分卷阅读18（1 / 2）

In a way, they had worked out, because now here he was, still buzzing with the magic of the Vow, sitting across from Draco Malfoy like they were friends. They almost were, and he knew, in time, they would be. They had their whole lives to work that situation out. But part of him wondered why he had done it. Of course, there was the confession that he had made to McGonagall, the one he knew beyond a doubt was true; he was in love with Draco Malfoy. But it was hardly common for you to go from confessing one’s love for the first time out loud to Vowing to protect them, now and forever more, in the same day. It was a bit Romeo and Juliet of him, he had to admit. And even if he knew that his feelings were not entirely unrequited, he couldn’t help but feel he had rushed.

Then again, what else was to be expected of him? His whole life had been rushed. He went from being a normal muggle kid to being the most famous wizard in the United Kingdom, and possibly the world, in less than a day. He became the youngest seeker in ages in a similar way. He went from an orphan to having Sirius to being an orphan again in what felt like the shortest time period imaginable. His whole life happened too fast, and he hadn’t learned how to make decisions in a timely, well thought out manner. He had never had to develop the skill of thinking things out well. That had always been Hermione’s job.

There was a lot on his mind, to be sure, but the thought that most occupied him was how difficult he was finding it not to stare at Draco’s face. He knew he had forever and then some to memorize it all, but what he wanted right now, more than anything was to walk across to where Draco sat and hold his face between his hands and just look at him. Look at him and run his fingers over the lines of his cheekbones, his nose, his lips. Of course, he knew all too well what Draco looked like, but he never been allowed to just look like he wanted to. Like he knew now that he was being honest to himself, that he always wanted to.

“Potter,” Draco said suddenly from where he sat in his armchair, eyes closed as he rest his head on his hand.

“Hmm?”

“Stop watching me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are so,” Draco replied, opening his eyes to look at the other man. “You have guilt written all over your face. And don’t act like I don’t know what that looks like, I practically have a doctorate in interpreting your facial expressions. Why are you staring, Potter?”

“I never thought I’d see your face again,” Harry said, finally, ignoring the flutter in his stomach as he admitted it.

“There were photos,” Draco said, though Harry couldn’t help but notice the color that came to his cheeks as he spoke.

“Not as good,” Harry replied. “Besides, they don’t look like you do now.”

“Yeah? Is how I look now better or worse?” Draco sneered, although Harry could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“Is that even a question? Have you seen you?”

“I don’t think I look all that different,” Draco shrugged.

Harry knew he had brought this conversation upon himself, but he felt he was getting too close to saying too much. He stood up, pacing between their two armchairs. When his back was to Draco he spoke.

“You look—I keep telling myself you must be a ghost. Or some extremely interactive Mirror of Erised-esque vision. I keep telling myself the next time I turn around, you’ll be gone. Or I’ll be having a moment of lucidity in whatever St. Mungo’s bed I’m currently strapped into,” Harry rambled, turning to find Draco had also stood from his seat.

“So I look like a ghost?” Draco said, approaching Harry slowly.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, you’re pale, but—” Harry trailed off again as Draco took his arm by the wrist.

Draco took Harry’s hand and placed it on his chest.

“You’re hand doesn’t go through, does it?” Draco asked, his voice impossibly soft.