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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[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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