elytryingtokillyou.”

“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