'And he's the best fuck that ever walked. He's beautiful - rich, in money and everything else; he's a rockstar to boot, trapped in the body of a fighter. And how he fought; at a state of turmoil with himself - somewhere inside his soul that only she...
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'Pretty girls don't cry They know exactly what they want Pretty girls walk by With eyes that smile, faces that haunt
I watch them walk, I wonder Turn away, I try but I can't find words to say I know that you don't love me But I'm watching you
Pretty girls don't cry They know exactly what to do Pretty girls walk by But they won't ever smile at you
I watch them walk, I wonder Turn away, I try but I can't find words to say I know you've heard it all before But I'm watching you'
"You went a bit overboard last night, " Hera said tiredly, her face softening as she watched him wake.
The frustration and worry she felt subsided into empathy. What had he done to himself?
Harry grinned sourly, looking at her through red, heavy-lidded eyes. "I'm sorry, " he muttered.
She frowned, "Do you remember anything?"
A mixture of fear and guilt gripped Harry at the sight of her expression. The realisation crashed over him: He felt ashamed of himself as the tears stung his eyes.
Pieces of the night returned to him, the memory etched in his paled face...
The firewhisky seemed to have amplified his voice a little louder than he usually would've spoken. They all looked at him, surprised:
"We've got to trust each other. I trust all of you, I don't think anyone in this room would ever sell me to Voldemort. "
More silence followed his words. They were all looking at him; Harry felt a little hot again and drank some more firewhisky for something to do.
He shared a blazing look with Parvati, who gave him an oddly serene smile. She knew, yet didn't say anything.
