," he called through a smile. "Don't leave me!"

"But the dryers are-" Harry laughed, realizing. "Oh my god. You can't get down."

Draco shook his head, still giggling. "I'm a little stuck."

Harry took a long look around the muggle laundromat. It was empty besides them, and the laundromat clerk was nodding off at his desk. The boy who lived sneakily pulled out his wand, whispered, "Accio Draco!"

Draco came flying off of the washer, a momentary look of shock replaced by excitement and glee. He flung towards Harry, landing in his arms and almost sending the brunette crashing to the ground.

Harry held Draco there, both of them laughing as they regained their balance. Harry's hands were on Draco's back, his fingertips lacing the outlines of Draco's scapulas. The blond had his arms around Harry's waist, was nuzzling his face into the shorter boy's neck. Harry's laugh was broken only when he realized how close he was to Draco; then began the mad scramble to keep his hands to himself. Now he was blushing as well.

Draco coughed, muttered a quick "thank you" before smiling an apologetic grin. He began filling up the dryer as Harry's near-broken cell phone began to chime.

He picked up, still feeling the heat of Draco's breath on his collarbone. "Hello?"

"It's me."

Harry was immediately filled with a familiar warmth. He moved away from Draco and the buzzing of the dryers. "Hermione. Hi. It's been a while.'

"Too long, I'll admit." Harry could hear the pause as a curious smile surely blossomed across her lips. "How's the flat situation working out?"

He couldn't help but smile, turning to look at Draco as he struggled to load the heavy, damp clothes into the dryer, socked feet slipping around on the linoleum. "It's... Better than expected."

"Ooh la la. Can we expect to hear a happy announcement anytime soon, then?"

Harry's blush grew significantly. "It's not like that."

"Right. Sure. Speaking of things that are 'not like that,' my husband has been missing you hopelessly. He's actually-"

Harry listened to a little scramble, a giggle from Hermione, before Ron's voice filled her place. "Alright then, mate? We've been missing you. Looking forward to hearing about your living situation. Use protection." There was another fumble. "Oh, Rose, I didn't see-" His voice grew distant. "Protection, like wearing a helmet when you ride your bicycle. Or wearing mittens..."

Hermione was back. "And this has been a 45-second glimpse into my life." She laughed, no doubt at Ron's attempts to explain himself to their child. "But now, we want to hear about yours. And your flatmate's. Lunch? Tomorrow? The two of you, the two of us?"

"It sounds like a double date when you put it that way."

"It is." She chuckled. "One o'clock. We'll pick you up."

She hung up, leaving a confused Harry to return to his gorgeous flatmate, who had just finished loading up the dryers.

Draco raised his eyebrows, somehow looking exhausted from his endeavor with the articles of clothing. "What was that about?"

Harry shook his head, held up his phone in bewilderment. "Apparently, we have a date."

--

By the time the boys left the laundromat and retreated to an alley to apparate home, darkness had been cast over London. The flat was clean and, upon entering, they brought the smell of pounds of clean laundry (which was certain to hang around the air for a few days).

"Just the dishes now," Harry said, but the growl of his stomach cut him off from any further action. "Which we will do. After we eat."

Stowed away in the fridge were a few boxes of takeout (Harry made a mental note: Add 'grocery shopping' to the to-do list). These, microwaved, made for the greasy, not-so-nutritional meal that the boys had grown accustomed to. With stomachs still full, they returned to check off the last bit of work: the mountainous piles of dishes surrounding the kitchen sink.

Harry geared up with a towel, standing to Draco's right. They'd developed a pattern and natural rhythm in their dishwashing: Draco washes, Harry dries. They were efficient.

Draco hummed softly, his hands submerged in the soapy water, for the first few minutes of washing. Then he was quiet a moment, before: "You're okay with me now, right?"

The question took Harry by surprise. "What do you mean?"

Draco shrugged, washed. Clink. "I mean, you don't hate me." He scrubbed some grit off a plate, the grudgy food a sign of how long they'd put off the work. "I know it took some warming up to, the whole idea of living with someone you once hated so much."

Harry picked up a now-clean, dripping mug, focusing on its handle. "I can't even remember why I ever hated you, to be honest."

"I'll remind you: I was a prissy, racist, spoiled little twat. You had every right to hate me."

"But I don't anymore." Harry met Draco's eyes for a moment, then the two of them were both focused back on their work, as though the brief eye contact had been an awkwardly met glance across a room. "And I thought I did, at first. I thought you hadn't changed, and I... I was wrong."

"I've tried changing." Clink. Splash.

"I've noticed. You've succeeded."

Draco was silent a moment, as though he was holding his words on a line of debate: to say or not to say. He made his decision. "It's just... I got caught up in a lot, in those last few years of school. That was a real catalyst in the whole 'stop-being-an-ass' movement. And then I got caught up in it again, after Hogwarts, with the drugs-"

"I thought that was a casual gig."

"It didn't start as one." Draco passed Harry a scrubbed plate. "I needed an escape. The shit I'd been through, I needed an escape. No gateway to pass through, no limits, just pure distance from everything in the real world that made me feel so bad." Splash.

"And the drugs were just that."

Draco shrugged. "They overtook me for nearly a year; luckily, I was never in deep enough that I couldn't dig my way out. But those kind of people, when it gets that bad... They stick around. Not so much burdens as reminders, that you were like them once and now you provide for them."

Harry dried another mug, rubbing his towel across its ceramic surface carefully. "And that's your story."

Clink. "Yep, the typical complaints of an upper-class teenage douchebag." He smiled the softest, most subtle of grins. "I'd ask your sob story, but I'm afraid it's been broadcast to me throughout my entire life."

Harry responded with a sad smile. "I'm afraid you're right." He took the wine glass Draco offered and began to dry. "But to answer your question: no. I don't hate you, and I don't know how I could ever hate you." His eyes were on Draco's now, each of them looking up from their work, absently staring into the other's eyes. Harry swallowed nervously. "In fact..."

Crash. Harry looked down to see Draco's hand and another wine glass, dropped onto the countertop and smashed. Draco's hand was steadily reddening as thin, water-mixed blood ran down it from a gash in his knuckle.

Harry reached for Draco's hand, each of them wincing as the boy who lived pulled miniscule pieces of glass from the blond's hand. "Episkey," Harry whispered, holding his wand towards the gash. It healed instantly.

Harry's hand remained atop Draco's, treasuring the touch of the soft skin, as cool as the milky surface suggested. He ran a thumb across the healed cut, which was now nothing but another patch of impossibly flawless skin, before pulling his hand away.

Draco sighed, staring down at his previously-injured hand. "And that, dear Potter, is why I so despise housework."