Harry blinked tears out of his eyes, and looked at his two friends —because they were. They were his friends. Malfoy was his friend. He looked at them, curled together and crying over something like a parents’ love —something that was supposed to be free and unconditional and doubtless. Something that need never be earned. He looked down at them and felt something shatter in his heart. Shatter and rebuild itself into a form of rage so pure it scared him a little. A form of rage that couldn't even manifest itself physically, for the fire did not roar and the lights did not flicker and there was no sound of the shatter of crockery.