第16章 章節
th you, he almost says, or We can go again whenever you want, or You belong in the air, you were made for this, but some deeply buried self-preservation instinct kicks in, and holds the words back. Then Draco says, “Ready?” and Harry says, “Maybe if we wait it’ll clear up,” and Draco shoots back, “Scared, Potter?”
And Harry slams the door open and takes off without warning, leaving Draco to shout indignantly after him and follow. The moment is gone. But Harry’s still grinning by the time he makes it back to Gryffindor Tower.
He’s sure he looks a fool, windswept and muddy, dripping all over the place, glasses askew, smelling like sweat and broom polish—but not even Lavender and Parvati’s wrinkled noses or Hermione’s tight look of worry dampens his mood. And it’s not until after he’s showered, changed into his mostfortable pair of jeans and a sweater, and collapsed on his bed that he even realizes Ron is there in the dorm, lying in his bunk with a neglected Quidditch magazine in his hands and a very grim expression as he watches Harry. The last time Harry’d seen Ron look so serious, he’d been in mourning clothes.
“Hey,” Harry says.
“Gone out for a fly, then? In this weather?” Ron asks lightly.
“It sort of came up on us unexpectedly. I swear it was sunny earlier.”
Harry realizes his mistake too late.
“It was sunny about four hours ago. You’ve been out this whole time?” Ron says, and then, after a beat: “Us?”
“Erm, yes. Me and Malfoy,” Harry says. “We needed a break from all the research, so I thought….”
He hasn’t done anything wrong, Harry reminds himself. Defiantly, he sits up and grabs for his shoes. “I’m starved. Think I might go to the kitchens. Want anything?”
Ron sits up, too. “Hermione told me not to say anything to you.”
“Say…what?” Harry asks, his fingers slipping as he tries to knot his shoelaces. He looks up at Ron, who fidgets and tugs at the hem of his shirt and appears, all around, about as ufortable as Harry feels.
It’s just Ron, he tells himself. He and his best friend face each other across the gap between their beds. Ron exhales hard, making his bright red fringe—which is in serious need of a trim—flop out of his eyes.
“I get that you’re trying to help Malfoy,” Ron says, “but you’re too invested in this.”
“Too invested in saving someone’s life?” Harry says, astonished.
“That’s the thing. It’s not a matter of saving him. It’s like saying you want to save someone from…what’s that Muggle disease Hermione told us about?”
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“Cancer,” Harry sighs.
“Right. It’s not something you can fight.”
“So, what? I give up on him? We all sit back and let him waste away to nothing?”
“No, but you just got done fighting a war, Harry. Do you really need more grief and suffering in your life?” Ron runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. “It would be one thing if your help could make a difference. But Hanahaki, it’s…trust me, I’ve seen what it can do. You can’t stop it. No one can stop it, really.”
Harry lets those words sink in, the way Ron wants.