Harry will never say, Do you love me? He will never say, Tell me you won't leave me for Voldemort and your father. He may be seventeen, but he has his pride. Instead he tries to read Draco's caresses like a braille text, this touch for I love you, that touch for I'm yours, a slow kiss for I don't regret this. He doesn't know if he's reading too much into them, and won't ask, too entranced by the lost languages Draco's fingers trace on his skin.

For the first time he thinks he sees the world through Hermione's eyes.