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“But there are… options,” Death said lightly. “Small ones. Threaded through time like seams in a cloak. I do admire when mortals pull at them.”
Harry watched the screen flicker again—this time showing himself, small and pale, sitting cross-legged in a cupboard, drawing in the dust on the floor with one finger.
And then—an idea struck. Wild. Impossible. Hopeful.
“If I can’t become myself… could I raise myself?”
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“I love him, you know?” he whispered. “God, I love that kid. I would burn down the sky for him. I’d bleed out every drop of magic in my body if it meant he never cried again.”
“You’re drunk,” Merrin noted gently. -
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