分卷阅读13（2 / 2）

“I really don’t think I want to be an auror anymore.”

His words break up the silence, and Draco understands what all the drinking was about, the clinginess, the not wanting to be alone. It had nothing to do with him at all.

(But it did. It had everything to do with him, with the both of them, and he knows it.)

“Then don’t.” The answer seemed so simple when he said it like that, even though he knew it was anything but. Harry was not a boy who was raised to stop fighting. He lived his life as a soldier for a war he didn’t know existed from the very moment he was born.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“Then don’t be anything.” Don’t you think you’ve given enough? Isn’t it time that you got a chance to rest, to figure out what life is when there are no wolves snapping at your hells and keeping you running? “Just be Harry.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

The confessions you make when you are drunk are always the sort of things you would never say while sober. That’s the whole entire purpose of drinking, to find the truth behind the lies you tell yourself.

“I do.” It’s only because he was certain Harry wouldn’t remember that grabbed hold of his hand and pressed a kiss to the back of his knuckles, still wondering that he got the chance to do this. He does not feel like he deserves it, still. “I’ll help you find him.”

Chapter 12

Draco

Draco wakes up the next morning on the floor beneath the couch, wearing clothes that aren’t his. He has a fuzzy memory of stumbling out of the bathroom into Harry’s room, and Harry saying something about never getting to have the cheesy, traditional kind of sleepover, and then the two of them trying to figure out how to have a movie night when Harry is too drunk to read any of the buttons and Draco had never even seen a DVD player before.

It was a good night, even if he’s sure that it will come back to bite them in a way he can’t figure out. But he’s okay with that, because Harry is…Harry is somewhere, and Draco is here, and he’s got all day to deal with this. He would start by cleaning up the bathroom, and then to the bedroom, and then he would sit and think up a plan of action to explain why he felt the need to climb into the bathtub with Harry (and which one of them started that? The two of them, honestly).

It was a good plan, one that made some semblance of control sink into his bones. It would have worked, too, if he hadn’t rounded the corner into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and found Harry at the kitchen table, staring down at the Daily Prophet like it might hold some answers.

“Hey.” Draco stops short, wanting to turn around until he has a moment to collect himself, but then thinks that it would make things even more awkward than he was already making them. The only thing for it was to pretend like nothing was wrong. “You hungry?”

Harry finally looks up from the paper. He is clearly exhausted, but he still manages to smile at the offer. “I could eat.” Harry, at least, does not seem to think there was anything strange about what they did last night. Maybe Draco was the only one. Maybe this is what mates did, when they had normal childhoods.

(Normal childhoods. Right. Cause Harry definitely had a normal childhood.)

Draco just nods, and then crosses the room to get to the counter, yanking out bowls and ingredients. It would be easier to make it with magic, but Draco had found that doing it the muggle way was a different sort of soothing, almost like potions. Plus, it tasted better.