分卷阅读27（1 / 2）

Draco should have probably know to let it go, that George was working through some things, but talking to Harry’s friends was like picking your way through a minefield—most places were perfectly safe, but one wrong step and you find your world in pieces.

“Why not?”

“What do you mean why not?” He gestures wildly at the side of his head with the bottle, at the shiny mess of tissue where an ear used to be. “I lost my ear. I lost my brother. What more do you want from me?” And of course it would be about Fred, everything that has happened with George over the past year has been about Fred.

“You don’t have to stop just because he’s not here.”

He meant that to be comforting.

(Actually, scratch that, he didn’t mean it to be comforting, he was just thinking about the flames and Goyle, and Snape being dead and hailed as a hero without one word to the people like Draco who would actually mourn him, and his father in Azkaban who would be horrified to see how his son turned out, about how he could not stop just because they are gone, and then that fell out of his mouth.)

“You think I’m a coward,” George’s voice was soft and quiet, and Draco was forcibly reminded that he was Ron’s brother, because it seemed like all the Weasley boys would like to punch their feelings instead of working through them. Draco would admire it, if it didn’t keep meaning that he found himself thrown up against the wall with their fists inches from his face, hands raised in surrender and trying to fix whatever he had broken. “That I should never have walked away.”

“I don’t think anything.” There was a crowd around them, all these muggles watching with worried faces, and all of them on George’s side. “Really, man. Whatever’s going on with you, it’s cool with me.”

George snarls at him, face twisted in a way that makes Draco think he’s about to cry, and then shoves away, stalking out the door. Draco pauses long enough to throw money on the bar and then chases after him, ignoring the people who tells him he should let it go.

It doesn’t take long to find George, who didn’t get very far. He had only turned the corner, and now he was hunched over beneath a streetlight, hands on his knees. He looked like he was about to be sick.

“Are you having a panic attack?” A stupid question, because he was, and even stupider because even though Hermione was forcing them all to read up on their particular traumas, knowing the lingo and knowing how to help aren’t the same things.

George doesn’t answer, just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. “I was going to kick your ass.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

(Lie. It’s easier to feel confident when they’re ten feet apart, but back there, with the tension running high and no one moving to stop it, he was so, so dead.)

“I’ve punched you before.” George’s mouth twitched into a smile as he said it, and Draco had an uncomfortable flash of him curled on the ground, trying to protect himself, George and Harry’s fists flying. It had hurt quite a lot.

“I deserved it.”

“Yeah.” George said, smiling, and there was forgiveness in that syllable, enough so that when he sank down to sit on the curb, Draco thought it was safe to come and sit beside him. “You really were a prat.”

Draco choked on a laugh, feeling better than he had all night. “I meant it, though. About not thinking anything about you not fighting.” He was wading back into dangerous territory, because apparently Draco doesn’t have any self preservation skills. “You’ve done enough.”

George sighed, flopped back onto the sidewalk so he was lying flat on his back. “Try telling that to Harry.”

“Trust me,” He says, thinking of going back, of getting the first aid supplies ready and staring from the clock to the door and back again, forcing himself to stay awake until Harry comes home. “I’m doing my best.”