He's waiting, watching her carefully as he tries to make out the expression etched on her face. He's waiting for an outburst. Even prepares himself to be throw the scalding hot water in the mug. It's what he thinks Della would do. Della with her crimson and her gold - too loud, too erratic, too aggressive.
(He sneers at the thought. That's the problem with Gryffindors - former or present or would-he's - and even worst so, muggle-born Gryffindors. They lack a sort of propriety, a sort of mannerism to not be so belligerent. Della is so common.
If his parents knew that he's keeping someone like her in their property -
He hates even thinking about that. Hates the way it makes him sound like some sort of martyr. So selfless, so giving, so sacrificial. He knows he's anything but.)
He doesn't get loud. Not even erratic, or aggressive. What he does get from Della is exasperation and though he's a little disappointed he didn't receive hot water down his shirt, he grins with satisfaction. His eyes meet hers for a brief moment, catching a small glint. A flinch he would have missed had he blinked. He's expecting her to say something. She doesn't. Instead, Della walks passed him as she sets the mug atop the table and offers him the coffee instead.
He hears it; but the words barely reach his ears.
Tight lipped, his fingers trace over the handle of the mug before he looks up. In his head, he tells her thanks and maybe she'll think him finally grateful for something. In a way, it becomes the apology he could never say (because his behaviour is more than just what he's been taught; it's there, embedded in his blood as much as it is drilled into his head). Della is a step from being completely out of the kitchen when Robert speaks up and all he manages to say is, "Forget it."
He looks up, frowning. "You've already touched it. Suddenly, I don't want it anymore."