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I’m not used to being looked at, and people never seem to stop looking at me. I think it’s known as morbid curiosity.
It will stay bright outside until late tonight; the way the year is marching on. Summer is nearly here, and it’s been a year since I died.
I have started to count each petal in my head with my own chant of I am alive, I am dead, I am alive, I am dead. The first daisy finishes on alive and the second on dead, and I stop bothering after that.
I’m not allowed to like him, because people like me have never liked people like him.
There’s static in the air, the muggy sort of feeling that creeps in before a thunderstorm. I clasp my hands on the tabletop and several sparks burn a small hole in the tablecloth.
Both myself and Albus must be unnerving her, sitting opposite on the sofa as gormless as we are. Neither of us quite know how to break the news. This is the first time I have felt any true solidarity with him.
Spells have a lifespan, and so do I.
My heart thumps against the inside of my chest, reminding me of its location for the first time in a full thirty seconds. I rap my fingers against the skin and bone that covers it. ‘Still hanging in there.’
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