分卷阅读34（1 / 2）

(Not over, over. He was going to make that clear before he even started talking. They could still live together, and be best friends, and act like they can’t function if they don’t walk around like they’re attached to the hip, but there’s certain things that they need to get rid of if they’re ever going to manage to become something more. Things like the bed sharing, and the hugging, and the kissing without talking about it, and saying I love you and pretending they mean it platonically even though they both know the words are too heavy in their mouths to mean that little. It wouldn’t turn into anything if they kept throwing road blocks up in their own way.)

In Harry’s head, his thought process was simple. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to keep all of that, it was just that he was under the impression that maybe they would have a sturdier foundation if they threw away all their shaky beginnings and started building it all up from scratch. In his head, Draco would understand, and the two of them could shift their not-so-functional relationship into something better, and move past being just friends when they were both standing on solid ground, with Draco not having the knowledge that one word from Harry could send him back to Azkaban hanging over his head.

It was easier to think of saying something than actually forcing the words out, so even though Harry was trying to soften the blow with a night out and ice cream that he bought (he always buys, because he likes to consider himself a gentleman, even though Draco always scrunches his nose up and gives him this look, like he knows exactly what he’s trying to do and thinks it’s completely stupid), he couldn’t quite make himself do it. Draco just looked so happy, and for once he wasn’t checking over his shoulder for imaginary enemies every five seconds. There was ice cream stuck to the side of his cheek but Harry wasn’t telling him, and when they left the store, Draco took Harry’s hand in his like there was no question that that was where they belonged.

Like, after all this time, they had just become an extension of each other, and that hurts, hurts so bad that Harry forces the words up from behind the lump that was growing in his throat and tries to make the words crash through the barrier that had formed behind his teeth, but they don’t come, not even close. “Draco.” Draco turns to face him, and he is holding both hands now, tilting his head to look up at him because he is on the flat ground and Harry is still standing on the step above him. “Draco, I need to tell you something.”

He’s confused, but he does not look worried. There might have been a time where those words would have sent him into a panic, thinking that this was over and Harry was sending him away, but now their friendship was set in stone, up until the moment Harry says what he had brought him here to say and sends it all crumbling back into pieces. “What’s that, Harry?”

Draco also looks beautiful. They are under a streetlight, and his hair, which has grown much too long to be as sleek and shiny as it was back in Hogwarts, falls over his face in a fuzzy halo. Harry resists the urge to push it away from his face and looks up at the sky instead, which is streaked with the last strands of a sunset.

(He’s almost sorry that he had to say it in a place this lovely, but he has no other option. He could not do it at home, with all the memories, and he could not bring himself to taint any part of their life with his words. It had to be someplace different, somewhere that had the least chance of following them home.)

“I just…” He gives up on trying to be strong and reaches out to him, and Draco melts into his touch. It could be perfect, if Harry let it. It could be everything, if he would just give up on trying to do things the right way. If he would only stop trying to save him when he might not need saving. Might not want saving. “We need to stop. To do something different.”

He still isn’t getting it. “What do you mean?” Draco starts to take a step back, falters, and then comes back towards Harry again, because he still cannot fathom the thought that Harry might be the one to hurt him, after all his worry about what strangers might be thinking. “I don’t understand.”

“I know.” Harry takes a deep breath, shakes away the tension that had settled in his shoulders. “We just—”

He intends to tell him that it’s over. That’s what he had brought him there for, and that’s what he was going to do, even if it killed him, just as soon as he gathered up the nerve, but then the street exploded in what he thought must have been half of George’s stock of fireworks, and he found that he had run out of time.

Draco

It’s like the war again, because spells are flying by him and it’s scary and he could die at any moment, but it also isn’t, because this time, finally, he is fighting on the right side of things, with Harry disappearing somewhere into the fray, swallowed up by the smoke and the flashes of lights, and George leaping out of the busted display window of his shop, sleeves pushed up to the elbows and robes billowing out behind him.

(It’s a glorious entrance, wand spinning and red hair flashing through the smoke and landing in a crouch, a snarl in his voice and a smirk on his face, like he could not wait to tear someone to pieces. It was almost terrifying to see him, and Draco was kind of jealous.)

“You alright mate?” George crosses the few steps to him like they’re seeing each other from opposite ends up of a bar, nothing special, just two friends running into each other after a long week of work. The glass crunches under his feet, and his eyes are darting around the street, and when he draws even to him, Draco can see that he is bleeding from his daredevil leap through the window.

“I’m fine. You?” He nods down at his arm, which is cut open and bleeding, dripping down his hand and catching at his wand.

“This?” George doesn’t even look at it, just flashes a grin at him. “That’s nothing mate. Wait and see what I do to them.”

It’s almost ferocious, the way he walks forward into the smoke. He cuts an impressive figure, and within a few seconds, it becomes clear that he is just as skilled at dueling as he is at charms. George can see his outline even when the fight swallows him up, the vibrant spiky hair and the too-long robes that whip around at his ankles, the snapping of his spells and the bark of his laughter. It’s almost like they are watching him come back alive after months of being asleep, right there in Diagon Alley.

Only when he loses sight of both George and Harry does Draco shock himself into action, yanking off his jacket and walking forward. He can’t see what he is fighting, but he knows where it is—he can follow the hazy outlines, throws back spells when one comes towards him, and within seconds, it is like he is doing nothing more complicated than following the steps of a dance he had been taught long ago and almost forgotten, stepping backward when they step towards him and pressing forward when they draw back, answering one curse with one hex, hoping beyond hope that Harry is not hurt, even though he lost sight of him long ago.