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Summary
Harry dares to look down at the petal. It looks like someone tore apart his heart and splatted the blood across the pristine white bedsheets of Madam Pomfrey's. It looks like his childhood of scraped knees of split life. Of a feeling like a ghost afraid of the light anytime Aunt Petunia spoke his name. Of abuse. This petal of striped carnation looks like eyes of cognac in blood belonging to a pale man.
