“That’snotwhatImeant.”
Dracopulledtheblanketbackovertopbothofthem,vanishinghimselfandhisscarsfromview.“Iknow.”
Chapter33
Harry
He’sgotathingformakingdramaticproclamations.
Harry’sreallyonlyawareofitbecauseHermionehadpointeditouttohim,once,backintheirsixthyear.Shehadn’tmeantittobeoneofthosetimeswhereshesayssomethingveryintrospectiveandreal,butithadbeen,becausesuddenlyHarrywasfindinghimselflookingbackonallthebigmomentsofhislifeandcouldn’thelpbutagreethathehadaflairfordramatics—hisspeechestotheDAandhisonefirstdeclarationofloveforGinny,whenhefirsttoldthemabouttheprophecyandhowhehadtoldDudleythathehadalmostdiedfivetimesbeforehewasevensixteen.
It’snotreallysomethingthathe’dgrownoutof.
“Ireallyhatethishouse.”Harrywaveshisspoonintheairtopunctuatetheimportanceofhiswords,splatteringthenewspaperDracowasreadingwithsoup.“IthinkI’mgoingtomoveout.”
Therewasn’tmuchthatHarrycouldspoutoffthatwouldmakeDracoturnawayfromtheQuibblerbeforehewasdonesearchingforanymentionoftheirnames,butthiswasoneofthem.HelookedlessalarmedthanHarryhadthoughthewould.Moreexhaustedthananything.“What?”
“Iwanttolivesomewhereelse.Lookatthisplace!”Theyhadn’teventakendowntheseveredhouseelfheadsliningthewalls,despiteHermione’sloudnoisesofdisgustwhenevershehadtowalkdownthehallwaytogettothebathroom.“Nobodycanbehappywhentheylivehere.”
“We’rehere.”Dracosaid,alittlebitofalarmcreepingintohisvoice.“We’rehappy.”
“Yes,but—”Itstillcatcheshimoffguard,sometimes,thatthisthingbetweenthemwasnewandbreakablebutdefinitelythere,thathewasabletoreachacrossthetableandsqueezeDraco’shandwithoutwonderinghowhewouldtakeit.“Imeantlongterm.Thisisn’taplacetomakeahome,Draco.”
Draconoddedonce,twice,thenfoldedupthepaper.“Alright.”HehadalookonhisfacethatHarryhadcometoassociatewithtryingtogettheproportionsofapotionright.“Thenlet’sfindyouahome.”
Dracolikesprojects.
Harryhadknownthatfromthestart,becausebackatHogwartstherewasneveranyshortageofthem—Dracohadalwaysdonetheextracreditevenwhenhedidn’tneedit,hehadnevergottenlessthananAonanyessay,nottomentionallthebadgesandtherudesongsthathehadmadeupjusttospiteHarryovertheyears.It’sonethingtoknowthat,though,andacompletelydifferentthingentirelytobeapartofit.
They’vegotnewspapersspreadoutacrossthelivingroomfloor,allofthemopenedtoprospectivehouses.Draco’sgotinksmearedacrosshisnoseandHarryhadditchedhissweatertwohoursago,becauseeventhoughDracowastryinghardtofindsomethingthatsuitedhim,tryashemightHarryjustcouldn’tpicturehimselfinanyofthesehouses.
“I’msorry,Draco.”Hehadjustreadoutadescriptionoftendifferentplaces—ahouseburieddeepinthecountryside,astatelymanorhiddenontheoutskirtsofLondon,aflatinthecomplexbesideHogsmeade,differenthomesfromwizardingsuburbs.“Ijustdon’tknowwhatIwant.”
Hekepttryingtothinkofwhathewantedahometobelike,buttryashemight,allhewasabletothinkwastheBurrow.Itwastheclosestthingtoahomehehadeverknown,besidesHogwarts,butallsentimentaside,Harryhadtoadmitthatifhewasgoingtopickhisidealhouse,itwouldnotlooklikethat.
“Alright.”Dracofoldedupthepaperintheshapeofanairplaneandchuckeditintothefire,ascalmashehadbeenwhentheyfirststartedthis,likeHarryhadn’tshutdowneverysingleoneofhisattemptstobehelpful.“Thenwhatisitthatyoudon’twant?”
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