Sheshoveshisshoulder,makinghimtakeanotherstepbakfromthedoors.Behindhim,someoneobjets—ateaher,heguesses,maybeProfessorMGonagall,warningPansyaboutputtinghandsonotherstudents.RonandHermionearemakingtheirwayroundtheGryffindortable,andtheSlytherinsarewathingthemwarily.

AllHarryanthinkisthatDraoisgettingfartherandfartherawayfromhim.

“Iamsure,”hetellsher.

“Youareaboutsevenyearstooteforthat,”shesays,butBiselooksathimonsideringly.Harry’sthroatistightandthereisaweightinhishestandhisbreathingomesinraggedspurts,andwhenhelooksatBise,Bise’sfaehanges,minutely.Hetwithesasidesoasuallythere’snowayoftellingifitwasonpurpose,andHarrytakesitashisuetolungethroughthegapbetweenhimandPansy,ignheredriesashespeedsthroughthedoorsandouttheentranehallintotherispmsunshine.

Theool,dampairsootheshisthroat,whihissrathyandahingasifhe’somingdownwithaold.Hiseyesaredrawnunerringlytothedistantgates;hehalfexpetstoseeaarriagetrundlingawaydowntheroad,andhe’sready,he’llsummonhisbroomstikandgoafteritifhehasto—butthenherealizesDraoisrightthere.

Draostands,unsteadily,atthefootofthestepstotheastle,hismotherstraighteninghisolrandsmoothingbakhishair.Theybothturnatthesightofhim.AndDrao’seyesmeetHarry’s.

Thethingis—thethingis,nothinghashanged.DraolooksatHarrythewayhe’salwayslookedathim:withhisfull,undividedattention.NomatterwhatHarryhasthoughtDraodidordidn’tfeelforhimovertheyears,nomatterwhathappenedbetweenthem,hehasneveronehadtoonfrontDrao’sindifferene.

Draomightdietoday,andifhedoesnotdie,DraomightomebakandneverlookatHarrylikethisagain.Itsmsintohimallatone.ThethoughtofDrao’sgazesweepingoverHarrywithoutpausing—thethoughtthatHarrymightmeetDrao’seyesandseenothingthereatall,notevenhatred—thethoughtofDraonotlovinghimbak…isabominable,andmakesabottomlesspaintakerootinhishest.

Buttheonlywordshehasforthisfeelingare:“Don’tgo.”

NarissaMalfoy’slipsdrawbakinwhatmightatuallybeasnarl.Draopushesherhandsaway,gently,andwathesasHarrytakesthestepstwoatatimeandstaggersontothegrassafewfeetfromDrao.

“Thisagain,Potter?”heaskstiredly.

HarrywishesDraowould’veshoutedathim.Thisexasperation,solosetohtdismissiveness,isverymuhworse,andHarryan’ttakeitrightnow.

Heshouldbemakingsomegrandiosepromationofhisfeelings,he’ssure.Instead,hedoeswhathedoesbest:hepiksafight.

“You’redoingthistoyourself,”Harrytellshim.

“Exuseme?”Draosays,hisvoiegerouslylow.ThesparkofangerinhiseyesgoadsHarryon.

“Youdon’twanttobelieve,”Harrysays,fistslenhedandfaehot.“You’resaredofwhatthatwouldmean.Youdon’tlikethingsyouan’tontrol.You’d—you’dratherdieofpridethanadmityouwerewrongaboutsomething!”

Harry’svoielimbs;heisdistantlyawareofpeoplegatheringattheopendoorstotheentranehallandNarissa’shandtighteningonherwand,butnotawareenoughtoare.

“I’mnotgoingtodie!”Drao’svoierisestomathHarry’s,andnowheisshouting.“I’mnotgoingtodie,butI’llbefreeofthisburdenatst.That’sallthisis—that’sallyouaretome.Aburden.”

That’salie,Harrythinks.No,heknowsit’salie.Ofourseheknows.ThelilypetalstrailingdownthestepsandendingatDrao’sfeetareproofenoughofthat.Butsomethinginhimdoesn’tuandit’salie.Somethinginhimhowlswithpainandfury.Hiseyessting,humiliatingly;heopenshismouthtoretort,butthenhiseyesarestingingforadifferentreasonaltogetherashestartstoough.

Thesearedeep,wrakingoughsfromaseizinghest;theskinoverhisribsistootight,andsomethingrustlesinhislungswhenhegaspsforbreath,andhefallstohiskneesmoreoutofsurprisethananythingelse.Heovershismouthinstintivelywithhiselbowuntilthefitsubsides.

Noonemakesasound,notDraonoranyofthewitnessesHarrydoesn’tdarelookatrightnow.Instead,helooksdown,blearily,atthedarkspotsonthegrass,whih—whenhisvisionlears—turnouttobepetals.Rosepetalssoredthey’renearlybk.There’sahot,opperytasteinhismouthandsomethingsharppokingthebakofhisteeth;hespitsoutbloodandaoupleofthorns.

Horrorwsitswayuphisspine.Hetiltshisfaeupatst,hisgazedrawnmagiallytoDrao.

Drao’sfeaturesareskwithshok;hiseyesarewideandunomprehendingandfixedonHarry.

“Youprat,”Harrytellshim,limbingtohisfeetwiththebestattemptheanmakeatomposure.“Should’vetoldmeyouwereontagious.”

“I’mnot,”Draosaysfaintly.

“Iknow.”

Harry’sthroatislosingupagainandhefeelsanotheroughingfitomingonasDraokeepswathinghimbnkly.

Thewhispersatthetopofthestepsarereahingaresendo.NarissapullsatDrao’selbow,guidinghimawaytowardthegates.Harry’seyeslingtohim,butthere’snoroominhisthroatforhisvoie,noroomtoformwordsandallhimbak;hetastesrosesinthebakofhismouth.It’snotuntilNarissasueedsinturningDraobodilyaround,andtheyloseeyeontat,thatheseemstowakefromhisstupor.Heripsoutofhergrasp.

HarryisalreadyreahingforhimwhenDraosurgesbakupthepath.HethrowshimselfintoHarry’sarms,awhirlofsensation:hisbonesrashingagainstHarry’sbones,thesmellofliliesfillingHarry’snose,hishandsstrongagainstHarry’sbak,hissk

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