On a windy Thursday in September an unexpected visitor appears outside of Twelve Grimmauld Place.
Harry's sitting in the living-room, the room now looking far different from how it had been when his godfather had owned the place and the Order had been using it as their headquarters and then, later, when Harry, Ron and Hermione had been hiding in there during the Horcrux hunt. It's relatively tidy, homey and Harry had made the space his own, yet something is missing. There's a book lying open on Harry's chest as he lazes about in a worn arm-chair, his tea long forgotten and cold by the small table beside it. He's been to the office and has given his energies to his work, which he likes, but often enough, when he gets home he gets... restless. Like there should be more. He thinks he's too young to be maudlin over being single and not having started a family yet, even when he's now only slightly older than his parents ever got to be, if only by a few years.
Or maybe his listlessness is due to the memory of steel grey eyes and blonde blonde hair and a snarking mouth all over his skin which he can't forget however much he tries.
His thoughts are interrupted as his wards shimmer. It's as much an excuse, going to the door to see who it is when anyone he knows would have fire-called, instead of flicking a wand to bring up an image of who it was that was on his door step. Which was a limited number, as the unplotting spell was temperamental at the best of times and didn't always even allow people who knew where the house was located to enter.
So up he gets, trots down the long rickety stairs and stands for a moment behind the closed front door before opening it and looking at --- Malfoy. Draco Malfoy on his doorstep. The mystery of the unplottability is solved, as Draco has been here, in him, in Harry's bed and h i s... Harry blushes brightly as the memory of that night comes back to him. In vivid moaning detail.
“I'm pregnant,” Draco offers an insane non sequitur in greeting, a fucking perfect opening line for the first time that they see each other after hooking up and having a sex-filled weekend in Harry's bed. And the kitchen. And the living room. And the library. They've not seen each other since then despite both of them working at the Ministry. Which Harry has thought is distinctly odd.
But now, Harry gapes. “Excuse me, you're what?”
“Pregnant,” Draco carefully enunciates, his tone that of a person speaking to a five-year-old and explaining a very simple basic concept like 'never put your wand in your back pocket for safety reasons'.
H e's standing there all smug expression on his handsome face, shadows under his eyes like he's not slept well and looks a bit peaky, to be completely honest. Harry looks him up and down to ascertain that yes, he's still there and he's a man. Harry knows he's a man, felt him be a man all up his arse as Draco fucked him on the kitchen table and against the hall wall that last time. H arry shakes his head, needs to focus himself.
“I'm a fucking veela, Potter,” Draco drawls in a lazy why-are-you-so-stupid tone. It curls against Harry and yanks at his libido and dispenses with his sanity. Who needs the ability to string thoughts into words and speech anyway?
Except maybe Harry needs to be able to. He might need a filter of some sorts or some brain function because what he says “You might have mentioned this could happen?!” is to the point but a bit over the top, especially in tone. Which is shrill and leading to panicked.
Draco shakes his head, fucking shakes his head. “I know, I know. I was a bit careless. Shouldn't have been.” There's a faint blush on his pale cheeks and he glances away. “What's done is done.”
“What? But the... condom!” Harry tries as a valiant last attempt.
“Yes, but it's not like they're 100% effective. Are you just going to stand there gaping or are you going to let me in?”
H e's like Harry remembers; all sly slytherin charm and drop-your-trousers smiles. A part from those distinct dark smudges under the slate grey eyes and the already pale skin which looks almost translucent with blue veins standing out.
“What?” Harry can only say.
“I'm disowned, cold and pregnant,” Draco shivers for emphasis, “Going to let me in? We're your problem now.”
Harry can't not look down at Draco's hand as it curls over Draco's green jumper covered mid-riff in that way he's seen pregnant women do, patting at their baby bumps. His eyes stray to the trunk next to Draco's feet and he instantly looks back up again.
“You're moving in?” His brain cannot compute this.
“Yes.” Is all Draco says. Maybe it's all that needs to be said, really.
Harry bows to inevitability and stands out of the way, ushering Draco inside. He does the polite thing and drags his trunk through the doorway, or tries, as the thing weighs a ton. “What do you have in here, rocks?” he pants out, eyeing what he now recognizes as an old school trunk, huffing for breath.
Draco offers him a wry smile as Harry glares at him. “No, books. And some clothes. My worldly possessions. Even after shrinking... there's quite a lot.”
Harry's eyes widen and he thinks that he must look ridiculous. “You're really moving in with me.”
“Yes. Now shove over, I'm cold. Just levitate the thing if you're bent on this Knight in Shining Armour act.”
Draco does shiver a bit as they continue to stand in the open doorway. Harry sighs, does the levitation charm, gestures Draco to precede him and follows after him once he's closed the front door.
His evening just got a lot more interesting and complicated.