Expectant || Drarry

12

Roughly toweling his hair dry, Harry knocks and pushes into Malfoy's room without waiting for an answer, padding over to where Malfoy is sitting up in bed with a little bit of a struggle and then leaning back against the headboard.

"When did you get back?" he asks as Harry crawls on and throws himself next to him, immediately placing a hand over his tummy.

"'bout half an hour ago," Harry says distractedly, waiting until there's a familiar jerk against his hand. He beams at Malfoy who simply shakes his head, rolling his eyes with a reluctant, beautiful little smile that makes Harry stare at him.

Malfoy's hair has grown rapidly in the few months since he's stopped his suppressant and hangs past his shoulder blades in a shiny sheet. His cheeks are flushed from the heat, despite the chill of the full strength Cooling Charms he has up, and he's wearing just a pair of flimsy, cotton pajama bottoms. Harry's gaze rakes up over his pale, half-naked form, hungrily taking in the pearlescent sheen of his skin, the jut of his collarbones, the way his neck arches gracefully as he tips his head back and gathers his hair with his thumbs, bringing it over one straight shoulder and leaning further back. He doesn't look away even when Malfoy catches him staring and smirks knowingly.

"Have you eaten?" Harry asks, voice rough.

Malfoy nods, eyes glinting wickedly. "Have you?" he asks softly. Harry nods as well, his hand still on the smooth bump of Malfoy's stomach. "How was it today? What's it like trying to train a bunch of mediocre players who won't stop trying to grope you?" Malfoy's tone is one of lilting nonchalance, but Harry sees the way his eyes narrow.

"Nobody gropes me," he says with a chuckle. "None of them is even my type. There's a certain lack of cocks on the team seeing as the Harpies is an all-women team," he adds quickly as Malfoy lifts a brow haughtily.

He just shrugs and looks away, Malfoy, muttering under his breath, and Harry catches a vague, "—even have a type," at the end.

 "What was that?" he asks, gently digging an elbow into Malfoy's side.

Squirming, Malfoy shoves at him with a scowl, Harry laughing as he pulls back a bit. "I said as if you even have a type," he says irritably. "You're the sort to fuck anything that moves."

"Am I?" Harry asks, genuinely surprised. "Is that the impression I give?"

"I don't know," Malfoy mumbles, "anything that moves and is remotely decent looking, probably."

"That would explain why I fuck you so much," Harry says with a lewd grin. "You definitely fall into the 'remotely decent looking' category."

Malfoy shoves him again but he's laughing this time. "We both know that's why you approached me in that club, Potter," he drawls, reaching out to brush his fingertips down Harry's bare chest. "If I hadn't been reckless enough to skip my suppressant that day, I'd have blended right in with the crowd and you'd probably be sitting here with some other unsuspecting bastard carrying your offspring."

Harry doesn't reply for a long time as he just sits and regards Malfoy steadily, noting the way the sardonic smirk slowly fades off Malfoy's startlingly handsome face. "Do you regret it, Malfoy?" he asks quietly when Malfoy finally starts to fidget. "Do you regret kissing me back and letting me drag you into the gents'?"

Now Malfoy stares at him in silence. "No," he says firmly after a beat, seemingly unaware of the way his hands cradle his stomach. "I wanted you too," he says in a very low voice, licking his lips and looking somewhere next to Harry's ear.