Expectant || Drarry

2

Harry stares at the nervous tic in the sharp ridge of Malfoy's jaw.

"So... You said you needed to talk?"

Malfoy doesn't answer him. He's clenching his teeth so hard that Harry can almost hear the dull grinding.

"Are you alright, then? You look a bit--"

Frigid grey eyes snap up to his and Harry hurriedly abandons his statement, pursing his lips and watching Malfoy shred tissue after tissue in staunch silence, the little pile of spontaneous confetti between the salt and pepper shakers and the grimy bottle of HP sauce gradually growing.

Malfoy keeps his gaze on his own hands, his fingers long, skeletally thin and white, nails bitten down to the quick, lunulae standing out starkly in the pink beds. His right knee bounces furiously below the table, a single, hot gust of air blowing out his flared nostrils from time to time. He has his scraggly blond hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail at the nape of his neck, several bunches of the dry, straw-like strands escaping the elastic and framing his thin face, the ends of it just falling past his jaw. His lips are chapped and bright pink, his nose almost unnaturally straight, and his dark blond, fan like lashes flutter as he finally returns Harry's gaze, just for a beat.

Despite looking downright knackered, his eyes are over-bright, sharp, and they dart about incessantly, never staying on Harry for more than a fraction of a second. Not for the first time, Harry takes in the dark bags under Malfoy's eyes, the lines of expertly suppressed anxiety etched across his forehead and around his mouth; his faded, slightly baggy clothes, sunken cheeks, and the general unkempt air he carries.

And Harry just cannot understand why he's unable to keep his eyes off him. Nothing about his current appearance is worth a second glance and yet, Harry sits, trying his hardest not to blink very often so he can stare at him that much longer. There's a certain grace about Malfoy, a muted glow, and Harry is part confused and part mesmerised by him.

It's unnerving.

So Harry sighs irritably - loudly. "Malfoy, what am I doing here?" he demands, dipping his head and trying to catch his gaze. "You did owl and ask to meet me, yes?"

Malfoy looks up, tossing aside the last of his shredded tissue, leaning back in his seat, expression shuttered and cool.

"'ere you are, love."

They both look around as the server bustles over, placing a plate loaded with fried eggs, sausages and tomatoes in front of Malfoy, who immediately hunches over his plate, picking up his knife and fork. Harry wraps both hands around the mug of black coffee set before him, head tilted as he watches Malfoy spear up a slice of tomato and shove it into his mouth before immediately following it up with half a sausage.

"Tea?" the server asks, setting down a little pot of cream next to Harry's elbow.

Malfoy nods, wiping the corners of his mouth neatly. "Earl Grey, if you have it."

She tells him they don't and Malfoy settles for a cup of Darjeeling instead. Harry waits in silence, drinking his coffee and watching Malfoy steadily demolish his breakfast.

"Skipped dinner last night?" he teases lightly, lips quirking up in amusement. Malfoy's lip, in turn, curls slightly, nostrils flaring again, his expression of haughty disdain so familiar that Harry almost laughs. "I didn't mean to insult," he says, stifling a grin. "Go ahead and eat something else if you want; I'll pay."

Malfoy abruptly sets his fork down, eyes gleaming with something as he looks up and slowly leans back, mouth slowly ticking up in such a derisive, openly hostile smirk that Harry instantly feels his hackles rise.

"Will you now, Potter?" Malfoy asks softly, in that same even, slightly hoarse, voice that he'd ordered breakfast and tea with. "Sniffed me out to be your next charity case, then? Saint Potter," he adds in a sing-song, mock-grandiose tone, head tilting from side to side.

Harry raises his eyebrows, willing himself not to lose his patience this soon, this easily. "Who was my last charity case?" he enquires politely, pushing his glasses up with one finger.

Malfoy waves a hand carelessly, shrugging one slim shoulder. "Who the fuck knows what the Saviour gets up to in his free time," he drawls, sipping more tea, posture perfect as he brings the cup up to his mouth instead of bending in towards it. "This is the sort of thing your lot gets up to, though? Funding new hospital wards, rebuilding schools, buying an ex-Death Eater breakfast?"

"I was just being polite," Harry says calmly. "You're welcome to pay for yourself."

"Of course you'd retract the offer," Malfoy spits, flaring up out of nowhere, "As if you'd spend a single Knut on me!"

"What is the matter with you?" Harry snaps heatedly, keeping his voice low and leaning forward. "You asked to meet me, haven't said a fucking word since I got here, and now you're insisting on being a right little shit, picking a fight like we're still fucking eleven." Sitting back, Harry rakes a hand through his hair with an irritated huff before digging out his wallet. "Tell me why I'm here or I walk," he says irritably, thumbing through the bills.

Malfoy's fists tremble where they're clenched on the table, eyes narrowing to flaming flints, thin chest heaving. Something about the way he's slowly swelling up, face draining of all colour, mouth starting to tremble, makes Harry go completely still, the hairs on his arms rising.

He's still holding his breath when, a few seconds later, Malfoy hisses through grit teeth, "I'm pregnant, Potter - and it's yours."