Expectant || Drarry

5

Malfoy doesn't move in for another two weeks or so.

Every morning, Harry would wake up and go straight to his desk, writing Malfoy a note asking whether he's made up his mind yet and owling it to him, even before he'd had his coffee or taken a piss. And without fail, Malfoy responded: 'Do sod off, Potter', 'Don't be ridiculous, Potter', 'It's 7AM, Potter, go the fuck back to sleep, 'I will strangle your owl, Potter'.

But Harry wasn't about to give up on the idea; after he'd left Malfoy's decrepit place that evening, despair and sympathy bubbling up inside him, he wondered rather wildly if he ought to just go back and simply throw Malfoy over his shoulder and bring him to Grimmauld, kicking and screaming.

But he wanted to do it properly, and so every day, Harry wrote to him, and once in three days, Harry would go back to his flat. Malfoy eventually stopped opening the door for him so Harry stood there and pounded on his door for ten minutes and eventually left, promising to come back in a couple of days. He felt mildly embarrassed and very much like the crazy stalker Ron informed him he was being, but it all ended up being more than worth it when two weeks later, on a Saturday morning, Harry's owl came back with a one-word reply:

'Fine'.

~*~

Harry picks up Malfoy and his luggage, that one single trunk packed with seemingly everything he owns, on Sunday morning. Malfoy's waiting for him, wearing robes again, this time in a soft cream, which, coupled with his peaches-and-milk skin tone, spun gold hair and heavenly scent, nearly sends Harry keeling over down the stairs when he opens the door.

"You're late," he snaps at Harry, blushing faintly when Harry gapes at him for a few seconds without coming in.

"What, no I'm not," Harry replies blankly, "I'd said ten thirty and it's ten thirty."

"It's ten thirty-two," Malfoy says haughtily.

"Then you'll just have to forgive me my tardiness, Malfoy," Harry tells him blandly, stepping in and taking a look around. The wardrobe hangs open, empty, and the bed is bare. The desk bears nothing but a broken quill and a few crumbs of owl treats, and Malfoy's trunk sits in the middle of the room. "Ready?" Harry asks, unable to hold back a smile - he doesn't know how he's going to handle living with Malfoy but for some mad reason he cannot wait.

"Whatever, Potter," Malfoy sighs, bending down and picking up the trunk by one ear, "You'd better have more than one bedroom."

Harry darts forward, easily picking up the trunk with both hands. "Didn't I mention? You're going to be sleeping on the sofa."

Malfoy's gaze, fixed on the way Harry's holding up his trunk, snaps up to his in a flat glare. "That better be a fucking joke, Potter," he says dangerously.

Harry grins. "Loosen the fuck up, you tosser," he laughs, "I've already had a room prepared for you but I have twelve other bedrooms you can pick from if you want. Now come here and hold my arm so I can Apparate us."

Malfoy huffs but stalks over without further comment, curling both hands around Harry's bicep and pointedly looking away as his soft cheeks once again slowly blot pink. Harry tries not to stare too long at the way Malfoy's hair falls onto his face and catches on his lashes, and with a deep breath, turns on the spot.

Malfoy remains staunchly silent as they Apparate onto the front porch of Grimmauld and make their way inside, Harry babbling away as he leads them upstairs, pointing out the rooms that lie in between. Malfoy simply follows him wordlessly, expression inscrutable as he takes in the curiously staring portraits and the spasmodically moving landscapes in their gilded frames.