Hermione is the type who says “I’ll have tea” and “no, I don’t want any breakfast” but then steal sips of Draco’s coffee and sneaks bites of his eggs and toast. It used to drive him crazy but now he just pushes the plate between them and grabs an extra fork.
“You could get your own plate, you know.”
“Why would I do that? Besides, yours tastes better.”
“It’s the exact same food.”
She smiles and kisses him and that’s that.
(No, he isn’t whipped. He swears.)
They share the paper during breakfast—she reads the current affairs section while he pores over financial news, then look over the arts supplement together. She makes an offhand comment about a play and he makes a mental note to surprise her with tickets.
On weekends, Hermione likes to sit with one of her legs over Draco’s, practically on his lap. It’s the reason why they added a banquette to the kitchen when they remodeled the Manor. He keeps a hand on her knee and strokes the inside of her thigh with his thumb.
(They aren’t ever overly affectionate in public, but alone in the house is a different story.)
“I need to pick up some books.”
Draco rolls his eyes but there’s a fondness in the way his lips quirk upwards when he says, “Forget I asked.”
“You’re welcome to join me.”
“So I can carry the load home?”
“You have to be good for something,” she grins.
Every household chore is shared. He cooked, so she cleans while he finishes the last of his coffee. There’s a familiar song playing in the radio. Draco stands and walks over to the sink, pulling Hermione into his arms and rocking back and forth in time with the music.
She giggles when he twirls her and does a terrible job of keeping her wet, soapy hands off his hair. No matter. They’ll end up showering together anyway.
“Still have two left feet, I see,” he teases.
“I didn’t hear you complain at our wedding.”
“How beautiful you looked.”
Weekends are their favourite.
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