分卷阅读36（1 / 2）

Harry almost laughs. He remembered when they threw that word around like it meant nothing, like they knew the feeling that should have gone into it, but they hadn’t. Being able to hate means being able to want to hurt, by looking at someone and only thinking that they were vile and disgusting and worthless, of wanting them to born and being the one to light the match.

“I won’t.” He is still on the floor, still holding Draco’s arms, still tracing the edges of the mark, like if he did it enough it would just wash away, slipping from the skin like water. “Never.”

“Promise?’

Promise that I won’t hate you? That I forgive you and I love you and that there’s never going to be a moment where I’ll turn away from you? That’s a done deal, Draco. I made that decision long before I caught sight of what was hiding on your arm.

“Promise.”

Chapter 28

Draco

They’ve reached a truce, he and the Weasley family.

Draco’s not going to kid himself. Most of it is because of Harry and all he had gone through, Harry and how much they love him. They do not want to see him hurting, and for whatever reason, Draco’s presence in his life has seemed to soothe the ache that was always waiting right underneath Harry’s skin, shave away his broken edges until they were soft again. Even Ron has admitted how it was good for him, however reluctantly and however gruff his voice was when he said it. There was simply no denying it—Harry was eating again (first because he felt bad when the food Draco cooked went untouched and now because he has remembered what it means to be hungry), was sleeping, could even leave a window open a crack to let in fresh air without constantly having to watch for intruders.

But some of it—a small part of it, a part he doesn’t want to examine too closely because he is half afraid that it might disappear, like the way a pot never boils when you watch it—is because of him. Because friendship with Hermione has turned into a truce with Ron, because a night spent drinking in the storage room of George’s shop turned into a real sort of friendship, where they can sit through Quidditch games together and be drinking buddies, because Bill has swallowed his resentment and Ginny has taken the knowledge of his friendship with Harry like she has so many other things that she found hard to swallow, with a blazing heart and straightened shoulders and the knowledge that should something go wrong, she would just hex him into oblivion.

It’s comforting, even when it isn’t.

It’s comforting, and when Percy extends an invitation (an invitation meant for Draco exclusively, independent of his friendship with Harry) to his casual dinner party on fancy paper, Draco doesn’t hesitate to accept. There had never been an ounce of judgement from Percy, no faltering offers of friendship. Maybe he understood what it was like to make the wrong choices. Or more likely, he harbored no resentment for the way Draco used to act, because he had always been so sure that he would rise up to be better, greater even than the Malfoys.

“You got one, too?” Harry’s digging through old court records, trying to find some treasure mine buried in the minutes of trial proceedings. The slanted script always gives him a headache, but even when Draco offers to help, Harry waves him away, claiming he wouldn’t be able to spot what they were looking for. And maybe that was true, but it didn’t change the fact that Harry found the work so tedious he would latch onto any excuse for a break that he could find. “Wonder what it’s about.”

“I think its Sunday dinner. Just like normal.” Draco had sat through a lot of Sunday dinners. Sometimes, he even goes over early so Harry can go out and play Quidditch in the apple orchards with the other boys and he can help Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen. Theory that the family would warm up to him faster if he was the one putting the food on the table. “Only this time Percy is running it.”

“Good God.” Harry had been nicer about Percy ever since he was the first one to volunteer to join him in restarting the fight against the remaining Dark Lord supporters, but that doesn’t stop him from finding some of Percy’s tendencies to be a control freak a bit annoying. Draco didn’t mind, but then again, Draco hadn’t spent summers sharing bathrooms and kitchen tables with him. He supposes you get the right to find someone annoying, when you spend all that time together. It doesn’t mean you don’t care. “We’re going to have to figure out what fork to use, aren’t we?”

There’s sort of a disconnect sometimes, in the things that Harry knows and Draco doesn’t, or vice versa. Like Draco, for example, wouldn’t blink if he was sat at a table with a full set of silver ware and have to choose which piece went with which course. It was second nature to him. It’s helpful, sometimes, but Draco would still trade it for everything that Harry knew.

“Don’t worry.” Harry wasn’t worried. These people were his family. Draco was the one that got stuck on the outside looking in. “We’ll figure it out together.”

That was five hours ago. Now they were arm in arm on Percy’s doorstep for the first time, Harry trying to smooth down his wind tussled hair and Draco balancing a bottle of wine as he rung the doorbell. It takes all of three seconds for the door to swing open, revealing a frazzled Percy, his glasses knocked askew.

“Come on in.” He’s more relaxed than Draoc had ever seen him, like here, at least, he wasn’t going to put on a show when he didn’t need to. “You can throw that wherever you want, coats can go on the coat rack, horrible hosting, I know, but mum always made this look easy and I’m afraid it really isn’t.”