What has Scor done? Al had momentary glimpses of him: bending over the books Al brought him, tossing a quaffle idly toward the ceiling, sketching an owl on the alley wall.
Al just said something that was the truth, like he always did. But he was heard by more people than his usual listeners.
What did an article matter in comparison to the fact that Scor was moving somewhere again, and wanting something again. And by doing so he was free from the prison of his personal Malfoy Manor.
Free and understood.
Al forced his mind to focus on the question asked. It seemed like such an irrelevant, illogical thing that Scor kept persisting on bothering Al with time and time again.
Perhaps it was illogical, but not so irrelevant. There were moments in his life when all Al wanted was someone to understand him as well.
"Anything," Al echoed. "Anyone," he corrected himself, because books gave him the former but not the latter, and he had books already, "But they have to understand me." He bit his lip, confessing.
"S-someone read my mind once. And showed me how to fly. Does that count?"