“It’salright.”
“It’snot.”Harryturnedtohim,wantinghimtomakeitbetter,knowingthathewon’tbeableto.“Howcouldthisstillbeathingthatscaresme?”
Becausethat’stheworstthingaboutit,really,howafterallhehaddoneitwaswhattheDursleyshaddonetohimthatleftthedeepestscars,andHermionecouldtalkallshewantsaboutchildhoodandformativeyearsandrepressedmemories,Harryknowsthetruth:thisisweakness,plainandsimple,andallheeverwantedtobewasstrong.
“Becauseit’sscary.”Dracosatdownbesidehim,butdoesn’ttouchhim,andHarryisgrateful.“BecauseHermioneisscaredoffailingatestandRonisscaredofspidersandI’mscaredofheightsandthere’snothinganyofuscandoaboutit,itjustis.Itdoesn’tmakeyoumoreorlessthananyoneelse,itjustmakesyouhuman.”
Weknewamanwhowasn’thuman,Harrythought,andmaybethat’swhyhelikedDracosomuch,becauseoutofallthepeopleinhislife,heistheonewhoreallyknowswhatVoldemortwaslike,howhismindworked.Whobecameobsessedwithconqueringhisownfear,thoughtthatitmeantthathewasweak.Don’tbelikethatman.
Hecouldbringthatup,now,ifatanytime,buthedoesn’t.“ButyouplayedQuidditch.”
“What?”
“Yousaidyouwereafraidofheights,butyouplayedQuidditch.”Harrydidn’twanttotalkaboutVoldemortorthecupboardunderthestairsorthatcellar.“Why?”
“Mydadwantedmeto,”Dracosaid,shrugging,andHarryisremindedofanotherthingthatHermionesaid,abouthowallparentsleavescarswhetherit’sintentionalornot.Hehadn’tbotheredtoaskwhatherslookedlike,butnowhewisheshehad.“I’ddoanythingtomakehimproud.”
Theysitinsilenceforamomentmore,andthenDracospeaksagain.“Youdon’thavetohideit,youknow.Whenyou’reafraid.Atleastnotfromme.”Harryopenedhismouthtospeakbutcouldn’tfindwhathewantedtosay,onlythathewantedtoargue.“Iknowyou’vegotthisthingwhereyouwanttoprotecteveryoneyoucareabout,butplease,love,letmetakesomeoftheblamesometimes,okay?Believeitornot,Icanbehelpful.”
Thesentimentofitthreatenstochokehim,sohegoesforajokeinstead.“Love?”
Dracosmiled,knockshisshoulderagainstHarry’sbeforestandingup.“Don’tworryaboutthis.”Hewaveshishandatthecellar.Harrydoesn’tlookatit.“I’llcomefillitintomorrowmorning.”
Stupid,Harrythinks,butdoesn’targue.
Chapter40
Draco
Hedoesnotlooklikehisfatheranymore.
Foramoment,Dracothinksofturningaround,becausehemusthavebeengiventhewrongcellnumber.Thismanhuddledinthebackofhiscellcannotbehisfather,notwhenthemanherememberedhadstoodsotall,soproud(washidingbehindamanwhowasnotamanproud?Washebravewhenhecoweredunderthelashofsomeoneelse’swand,whenheletthewallsofhisownhousebecomeacage?).Thismanwasaskeleton,hiseyessunkenandthebladesofhisshouldersprominenteventhroughhisshirt,theskinstretchedtootightoverthebonesinhisface.Itcouldnotbethemanheremembered,andyet—
“Dad?”Heforcedhimselftotalk,thewordsbeingstrangledbythepressurebuildinginhisthroatandtakesastepcloser,handswrappingaroundthebars.Hewantstoyankitback,becauseitissocold,thechillbitingthroughhisskin,butthenthemaninthecornerturnstowardhimandhedoesnotfeelthecoldanymore.
“Draco?”Hedragshimselftohisfeetandhastoholdontothewallforsupport,movingtowardsthegateingreat,lurchingsteps.Hishairfallsaroundhisfaceinstrings,andDracowonderswhyhehasnotbotheredtocutit.“Isthatyou?”
Hisvoiceisbarelyaboveawhisper,strainedandcracking.Howlonghasitbeensincehehadsomeonetotalkto?
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