第19章 章節

he lilies, before he even gets around to remembering the look on Pansy’s face when Harry had asked her for a name, or McGonagall’s resigned, weary voice as he’d fled the hospital wing.

Harry had actually told Draco he didn’t care if he lived or died.

Harry will never ive himself for being so stupid.

By the time he kisses Draco’s lips, they’re turning blue. Draco is taking a much-needed, too-shallow breath, his throat already working around another surge of blossoms. Harry pulls him up straight and gets his hands on that sharp, smooth jawline. His hands feel too big and clumsy against Draco’s delicate features, but Draco blinks watery eyes at him and Harry swipes his thumb over his lips, wiping off the blood as best he can, and covers that soft hurting mouth with his own. Everything within him attunes to the places where their bodies meet; everything sleeping sits up and pays attention; he is electrified from the inside out.

It lasts no more than a second or two. Draco fights him. Harry loses his head for an instant and tries to hold on, resisting when Draco’s hands push hard against his chest. Harry tastes blood and feels the silky texture of lily petals and his every instinct tells him to deepen the kiss—

And then he realizes what the hell he’s doing, and he lets Draco go.

Draco falls fully away from him, sprawling on the ground. The flowers have stoppeding, but Draco is still gasping, this time apparently from rage. Harry reaches for him but does not touch.

“Let me,” Harry begs.

“How dare you,” Draco says, voice shaking so hard Harry can barely make out the words. “I don’t want your pity. I’m not just another victim for you to save.”

“It’s not like that,” Harry says.

Draco claws his way to his feet, scoops up a handful of lilies and presents them in vicious, morbid triumph.

“I think it is.”

“It’s because you don’t believe me,” Harry says. “Draco. Please. I didn’t know before, I didn’t understand, but I want—”

“Fuck you,” Draco says, and then he picks up his bag and his book and is gone before Harry can make another move.

When Harry sinks down next to Hermione on the couch in front of the fireplace, she takes one look at him and does the unthinkable: puts down her quill and closes her book.

“Oh, Harry,” she says.

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At the sound of her voice, he slumps. He props his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He can still taste Draco. He can still hear his voice, stripped raw, can still see the desperately fearful expression he’d worn as he’d shoved Harry away.

Harry had done this to him.

“I know who Malfoy’s in love with,” Harry mumbles. “Did you know?”

“I suspected.”

“Is it possible—” Harry’s voice wavers; he has to clear his throat and start again. “Is it possible for the victim to stay sick even if their love is returned?”

“It depends on the person. But in a case like that,” Hermione says, gently, “either the love isn’t true or the victim doesn’t think it is.”

So either of us could be right, Harry thinks. Figures.

That night, Harry d