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Every morning, it’s Draco that wakes up earlier. He kisses Harry’s forehead, gets out of bed before the sun even has a chance to shine, and pads down the the kitchen. Not that it’s far - they’re both living in an apartment that, at the Manor, would’ve been a closet -, but he likes the moment of solitude. He’ll stare at the sink, still full of the dishes from yesterday’s dinner they hadn’t washed, too busy falling asleep. It had been a long day for both, but Draco supposed he could do this, at least.
He washed the dishes by hand. His wand was still confiscated, the lovely little war prize he got, and still would be for the next two to three years, pending on his good behavior. At first, he had no idea how to do it - not even the spell that could be used, since he had never cleaned a house in his entire life -, but Harry helped until he got the hang of it. Now he could do most things. The only thing he was still rather bad was vacuuming, always half-afraid of tangling himself up in the cord, But the dishes? That he could do well. He liked the cold water on his hands, scrubbing and making sure everything looked pristine, so pristine even his mother would praise him. He put it away to air dry, a mechanical action that he could do with eyes closed, and only noticed there were no more dishes when his hand came up empty, a glance to the side confirming it.
Dishes done, he looked at the window, the sun lazily rising. Harry would sleep a bit more. He put on the kettle, grabbed some tea - he was in the mood for some Assam this morning -, and started separating Harry’s coffee. Did they have milk? Three steps to the fridge and opening it said yes, and a quick sniff told him it was good still.
He liked making coffee for Harry and tea for himself. He liked letting Harry sleep a little longer, liked doing the chores to pass time. He couldn’t have imagined this future for himself, all those years ago, but Draco found he didn’t mind it. It was his fault that he had been on the losing side of the war, but this was agreeable. With no wand and no more family money to lean on, being a stay at home husband was… Better than the other options.
The kettle started whistling. Draco broke out of his reverie, tea on the mug and water poured in, and then putting some milk there, putting more water to boil. It was instant coffee, a little neat Muggle thing that he had found on the market, and Harry seemed to enjoy it tremendously. Draco had never enjoyed coffee, found it bitter even when it was all but mostly milk and sugar, but if Harry liked it black, then sure, he was going to make a cup or two.
Harry woke up right as Draco poured the coffee on the mug, the kettle’s second whistle muted, his own mug already empty and washed. The sun shone through the tiny kitchen window, bathing the world in gold shades.
“Morning, love.” Draco greeted, and Harry, still half-asleep, rested his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I’ve made you coffee. What do you want to eat?”
Harry grumbled something. Draco kept mixing the coffee.
“You don’t have to do this. You could sleep in, too.” Harry said, in the end. Draco handed him the mug, and he took it. “It wouldn’t kill you.”
“I like seeing the sun rise.” He lied; no, Draco enjoyed making Harry’s life a little easier. He knew it couldn’t have been easy with him, the mess, the stain, the no-good Malfoy that was surely bewitching the nation’s favorite Boy Who Lived to get some of his luxury back (as if Harry lived in some luxurious manor instead of some dingy apartment in the heart of London). He wasn’t illiterate - Draco may lack a wand, but he still received the newspaper every day, read the gossip column and burned it on the stove.
Besides, it wasn’t like he simply couldn’t nap all day on the couch, anyway, if the matter was sleeping in. The house could only be deep cleaned so many times before he was stripping the varnish from the wood.
Harry kissed his cheek, or at least, tried to: Draco moved his head a bit, and the kiss landed on his lips. The coffee splashed dangerously with Harry’s surprise, and all Draco could do was smile smugly.
“You’re going to kill me.” Harry said, and threw himself against the kitchen counter - there was no space for a table there -, with Draco nuzzling himself by his side. “Thank you. It’s delicious.”
“You’re welcome.” It was the least he could do. Harry had done so much for him already - what was a few minutes of sleep lost? Nothing. Nothing at all. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Your favorite.” Harry replied, and Draco grinned. “And I’m making it.”
Draco kissed him again, brief, the taste of coffee coating his mouth, but he didn’t find it unpleasant. No, when it came to Harry, everything was perfect.