Expectant || Drarry

4

This can't be it, Harry thinks as he stares at the derelict building in front of him, with its grimy windows and filthy, peeling plaster, the front door hanging off one hinge. A wizened old witch with a shock of grey hair around her wrinkled face sits at her window in the ground floor flat, picking at her yellowing teeth with one, deadly looking discoloured nail. A large, grey cat sits on the windowsill before her, scratching its face on one of the dead plants there.

Harry just takes it all in rather blankly, looking down Diagon Alley on his left and Knockturn Alley on his right before turning around on the spot once, feeling completely lost.

"Who you lookin' for, dearie?" the old witch eventually asks Harry in a quavering voice.

"Erm..." Harry, scratches his ear, more than certain that he has the wrong place. "A... A friend - Draco Malfoy? I don't think I have the right place, though."

The witch nods, pointing upwards with one crooked forefinger. "Second floor."

Harry's mouth drops open, stomach tightening in shock. "Draco Malfoy?" he asks weakly. "Really?"

"Rude, blond thing," the witch nods, "Did go and find Marvin when he slipped out once, though," she says, scratching her cat's ears.

Harry swallows and nods awkwardly. "Thank you," he says, trotting up the cracked front steps and pushing the broken door further open. The stairs creak beneath his feet as he climbs up, wondering if he's walking into a trap of some sort because Malfoy cannot be living in this sort of-

Harry pauses on the second floor landing, looking between the flat on his left and the sheet of tarpaulin hanging over the doorway on his right to where another flat should've been. There's loose rubble and several slabs of brick and concrete sticking out from beneath the tarpaulin, the place clearly undergoing repair or remodelling.

Clearing his throat, Harry raises his fist and knocks on the door to his left, holding his breath, one hand closing around his wand in his coat pocket.

There's faint clattering and then Malfoy - Veela Malfoy - is standing before him, peering around the door at Harry, pale eyes bugging out and face draining of all colour.

Instantly, Harry is transported back to that night. This is the Malfoy he saw in that club; this is the Malfoy he fucked in that club - luminous skin and ridiculously shiny hair, lips berry-pink and moist, eyes sparkling with vitality.

The fact that this Malfoy has to live in such a place brings Harry crashing back to that tiny landing, shock and distress wiping his mind blank.

"Potter," Malfoy says vacantly.

"Malfoy?" Harry chokes out.

Perhaps it's Harry's expression, or his disbelieving tone, or maybe it's the sympathy that's unintentionally pouring off Harry in waves, but suddenly Malfoy's perfect, white teeth are bared at him and he looks terrifyingly angry. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Malfoy, is this where you live?" Harry asks, making to step inside.

Malfoy nearly shuts the door in his face but ends up slamming it into Harry's booted foot instead. "Get out!" he bellows.

"Let me come in," Harry insists, pushing at the door.

"Get the fuck out of here!" Malfoy tries desperately to kick Harry's foot out of the way, but Harry shoves his shoulder into the door and forces his way in, glaring right back at Malfoy as he glowers at Harry, rubbing his elbow where the door had knocked into it.

Harry's wildly hammering heart slows very slightly when he sees that although tiny, Malfoy's flat - sparse but clean - is not as bad as he'd envisioned on his way upstairs. The walls are bare and what little paint remains is peeling. There's a rather cluttered little desk under the sole, square window, and Harry immediately spots the letter he'd sent Malfoy that morning. A small, tidy kitchenette lies to his left, a single bed, neatly made, against the wall on the far right. There's an old wardrobe, the dark wood faded and scratched, and, across from it, an overstuffed, rather comfortable looking winged armchair, a small patch of the upholstery torn and leaking fluffy cotton on one of the armrests. A large trunk sits beside the armchair, several books stacked neatly on it along with a steaming mug of what Harry can smell is tea. There's a bathroom on the right, a little off the foot of the bed, the door slightly ajar, and Harry can just about spot the porcelain of a stained sink with a cracked, dirty little mirror above it.