分卷阅读3（2 / 2）

Groggily, he trudged back to his bed but before he could plop down on it, he heard something over by the windows. Frowning, he let the unfamiliar barn-owl flutter in and watched it land on a chair. His eyes fell to the letter tied to the owl’s foot. If this was a note from Blaise, mocking him for last night, Draco would make sure he would never be able to use his hands again.

Mere seconds after he finished untying the letter, the owl screeched and took off again. Apparently, whoever had sent it didn’t expect a reply. Draco watched the owl vanish into the sky, before sinking down on his bed, careful not to make any sudden movements. The potion was working, he did feel better, but he still had a splitting headache.

It was his own fault. He never should have agreed to drinking firewhiskey with Potter. Oh. Oh no. He had drunk firewhiskey with Potter. But…fuck, he couldn’t remember what they had talked about. Something…about Blaise’s constant flirting…and…maybe Potter’s work and…nothing, he had no idea. Well, shit!

Absentmindedly, he opened the letter he was still holding, taking in the familiar handwriting.

Hopefully you’re still in bed when you see this.

You can thank me later for sparing you the pain of spilling hot coffee all over yourself.

B

Draco frowned. He turned the letter over to find something attached to the back of it. It looked like an article from the Daily Prophet; today’s Daily Prophet, Draco realised as his eyes widened. There was a picture of him and Potter, talking animatedly. The caption read something about the highly successful charity gala and how Potter had helped with it blah blah blah. It was the same balderdash as always. He scanned the paragraphs for the words “Ex-Death Eater” but found they had simply called him “socialite Draco Malfoy”. He scrunched up his nose, not sure if he liked that new title. But, whatever, he was far more interested in the picture anyway. He didn’t remember that. Any of it. Potter started laughing, apparently at something Draco had said. It did weird things to his stomach.

Something else seemed to have caught Potter’s attention, and while he looked away, picture-Draco’s eyes were still fixed on him. His look was so full of yearning, Draco suddenly felt sick again. Oh, for fuck’s sake! And this was in today’s Prophet? For the whole freaking Wizarding World to see? Potter had probably seen it by now as well. Fuck! Fuck!

Why had Draco agreed to the firewhiskey? Why had he invited Potter to the gala? Why was he still here? Why couldn’t the ground open and swallow him up?

As Draco sat there, feeling dizzy all over again, he came to the conclusion he couldn’t really be blamed for any of this. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t get the insufferable prat out of his head. No, it was entirely Potter’s fault. And he was going to pay for it.

Monday, 23 December 2002

When Draco left Madam Malkin’s, holding a bag with his new robes he planned to wear on Christmas, the commotion in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies immediately caught his attention. Arching an eyebrow, he approached the cluster of people, careful not to get too close to the ones who were squeaking and jumping up and down. What were they—Ah, of course. Potter.

Apparently, he was trying to politely decline all the biscuits and presents that were being shoved at him.

“That’s very kind of you, Madam, truly, but I really can’t—Oh, thank you, but I shouldn’t—”

They didn’t even let him talk, Draco thought irritatedly. Four bloody years after the war, and people still lost their minds over him. Ugh.

“Potter,” he called, startling the witch beside him. Potter’s eyes instantly found his, a mixture of confusion and excitement in them. Fuck, why did he have to look at Draco like that? “Come here, come on, we need to go. Now!” He stretched out his arm to make room for Potter to walk through, not giving a damn about being scowled at.

Potter shook hands with a few people, thanked them over and over again, and even apologised, before he threw Draco a grateful look as they hurried down Diagon Alley.

“Thanks,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “People get a bit crazy around the holidays.”