分卷阅读17（2 / 2）

It’sHarrythattalkshimintoit.“IfIhadamother,”Hehadsaid,eyesintenseandvoicequiet.“Nothingwouldstopmefromseeingher.”

Dracohadwantedtoscreamathim.Tosaythathewaswrong,thathecouldn’tkeepsayingthingslikethisandthinkingitwasfair.Thatthistime,hedidn’tknowwhatitwaslike.ButDracostillfoundhimselfvisitingheranyways.

ShelivesinaflatinParis,rentingfromsomemugglewomanwhowastryingtobeapainterbutwasn’tquitemakingitthere.Thewholethingsmellslikepaintfumesandscentedcandles,andthestepsaresotwistedandnarrowthatheisn’tsurehowshemakesitupthem,butitsstillaniceplace,justascomfortableandexpensivelookingasthemanor.

Shehadacertainwayoflife,hismother,andshewasn’tgoingtoletalittlethinglikeawarstandinginthewayofhowshewantstolive.

“Draco.”Hismotherbreathesouthisname,andthensheishugginghim,crushinghim.Theguiltthreatenstoswallowhimwhenhethinksofallthelettershedidnotanswer,butevennowthisistoomuch,toosoon.“I’msogladtoseeyou.”

“Metoo.”Becausehewas.Helovedthiswoman,evenifshewaswrong,evenifsheonlydidtherightthingbecauseoftheneedforthefamilynametosurvive.“I’msorryittookmesolong.”

Shedoesnottellhimthatitisalright,orthatsheforgiveshim.Hedoubtsverymuchthateitherofthesethingsweretrue.Shedoes,however,moveasideandlethimcomein,tothishousewithitstoomanycandlesandstrangepaintings.Dracoletshergivehimthetour,lookingatthepictureframesshowingtheimageofafamilyhecannotremembereverbeingandthemisshapenpotteryonthemantle.

“Doyoulikeit?”Hervoicehasaforcedbrightnessaboutit,andhedoesnotknowifitisbecauseofhimorifshesimplydoesnothavethesameenergythatsheusedto.“Itookuppottery.Abigailtalkedmeintoit.”

Abigailwasthegirldownstairs,theonewithpaintstuckunderhernailsandcoloredscarfshangingfromarackinherkitchen.Hehadtowalkthroughherflattogettohismother’s.

Hismother,though,wasnotsomeoneheknew.Thewomanherememberedwouldnotbeseentakingapotteryclass,andwouldnotdisplaythemoutwhereanyonecanseethem.Itwasstrangetoknowhowfastthingscanchange.

Theyhavetea.

Shecooksforherselfnow.Itseemslikeshe’sspentthesepastsixmonthstryingtofindthingstocreate,andshe’sbeengoingtocookingclasses,sohegetsfedlittlecakesandtinysandwhichesandtheteahasatastethathecannotputhisfingeron,whichmakeshimthinkitwasfromleavesthatshegrewherself.

Itgoesgood,forasmuchastheydon’ttalkaboutthethingstheyknowtheymusttalkabout.Theytalkaboutotherthingsinstead,likeDraco’snewfoundsuccessinpotions(Ireaditinthepaper,I’msoproudofyou)andtheherbsgrowingonthewindowsill(yes,well,I’mtryingmyhandatgardening,andthoseseemedeasiest).Butintheend,theconversationturnstohisfather,asheknewitwouldhaveto.

“Haveyoubeentoseehim?”Shetakesasipofhertea,pursesherlipsandlevelsherstareathim.Dracohatesthat,howshecanstaysocalmandhehimselfbesoupset.“Iassumeyouhaven’t.”

“No.”Dracodidnotwanttoseehisfather,andhecertainlydidn’twanttoseehiminchains,dirtyanddefeated.Hedidnotwanttohavetolayeyesonhim,becausethenhewouldbeforcedtodealwiththequestionofhowonemancouldbesowrong.

“Haven’thadthetime?”Hervoiceishigh,purposefullylight.Thegameofpoliteness.

“It’sbeencrazy.”Hewasstumblingoverexcuses,likehewasfiveyearsoldagainandshewasaskingwhyhehadn’treturnedthefiremessagefromtheoverlynosyneighbornextdoor.“Withthepotionsproject…andWeasley’scollection…andHarry,ofcourse,Ihadtogetusedtothat.”

“Yourownfather,”shesaid,leaningbackandfoldingherhandstogether.Therewasiceinhervoiceandhestaresatherhandsinsteadofherface,lookingattheperfectlymanicurednails.“Andyouwon’tevenseehim.”