tampered with the past

Harry...

emerald green eyes...

Bright yellow flames in the fireplace...

Malfoy's treatment (or torture, as I like to call it) did help, but I still couldn't connect the broken images.

"I thought Granger's head was amazing, but it turned out that like everyone else, it was filled with a bunch of messy things."

The corners of Malfoy's mouth curled up sarcastically, knowing full well that I wouldn't dare do anything to him right now.

Count him as ruthless.

I decided to concentrate on my treatment and not argue with him for the time being.

Unexpectedly, he actually got excited: "I really didn't expect that I would provide treatment for an unbearable jack-of-all-trades, it's an insult to the family."

"Come on!" I countered, "Don't talk about your family's gate, even the dog hole is better than your family's gate."

"How dare you!" Malfoy's face turned "sauce purple" again: "You're just a mudblood."

"That's better than you." I was completely disdainful this time, "Don't you know? After Voldemort's death, Mudblood has long been no longer a curse word, but has become a respectful title in a certain sense."

"Humph!"

The conversation is over, which I understand.

I'm used to it, and since every conversation I have with Malfoy ends with his nostrils, I'm less likely to suspect that his mouth is a problem.

Although I personally don't like this kind of people who like to talk through their nostrils, but now, reporting to Malfoy every day has become a compulsory course for me.

It has to be said that Malfoy is indeed skilled in his own professional field.During yesterday's session, I could already see some sporadic clips.

But these are insignificant pictures.

A large sea of ​​flowers...

Swinging back and forth...

Flickering lights...

"Can you do it?" This kind of endless treatment has exhausted my patience.

It was rare for Malfoy not to irritate me. His expression looked serious like Professor McGonagall possessed: "Your memory has been modified more than once."

He just said this seriously, and after a brief pause, he rolled his eyes and said in a rather irritating tone: "You don't have to believe me, but I'm sure, no one can cure you except me This level of trauma."

Look at the sense of superiority!

I really want to smash his ugly face no matter how you look at it.

But I ended up just sighing.

Who made me ask for something now?

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