Harry knew Peter, and believed that he knew him. He had learned who he was through countless small moments, through watching and listening and choosing to offer his trust, and being given trust in return. And then, with the trust, hope.
It didn't mean that Harry knew everything about Peter: there were some topics, such as this one, where Harry simply knew there was something, and something painful, and jagged, and still too easy to make bleed. And so, he hadn't asked. He'd gathered what he could, and all else he'd set aside.
If Peter was ever ready to talk about it, he would listen. If he never was, then he would listen to that silence, and not push. It was not as if Harry didn't know how sharp some topics could be.
And the day had come. And so, Harry listened: green eyes quiet, focused, gentle, vivid with the faint touch of the serum already waning, and alive with a mix of caution and patience and the hope of being able to bring understanding, or at least listening.
"Of course." He'd whispered, quiet and soft, as Peter asked that rethorical question. Of course he'd gone.
Harry had long wondered what might have happened, if he'd asked for help, during those reckless days when he'd risked everything at one last desperate hope. But that, right then, did not matter.
"Do you think he'd put two and two together, at that point?" Harry asked, after a moment.
After he'd considered what had been stated, and what he knew of the Harry from this universe. After he left a moment for himself, to consider the potential of that information still existing, in some way or another.
