Expectant || Drarry

6

It's an absolute nightmare, living with Potter, honestly.

Only two weeks since he'd moved in with him and Draco is already more comfortable and at home than he'd ever been in that filthy hole he'd lived in all these years. Potter doesn't get in his way and never pries when Draco keeps to his room, but when Draco does deign to make an appearance in the sitting room or for his meals Potter seems ridiculously pleased and more than happy to spend a while in Draco's company.

Draco absolutely loves his room; it reminds him of his quarters at Malfoy Manor, as does the brilliant library on the second floor that Draco spent a solid three hours browsing around in on the very first day of his arrival at Grimmauld. He'd run into Potter on his way back to his room and the git had beamed at him before insisting on relieving Draco of his armload of books and carrying them for him.

Potter, the courteous, hospitable bastard - always doing little things for Draco just to drive him up the wall.

Two days after Draco had moved in, Potter had disappeared for about an hour or so and when he'd returned, it was with an obscenely large sack full of Honeydukes candy - boxes and boxes of Cauldron Cakes and chocolate fudge, slabs of nutty, unimaginably succulent chocolate, enormous Chocoballs filled with strawberry mousse and clotted cream, Chocolate Dragon Eggs (each as big as a real dragon egg) filled with caramel and crushed hazelnuts, dozens and dozens of Chocolate Frogs and Peppermint Toads, little yellow and pink cartons of crystallised pineapple, jars of Pink Coconut Ice, packets of Ice Mice, Fizzing Whizzbees and Glacial Snow Flakes.

Draco had simply stared at the gigantic, bright purple bag of sweets when Potter had heaved it onto the sofa beside Draco before looking back up at Potter in blank shock, at which point Potter had just shrugged and blushed and mumbled something about how Draco had finished most of the sweets in the bowl in his room before hurrying away.

The very next day, at breakfast, Draco had unthinkingly mentioned his broken sleep patterns to Potter over breakfast. That evening, after dinner, Draco had found Potter hurrying out of Draco's room and had angrily bellowed after him about invasion of privacy before going inside and discovering an ornate musical box sitting on his bedside table. After staring at it in wary confusion for ten minutes, Draco had opened the lid, and out popped a miniature Swedish Short-Snout, flapping its silver wings and opening its jaws wide to emit a soft, euphonious tinkling that had instantly lulled Draco into deep, undisturbed sleep. He'd woken up feeling well-rested and supremely sheepish, not to mention guilty, for having yelled at Potter.

It's really difficult to hate him, Draco thinks grumpily now as Potter sidles into the room and ambles over to Draco who's lounging across the sofa, to hand him a large mug of warm honey-milk. Damn him - how is one supposed to succeed at sincerely hating him?

"Thanks," Draco grunts, drawing his legs back and sitting crossed legged so Potter can sit down.

"I thought you went to bed," Potter says.

"Well... I haven't," Draco replies blandly and Potter rolls his eyes.

"Still having trouble sleeping?" he asks casually.

"No," Draco sets his mug down on the end table and shuts his book, "but I'm not sleepy yet; napped earlier."

"Oh." Potter fidgets with a hole in his horrible, clichéd Gryffindor t-shirt, staring down at the book Draco had bought himself on the way back from his first appointment with Granger. The baby on the cover has a perfectly round head and looks incredibly happy as it beams toothlessly and Draco honestly doesn't know whether reading about sensitive nipples, swollen feet and the eventual increase in flatulence is helping him wise up about the pregnancy or simply fuelling actual nightmares.