hatitatuallyfeelslikeitbelongsthere.

friends.heoulddothat.

chapter3

harry

sometimes,ifheisn’tareful,hefindshimselfgoingdownthebkholethatwashismemoriesfromthewar.

forthemostpart,harrytriesnottothinkaboutit,butthenheturnstheornerandthegreenishlightfromthefloopowderstainingthefiregrateremindshimofthefshofthekillingurse,orheaidentlysrathesathisskinandthestingremindshimoftheprikleofhissar,whihhadn’treallypainedhimshemomenthegottowathvoldemortfall.

orsometimesit’sjustafeeling,anulingsensethatsomethingwaswrong,broughtonbynothingmorethandraomovingaouhushionorkreahernotappearingrightaway.itsendshimdownthemetaphorialrabbithole,andtheonlywayoutistogothroughhisfamiliarroutineofheking,heking,heking,pokinghisheadintoshadowedornersandlosetsandunderthebed,wathingfromtheornerofhiseyefordeatheaterstoleapoutathim,eventhoughheandhermionehadmadesurethatnooneouldmakeitintohishousewithoutsufferingseverebodilyharm.

(sheisnotsomerifnymore—therearespellsthatshedoesn’tfeeltheneedtostopusing,eventhoughwithoutthewarthereisnoneedforit,likeshe’sbuildingawaroundthepeopleshelovesbrikbybrik,ursebydeadlyurse.)

itwasn’tabigdeal,bakwhenhewasalone.hewouldjustifyittohimself,sayingthateveryoneameoutofthewarwithafewquirksandifthiswasallhehadtodotogetby,thenmaybeitwasn’tthatbigofadeal.butthatwasbeforehehadtopeekbehindtheurtainswithdraowathinghim,andhektheloksthreetimesbeforeheouldomebakintothesittingroomandpretendlikenothingwaswrong.

onlyheouldn’tpretendlikenothingwaswrong,beausedraowaswathinghim.