分卷阅读4（2 / 2）

Ron and Hermione.

Him and…

He succumbs to sleep before he can finish verbalizing that thought.

Harry visits the next morning.

Malfoy’s gaze is blank again, and Harry expected that, but that still doesn’t stop the well of disappointment in the pit of his stomach.

“He comes and goes,” Narcissa says softly from beside him. Her gaze towards her son is sad. “It’s episodic. The healers say it’s a form of disassociation, his mind’s way of getting through the trauma of Azkaban and being so near the Dementors.”

Harry recalls what it feels like. The sinking feeling of dread and death, all the warmth seeping out from his fingertips, as if the blood in his veins is slowly turning to ice. He holds his breath, scared to ask. “Did they…”

Narcissa shakes her head firmly. “No, but I take it you’ve seen a Dementor before?”

Was almost Kissed by one, Harry thinks, but keeps it to himself. “Yes, I have.”

“Then you know what it feels like. And to go through it again and again, every day, for three months.”

Harry feels sick just thinking about it.

Letting out a soft sigh, Narcissa sits down on one chair and waves a hand for Harry to sit on the other.

He does, across from Draco, who’s awake, breathing, but his gaze is distant yet again. His white blond hair sways with the wind, and his hands are placed on top of each other on his lap. He looks almost…gentle.

Narcissa follows his gaze. “I apologize for the other night, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry cuts in. Mister Potter is too formal, too reminiscent of their old relationship, especially in this house. “And no. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

Narcissa looks at him in surprise, and it’s clear that she did not expect that. But a smile slowly appears on her face, and it’s wistful. “Thank you, Harry.”

This time, she shifts in her seat so that her body is facing him completely, as if she is giving him her full attention. Her gaze turns serious. “I can’t say I understand why you feel responsibility over my son. Rather, I’m actually worried about you.”

Harry sits up straight, startled at what she’s insinuating. The defence is immediately on his lips. “I don’t…I don’t mean any harm,” he says, hurt.

“No, you misunderstand me,” Narcissa rushes to assure him. She shakes her head. “Voldemort—” And the unflinching way that Narcissa says his name has Harry wondering just where did this woman hide all this courage. “—is gone, and so is his reign of terror, all because of you. You’re a hero, Harry. You can have everything you want and it will be given to you. You can choose to live however you want. Concerning yourself over Draco is, I understand, a…” Here, her lips press tightly against each other, and there is an expression of pain that flitters across her face. “A hindrance to that, perhaps?”