Archive of Our Own

"You have something you wish to ask me, Harry."

It wasn't a question. Dumbledore's bright blue eyes twinkled from behind the ornate oak desk where he sat across from Harry, illuminating the now-dimly-lit Headmaster's office. Outside, a cloak of darkness had begun to cover the castle. The hour was late, but the room showed no signs of damage despite the hours of duelling that had occupied the two this evening — a routine they had followed every Wednesday evening for nearly six months now. Following Sirius's death at the end of last year, Dumbledore had taken up a more active role in training Harry, whose schedule was now uncomfortably full: Monday was Charms; Tuesday was Transfiguration; Wednesday was Defence, Harry's favourite; Thursday was Runes and Warding; Friday was Arithmancy; and Saturdays were (blugh) Potions and Alchemy.

Sundays were, mercifully, a day off, though Harry barely noticed; even after a childhood spent in the Dursleys' tender care, he honestly didn't think he'd ever been so exhausted in his entire life. That being said, he didn't really mind; in fact, he rather enjoyed his lessons with the Headmaster. Getting to explore obscure and powerful magic under the instruction of the greatest wizard of the age was a rare and valuable privilege, he knew. And besides, he suspected that Dumbledore enjoyed the chance to teach once more possibly even more than he enjoyed the chance to learn from him.

The best part of their lessons, though, came when he and Dumbledore would collapse into hastily conjured armchairs at the end of another long evening, and just talk. The topic of conversation changed every night: some nights they spoke about Voldemort, or Dumbledore regaled him with tales of the first wizarding war and his legendary duel with Grindelwald; other nights they discussed obscure theories of magic, which was clearly the Headmaster's favourite subject; other nights still, after a particularly gruelling training session, the pair found themselves too exhausted to talk about much besides what the House Elves had made for dinner that evening.

No matter the subject of discussion, however, Harry enjoyed their conversations tremendously, and he learnt a great deal from them — amongst other things, the fact that it was impossible to hide anything from the Headmaster. Of course, he now knew that this was no divine omniscience, but rather a very subtle application of Legilimency; even so, his now-rather-good (no thanks to Snape) Occlumency shields were unable to keep Dumbledore out. Worse still, Dumbledore refused to tell him why his shields weren't working, saying they would be all the stronger if he worked it out for himself.

Thanks to his newfound understanding, Harry knew there was no point denying Dumbledore's words; rather than protest, he simply nodded. Dumbledore's face eased. He sank back in his chair, reaching out absentmindedly to stroke Fawkes, who sat as usual atop his perch. The phoenix crooned and leant into his master's touch, trilling a soft song that seemed to stave away some of the tiredness at the edges of Harry's mind. "Ask away, my dear boy," Dumbledore encouraged, gesturing with his free hand.

Harry hesitated, toying with a loose thread on his sleeve. He knew what he wanted to ask; he had been waiting a long time to raise the question. But how to ask without offending the man? Not that he thought he actually would offend Dumbledore, but still. "Sir, you're a... powerful wizard," he began uncertainly.

Dumbledore inclined his head, a soft, rumbling sound of amusement emanating from his chest as his fingers drifted through Fawkes's red-gold plumage. "I am."

Harry twisted the sleeve between two fingers. "And you fight," he pressed on, leaning forwards slightly. "I mean, you fight bad guys. Dark wizards. Y'know, like Grindelwald or Voldemort."

"I do," Dumbledore agreed, still smiling lightly. "What of it?"

Harry paused, scratching at some dirt on the cuff of his robes. "But you don't kill?"

It came out as a question, but much like Dumbledore's initial query, Harry wasn't really looking for confirmation. Dumbledore's hand stilled for a moment, buried in Fawkes's feathers. He looked intently at Harry for a moment, and though his eyes lost none of their signature twinkle, there was a weight in them that hadn't been there a few seconds ago. Eventually, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "You wish to know why."

Harry said nothing. Dumbledore let out a long breath, and looked briefly towards the ceiling. "Very well. I suppose you've earned an explanation."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, as though pondering a particularly hard Arithmancy problem. Around them, the Headmaster's office, always so alive with bright colours and loud sounds thanks to the various trinkets he had collected over the years, grew unusually quiet and still. Above their heads, the portraits of Hogwarts' previous headmasters stopped their conversations, turning to listen. Together, Harry and the portraits sat in silence, waiting for what seemed like an eternity for Dumbledore to speak again.

"A few moments ago, you referred to me as a wizard," Dumbledore said at last, his voice automatically slipping into what Harry recognised as 'professor mode'. "A powerful wizard, but a wizard nonetheless. But this isn't quite accurate. I am not, technically, a wizard."

At Harry's look of confusion, he elaborated. "Tell me, Harry, what do you know of mages?"

Harry's brow furrowed. Mages? He'd heard the term, but always assumed it was just a fancier word for wizard — like how Dumbledore always seemed to use "charm" and "enchantment" to mean the same thing. "I, uh," he stammered, feeling foolish. "I don't know, sir."

"I am not surprised," Dumbledore replied smoothly. "True knowledge of mages is not common nowadays. A mage, Harry, is like a wizard in many ways, with two key differences: first, in raw magical power, a mage is much stronger than a wizard. Many times stronger, in fact — a wizard by the name of Fenwick once estimated that it would take one hundred fully grown wizards to outclass a mage in strength alone, though, of course," Dumbledore added drily, "Fenwick made his estimate whilst fleeing a mage on the battlefield, so take it with a grain of salt. The second, and much more important difference, is a mage's natural affinity for magic. Both wizards and mages can command magic, but a mage has an innate understanding of it, and a connection to the natural magic of their environment that wizards lack. It is this that allows a mage to perform most spells perfectly on their first attempt, and a difficult one on perhaps the third or fourth."

Dumbledore leaned forwards, radiating a kind of boyish excitement that always appeared when they discussed the subtler aspects of magic. "Perhaps you have wondered, Harry, why it is that species like House Elves and Goblins have such powerful magic, yet do not require the use of a magical conduit, like a wand?"

Harry shook his head sheepishly. "Uh, no sir," he said lamely. "I guess I just never really thought about it. I just figured they had a different kind of magic to us that didn't need a wand."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "Not quite, but not too far off, either. At its core, there is only one kind of magic, though as you know, this takes many forms. We humans have our own forms of magic that do not require a wand, though these tend to be about imbuing an object with magic: a potion, for instance, or a runic focus. Or even—" he reached into his robes and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment that had resided there since the very start of the year, "—an ordinary object, as is the case with the Protean charm. It is not that different magical species use different forms of magic — there is much overlap between the magic of House Elves and our own magic, for instance — but rather that different species have different levels of connection to magic. A wand strengthens a wizard's connection to their magic, focusing it; elves and goblins, with their naturally stronger connections, have no need for one."

Harry frowned. "But then," he asked, "why do some species have better connections than others?"

Dumbledore beamed. "An excellent question," he praised, "and one that has occupied magical theorists and magizoologists for centuries. The current hypothesis is that all the magical species we know today are descended from a single common ancestor, blessed by Magic herself with the ability to command the raw, wild magic of the natural world. Species that remained closer to this common ancestor inherit more of this ability, and thus have more innate power and ability to control it — elves and goblins being two examples, alongside mages. In fact, this is what was originally meant by the term 'Pureblooded'. Ironically, Harry, elves and goblins therefore have far more claim to being Purebloods than, say, Lucius Malfoy."

Harry nodded slowly, trying to shake off the exhaustion lurking at the edges of his mind underneath his Occlumency shields so he could pay attention to the Headmaster's words. At this, Dumbledore chuckled. "Perhaps a more concrete example is needed. In your third year, Remus taught you the Patronus charm, did he not?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed, rubbing absent-mindedly at the back of his neck. "It took ages to learn, though."

A spark of delight danced in Dumbledore's gaze. "Indeed. And yet what you may not know is that Professor Lupin never actually expected you to cast the Patronus; at best, he hoped for perhaps a faint mist that might give a Dementor pause and buy some time for the adults to arrive. This is not due to any lack of faith on his part; it is unheard of — perhaps impossible — for a wizard to cast the Patronus charm until he has reached his full majority, and so when you managed it, he was quite astonished."

Harry gaped at the Headmaster, who added with a wry smile, "I myself did not manage to cast it until I was a year older than you are now."

Harry shook his head. "But, Professor," he argued. "That can't be true. I mean, almost the entire DA managed to cast Patronuses last year. And not just mist, either. Proper Patronuses! Err... Patroni."

Dumbledore chuckled softly at the correction. "Ah, yes. You raise an excellent point, Harry, and I'm afraid I have only three possibilities with which to answer your question. The first is that conventional wisdom is simply wrong on this point, though I consider this unlikely — the Patronus charm has existed for at least a thousand years, so I expect somebody else would have disproved it by now. The second is that the ambient magic of that marvellous room aided them somehow in their casting, but I have never observed this phenomenon in any other part of the castle, many of which have similarly high levels of ambient magic."

Harry swallowed. "And the third possibility?" he asked.

This time, Dumbledore smiled broadly, and a hint of pride was clearly visible in his gaze. He leaned back in his high-backed chair, intertwining his long fingers. "Do you know, Harry, why children are unable to cast even simple spells? It is not due to a lack of magical power; even though they are but children, the average five-year-old wizard has enough raw power to manage a simple Lumos. The reason is that it is not just your internal magic, but your ability to control it and harness it, that matters. Incidentally, this is the curse of the squib: they have the same raw magical power as any wizard, but they are unable to use it."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. No wonder Filch was so grumpy.

"In order to cast a spell," Dumbledore continued, "your magic must learn the pathways to move from your core to the focus point, and these are different for each spell. However, once your magic has found that pathway, you will be able to cast the spell reliably, provided you have the required power, of course. This is the lesser-known reason that magical majorities are so important: yes, they do increase the caster's raw magical strength, but they also improve the capacity of the person's magic to forge these pathways."

Harry's brow furrowed. "And... what does this have to do with the Patronus charm?"

Dumbledore peered over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. "Magic, Harry, is about intent, first and foremost. Quite often our magic will be able to achieve what we want without use of a specific spell — accidental magic being the most famous example. However, your magic can work subconsciously too, if your desire is strong enough."

Harry stared at him, blinking. "Right...?"

"You wanted your friends to succeed, Harry," Dumbledore explained, his voice becoming softer, yet more intense. "It is the most simple and basic desire of any true teacher or leader — to want to see the people for whom you are responsible flourish. I believe your magic recognised this desire and reached out to your friends, showing their magic a pathway for the Patronus charm much like the one you yourself had already forged. It is not a common phenomenon, but one that has been observed in history's greatest teachers, and particularly when those teachers are mages."

Harry's mind was reeling. "So, what?" he asked. "Are you saying that I'm a... I'm a..."

"A mage, Harry?" Dumbledore supplied gently. "Yes, I am. A powerful one at that, when you've reached your full majority — though I'm afraid that a mage's final majority does not occur until he is around fifty years old. You will have had your first majority already, around thirteen, and this gives you equivalent strength to a wizard who is fully grown. Of course, your magic will continue to grow and strengthen until your final majority, making you an exceptionally powerful individual compared to most wizards you encounter."

Harry swallowed. "How much more powerful?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard, considering the question. "Well, let me see. I would estimate that as you currently are, you have enough raw power to outclass an average adult wizard. Within a year or so, that capacity will likely multiply to three or four adult wizards, and it will only continue to expand from there. That doesn't mean that nobody will pose a threat to you; you will still find yourself up against opponents whose repertoire of spells is greater than your own, or who are more skilled at casting, which is why I have begun these lessons."

Harry stared, then shook his head in denial. "No, no, you're wrong," he protested with a nervous laugh. "I'm not... I'm not that powerful. I can't be. I'm just me. Just Harry."

Dumbledore's smile grew wide. "Just Harry? The boy who bested a basilisk with the sword of one of the greatest wizards of all time at the age of twelve? Who drove off one hundred Dementors — a feat that, as far as I am aware, is unheard of — with a spell that should have been impossible for him to perform, aged thirteen? Who competed in and won a gruelling tournament against opponents several years his senior, then battled the darkest wizard of our time to a standstill at age fourteen, using a second-year spell? Harry, I do not deny that you are blessed with the Potter luck, but these are extraordinary feats. Just one would be sufficient to see your name recorded in the annals of history, and yet I dare say I have been rather conservative with my list."

Harry blushed. "No, I mean, it was just... that was just luck!" he argued. "Or if I am a mage like you say, then I bet there are loads of mages. Moody, or... or Snape!"

Dumbledore shook his head gently. "Alastor, though a powerful and skilled wizard, is not a mage. Severus, however, is an interesting case. He is not a mage, though he is not an ordinary wizard either. He is what is sometimes called a Savant."

Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly. "A Savant?"

"Severus is a powerful wizard, to be clear," Dumbledore explained, holding up a finger to emphasise his point. "Perhaps the most powerful member of the Order. But he still lacks the raw magical power to be considered a mage. What he does possess, however, is a mage's innate connection to, and understanding of, magic — but for a Savant, this is strictly limited to a single discipline. In Severus's case, that area is Potions." At Harry's look of scepticism, Dumbledore laughed outright, the warm sound reverberating throughout the office. "Come now, Harry. I am sure you believe that I keep Severus around just to torment you, but the fact is that Professor Snape is an exceptionally skilled Potioneer — perhaps the most gifted in centuries. He gained his Mastery when he was just twenty-one."

Harry shrugged, slumping back in his chair, and throwing up his hands. "So? He's good at Potions. Big deal."

"Yes, it is a big deal," Dumbledore admonished gently. "Perhaps you will understand, Harry, if I tell you that the youngest recorded Potions Master in history was fifty-five when he became a master. Even Salazar Slytherin, who predates the formal Mastery system, was twenty-three when he managed to invent his first potion."

Harry couldn't help the shock that he felt, shock that he was sure was reflected on his features. Twenty-three? Was Dumbledore seriously trying to say that that greasy bat was a better Potioneer than Slytherin himself?

Dumbledore coughed. "Shields, Harry," he reminded him, fixing the boy with a stern look. Harry flushed; it had been a long time since he had accidentally dropped his shields. "Regardless of your opinion on his hair care routine, he is Professor Snape to you. And yes, Professor Snape is prodigiously talented, even by the standards of a Potions master. He understands potions in a way that very few can claim to match, which is what makes him such a swift and precise inventor of new ones. Furthermore, it means that all of the potions he makes are much more potent and much more powerful than those made by any other. I am a fairly competent Potioneer myself — one does not study Alchemy with Nicolas Flamel without having a rudimentary grasp of the subject — and I can safely say that I would struggle to produce a draught half as effective as one of Severus's."

Despite himself, Harry felt a grudging respect for Snape. "Shame his mastery doesn't extend to not making potions taste like arse," he muttered, though it lacked some of his usual disdain.

Dumbledore's mouth twitched. "I think you'll find, Harry, that that particular effect is intentional. Besides the fact that it deters young children from drinking potentially dangerous elixirs, it doesn't seem very Severus to brew potions that taste like strawberries and cream, does it?"

Harry snorted as a sudden image appeared in his mind of Snape dressed in a garish floral apron like the one Aunt Petunia used to wear, bent over a cauldron to check the seasoning on a Pepper-Up potion. It was an image worthy of a Riddikulus — and from the way Dumbledore coughed and spluttered, a hand flying up to cover his mouth in an uncharacteristically messy show of amusement, Harry suspected the Headmaster had bypassed his Occlumency shields once more.

"Oh, wait!" Harry realised, slapping his forehead. "My Occlumency shields, is that why I can't keep you out? Because you're just too powerful?"

Dumbledore recovered his composure, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. He tilted his head, looking at Harry with an indecipherable expression. "An astute hypothesis. Tell me, Harry, does it feel like I'm overwhelming your shields?"

Harry shook his head. "...no, I guess not. I don't even notice you at all!" he exclaimed, frustrated.

But Dumbledore, oddly, looked pleased. "Quite so. No, it is not the strength of my magic, but rather the nature of it, which prevents you from blocking me."

Harry tried to mask the disappointment flitting across his features. Damn, just when he had thought he'd finally got the right answer...

Dumbledore chuckled. "Perhaps a clue is in order. Have you ever wondered, Harry, why wizards are unable to Apparate within Hogwarts, yet House Elves are able to come and go as they please? It is not, as many often assume, because the wards contain a specific exception for them. When Hogwarts was first founded, the domestic use of House Elves was not as widespread as it is today, so the Founders would not have thought to make such an allowance. No, the reason House Elves are able to Apparate within Hogwarts is quite simply because the wards are unable to block them. The magic they employ to Apparate is of a different nature to the one wizards use, and therefore goes unrecognised by the wards. It is, to use a Muggle analogy, rather like operating a signal jammer on entirely the wrong frequency."

Harry considered the information. "So... I can't block you because you're using a different kind of Legilimency to the normal kind? Something my shields can't detect?"

Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "Bravo, Harry. As I said earlier, a mage has a natural affinity to magic, and this allows him to harness wild magic from his environment. I cannot draw on too much at once — the effort required to redirect wild magic is much more taxing than simply using one's own — but for small things, like reading the surface thoughts of others, wild magic is very effective. Because it runs on a different frequency, to continue the analogy, it is very difficult to defend against without being able to harness wild magic yourself. Besides," he added with a conspiratorial smile, "most people are entirely unaware of the existence of wild magic, let alone that it can be used in place of one's core. They simply assume I am extraordinarily good at telling when they are lying."

Harry couldn't help it. He grinned. Sometimes, magic was awesome. "Okay, so how do I defend against that?" he asked eagerly, leaning forwards.

But Dumbledore merely offered an enigmatic smile, pressing his fingertips together and arching them. "I'm afraid you only get one hint, Harry."

Harry pouted and crossed his arms. "Fine, be like that, you miserable old goat," he thought, loudly and pointedly. Dumbledore snorted into his beard, lowering his arched fingers. But then a thought crossed Harry's mind, and his smile faded. He looked up, meeting his mentor's eyes. "Sir, this is really interesting, but what does it have to do with not killing anyone?"

At once, Dumbledore's amusement vanished, his expression shifting into something more solemn. "Ah, yes," he said softly, shaking his head. "Forgive an old man, Harry, for getting lost in conversation. I fear I'm becoming very forgetful in my old age."

Harry rolled his eyes. They both knew that nothing of the sort was happening; just last week, Dumbledore had corrected a single misremembered vowel from an obscure and virtually forgotten book about Runes that Harry had found in the Restricted Section. Truly, was there a book the man hadn't read? But he quickly schooled his features, waiting for Dumbledore's reply.

"I'm afraid, Harry, that I must be rather immodest," Dumbledore began apologetically. "But you must understand that we mages — myself, you, Gellert, Tom — we are not like wizards. We are simply on another level. Should we wish to, we could wreak havoc untold on the Wizarding World, and there are few who could stand against us. Gellert came close in the 1940s, as I have told you before, to taking control of the world entire before I stopped him. Tom's ascent was slower only because he, in his arrogance and hubris, prefers not to do anything himself. And indeed, if I were so inclined, I could embark on my own quest for world domination, and I dare say that there is not a wizard — or mage — alive who could stop me."

Harry shivered. He knew, of course, that the Leader of the Light would never do something so awful, but from the terrible weight of magic that filled the room, he knew that Dumbledore was not lying. In that moment, he understood why Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared. An angry Dumbledore — or even just a determined Dumbledore — would be unstoppable. He swallowed thickly. "So you don't kill because—"

"Because," Dumbledore interrupted, no hint of humour in his voice. "To be blunt, to kill almost anyone in the Wizarding World would be akin to killing a child. You must understand, Harry, just how powerful we are. The average witch or wizard... they have no defence against us. Perhaps as you currently are they might give you pause, but they would not even be able to slow me down. To kill, Harry — or rather, to allow myself to kill — would lead me down a dark path that I have trodden once before, and I was not unstoppable then. I have no desire to tread it again."

The atmosphere in the room was dark and heavy, more oppressive even than the night they'd had confirmation of Voldemort's Horcruxes. Harry shook his head, burying his fear ruthlessly behind his mental shields. "And I...?" he trailed off, trusting the Headmaster would recognise the unspoken question.

Dumbledore met his gaze with unwavering seriousness. "You must understand this too, Harry. I will not force you to make the same choices I have made, but just remember that some things cannot be undone; some roads cannot be untaken."

Harry nodded vigorously. "Of course, sir," he said earnestly. "I never wanted to kill anyone, anyway. Well, except maybe Voldemort." He cocked his head to the side as a thought struck him. "Sir, I get why you won't kill wizards, but what about Voldemort? He's a mage, isn't he?"

Dumbledore offered a sad, rueful laugh. "That he is, Harry, that he is. There are a few reasons. First, the Horcruxes — even if I were to kill him, all it would accomplish is scattering him to the wind, leaving us in the dark again as to his whereabouts or his plans. Second, I am not the prophesied saviour, so I knew I could not be the one to kill him. But third..." Dumbledore sighed heavily. "You must understand, Harry, that for all that I am the man who defeated Grindelwald and the Leader of the Light, I am a teacher, first and foremost, and Tom Riddle was once my student. He once sat where you now sit. Even now, after all that he has done, all that he has become, I have no desire to kill him. Better to wound, better to incapacitate, better to defend those who were unable to defend themselves... or so I thought."

Harry studied the man's weary posture and understood. "And... Grindelwald?" he asked hesitantly.

Dumbledore closed his eyes, and a sharp flash of anguish spread across his features like lightning. After a few long moments, he opened his eyes again, and he looked older than Harry had ever seen him, grief etched in every line of his face. When Dumbledore spoke, his voice was hoarse with a pain that Harry had never heard before and hoped he would never hear again. "Ah, there, Harry, I am afraid that I was weak. I could not bring myself to kill him, because I could not bring myself to say goodbye... to the man I loved." Dumbledore broke off, staring into the distance, tears glistening in his light blue eyes. Harry didn't know what to say.

They sat there in silence, the two heartbroken saviours of the Wizarding World, unmoving. Minutes ticked by on the enchanted clock that hung above Dumbledore's desk, a bizarre timepiece that, rather than having the numbers in order, seemed to have them scattered randomly around the edges. Harry had asked him about it once. A gift from an old friend, Dumbledore had told him, with a sad smile that Harry thought he now understood.

Eventually, Dumbledore lifted a wizened hand to wipe a tear from his eye. "Ah, love," he murmured wistfully. "A power beyond all magic I have ever known, and a mystery I fear that I will never understand. A great gift, or a terrible curse... would that I knew which."

Fawkes trilled, a mournful song that Harry never thought he would hear from the phoenix. The Headmaster's familiar dropped down on to the desk, pushing his golden head into Dumbledore's hand; the old man began stroking him automatically. Harry got the feeling, quite abruptly, that he was intruding on a moment that should perhaps remain private. Not saying a word, he pushed his chair back silently, stood up, and left the office.

At the closing of the door, the tears fell unrestricted from Dumbledore's eyes. Fawkes crooned again, trying to cheer his master, but the old mage did not hear him, lost in memories of days gone by. There he sat, silent and unblinking, until the early morning sun drew back the curtains of night that had enveloped the castle. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled his stiff and aching body up from his chair. It was time for breakfast. Ordinarily, he would've simply flashed down with Fawkes, but he thought perhaps he could do with the walk.

As he strolled through corridors and traversed the temperamental staircases, Dumbledore felt his mood lighten. He was, as he had told Harry, a teacher first and foremost, and the excitable chatter of youth never failed to lift his spirits. By the time he had reached the Great Hall, he had buried his tiredness and the remnants of grief beneath his Occlumency shields, ready to begin the day. As he passed the Gryffindor table, he inclined his head towards the youth with black hair and emerald eyes, who caught his eye with quiet understanding.

Reaching the staff table, Dumbledore assumed his grandfatherly persona, smiling warmly at Minerva, who returned his smile, and Severus, who simply scowled in response. Dumbledore chuckled. For all his skill in Potions, Severus was not, and would never be, a morning person. Taking his seat in the middle, the Headmaster tucked into his morning cornflakes with abandon. Suddenly, Dumbledore felt the piece of parchment in his robes grow hot. He shot a quizzical look at Harry, who briefly inclined his head with a small smile before turning back to his friends. Bemused, Dumbledore slipped the parchment from his pocket, and adjusted his half-moon spectacles. On it, in a messy, childish scrawl, was a poem.

I read this a lot this summer. Sorry it's not more cheerful.

I have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show –
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.

– Harry

Unseen to all but one, a tear welled in a bright blue eye, and the twinkle that refracted through it looked almost like daylight.