分卷阅读48（1 / 2）

“Harry, you arse!” Ginny found them both as soon as they walked through the door, crushing the present between the three of them when she hurtled towards them, throwing an arm around both of their necks and pulling them down to her height. Draco caught an elbow in the neck, but he was pretty sure it was on accident. “I can’t believe you got the Weird Sisters to play at my party!”

“It’s Luna’s party, too,” trilled Hermione from somewhere near Draco’s elbow, and he turned to find her sitting down at a booth already with a large plate of cheesy fries in front of her, rather giggly and pink in the face. Ron rolled his eyes at Draco, then shrugged. Hermione’s an incredible lightweight. And lately, always incredibly hungry.

Ginny ignored her, which Draco thought was best.

“Called in a favor,” Harry said, grinning. “Thought you might like it.”

Draco snorted. Called in a favor, more like, called them up and told them who was speaking and then found the Weird Sisters had mysteriously cleared their schedule for the next month and a half, at your service Mr. Potter, anything you like. They could have played during Molly’s Sunday night dinner, for all they cared.

“Still, thank you. And you,” She turned on Draco, narrowing her eyes, and he had the strangest suspicion that she knew somehow, about the house and the doubts and how he stays up late at night trying to memorize what it feels like to have Harry lying beside him, just in case. “Do try to have fun tonight, won’t you? Luna’s worried about you.”

Draco squirmed uncomfortably, because if Ginny had an idea about how anxious he’s been the past few weeks, then Luna knew for sure, would have been able to tell what was wrong with just one look at him.

“I’ll be fine.” He tries to smile convincingly, but then he looks over and finds that Harry has disappeared from his side, swallowed up by the crowd that was Dean and Seamus and Neville. Draco would not be welcome there, even if they all smiled and made polite small talk. There is a difference between forgiveness and belonging, he’s finding, and it’s more of a chasm than a fine line.

Ginny reached over, squeezed his elbow. “He loves you.” Her words are insistent, hitting him like a stunning spell to the chest. “Trust me. I know what it looks like.”

He finds his way to the bar, expecting to find old, gap-toothed Tom, but finds George Weasley instead, throwing drinks to the people who come to him without waiting for a request and scowling down at the table top when he is left alone again, like he is reading some particularly offensive word that a previous patron had carved into it. Draco checks, but nothing is there.

“Oh. It’s you.” George looks surprised for a moment, but then his expression sours. “You want anything?”

“Thought you were just throwing things out there?” He had been, like crazy, throwing bottles into hands and pouring liquid into giant margarita glasses without checking the labels, and even when it had to be a downright disgusting combination, no one complained, just coughed and spluttered and drank it all the same.

“Well, normally, but seeing as it’s you, I’ll make an exception. So I’ll repeat myself.” He was blunt, tonight. Draco supposes it must be hard for everyone else, to have gone from a friendly and cheerful George to this, but not for Draco, because to him this was the Weasley he had always known—a little sharp, a little brusque, the kind of intelligent that was just a shade shy of cruel. “What do you want?”

“Just a beer, thanks,” Draco said, settling down onto a stool, wondering why they had stuck him back here, of all people, and then realizing that it might have been the kindest place for him. George had told him once that every conversation was just a reminder of the lines that never would be said, where people automatically look to his left for the echo of his jokes only to find empty air, that he can’t take it. He might have had an easier time back here, where he is away from the jumbled mass of limbs and people only wanting the person he used to be, safe from small talk and idle hands.

“So boring,” George griped, but he passed the bottle along all the same, even attempting a grin.

Draco doesn’t want to ask. He wants to sit and sulk, take part in enough small talk to pass the night away without seeming like an arse, maybe search out Hermione later and then duck in to pass on another round of congratulations with Luna, then go home, claiming a migraine. It’s a plausible excuse and a doable plan, and none of it involves sitting here and playing therapist to George, but he was his friend, and that comes with a certain amount of responsibility.

“You alright, mate? You seem…” He paused, because there’s no way to give an accurate description without being offensive. “Down.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” George says, and Draco can see the moment where he changes his mind and decides to tell the truth, an actual ripple across his face. “No, I’m not. I’m shit, actually.”

He swears, a long string of it just to make himself feel better, and the people closest to them stare, a huddle of Ravenclaws that Draco can only vaguely remember.