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"Du se der..." mumlet Harry til Ronny. "det er en tom stol ved lærerbordet.Hvor er Slur?"

"Kanskje han er er sjuk!" sa Ronny forhåpningsfult.

"Kanskje han har sluttet!" sa Harry. "Fordi han ikke fikk jobben som svartekunst-lærer denne gangen heller! "

"Eller kanskje han har fått sparken!" sa Ronny begeistret.

"Eller kanskje" sa en iskald stemme bak ryggen på dem,"han venter på en forklaring på hvorfor dere to ikke kom med skoletoget"

I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

Harry sukket matt. Å gå aktivt inn for å lage spetakkel i Slurs formelime var omtrent like trygt som å dra til en sovende drage i øyet.

It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenely, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but passes it does. Even for me.