分卷阅读7（1 / 2）

Angry is better. Anything is better than this.

When Draco comes to again, the pieces of pancake on his plate have gone cold. Harry’s already on his third.

“Wipe that syrup off your face, Potter,” is Draco’s way of greeting him.

Harry does it automatically, out of shock and embarrassment. “You’re back,” he states dumbly.

“I didn’t leave,” Draco mutters, glaring at his plate. Harry doesn’t know if Draco’s glaring at it out of spite, or if he remembers that it wasn’t cut up thirty minutes ago and is now trying to recall how it got to that state. Finally, Draco raises weary eyes at him and asks, “Did you just slice my pancakes?”

Harry shoves more pancakes in his mouth, just to save him the awkwardness of talking. He nods while chewing.

Draco goes back to glaring at the pancakes, and Harry finishes his third pancake mechanically. Once he’s done and there’s nothing left on his plate for him to stuff his mouth with (and there’s no more excuse for him to shut up), he tries, “Do you want me to feed you?”

He braces himself, readies himself to stand up and run should a fork come for his head, but Draco just snorts and looks at him pointedly. “Weasel’s going to have an aneurysm from laughing too much if he finds out that you’re feeding me breakfast.”

He raises an arm and tries to curl his fingers around the fork again.

It’s slow and it’s shaky, but Draco’s there and he’s trying, so Harry gets another pancake and respectfully looks away.

He’s not really hungry anymore. In fact, he’s fucking full, but he likes this, eating pancakes like this. By the time he’s finished eating the fourth, Draco has managed to swallow three pieces. There’s syrup on his lap and the front of his nightgown, and there’s also some dripping down his arm, but Harry respectfully looks away from that, too.

Draco makes it through half of his plate, before the fork slips from his fingers and clanks loudly on the marble floor of his balcony, and Harry looks up at him, ready to ask if he should get it for him, but Draco’s gone again.

His gaze is vacant, staring blankly at his plate.

Harry stands up before the squeezing pain in his chest can settle, and he goes around the table so he can pick up the fork near Draco’s feet.

On his way up, he glances at Draco’s face. There is no recognition, no life, but there is syrup at the corner of his mouth.

Harry sighs and reaches for a napkin. “You’re the one who should wipe the syrup off your face,” he mutters and gently dabs at Draco’s cheek.

It’s definitely weird, taking care of Draco Malfoy.

Or, well, he isn’t really supposed to be taking care of Draco Malfoy. He’s just really here to keep him company, avoid the media while he’s at it, and eat the breakfast that Malfoy doesn’t eat.

But he wipes the syrup off of Draco’s mouth anyway, and his arm, and then searches for his wand in his pocket to charm Draco’s clothes clean.