“No,it’sjust…”Heusesthewordjustalotnow,justandmaybeandifyouwouldn’tmind.He’snotsurewhenthatstarted.“Maybeweshouldalleahotherbyourfirstnames.Sinewe’relivingtogetherandall.”
“Meallyoubyyourfirstname?AndyouallmeHarry?”Foramoment,Draothinkshehasmadeaterriblemistake,thathemisalutedallofit.ButthenHarry’sfaespitsintoasmileandheanfeeltheairbeingknokedbakintohislungs.“Sure.Whynot.Soundslikeapn,Drao.”
“Alright,Harry.”Draosmileshimself,andissurprisedtofindthatitatuallyfeelslikeitbelongsthere.
Friends.Heoulddothat.
Chapter3
Harry
Sometimes,ifheisn’tareful,hefindshimselfgoingdownthebkholethatwashismemoriesfromthewar.
Forthemostpart,Harrytriesnottothinkaboutit,butthenheturnstheornerandthegreenishlightfromthefloopowderstainingthefiregrateremindshimofthefshofthekillingurse,orheaidentlysrathesathisskinandthestingremindshimoftheprikleofhissar,whihhadn’treallypainedhimsinethemomenthegottowathVoldemortfall.
Orsometimesit’sjustafeeling,anulingsensethatsomethingwaswrong,broughtonbynothingmorethanDraomovingaouhushionorKreahernotappearingrightaway.Itsendshimdownthemetaphorialrabbithole,andtheonlywayoutistogothroughhisfamiliarroutineofheking,heking,heking,pokinghisheadintoshadowedornersandlosetsandunderthebed,wathingfromtheornerofhiseyefordeatheaterstoleapoutathim,eventhoughheandHermionehadmadesurethatnooneouldmakeitintohishousewithoutsufferingseverebodilyharm.
(Sheisnotsomerifulanymore—therearespellsthatshedoesn’tfeeltheneedtostopusing,eventhoughwithoutthewarthereisnoneedforit,likeshe’sbuildingawallaroundthepeopleshelovesbrikbybrik,ursebydeadlyurse.)
Itwasn’tabigdeal,bakwhenhewasalone.Hewouldjustifyittohimself,sayingthateveryoneameoutofthewarwithafewquirksandifthiswasallhehadtodotogetby,thenmaybeitwasn’tthatbigofadeal.ButthatwasbeforehehadtopeekbehindtheurtainswithDraowathinghim,andhektheloksthreetimesbeforeheouldomebakintothesittingroomandpretendlikenothingwaswrong.
Onlyheouldn’tpretendlikenothingwaswrong,beauseDraowaswathinghim.
“Ianmakeyouaalmingdro
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