Expectant || Drarry

15

Harry keeps his word and leads Malfoy to the Floo after breakfast the next morning to take him to see his parents.

Malfoy in turn keeps his word and brings his fully packed and shrunken trunk with him, barely looking at Harry, having hardly spoken a word to him since the previous night. He's dressed in neat, voluminous robes in a somber grey and wears his hair in a severe knot at his nape, his face worn and tired, mouth tightly pressed into a thin line.

They hadn't slept in the same bed last night – a habit they'd seamlessly fallen into since the night Harry had knotted him. And now Harry cannot bear to think that it might've been the last night they'd ever spend under the same roof, not to mention his last chance to have held Malfoy as they slept.

They Floo out into a formal parlor in Malfoy Manor, and beside Harry, Malfoy exhales with a hard shudder as he looks around, his chin trembling again before he purses his lips and thrusts his nose high. The air, despite the three open French windows, smells stale and musty, and it's only after a few seconds that Harry notices the small, floppy-eared house-elf vigorously dusting a spindly-legged table upon which a large, painted, porcelain vase tips around precariously.

"They've taken the wards down," Malfoy whispers shakily under his breath, appearing almost dizzy with relief. "Tilly," he raises his voice a bit and addresses the house-elf.

The little creature jumps in place before turning, sending the vase crashing to the floor. It squeaks in horror, one hand clamping over its mouth before hurriedly snapping its fingers and restoring the repaired vase onto the table, tugging its ears a few times as it turns anxiously to Malfoy.

"Is being the young Master," it says, shrill and breathless. "Master and Mistress being arrived yesterday," it adds, wringing its hands.

"I'm aware," Malfoy says stiffly. "Announce my arrival to them, please, and tell them I'll meet with them in here. You'll serve tea for four."

The elf bows low and vanishes with a crack.

"It accepted orders from you," Harry says softly. "That's a good thing, right?" He reaches for Malfoy's hand.

Pulling out of reach, Malfoy strides forward, critically eyeing the long sofa upholstered in silver and blue before neatly sitting down, clasping his hands in his lap and studiously ignoring Harry as he pulls out his shrunken trunk and places it out of the way next to the sofa before tapping it with his wand to expand it back to full size.

The sight of that trunk, along with Malfoy's aloofness, is enough to have Harry's heart sinking lower than where it's been since the previous night. He just stands there and stares longingly at Malfoy, too many thoughts buzzing around his head for him to be able to focus on one and do something to rectify this situation.

"If you're staying, sit," Malfoy orders tonelessly. "Otherwise, you can leave. I'll see you on Wednesday at Mungo's."

"I'm staying," Harry says at once, walking over and sitting next to him, deliberately close enough that their sides are pressed together lightly. Malfoy slants him a long, cool look but remains silent and in place. "Please don't do this," Harry whispers, looking straight ahead; through the floor-length windows, he can see the expansive grounds outside, gleaming wetly from the weak drizzle, the weather cold and miserable, and oddly apt for the way Harry's feeling.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't leave Grimmauld to come live here."

"This is my home," Malfoy says, still using that same flat voice. "These are my parents. This is where I belong. Why would I live with you anymore?"

The challenge in Malfoy's tone is unmistakable and Harry wonders if this is his last chance to salvage things.

But then the heavy double doors are swinging open and Lucius Malfoy is sweeping in, black robes billowing around him, dull, grey hair pulled into a limp ponytail, his expression one of trained inscrutability, although his eyebrows do nearly disappear into his hairline when he notices Harry sitting there. His wife is right behind him, although she does not appear as carefully put together as Lucius. Her eyes are already wet, a small tuft of hair escaping her neat French twist, and she looks around a little wildly as she hurries in.