Interlude [h.s]

fifty

Harry's gaze hardens, but there's also some sort of cold enjoyment in his irises. He's impressed, Alouette realises. Negatively impressed, sure, but still impressed. "I see you've had your fun exploring my home," he says glacially. "I used to, yes."

"Why did you leave?"

He narrows his eyes. "If you have to kill me, do it now and spare me the interrogation."

"Where's your family, Harry?" Alouette presses on. "Where's everybody?"

Harry clenches his teeth. "I don't know what you hope to achieve—"

"I'm trying to figure you out!" she explodes.

"You won't figure out anything about me by asking about my family," Harry spits in reply. He gives her a venomous look, and she's never seen so much rage, so much hurt in his eyes. Now she's the one with the advantage. She's the one discovering which topics make him react, which hurt him. There's no satisfaction in it, though. She doesn't rejoice in the pain of others.

"Okay," she gives in. She lets him go and puts the knife back in her pocket, there's a red line on his neck.

Harry's hand flies to his throat and he looks away from her, his dark curls covering his eyes. A breath sibilates through his parted lips, his fingers tremble slightly. Alouette doesn't know if it's because he thought she would kill him, or because of the conversation.

"Sorry," she says. Not even she knows which one she's apologising for. Both, maybe.

For some minutes, there's silence inside the car. The knife is burning in Alouette's pocket and Harry is completely quiet. He doesn't move, she can't even hear him breathe. She wonders if he realised he gave her knife back in his sick attempt at an emotional power play.

Even though she's won that round, she doesn't feel like a winner. He proved, both to her and himself, that she has no intention of killing him—not now, not, possibly, ever. That leaves her exposed. Now that he knows for sure she won't, what keeps him from running away at the first chance he gets? The only way to convince him to stay by her side is to make sure he's aware of how much he needs her—thankfully, the old country will do just that.

"You said I can't hate you, earlier," Alouette speaks.

Harry turns his head imperceptibly, and even though she can't see well in the shadows of the car, she knows his gaze is on her.

The rain is hitting the car even more violently now, there's an uninterrupted river flowing down the windshield, transforming the world outside in muddled, curved shadows.

"You're wrong," she continues. "I've hated your cursed family my whole life. I've dreamt of the day you'd fall for years. I've hated seeing your face on every screen and I've hated hearing your voice wherever I went. And yes, I've hated you too. My entire existence has revolved around hating you." She frowns. "But you're right, too. You're right, because no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to be able to hate you anymore, and I hate that. I hate that so much and I hate you for making me feel this way. But I really, really don't."

"Is it so bad to like me?" Harry murmurs in her ear, and she jumps. She hasn't noticed him getting closer. "Is it because you were sent to kill me?" He grazes her cheek with a cold finger. "We're on opposite sides, but we don't have to be. What would you say if I told you I like you anyway?"

"I'm not sure you know what it means to like someone, Harry," Alouette replies.

Harry chuckles. "Why wouldn't I know? I do have a heart, although I rarely listen to it. Do you think me a monster? We're only a few years apart, I feel things in the same way you do."