分卷阅读6（1 / 2）

That particular question doesn’t occur to him right away. At first, he’s too busy coming to terms with the concept of a person throwing up flowers to worry about what kind of flowers they are; later, he perhaps assumes—without ever consciously thinking about it— that it’s random, or linked in some obscure way to the victim’s personality.

“No,” says Hermione. “The lilies are significant, either to him or to his beloved. That’s how it usually works, with Hanahaki. It’s always a flower that has meaning to one or both of them.”

That sends the gears in Harry’s head spinning. He’s been trying to avoid speculating about who the “beloved” is. Draco doesn’t want him to know. Harry himself doesn’t think he wants to know, most of the time. But he can’t help it. Every clue he unearths is another crack in his facade of disinterest, and before long, he’s wracking his brains for an answer.

It’s someone Draco’s known since he was eleven, at least. Maybe a fellow Hogwarts student; that’s the obvious and most likely possibility. But it could be someone who doesn’t attend Hogwarts, a glamorous friend Draco sees during his family’s holidays in France. It could even be a teacher, which, eurgh.

It’s someone whom Draco associates with lilies, or for whom lilies have some kind of significance. Of course, as Hermione tells him, lilies are flowers of death and mourning, used in funeral services and memorials…and just about everyone Draco knows came of age in wartime. If lilies hold meaning to the beloved, that doesn’t narrow things down much at all.

It’s someone whose relationship with Draco changed, irrevocably, when Draco was sixteen. Maybe he’d had a falling out with the object of his affection. Or maybe that person had fallen in love with someone else. This event, whatever it was, triggered Draco’s disease.

Harry runs through a mental checklist of all the Slytherins and the odd Ravenclaw Draco used to be seen with regularly, but Draco had pushed away almost everyone during sixth year, for entirely unromantic reasons. Any of those people could’ve been the person. And Draco is bisexual, which doubles the pool of potential candidates.

Brooding on all the beautiful girls and boys that might have caught Draco’s eye is a tiring, frustrating exercise that leaves Harry wanting to shed his skin like an itchy sweater, or possibly break things.

Draco notices. Of course he does. Draco always notices the things Harry wishes he wouldn’t.

They’ve picked a shady spot in the courtyard to research. Draco is working as industriously as ever, but right now, reading about all the deaths and mutations and various other horrible fates people have endured proves too much for his nerves to handle. He doesn’t speak, he’d never complain, but something in his face or his body language must betray him.

Draco broaches the subject of Harry’s ill humor with characteristic tact.

“Who shoved a broomstick up your arse today, Potter?” he drawls.

Before, that would have been the start of a shouting match. Now, Harry brightens.

“Let’s do that,” he says. Draco raises one eyebrow, and smirks, and Harry rolls his eyes. “Go flying, I mean. I haven’t been in ages.”

Out of fairness to the other students, eighth years aren’t allowed on Quidditch teams. Harry misses it desperately, but not as much as Ron does, and he’s certain Draco’s right there with him. Sure enough, Draco doesn’t hesitate.

“Seeker match?” Draco asks.

“If you’re that eager to have your arse handed to you,” says Harry.

“We’ll see about that, Potter.”

They part ways to dump their books and bags in their dorms, and retrieve their brooms; Harry swings by the kitchens to grab a couple of sandwiches, which they scarf down on their way out to the pitch. Draco digs a Snitch out of the equipment locker and tosses it into the air while they mount their brooms.

Over the handles of their brooms, they meet each other’s eyes, and Harry feels as though he’s finally woken up after a long dream.