“Idon’twantittobeliketheDursleys.Nothinglikethem.Itwas—therewasnever—”Hesqueezedhiseyesshutandthoughtaboutshinyfloortilesandrystalgssesandblindinglights,expensiveouheswhoseushionsdon’tseemveryinvitingandaupboard,alwaysomingbaktotheupboard,thewaythedustwouldfallintohiseyeswhenpeoplewalkedthroughthestairsandhowsineheneverknewwhattimeitwas,heouldtrikhimselfintothinkingthatthehourswerereallydays,months,years,lifespinningoutinfrontofhimwithouthimevergettingtoliveit.“Itwaslikelivinginagsshouse.Likeifyoutalkedtooloud,youwouldbreakit.”
“Likeyouweresuffoating,”Draosaid,anditremindedHarrythattheywerebuildingthishometogether.ThatDraohadhisownthingsthathewastryingtopullawayfrom.“Liketherewasneveramomentthattheyweren’twathing.”
“ButIdon’twantthis,either.”Harrysaid,beauseeventhoughtheyhaddonetheirbesttomakeitseemlikeapetheyouldlivein,itwasjustfilledwithtoomanymemories.“Iwantsomewherethathasmorelight.”
“Light.”Draopikeduphisquillagainandstaredatthefirelikeheregrettedthrowingawayhisneer.“Ianworkwithlight.”
“Tellmewhatyouwant,”Draosayster,whisperingthewordsrightintohisearlikeit’ssomesortofseret,andHarryanbarelypayattentionbeauseofthewaythathishandsweremoving,searhinghimoutunderhtheovers.“TellmewhatyouwantandIangiveityou.”
Ahairwiththestuffingomingoutoftheushions.Hermione’safghansstakedupinabasketwekeepintheorner.Abigfrontporhwithrokinghairs,agardenofftothesidethatwon’tgrowinrowsnomatterhowhardwetrytomakeit.Mismatheddishesinthesinkandakithentablesorhedfromyouronstantlyoverflowingpotionsandfreshbakedbreadintheovens,theradioalwaysturnedonlowsoweanewhenthemoodstrikesusandabigpiturewindowinourbedroom.Andmaybeadog,too,anolddogwithabumlegthatwegetfromamuggleshelter,theonethathadbeentheresolongthatithadgivenuphopethatanyonewasgoingtolovehim,weanbetheonestoresuehim,an’twe?It’dbeagoodlife,that.
“Nothing,”iswhathesays,beauseallthatwouldtaketoolongandwouldkillthemoodandmaybeHarrystilldoesn’tthinkit’sgoingtohappen,anyways.“Justyou.”
He’sstartedwalkingthroughthehouseagain.
See,thethingaboutmovingonthatHarrydidn’tknowisthatit’ssortofjustanotherwordforgoodbye,whereyouhavetoloosenyourgriponallthosememoriesthatyou’reafraidoffettinginordertokeepfaingthefuture,inordertokeepputtingonefootinfrontoftheother.Anditshouldbeeasy,intheory,butthatwasbeforeyoutakeintoaountallthethingsthathadhappenedinthismiserableoldbuilding—howitwastheonlysafespotfortheminthewar,thepartywhenRonandHermionewereprefets,GeeandFredtogether,whereRemusandTonksfellinlove,whereSiriuswas.
Sometimes,ifHarryisnotareful,heantrikhimselfintothinkingthathewillturnaornerandseethemwathinghim,waitingtoseeifhehadliveduptotheherothattheyhadtakenhimtobe.Sometimes,hewantstoripthishousedownwallbywallandbrikbybrikinthehopesthatoneofthemwillgettogofree.Sometimes,hethinksofstandinginthedoorwayandsreamingthatheissorry,justinasethereisanyhanethattheywouldbeabletohear.
Heisnotsureifhe’sreadytoleavethemallbehind.
“Youdon’thavetogetridofit.”
HarryjumpsatthesoundofDrao’svoie.He’dbeenaughtinthemiddleofstaringatthepewheretheportraitofSirius’motherusedtohang.