Whenhefalls,hefallshard,andhedoesnotbothertogetbakup,justthrowshisheadbakandughs.He’sstillughingbythetimethatHarrygetsbak,beauseeventhoughhehadhurthimselfevenmoreinthefall,partofhimmusthavedonethisassomesikformofpunishment,beausehehadknownfromthebeginningthatthiswastheonlypossibleresult.

“Jesus.”Harryswearsoften,buthedoesn’tnow,justdropsthebagofyarnandbooksandookiesthathehadbeenholdingandsprintsdownthehallwaytohim,skiddingthestthreefeetinhissoks.“Whatthehellhappened,Drao?”

He’snotgoodatbeingsoft,Harry.He’smorewildfirethanandlelight,allhurrianewithoutthegentlerainfall.Whenhe’sbeingdramatiandmenholy,Draolikestotellhimselfthatitisn’tabadwaytogoout,beingburnedupbysomeoneelse’sloveforyou.

“Iwantedtoomedownhere.”Itsoundedstupidwhenhesaysitoutloud.Allbaddeisionssoundstupidwhenyouspendthebetterpartofthehouryingontheoldfloor.“ThoughtIoulddoit.”

“Didyou?”Harryughs,findingitfunnynowthatitwaslearthatDraohadnothurthimself,andheseemstoseeDraoforthefirsttime,andswears,softly,likeitwasmoreofanexhalethananexmation.“Merlin,Drao.”HeletsgoofhimandDraohastoleanontothewallforsupport,hunhinginonhimselfinordertohide,beausehedidnotlikethewaythatHarrywasstaring.“Yourhest.”

“It’snothing.”Draorossedhisarmsoverhimself,tryingtooverasmuhskinasheould.Heknewwhathelookedlike—hadseenthebruisesfromthebriefgnesinthemirror,thesabsandthesrapsandthebitsofskinthathebeenrippedatawkwardedges,howpalehewas,thehollowsunderhhisribs,thesarsrossinghisarmsandstomahandurlingoverhisshoulders—andknewthatifhehadthehoie,Harrywouldnotbeseeingit.Nowthathetakesamomenttothinkaboutit,DraothinksthisisthefirsttimethatHarryhadgottenthehanetolookathimwithenoughlighttoreallysee,andeventhoughHarryhadknown(musthaveknown),yououldnotreallyprepareyourselfforwrekagelikethiswhenahumanbeingisonerned.“Theysaiditwouldheal.”

(Heal,butnotdisappear.Thepotionswillknityoubaktogetherbutthesarswillstillbethere.)

(Hedoesn’tare.Idon’tare.)

(Youdo.)

“Drao.”HarryreahesoutandpushesDrao’shandsaway,gentleenoughthatifhereallywantedto,Draoouldhavekepttheminpe,buthedoesn’t,justletsthemdriftofftohissides.“God,Drao.”

Harry’sbreathhitheslikehehadbeenaughtoffguardbythesightalloveragain,andDraoloseshiseyes,tippinghisheadbaktorestagainstthewallasHarry’shandstraeoverhisutsandbruisesandtornupskin,beausehedidnotwanttolookatHarrylookingathim,notwhenit’slikethis.“This,”Harrysays,atrembleinhisvoie,andhishandsarefollowingaspeifisetofsarsnow,oldones,onesthatDraohadspentsomanyhoursstaringatthatheouldalluptheimageinhismind.“Thesearefromme.”

Hemightberying.Draodoesn’tlook,justmovestoathatHarry’swristsandkeephishandsinpe,beauseheknewwithoutbeingtoldthatHarrywasthinkingofrunningaway.It’swhathealwaysdoes,whenhethinksthathehashurtsomeone.

“Merlin,”Harrysaysagain,likeit’sallheanthinktosay,andheissolosethatDraoanfeelthewordbreathedoutagainsthisshoulder.Harry’shandsarelyingftarosshisstomahnow,fingersthesilversarsthatarerissrossingoverhishest,likeheouldmakethemmeltawayifheheldonlongenough,fingersalmostdisappearinginthedipsbetweenDrao’sribs.“LookwhatIdidtoyou.”

“Tobefair,”Draosaid,tryingtosoundnormaleventhoughthiswasthelosesttheyhadbeentoeahothersinethatnightatthehospital,“Iwasativelytryingtokillyou.”

“Yeah,well.”Harryhadmovedontootherpes,othersars,otherstorieswithunhappierendings,histouhsohesitantthatitwasbarelymorethanabrushingofhisskinagainstDrao’s.“Youweren’tverygoodatit.”

“No.”Draosaid,andtogethertheyseemtoometotheuandingthattheyhavehadenoughofthepastandtodealwiththefutureinstead,ormaybeithadonlyourredtoHarryatthatmomentwhatapreariouspositiontheyarein,butwhateveritwas,Harryapparatesthemboththetenfeettotheouh,athingDraobeforeheouldstumbleandmeetinghimhalfway,movingdownjustasDraowasreahingupforhim.

It’sonlyafter,whenthingshavealmeddownbetweenthem,thatDraofinallylooksdownathimself,attheskinandtheruinpainteduponit,allthewaysthatthislifehadleftitsmarkonhim.“There’ssomany.”Hetwistedtolookatthepartofhisbakthatwasrefletedinthemirror,fHarrytomovewithhim.“Ididn’trealizethereweresomany.”

“IwishIouldtakethemaway,”Harrysays,hishandsstillmoving,likeheistryingtomapoutanimageofeverymarkinhishead.

“Theydolookterrible.”Notterribleasinugly,exatly,butterribleasintheyarespeakingofapainthatDraowouldratherfet,ofapastthatheannotpossiblyhopetowipeawaywhenitiswrittenarosshisskin.

“That’snotwhatImeant.”

Draopulledthebbakovertopbothofthem,vanishinghimselfandhissarsfromview.“Iknow.”

Chapter33

Harry

He’sgotathingformakingdramatipromations.

Harry’sreallyonlyawareofitbeauseHermionehadpointeditouttohim,one,bakintheirsixthyear.Shehadn’tmeantittobeoneofthosetimeswhereshesayssomethingveryintrospetiveandreal,butithadbeen,beausesuddenlyHarrywasfindinghimselflookingbakonallt

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