分卷阅读8（2 / 2）

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 dreams he is sixteen again and slashing Draco’s chest open with a stolen spell. In the dream, unlike in his memory, he knows what the spell does and uses it anyway. He wakes over and over, sweating, but each time he falls back asleep the sight of Draco bleeding out on a bathroom floor is waiting for him. He wakes for the last time around dawn and pushes away from his bed as if it had wronged him.

Showering makes him feel incrementally better until he goes to the Great Hall for breakfast. Draco leans against Pansy, slumped, as if he can’t sit up without the support. Dark smudges of purple from lack of sleep underscore his eyes, and he coughs out petals before and after every mouthful of tea he manages to force down. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t look at Harry or acknowledge his existence in any way. And when Harry approaches, he heaves himself to his feet and flees the Hall before Harry even gets close.

Harry moves to follow, but Pansy and Blaise Zabini block him from the doors.

“Don’t even think about it, Potter,” she spits. “You’ve done enough.”

“I’m trying to fix this,” he says.

“You can’t,” says Blaise, not harshly. “It’s too late. No, I’m not questioning your sincerity,” he adds, as Harry opens his mouth to argue. “Draco almost didn’t make it through the night.”

“What?” Harry croaks.

“He went to the infirmary at one in the morning and spent the whole night with Madam Pomfrey spelling air into his lungs so he wouldn’t suffocate,” Blaise tells him. “He’s a little better this morning, but the disease is in its final stages. His mother is outside, waiting to take him to St. Mungo’s, and he’s going to have the operation.”

“Today? Now?” Harry asks.

“That’s right,” says Pansy. The Great Hall is almost silent, but Harry can’t tell anyway over the roar in his ears. Every face is turned toward him and the two Slytherins; from the corner of his eye he sees Ron, on his feet, and Hermione holding him back with a hand on his arm. Everything is foggy except for Pansy, who tells him: “In a few hours, you won’t have anything to fix. Draco’s going to live. He won’t be sick anymore, and he won’t be in love with—someone he can’t have, either. He’ll finally be okay.”

There are furious tears in her eyes, daring Harry or anyone else to breathe a word of doubt into the air.

“But I—”

“I don’t care!” Pansy almost shrieks. “He told us what happened yesterday. What do you think you’re going to do now, Potter? Go out there and convince him of, of something you’re not even sure about—give him false hope and then send him crashing back down when you realize you had no idea what you were getting into?”