harry’swaitingforhiminthelivingroom.helookslost,standingthere,likehean’tquitefigureoutwhathe’sdoingorwhyhewouldbestandingthere,stillpreparingforthethreat.adrenalinehighsandothattoyou.

“youalright?”draowantedtogotohim,buthealsoknewthatompanymightnotbewelome,sohehungbak.

“yeah.”harrysmiled,eventhoughhiseyeswerestilldartingaroundtheroom.draohadthefeelingthatthiswouldbeoneofthenightswherehewokeuptothesoundoffootstepsreakingontwistedfloorboards,wherehewouldpretendnottoknowthatharrywasupandabout,hekingtheloksandtheshadowedornersforintruders.“i’msorryimadeyouworry.”

“don’tthinkaboutme.”draodughisfingersintothebontheouh,buryingthemdowntotheknukles.it’seasiertohaveoionslikethiswhenthere’ssomethingtoholdonto.“youdowhateveryouhaveto.”

“alwaysdo.”

harrystilllookedlost,andnowhelookedalittlebitteraboutthewholething,sodraothoughtitwouldbeokaytoirletheouhandomeuptohim.hehesitatesbeforegettingloser,butthenhereahesoutandgrabsharry’shand,swinginghisarmbakandforthbetweenthem.

itdrawsharrybaktothemoment,alittle.hestilllookslost,butthere’ssomethinglearerabouthisexpressionwhenheraiseshisfreehandtobrushagainstdrao’sheek,rightoverwherethefrostingwas.

he’sprobablyjustsmearingitaround,draothinks,bitingdownonhislip.thisisnothelpinganything.

(shit,it’snot.he’stheonewhothrewthefitaboutnotbeinganythingmorethanroommates,andhereheis,atinglikearightarsebygettingallupinhisfae.)

“i’mgoingtoomebakhome,youknow.”harrywhispers,anddraowantstobakup.healsowantstoiinsomeofthoselightballsthathermionehasatherpe,beauseandlelightissonothelping.“who’sgoingtot

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