分卷阅读5（2 / 2）

He talks about…a lot of things. Mainly, he likes to use Harry as a sounding board for his ideas, all the theories he’s trying to work through in his head before he puts them to paper. Draco still migrates all over the castle to work, but with Harry present they spend less time holed up inside and more time wandering the grounds. There is one spot by the lake— under a bowed tree with branches that fan out expansively, casting a shadow over shore and water like the wide brim of a hat—which Harry starts to think of as “theirs.”

Distressingly enough, Harry also becomes Draco’s lab assistant when he wants to experiment on himself. “Anything can be cured with a potion,” he tells Harry firmly. “You just have to find the right one.”

And by “find” he means “invent.”

He keeps a clutch of bezoars on hand—“There are dozens here, how did you get so many—” “Money, Potter. Money is always the answer.”—but takes no other precautions.

“Erm,” Harry asks once, early on, “do Slughorn or Pomfrey know you’re doing this?”

“Of course not. They’d stop me,” Draco says, and chugs a lime green concoction that does not rid him of the flowers but leaves him puking out everything else in his stomach for the next few hours. Not even the bezoar stays down; his body stages a full-on mutiny and leaves Draco on his knees in the bathroom for most of the evening. Harry misses dinner to stand awkwardly outside his stall—Draco refuses to let him in.

“Do you need any more water?” he calls.

“Just go away, Potter,” Draco moans, piteously. Harry rolls his eyes. He can’t tell if Draco’s more upset about the vomiting, or the fact that there’s a witness.

“I’m not going to leave you like this,” Harry says. Draco’s silence, in response to that, has a startled quality that makes Harry want to blush harder than any number of singing valentines or love potion-spiked desserts ever could’ve done. He clears his throat. “Anyway, must be nice to throw up something other than flowers for once. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Eat shit, you bloody—” The words cut off into another violent retch. Harry sighs and sits down with his back against the door to wait Draco out.

Draco had given himself days to live, but he disproves his own prognosis. His condition plateaus. He doesn’t get any better, and his symptoms could take a turn for the worse without warning, but before Harry knows it, a week has passed, then two, and Draco’s still breathing. When Harry’s not in class or with the DA, he’s with Draco, and helping him is not the chore he thought it would be, not even when Draco rolls up his sleeves and Harry is confronted with the faded Dark Mark on his arm. This Draco is not the same boy who took that Mark. His insults have lost their cruel bite; it’s easy for Harry to snark back at him, or simply to laugh along. Their arguments are even—dare he say it—fun. In other ways, Draco is no different at all from the boy Harry grew up alongside. He still talks with his hands. He still exaggerates to the point of lying, if he thinks it’ll make for a better story. He still makes a drama out of everything, including the gossip he shares from Slytherin House, and he is careful only to share the gossip that casts his friends in a favorable light and is as unflattering as possible to those he dislikes.

Harry takes his every word with a grain of salt. But he’s never bored.

Sometimes, though, Draco is more subdued. He looks at Harry like he’s waiting for Harry to turn on him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Harry’s not ready to tell Draco that won’t happen. That he’s come to like Draco’s company.

That he’s come to like Draco.

Hermione helps them research too, sometimes, though Draco insists she prioritize her NEWT preparations (even though they’re months away) and Harry doesn’t object because he’s found that he likes it when it’s just him and Draco. He’s funny when he’s not actively trying to drive Harry mad. He’s smarter than Harry ever gave him credit for—the only person with better marks is Hermione. When Harry’s in a mood, he seems to know when to let him be and when to needle him until Harry realizes what a wanker he’s being and snaps out of it. Sometimes, Harry loses long seconds staring at the curve of Draco’s jaw or neck, the dip of his collarbone, the line of his shoulders and spine, the angular grace of his hands. He’s striking to look at, that’s all, but if Hermione spent too much time with them she’d— she’d misunderstand.

But Hermione is still the person he goes to when he has questions he can’t ask Draco. Questions like:

What’s the longest someone has ever lived with Hanahaki Disease? (Not long.)

Or: Are there spells to stop someone from losing weight? (Yes, but none that would counteract the side effects of Hanahaki.)

Or: If we got the victim’s beloved to drink love potion, would that get rid of the symptoms? (“Harry!” “Only as a temporary—” “Are you mad?” “We’d ask them, of course, they’d consent—” “Run that by Malfoy and see what he says about it.” “…”)

Or: Why lilies?