Merely Misunderstood

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Without breaking his gaze, I reached up, grasping his hand in mine and giving it a squeeze. "Only if you do, too," I answered, and Draco rolled his eyes. 

"I will," he answered anyway, bringing our faces closer. 

"Promise?" 

"Promise." Draco's voice was barely a whisper, his lips forming the word against mine, and I melted into him, embracing every sweet moment with him I was given, just in case I never got another. 

Hogwarts had emptied itself out by noon the next day, and it seemed the only students left behind were the ones with no family left to go home to. I pitied them, but I didn't have the emotional capacity to care much about their situation. Yes, it sounded horrible, but as long as my family was still alive, they were the only people I would focus on. 

In times like these, everyone becomes selfish. 

I slid the compartment door shut, the unusual silence of the train weighing the air with fear. 

"You excited?" Mirah's voice asked from the bench across from me as I sat down rigidly, my eyes flicking to the window, shadowed by the dark gray skies. Why did the weather always seem to mirror my mood? 

"Heck yeah," I answered, flashing a forced grin at Mirah, who responded with a smile just as strained. 

She placed a hand over her chest, her eyes drifting out the window. "Feels like my heart has been racing ever since the start of term." 

I nodded. "I know what you mean." Everyone was in a constant state of anxiety; there was no possibility of relaxing. Even going home was a new stress on our shoulders, with different things to worry about. 

We stared out the window at the gloom together, the silence between us growing heavier by the minute. 

But as soon as we arrived on the platform and caught sight of Mr. and Mrs. Holland, all that anxiety diminished: We met one another in a group bear-hug — led by Mr. Holland, of course — and although it hardly lasted a minute (Mr. Holland insisted we needed to keep our guard up), it was enough to reassure me. For a moment, I felt like I could breathe comfortably again. 

The Easter holidays were as uneventful as they could get, since nobody felt safe leaving their homes. Then again, no one felt particularly safe in their homes, either, but nothing could be done about that. 

It was enough to spend precious time with family, even if we were only pretending to be calm. Anyone could see it in the way Mrs. Holland's steady hands suddenly shook and fumbled with nearly everything she picked up, every noise making her seize up like a frightened rabbit; or the way Mr. Holland was suddenly the first to go quiet after a laugh over a funny story or joke, and often left his plate untouched; or in the way Mirah's usual quips and snarky remarks were all but nonexistent as she sat in silence at the dinner table, her eyes glued to the front door, as though waiting for a Death Eater to barge in. 

And yet, we were all trying our best to act normal, as if the others wouldn't notice anything wrong. But even though we were all pretending, there was something oddly comforting in the way we pretended together. 

On the final night before our return to Hogwarts, Mirah and I sat across from each other on the living room floor, quietly playing a game of Uno, a muggle card game. It was a little strange to play a game without any magic, but Mirah had a way of making anything fun: When we'd first started up the game, her competitiveness rubbed off on the rest of us, and by the time we were halfway through the first round, all four of us were fully engaged and playing to win. We spent about an hour playing as a family before Mrs. Holland excused herself to bathe, and Mr. Holland gave up after finally managing to win against his daughter, resigning himself to his armchair to "watch my little girls play" (his snores filled the room only minutes later).