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Chapter 75 — Scars
Harry draped a large towel around himself like a cloak and padded down the creaky white steps and across the breezeway to the long sunroom.
"Going down to the sea?" Candide's sister-in-law asked. "It's a bit nippy."
Harry gave her a smile in lieu of a reply and bent over Arcadius, who was sitting—just a supported by a hand—on Candide's lap. The baby's magic showed no signs of trouble, so Harry headed for the double doors at the end of the room.
Out on the lawn the children were running about. The two older ones were playing catch or some kind of ball tag that involved strategic avoidance of harm to Allie, the youngest. Allie gave a playful scream as the ball bounced by her and turned suddenly, running into Harry's legs. Harry caught her up as they collided and righted her on her little yellow sandals.
"There you go," Harry said.
She breathed heavily while she laughed and pushed his arms away, prepared to run again. Her breathing stopped as she stared at his arm. "It's a ouchie?" she asked.
Harry tossed the towel over his arms again. "Not now."
The other two children came over. "Mum'll hex us if Allie's got an ouchie," Maximillian said.
Allie pointed her toddler finger. "He's got ouchie."
"Just a scar," Harry insisted, rubbing his hand over his rippled arm under the towel. "It's healed."
Maximillian punched the ball once and handed it to his sister, Dorothy. He said, "Can I see?" with great eagerness. "You must have loads of scars from fighting He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named."
"Maybe later," Harry said. "Swim now." He felt relaxed talking to the children. "Going swimming," he corrected himself after his ears heard the awkwardness.
Harry sat on a dry patch of sand and squinted at the water which shifted from steel to blue when the sky did. The water did not look so inviting close up, but an old man in swimming trunks and a t-shirt came swimming ashore and waded out of the surf with heavy steps. He nodded at Harry and took up a towel draped over a rock. Back bent, the man walked off scrubbing his face and neck dry.
Harry tossed aside his towel and went in all in a rush. He came up sputtering and was clapped on the head by a wave. Harry curled low to let the bubbling surf pass over him then hung in the water passively, letting it burn his muscles numb, like the cold InBetween. Surfacing, he tossed the water from his hair and rode the next wave all the way to the rocky shingle that tumbled loudly just where the surf broke.
Harry sat wrapped in his towel, shivering despite a fortuitous slice of sunlight. He didn't have his wand even if he had wanted to use it. Gingerly, he patted his arms dry. He had dried them that way since he'd eradicated Voldemort; he didn't even think about it anymore. The chill and sun outlined the old wounds in pink and white and the slight ripples were still numb from the water. Harry dabbed them again, even though they were dry. The worst of them burned as they warmed as if they were fresh again and he was having to Staunch them or die. The beach, the rush of the waves tossing the shingle distorted into a rush of clacking limbs.
Harry's instinct was to gather his knees close and hug them. Instead, he stretched each leg out and lay back on the gravelly sand, embracing the vulnerability to the world despite how his heart throbbed in revolt.
