分卷阅读7（1 / 2）

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?”

“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. He allows them to have impact, to take up space in his mind. He turns them over and over and examines them from every angle.

No one can stop it, Ron says. But that’s not entirely true.

One person can, Harry thinks.

The next day, after class, he finds Draco at their usual spot by the lake. The sunset dyes the water gold, and the castle’s reflection juts darkly through its molten shine.

Draco lies on his stomach, a book propped open in front of him as he scrawls notes on a piece of parchment lined from being folded and refolded endlessly. That’s the sheet Draco uses when he finds something promising; something that could really help him, or maybe even lead him to a cure. Most of what’s on the list has already been scratched out, and today, Harry can’t bring himself to believe Draco is brilliant enough to turn one of these slivers of hope into a solution. Ron’s words are ringing in his head.

He drops down onto the grass beside Draco, who looks up with a smirk, the kind that used to rile Harry up but was undeniably handsome. Not anymore, on either count. It loses its impact when his face is so gaunt. Lying down makes the loose hang of his robes less obvious, but he’s lost a frightening amount of weight. Harry wonders if Draco might not starve to death before the disease ever gets around to killing him.

“What’s wrong, Potter? Didn’t get to sign any autographs today?” Draco snipes, without heat.

“I heard you’re thinking of going through with it,” Harry says. “The operation, I mean.”

The news had been all over the Great Hall; Harry couldn’t miss it, not even with his friends doing their best to maintain a Malfoy-free bubble on their end of the Gryffindor table.

Something in his tone must make it clear to Draco how little Harry would be able to handle a sarcastic response right now. Draco sits up, gingerly, to face him.

“Only as a last resort,” Draco says. “Potter, look at me. I’m dying anyway. I’d rather die trying to live than wait for the disease to finish its work.”

“Careful. That’s dangerously close to a Gryffindor sentiment,” Harry says weakly.