Inhishead,Harryisthinkingthatallheneedsistofindhim,tolearthedustanddebrisoffDrao’sfaeandrushhimtohishest,holdhimandneverlethimgo.Butwhenhedoesfindhim,halfpullinghimoutofthedisasterbeforeRongrabsHarryunderhthearmsandpullshimaway,itdoesnothelp,beauseeventhoughHarryhadseenalotofawfulthings,thismighthavetobetheworst.

Penelopeistryingtotalktohim.Harryknowsthat,dimly,evenreognizesherwords,buthedoesn’treallylisten.“Thisisajobforahealer,Harry,”Sheissaying,andPeryhasgrabbedhimbyonearmandRonbytheotherandtheyarepullinghimaway,butHarryisn’tooperating,beauseallheislookingatisDrao,withthebloodsnakingdownfromhistempleandthedustonhisfaeandhisbreathingsoharshandloudthatitmightbebetterifheouldnothearthebreathatall,beauseatleastitwouldnotsoundlikehewasinsomuhpain.“Letmedomyjob.”

HeonlystopsfightingwhenGeejoinshim.Hean’tsaywhy,really,exeptforthefatthatifthereisonepersonintheworldwhoknowswhatisliketolosesomeonethatissounbelievablyvitaltoyourownwell-being,itisGee.Harryan’timaginethathewouldaskhimtostepawayiftherewasawayforHarrytohelp.

“She’sgoingtotakeareofhim.”Perytellshim,hisjawsetandhisfaesmearedwithblood.Later,HarrywouldlearnthatitwasPery’sown.HeaughthimwithanelbowtothefaewhenPeryfirsttriedtopullHarryaway.“She’sthebestatherjob”

Forthefirsttime,HarryantrulyappreiatePeryandwhatheando.Despiteallhispomp,hereallyisoneoftherarepeopleinlifewhoareabletowalkintoanemergenyandontrolaroom,whoanlookatasituationandseewhatneedstobedone.Andhedoesn’tlie,andhedoesn’thavemuhpatieneforpeopleheonsidersi,sowhenhesaysthathisgirlfriendisthebestatherjob,itisn’temptyfttery,it’sthebestwordsofomfortheanthinkofgiving.

“Okay.”Harrysays,andsinksdowntotheground.ThereisahandonhisshoulderandheknowswithoutturningthatitisHermione,beauseheanreognizetheweightofitfromsomanyyearsofherholdinghimbakandholdinghimup.Heraiseshisownhanduptomeether,andannotfindtheenergytoaskifshewasalright,eventhoughhehopesthatsheis.“Okay.”

“Hey.”Ginnythrowsherselfdownonthegroundbesidehim.They’rebakinsomehallwayintheministrythatPeryhadledhimto,promisingtosendsomeonewhentheyhavenews.DraowasatSt.Mungo’sinamagiinduedoma,andwasnotlikelytowakeupanytimesoon,sonoonethoughtthatitwasimportantforhimtoheadoverthererightaway.“Thoughtyoumightwantthis.”

She’sholdinghiswandouttohim.Harryhadn’teventhoughttogoafterit.Ifsomeonewantedtohurthim,hewouldtearthemapartwithhisbarehands,ruinedastheywere.“Yeah.”Theweightofitmakeshimfeelbetter.

“We’regoingafterthem,ifyouwanttoome.”SheisdressedinwhatGeehadnamedherbattlearmor—ombatbootsandanoldjaketwithapathovertheelbow,fingerlessleatherduelingglovesandherhairpulledupinatightponytail.“Thepeoplewhodidthis,Imean.”

“Youthinkweangetthem?”

Hewasn’tiedinit,iftheyouldn’tgetthem,ifheouldn’tmakeoneofthemhurtliketheyhurtDrao.

“Ithinkso.Wegottheonewhodroppedthehandelier.Hetoldusalot.”Ginnyflexesherfingers,andforthefirsttime,Harrynotiesthesplitskinonherknukles.Sheisstaringdownatherhands,likeeventhoughshewasn’tsorry,sheouldn’tquitebelievethatthiswasthepersonshehadturnedinto.“Iwasverypersuasive.”

Harrythoughtaboutit,andthenthoughtsomemore.Heouldstayhere,sittinginthisemptyhallway,andthenswithtosittinginsomeunomfortablehairinaslightlyleanerhallwayinSt.Mungo’s.Orheouldgofight,makesomeonepay,makethemhurt.Hehadhiswandbak,afterall.

Andhewasdonefeelinghelpless.

Chapter31

Drao

One,whenDraowassevenyearsold,whenhewassmallandsrawnyandstillhadn’tlearnedhowtousethepowersittingrightbehhisskin,hehadwalkedtotheedgeofhisneighbor’spondandwalkedrightalongtheedge,toesskimmingthesurfaeofthemudandmuklikeitwassomesortofgame.Hismotherhadtoldhimnottogoinitbeauseitwasdirty,andhisfathersaidthatitwasgerous,justasderelitandiedastheneighbor’shousewas,butDraohadthoughtthatitwouldbefuntogotoaforbiddenpejustone.Anditwasfun,untilhesteppedforwardontothebankjustabittoofar,entranedbythewaveoftheotherwisestillwaterthatwasonlythebekoningofagrindylowandtoppledin.

Heouldnotswim.

Itwasstrange,inthatmoment,beausehewasthinkingofallthethingsthatheoulddo,allthepeoplethathisfatherhadpaidtoteahhim—thelineageofoldhouses,violin,alligraphy,ing—andyetnowthathewasinimmediateger,heouldnotfigureouthowtomovehisarmsorkikoutwithhislegswellenoughtobringhimselfbaktothesurfae.Therewasonlydarknessupallthelightandweedsbrushingathisheelsandthedesperationbuildingupinsidehim,wherehewouldkikupoffthemurkybottomofthepondandburstintothelightjustlongenoughforonelifegivingbreathofairbeforethedepthspulledhimbakdownunderagain.

Tryingtowakeupwassomethinglikethat.

Buthedoeswakeup,eventually,afterwhatmusthavebeenhoursofdriftinginandoutofonsiousness,wherehewouldopenhiseyesonlytobeblindedbythelightandtakenabakbythefireinhislungs.Hisentirebodyahed,andeventhougheahtimetherewerevoieshe

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