(Notover,over.Hewasgoingtomakethatlearbeforeheevenstartedtalking.Theyouldstilllivetogether,andbebestfriends,andatliketheyan’tfuntioniftheydon’twalkaroundlikethey’reattahedtothehip,butthere’sertainthingsthattheyneedtogetridofifthey’reevergoingtomanagetobeomesomethingmore.Thingslikethebedsharing,andthehugging,andthekissingwithouttalkingaboutit,andsayingIloveyouandpretendingtheymeanitptoniallyeventhoughtheybothknowthewordsaretooheavyintheirmouthstomeanthatlittle.Itwouldn’tturnintoanythingiftheykeptthrowingroadbloksupintheirownway.)
InHarry’shead,histhoughtproesswassimple.Itwasn’tthathedidn’twanttokeepallofthat,itwasjustthathewasundertheimpressionthatmaybetheywouldhaveasturdierfoundationiftheythrewawayalltheirshakybeginningsandstartedbuildingitallupfromsrath.Inhishead,Draowoulduand,andthetwoofthemouldshifttheirnot-so-funtionalretionshipintosomethingbetter,andmovepastbeingjustfriendswhentheywerebothstandingonsolidground,withDraonothavingtheknowledgethatonewordfromHarryouldsendhimbaktoAzkabanhangingoverhishead.
Itwaseasiertothinkofsayingsomethingthanatuallyfthewordsout,soeventhoughHarrywastryingtosoftentheblowwithanightoutandiereamthathebought(healwaysbuys,beausehelikestoonsiderhimselfagentleman,eventhoughDraoalwayssrunheshisnoseupandgiveshimthislook,likeheknowsexatlywhathe’stryingtodoandthinksit’sompletelystupid),heouldn’tquitemakehimselfdoit.Draojustlookedsohappy,andforonehewasn’thekingoverhisshoulderforimaginaryenemieseveryfiveseonds.TherewasiereamstuktothesideofhisheekbutHarrywasn’ttellinghim,andwhentheyleftthestore,DraotookHarry’shandinhisliketherewasnoquestionthatthatwaswheretheybelonged.
Like,afterallthistime,theyhadjustbeomeanextensionofeahother,andthathurts,hurtssobadthatHarryforesthewordsupfrombehindthelumpthatwasgrowinginhisthroatandtriestomakethewordsrashthroughthebarrierthathadformedbehindhisteeth,buttheydon’tome,notevenlose.“Drao.”Draoturnstofaehim,andheisholdingbothhandsnow,tiltinghisheadtolookupathimbeauseheisontheftgroundandHarryisstillstandingonthestepabovehim.“Drao,Ineedtotellyousomething.”
He’sonfused,buthedoesnotlookworried.Theremighthavebeenatimewherethosewordswouldhavesenthimintoapani,thinkingthatthiswasoverandHarrywassendinghimaway,butnowtheirfriendshipwassetinstone,upuntilthemomentHarrysayswhathehadbroughthimheretosayandsendsitallrumblingbakintopiees.“What’sthat,Harry?”
Draoalsolooksbeautiful.Theyareunderastreetlight,andhishair,whihhasgrownmuhtoolongtobeassleekandshinyasitwasbakinHogwarts,fallsoverhisfaeinafuzzyhalo.Harryresiststheurgetopushitawayfromhisfaeandlooksupattheskyinstead,whihisstreakedwiththeststrandsofasu.
(He’salmostsorrythathehadtosayitinapethislovely,buthehasnootheroption.Heouldnotdoitathome,withallthememories,andheouldnotbringhimselftotaintanypartoftheirlifewithhiswords.Ithadtobesomepedifferent,somewherethathadtheleasthaneoffollowingthemhome.)
“Ijust…”Hegivesupontryingtobestrongandreahesouttohim,andDraomeltsintohistouh.Itouldbeperfet,ifHarryletit.Itouldbeeverything,ifhewouldjustgiveupontryingtodothingstherightway.Ifhewouldonlystoptryingtosavehimwhenhemightnotneedsaving.Mightnotwantsaving.“Weneedtostop.Todosomethingdifferent.”
Hestillisn’tgettingit.“Whatdoyoumean?”Draostartstotakeastepbak,falters,andthenomesbaktowardsHarryagain,beausehestillannotfathomthethoughtthatHarrymightbetheonetohurthim,afterallhisworryaboutwhatstrangersmightbethinking.“Idon’tuand.”