1. Cleaning.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Draco or Hermione. I just play with them sometimes.
A/N. I actually wrote this while procrastinating writing my honours thesis, which is actually on intertextuality in a couple of very interesting poems (not the Annals of Bolg).
The first thing that Hermione noticed when she got home from work was the mop bucket and mop in the middle of the corridor, and the odd shininess on the vinyl that came from drying water stains. What was more, the pile of old paperbacks and magazines that had slowly accumulated against one wall since they moved in six months before was nowhere to be found. Intrigued, Hermione kicked off her shoes and walked cautiously down the hallway to the kitchen, which turned out to bear the same signs of unusual activity. The bench was clearly damp, and the chairs had been upended and placed on the table. Any belongings on floors and surfaces had been carefully arranged into small piles in one corner of the room.
Now that she was closer, a tuneless humming could be heard from the direction of the living room. She followed the humming, and to her utter bemusement beheld a backside that she knew well, although she had never seen it in this position. Her husband, Draco Malfoy—erstwhile Slytherin Prince, Muggle-despiser, entitled lordling and Malfoy heir—was on his hands and knees, scraping clean—with more care than skill—the back wall of the fireplace, now completely denuded of coals. He was wearing a ratty old T-shirt and a pair of shorts that had originally belonged to her dad, and that she'd made him wear—much to his disgust—to a game of paintball shortly before they got engaged. The clothes had sat at the very back of the cupboard ever since. As she watched, he scraped the last bit of grime from the fireplace into a bucket, cautiously reversed back into the living room, and straightened up with a sigh.
Hermione suppressed a chuckle. He was so deep in his own world he hadn't noticed she was there. She reckoned that when he did realise, he would absolutely—
"Thanks for doing that, darling," she said sweetly.
Draco gave a strangled shriek and physically leapt in the air, upending the bucket of coals. Hermione doubled over with laughter. When she recovered, he had Scourgified the carpet and was sitting on the arm of the sofa, looking both defensive and reproachful. His normally immaculate hair was tousled and stood on end in wild, soot-streaked tufts. At the look on his face—like an aggrieved owl—she doubled over with laughter again.
"I don't know why it's so funny," Draco said, when she was beginning to recover. "I only—"
But Hermione was in hysterics again. "Oh no," she spluttered. "Not funny at all. Or unusual. Absolutely nothing to see here. Only—" she wheezed for a few seconds before continuing "—a man—cleaning soot—who has never done—ten minutes—no—ten seconds—of Muggle cleaning—in his life—"
"Well, you keep telling me I need to broaden my mind, and I was trying to do so. While being helpful," Draco said with dignity.
"Oh, of course," Hermione said with infinite sarcasm. "You were definitely trying to be noble, rather than…oh…I don't know, putting off writing that paper on intertextual theory and the Annals of Bolg…"
"Was not!"
"…that you have been trying to avoid for a week! Oh no, Draco Malfoy, you can't fool me. You're procrastinating."
"I do not procrastinate!" Draco said, with more dignity than before—although the effect, with his soot-streaked hands and face, was more comical than intimidating. "You procrastinate. And you are projecting. I do not make endless mugs of tea and dance around the kitchen singing songs from the Tiger King."
"Lion King. And I, as a practiced procrastinator, can tell when someone else is doing it. Admit it—you were cleaning because you don't like intertextual theory."
"I love intertextual theory!" Draco sounded genuinely aggrieved. "It's the Annals of Bolg that are the problem. I've never read a text that made my head hurt so much. Plus every third word in the original manuscript is missing and all the editors have put something different in the gaps."
"So you decided to clean our house. That's rather sweet of you. You even looked like you were—" Hermione gasped theatrically—"enjoying it."
"It wasn't too bad," Draco admitted. "Inefficient, but…what's the word?"
"Therapeutic? It is, isn't it. Now you see why I keep the vacuum cleaner around." Ignoring the soot on his clothes, she went and put her arms around him.
"Not as therapeutic as this." He sighed with contentment as she rubbed his shoulders. Then, grumblingly—"And I still hate the vacuum cleaner. It's as loud as a troll."
A/N. Just to clarify, the implication isn't that Draco never does housework. He just always uses spells rather than doing it the Muggle way. I borrowed the idea of Hermione still liking to do chores the Muggle way (and Draco's uncomprehending disdain) from The Alkahest by the wonderful Shadukiam. This is a longer-haul Dramione and well worth the read.
Reviews always welcome. If you would be interested in reading more one-shots like this, please let me know!