[And he can see where it comes from and how it works. Satya knows better than most people that Chase still harbours a feeling of being second best, a feeling that he failed to get in where he should have. Slytherin, the house that keeps anyone like her out.
Would she really have found him if he wore green? And would he have looked twice at her.]
I can tell you who I'm disgusted by.
[Finally capable of movement, he reaches for her.]
[She doesn't want to think about it. This kind of thing doesn't wear so quickly at her self-confidence, she's usually more sturdy than this, but once in a while-
She moves into his arms, slowly at first, then presses her face into his shoulder]
I'm not selfless enough to tell you that you aren't going to want to deal with this, that you should find a pureblooded girl and ask her out instead.
Because I would blind her and spell her teeth away.
We don't have to go at all, I've done the rounds. [He catches both hands and pulls her lightly with him, answering the tower's riddle as he pushes backwards through the door to the steps.] Come and sit down here a minute.
[And when he said it can't hurt.... he frowns at the knife for a second, then nods, closing his palm around the blade. Which is the wrong thing to to, it takes a couple of quick drags against the slackened skin to do it, but he's bleeding.]
[It's not a reproach, it's stupidly fond. Because sentimentality isn't something that, even now, tends to take usual forms for them. He lets his hand bleed into his robe for kissing her.]
You're not, though. My hand's throbbing too much to have dreamt it.
As long as I'm allowed to like them. I love you. It's better than dreams, dreams aren't true.
[He could have done it for himself, of course, but there's one bad habit. He tends to keep himself away from the healer's rooms even when nursing injury, let alone try anything himself.]
Now? [It's teasing, his eyes wide.] I didn't realise you wanted to fly quite so far.
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I'll always be the half-breed, that's how everyone will think of me, I went to Carla, and she, do you know what she said to me?
[She pauses, and rubs her face with the heel of her hand]
That you like that you're disgusted by me.
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I don't even think of you as that.
[He says it softly. And that point's already been proven but still, bad wording.]
I mean, it doesn't matter. I'm not. How could I like - that doesn't make any sense.
[Carla. Carla Morir. When he recovers enough to get angry he'll remember that.]
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It's meant to be an insult.
It's meant to insult us both.
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Would she really have found him if he wore green? And would he have looked twice at her.]
I can tell you who I'm disgusted by.
[Finally capable of movement, he reaches for her.]
And I'm not planning to ask her out.
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She moves into his arms, slowly at first, then presses her face into his shoulder]
I'm not selfless enough to tell you that you aren't going to want to deal with this, that you should find a pureblooded girl and ask her out instead.
Because I would blind her and spell her teeth away.
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And I may take that suggestion and apply it elsewhere.
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[She takes another moment, and presses a kiss to his mouth, and then another one]
Listen, listen, I'm all right. But do you mind if we wait a little bit? Before we go down? So my face isn't so red.
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[But she's going up with him, letting him lead her, her hands warm in his]
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[They can sit on the steps, there's a breeze. After a minute:]
We could swap, you know.
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What do you mean?
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[He splays a hand out across his knee.]
I'd cut my palm, you'd cut yours.
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[But she offers him her hand.]
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One more can't hurt.
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Here. I use it to sharpen my quills.
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Mind you don't get caught with it.
[And he offers it back.]
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[She cuts her skin, palm open, and sets it down.]
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[He reaches for her hand and squeezes it before pressing their palms flat together.]
Feels like there should be an incantation, doesn't there. Blood magic.
[Now, they'd really get in trouble for that.]
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[But it's magic all the same. She holds his hand tight]
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There. Insult your blood and they're insulting mine.
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Sometimes I think I dream you.
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[It's not a reproach, it's stupidly fond. Because sentimentality isn't something that, even now, tends to take usual forms for them. He lets his hand bleed into his robe for kissing her.]
You're not, though. My hand's throbbing too much to have dreamt it.
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[She reaches for his hand, to heal that, too.]
We should go to Australia.
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[He could have done it for himself, of course, but there's one bad habit. He tends to keep himself away from the healer's rooms even when nursing injury, let alone try anything himself.]
Now? [It's teasing, his eyes wide.] I didn't realise you wanted to fly quite so far.
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No, at Christmas. Tell your father you're staying here. We can take a portkey, or apparate-
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