Harry
Sometimes,ifheisn’tcareful,hefindshimselfgoingdowntheblackholethatwashismemoriesfromthewar.
Forthemostpart,Harrytriesnottothinkaboutit,butthenheturnsthecornerandthegreenishlightfromthefloopowderstainingthefiregrateremindshimoftheflashofthekillingcurse,orheaccidentlyscratchesathisskinandthestingremindshimoftheprickleofhisscar,whichhadn’treallypainedhimsincethemomenthegottowatchVoldemortfall.
Orsometimesit’sjustafeeling,anunsettlingsensethatsomethingwaswrong,broughtonbynothingmorethanDracomovingacouchcushionorKreachernotappearingrightaway.Itsendshimdownthemetaphoricalrabbithole,andtheonlywayoutistogothroughhisfamiliarroutineofchecking,checking,checking,pokinghisheadintoshadowedcornersandclosetsandunderthebed,watchingfromthecornerofhiseyefordeatheaterstoleapoutathim,eventhoughheandHermionehadmadesurethatnoonecouldmakeitintohishousewithoutsufferingseverebodilyharm.
(Sheisnotsomercifulanymore—therearespellsthatshedoesn’tfeeltheneedtostopusing,eventhoughwithoutthewarthereisnoneedforit,likeshe’sbuildingawallaroundthepeopleshelovesbrickbybrick,cursebydeadlycurse.)
Itwasn’tabigdeal,backwhenhewasalone.Hewouldjustifyittohimself,sayingthateveryonecameoutofthewarwithafewquirksandifthiswasallhehadtodotogetby,thenmaybeitwasn’tthatbigofadeal.ButthatwasbeforehehadtopeekbehindthecurtainswithDracowatchinghim,andcheckthelocksthreetimesbeforehecouldcomebackintothesittingroomandpretendlikenothingwaswrong.
Onlyhecouldn’tpretendlikenothingwaswrong,becauseDracowaswatchinghim.
“Icanmakeyouacalmingdroughtforthat,youknow.”Dracomakestheofferwithoutlookingathim,juststaringatthewall,likethatwouldmakethismomentofweaknesseasiertodealwith.“Canhaveitreadybythetimeyougotosleep.”
“Can’t.”Harrywouldkillforone,honestly,becausethenmaybehecouldsleepthroughthenightorenjoyaneveningwithoutfeelinglikehisskinwasstretchedtootight.“Addictive.”
Dracoquirkedasmile,anditwasaremnantoftheboythatHarryusedtoknow,theonewhothoughtthateventhegroundhewalkedonwasmadeofgold.“NotthewayImakeit.”
Whichishowtheyfindthemselvesinthekitchenwithsuppliesspreadaroundthem,Dracowavingaknifeintheairwithonehandandhiswandintheother,goingonabouthowtrulyabhorrentHarryisatpotions.Thethingsmellsawful,andit’sfillinghishousewithpurplesmoke,butheisalsodoubledoverandlaughingsohardastichhasformedinhisside,sohedoesn’treallycare.
“Imeanit,Potter.”Theygenerallycalleachotherbytheirfirstnamesnow,butsometimeswhenDracoreallywantstoteasehimheslipsbackintooldhabits.“Howdidyoueverpasspotions?”
Itshouldhavebeeneasy,thisquestion.ThecorrectresponsewastosaysomethinglikeIdidn’t,eventhoughitweretobealie.OrhecouldhavejustsaidaboutthebrillianceofHermioneandtheacademicperksofbeingherfriend.Hedoesn’tsayanyofthat.
Insteadhethinksofhisfirstpotionsclass,oftheterrorthatwasSnapeduringhischildhoodmixedwiththeconfusingpainofhisdeath(Nagini,kill,thump,thump,thump,somuchblood,hedidn’tknowapersonhadthatmuchblood),Slughornandthebozoarandamemorytippedintoavialafterhavingtoomuchwhiskey,theheatofthepotionsandtheglareofSnape’seyesonhisback,hatinghimbecausehehatedhisfather,allbecausehelovedhismother.
Allofthis,really,becauseSnapelovedhismother.
“Hey.”He’dbeenquiet,toolong,andnowDracowasstaringathimlikehewasworried.Hiseyesheldstormsinthem,afightofwhoheisnowandwhoheusedtobeandwhathewants,allofitpullinghiminamilliondifferentdirections.“Youalright?”
DoIlookalright?Doalrightpeopleneedacalmingdroughtjusttobreathe?
“Yeah.”Heshakeshimself,forceshimtothinkofgoodmemories,ofQuidditch,buteventhatistainted,honestly,becauseitremindshimoftheFredwhoisdeadandthemazewhichwasthefirsttimehesawdeathandDraco,too,stealingthesnitchfromrightunderhisnoseandDracodressedasadementorandDracodoubledoverbecauseGeorgehadjustpunchedhiminthestomach.“Fine.”
“Igetit.”Andmaybehedid.Harrycouldbelievethat,becauseifhewasfine,hewouldnotbewakingupinthemiddleofthenighttocomedownhereandclean.Harrywasmessy,buthewasnotthatmessy.“Really.”
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