Tap. Tap. Tap.
It's raining outside again, and Draco has been forced to linger in the living room of their flat once more. Harry Potter works diligently at his desk, writing a novel that will be a best seller, even if it's as boring as Professor Binn's monotonous voice.
Click. Click. Click.
The radio stations all blur into a fizz of static, and Draco scowls. The rain outside pours viciously and drains away into the sewers. Muggle radios, Draco decides, are as useless as impermanent hair gel.
Draco has never worked before in his life, and he doesn't feel the need to now. He was the heir to the Malfoy fortune, and now a simple Gringott's key is all that holds him back from a vault of riches. He lies distractedly on his stomach and watches the nineteen year old boy continue to struggle as he writes.
The black hair is messy, like always. Draco frowns and flips around, so he is staring at the ceiling.
Ron returns, for a brief moment, carrying in some take-out Chinese. Draco stares at it with disgust, for it isn't like the roast and mash he's used to digging into at the Manor. Harry seems to enjoy it though, and laughs with the weasel-boy for a while before he has to depart once again. His hair hasn't even dried yet, but he is gone in a matter of seconds.
Harry sits back at his desk, and they ignore each other once again.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock drones in Draco's ear, and he wonders when his life got so bad. After the war, he was an orphan and although he had money, he had no power to his name. He had killed his own father, helped Harry Potter defeat Tom Riddle, and proven himself time and time again.
The Ministry decided against him, adding his name to the long list of those to be sent to Azkaban.
Harry Potter, ever the savior, had spoken for him, adding innocence to his name. Taken him to his and Ron's flat and let Draco lounge on the sofa and stare at him write on every rainy day.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Harry stands up, glancing at Draco as he moves to the door. Draco smiles to himself, playing with a short lock of his hair and tracing a pattern on his knee. He never gets visitors.
There are a few words spoken, and Draco listens intently—can tell the young lady at the door is flirting shamelessly with Harry. He smirks, and tells her she won't get anywhere unless she glamour's herself into a man.
Harry is furious, though his sexual preference is already yesterday's news.
"Can't you ever be polite?"
Draco smiles nonchalantly and turns around, facing away from the towering body and staring into the leather of the sofa he lounges on.
"Look at me when I talk to you."
His smile fades into an irritated scowl and he turns back around to stare at the-boy-who-lived. He'll never admit that he's jealous. Strangers get more attention than he does. He'll never tell Harry that he killed his own father so Harry Potter could live. His mouth opens, but he realizes he has nothing to say.
For everything that needs to be said, he'll never admit.
"What chapter are you on?"
Harry stares dumbfounded for a minute, his eyes widening only slightly. He turns to his desk, and looks back at Draco with raised eyebrows. The scowl on his face is betrayed by the guilty amusement in his eyes.
"One."
A small smile captures Draco's face. Hope is thudding in his chest, along with a strange excitement. Surely in one year, more than a chapter is to be written. He stands up slowly, Harry watching with nervous anticipation, and reaches the desk, staring at the blank parchment in front of him. Not a word was written.
"I always wondered why you only wrote on rainy days."
x.x.x.x