Work Text:
Julius returned from his respite outside the party and found himself seeing double. Harry was precisely where Julius left him, now joined by a man who could have been his very own twin. Even in profile, he shared Harry’s easy smile, and only slightly less of its sweetness. Harry caught his eye and beamed. Julius would worry, but really, Harry greeted everyone like that.
“Which erstwhile Vane cousin is this?”
“He’s not a Vane,” Harry said, laughing.
“Thomas,” said not-Harry, then paused, as if his name should mean something. It didn’t. “I came to give old Rowling my congratulations on his nuptials. It’s long overdue.”
Julius couldn’t tell if he meant the party specifically, or seeing Rowling married, more generally, and decided he didn't care.
Up close, the Vane resemblance was only superficial. He had Harry’s curls, but not their bounce; he shared Harry’s smile, even some of its sweetness—he wore the sweetness well—but lacked Harry’s lopsided dimple; and when he smiled, the slight tickle it produced was as likely to be the evening’s drink catching up with him as anything else. His stature landed somewhere between Richard and Harry, perhaps the sort of proportions Harry may have grown into had his childhood been less tumultuous and better fed. They shook hands, Thomas's work-rough. Calluses formed a familiar pattern across the top of his palm.
“You were a soldier.”
Thomas’s smile thinned slightly, no sweetness to it at all. “Rowling and I were in the same company.”
Ah, Julius thought, at the same time that Harry said, “Then you must have known Marcus!”
“I knew him.”
Julius decided Thomas looked nothing at all like Harry.
“Julius,” Thomas began, in a tone Julius had heard just about enough of after Waterloo, “I wanted to give my condolences in person, but I never had the chance.”
“And you thought Lady Verona’s anniversary party was an appropriate opportunity to offer them? She’s barely out of mourning for her grandfather.” As an afterthought, he snapped, “And I am called Mister Norreys.”
Beside him, Harry flinched. Yes , Julius didn’t say, Yes, my dear, I am being very rude but will we honestly ever see this man again? Julius had no reason to give a damn what some country bumpkin thought of his manners. Thomas had ambushed him, and he used Harry to do it.
Harry ventured, “Did you know Marcus well?”
“I did.”
Julius wanted to argue that Marcus knew no one well, but there had been Lucia, and Marcus loved her. She changed him, and then he and Julius enlisted, and Marcus might well have kept changing. There may have been others. Perhaps Thomas knew Marcus as well as anybody might have. Perhaps if Julius hadn’t been so afraid Marcus would leave him behind, they’d have gone together, and both met Thomas, and Julius would have Thomas too. Still. As it was, Julius kept no acquaintances from that time. He recalled no faces and knew no names.
Without introduction, Thomas had called him Julius.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I daresay you must have known him well indeed. I didn’t see much of Marcus during that time. We were in separate companies.”
“Cavalry, isn’t that right? Marcus said you’re marvelous on horseback.”
“Oh he is wonderful,” Harry leapt in. “He taught me to ride, and I’d never been on a horse in my life, but Verona says…”
The evening's conversation flowed from there. Julius let Harry do the talking. Whatever else Thomas was, he was a decent conversationalist, full of anecdotes and jokes and, objectively, charming. It was painfully easy to imagine how Marcus might enjoy this man's company. It was painfully easy to see his brother charmed.
That was unkind.
Julius tried to see Thomas through his brother's eyes. The grief welled up, as it often did, but eventually the company grew bearable. Even enjoyable.
Verona’s party slowed around them. Men departed for the smoking room; women left in groups of two or more for whatever it was women did in the small hours of gatherings like these. The three of them were not entirely alone, but cocooned in drink and elsewhere’s muddled conversations, they might as well be.
Given that, Julius found it frightfully easy to ask, “What kind of officer was he?”
They were alone in a house full of people, the three of them. The moment stretched like toffee. Thomas smiled down into his champagne glass, which he spun idly as though he needed something to do with his hands. A physical man, this Thomas, anxious and energetic, so much like the Harry that Julius met a year and lifetime ago. Perhaps it was the hour, or the candlelight, but Thomas smiled such a soft, private smile. His lashes—dark and lovely over deep blue—shadowed most of his expression, but Julius knew the look.
“He was a fine officer,” Thomas said in a voice that matched his smile. “He was a better friend.”
And Julius thought, even looking at that besotted smile, surely not.
“Was he close to much of the company?”
That smile turned inward. “No,” he said, as Julius knew he would. “No, he was conscious of his rank—worried no one would relax if he lingered.”
“And yet you knew him well.”
Still speaking to his drink, Thomas said, “Yes.”
Harry tilted his head in thought, working toward Julius’s same, impossible conclusion. Their thighs pressed side-by-side, a warm, forbidden comfort. But Thomas wouldn't mind.
“You were a particular friend to him, I suppose.” Julius lilted up at the end like a question.
Thomas looked up quite suddenly, eyes wide. Understanding passed between them. Thomas’s lips parted, though no sound emerged. What was there for him to say?
“Mister Norreys—”
“Julius,” he interrupted. “Yes, he would have you call me Julius.”
Thomas nodded. “He was a dear friend.”
“Were you—” Harry began.
Julius stood. Harry and Thomas, twins of their own sort, fell silent.
“I am glad to have made your acquaintance,” he said to Thomas. “And I daresay you made Napoleon’s idiocy more tolerable for Marcus. Yes, surely a blessing that he had your companionship. I accept your condolences. However, Mister—” He realised abruptly that Thomas never gave his family name, and felt his estimation of the man unwillingly increase. “—Mister Thomas. Do not call on me again.”
The following evening found the lot of them at Quex’s. Ashleigh and Harry were engaged in a cooperative game of Patience while Francis watched on adoringly. Richard had brought along some sort of correspondence for review, which was just like him. Julius sat beside Harry, soaking in the atmosphere.
Apropos of absolutely nothing, Harry said, “I wonder if Thomas is any good at cards.”
“Unlikely.” Julius made sure to turn the page of his magazine, pretending to study it, before he added, “We will not be seeing Mister Thomas again.”
“Whyever not? His manners were good. Surely well enough for Quex’s.”
It was Harry’s turn to move a card, which he did with very little thought. Francis frowned. Ashleigh was looking between Harry and him with too much curiosity for Julius’s tastes.
“Who’s Thomas?” Ashleigh asked, to which Julius only snapped:
“I did not spend a month teaching you manners at Arrandene for well enough.”
“Well, he’s not a Vane. His manners are very good for someone that isn’t a Vane!”
Without looking from his magazine, Julius sneered, “He certainly had the look of one.”
That gave Harry pause.
“You didn’t notice? He had your curls, your eyes, your same height. Only somewhat more muscle.”
“You noticed his muscles?”
“That is hardly my point.”
It was Harry’s turn with the cards again, but he’d forgotten about the game and Ash knew it. Francis stood. Together, he and his lover retreated to the window. Julius imagined Marcus silhouetted against that very window, Thomas at his side, and found the whole picture remarkably easy to conjure.
Reality would not have been so easy. There was Lucia, after all, and so Richard would have never allowed Marcus a foot within these rooms. But the image persisted.
“My point,” Julius continued, “is that he knew Marcus.”
“And don’t you want to know him back?” Harry traced a finger on the table. “He had stories.”
“I had a lifetime.”
Harry’s throat bobbed nervously, then his face set with decision. For a frightening second, Julius thought Harry meant to push the issue. For a frightening second, Julius had no idea what he’d say if Harry did.
But Harry only stood, announcing with exaggerated exhaustion, “I think I would like to retire.”
It was barely eleven. But he had made Harry into a gentleman, hadn’t he? And gentlemen let their friends save face. Harry thought he needed to save face. Damnation, he was probably right.
“Would you accompany me?”
Julius thought about denying him. He considered it, but then he considered how the night would stretch out before him, made long by remembrance and this spectre of a road untraveled. Impossibility stretched behind him and ahead of him and through him. He thought of spending this night, alone.
He considered, instead, how he might spend the night in his lover's company, under his lover's eyes, except they weren’t Harry’s at all, and he wasn’t Julius, not at all. That was Thomas, and he was Marcus—alive, in love, with space enough in his heart for three.
In Julius's apartments, Harry poured drinks for the both of them and joined him on the sofa. Julius accepted his drink in silence, barely reacting when Harry sat beside him. Which, all considered, Harry took as his sign to remain, deciding then and there not to go unless told. It wasn't an easy silence, but he weathered it. There was a time, before Julius and the Vanes—after the riot, before France—when any idle moment had him glancing for the doors. But this was a fine evening, wasn't it? Harry could stand a little silence.
"We never kept secrets," Julius said, in a voice that had Harry glancing at the door. Instead he set down his glass of port, still mostly full. Julius held his drink loosely; it might tumble from his fingers at any moment, but the wine was gone, so Harry said nothing.
He knew who Julius meant by we . No force in the country could make him interrupt.
"I know the name of every woman my brother fancied. I know every whore he bedded, I know how much he paid for the privilege, and I know the time he broke our grandmother's vase and we blamed it on the butler—all entirely comparable sins." He made a noise that was probably some sort of laugh, though his face remained as frozen as ice. Harry reached for him. Julius flinched, caught himself, and flinched again, smaller and sadder. His jaw tensed once, then slowly, intentionally, relaxed. Harry watched his tension cascade away from there. It only made him look empty.
"My god, Marcus, all that time, and we could have..."
Nothing.
Harry reached for him again, then paused, steeling himself to let the moment pass. Julius met him, fingers twining together atop his knee.
"I only ever kept one thing from him; he kept but one thing from me, and we didn't even have to."
"Suppose... Suppose he didn't know."
"Didn't know he was fucking one of his men?"
"That he wanted to fuck men. Or was open to the experience. Suppose it was new."
Julius put down his empty glass and turned to him, expression twisted into mockery. "Sodomy is not a thing you stumble into."
"You can stumble into love quite easily."
"Marcus had Lucia!"
"Yes, exactly." Harry agreed. "Yes, so imagine you're not the son of a radical, and you know men who love men hang for the crime of it. A gentleman of his station might pretend not to notice other men. A gentleman of his station might not notice at all. I am my mother's son and it took me until France to realise I was different."
His parents made a fugitive of their only son, but at least they spared Harry this.
"Napoleon had people questioning a lot of things. Maybe Marcus started to question. Maybe Thomas had an answer, and they would have told you, but he died, and Thomas grieved. You know now. Thomas looked for you."
"I cannot say that gives me any comfort," Julius said. He laid a hand on Harry's cheek, curtailing whatever response he may have had.
I'm not sure it was meant to comfort you.
The hand on his cheek slid into his hair.
"You really look just like him," Julius said, and kissed him, his mouth full of sweet port and sickly grief. Julius never spoke of Marcus, except for in the way that every word which ever passed his lips bore his shadow, and now here was Julius in his arms, wet-cheeked and open-mouthed. Julius kissed him flat onto his back; Julius kissed him breathless; he kissed him, baffling and lovely, so baffling and so lovely, that when Julius whispered, "I think you should fuck me," Harry could only think, anything .
They pulled at each other's clothes between kisses, hands sliding over cloth. When had Julius last asked him for anything? Julius kissed so hungrily, bit at his shoulder and neck and ear so desperately, it took Harry some time to notice:
"But you're not even hard."
"I doubt Marcus ever had this trouble getting the tupping he'd asked for," Julius said, then laughed, dry and slightly delirious. Harry didn't like it.
He pushed onto his elbows. Julius moved with him, half settled in his lap. They moved together perfectly. They knew each other, perfectly. So why did Julius look so fucking lost?
"Julius," he said, and had no idea how to follow.
But his name shook something loose. That lost expression turned wet, cheeks shiny with tears, the whole of him dumbstruck as if he'd momentarily forgotten which name belonged to him.
Harry drew Julius into his arms and kissed the tears from his cheeks, never mind the way Julius flinched at this treatment. When he finally wrapped a hand round Julius's prick, the sound he made came closer to a hiccup than anything, neither moan nor sob but the rawest parts of both. Harry worked him mostly hard, and God, what a relief to bring Julius there, that Julius could find pleasure at all. Nothing about this felt right.
But Julius asked.
It'd be easy to take them both in hand, but if he did that, Harry was liable to embarrass himself. He focused on Julius, then made himself think of Marcus when even that wasn't enough. He wondered if Julius was thinking of Marcus, too—no, he knew Julius was thinking of Marcus, so really, he wondered if Marcus had a hand in this crawling pace, or if he was more responsible for its progression instead. Then he stopped wondering as Julius hung off of him, arm over his shoulder, head tucked against his clavicle while his hips twitched in the graceless way that meant Julius had no hand in this at all.
“To bed,” Julius demanded, and so they went.
Julius crawled into bed, back to Harry, face obscured. I already know you’re crying, he thought, but found himself behind Julius anyway, oil in hand. Julius sighed relief at one finger, and to the second, reacted not at all. Harry kissed his hip. Julius made a small, plaintive sort of whine, the kind he’d have never made when eye-to-eye. For that, Harry kissed his thigh, his arse, flattened his tongue—
Julius pitched forward. Harry got his hands on Julius’s hips and guided him back again.
“I asked you to fuck me, Harry, not—Oh sweet Jesus.” A satisfying stream of swearing followed, irritated—even angry—but no longer plaintive and distant, so Harry would take it. Julius slid forward with every slippery glide, knees splaying wider, wider, until his chest lay flat on the bed and Harry could convince himself those were tears of frustrated pleasure and nothing more.
He lifted his head. “Good?”
Julius inhaled. Harry cut him off with another press of tongue, then his finger, then two. Are you here? he wanted to ask. Are you with me now?
“I went through the trouble of asking, I expect you to give me what I bloody asked for.”
"Will you turn around?"
A long silence followed, cut only by the susurration of bedsheets as Julius arranged himself back onto his hands and knees. Harry knew the answer, was already slicking himself before Julius even inhaled to tell him:
"No."
Right.
It's nothing to do with me, Harry told himself. Julius didn't like to be looked at, not stripped bare and indistinguishable from his other half. But it still stung. So perhaps that was why he asked, "Is that how they'd do it?"
Julius went so still, Harry knew he understood. "How who would do what?"
"Is that not what we're doing? Isn't that what this is?"
Julius said nothing, so Harry pushed in. He was tight–too tight by far–tight like Julius hadn't spent long, lovely minutes fighting and failing not to buck against Harry's tongue in his arse. Harry could have spent the whole night there, worshipping at Julius's hole, making him feel , and now he wondered if he should not have done that after all. Harry pushed in a little more. Julius lay there, and he took it, but he only lay there, and he only took it, and suddenly the sweat on Harry's neck felt terribly cold. He pulled out. Julius made all his same noises as before: that pained groan, that raw hiccup. God, how had Harry let them get even half this far? He all but threw himself out of bed.
"I don't think I can— No, Julius, I can't do this."
“You can go to perdition."
Harry went for the matches, and took his time lighting candles on the vanity—more than enough light to see by, and far too many for the hour, but he let Julius obscure quite enough of himself tonight already, and wasn't about to help him along by leaving them in the dark.
And if he took more time than necessary, if he let himself linger and watch the match burn down to the tips of his fingers (calloused fingers, softer than they used to be, but yes, quite a bit like Thomas's, weren't they?)—well, who would ever know? Certainly not Julius, who'd never risk seeing himself naked in the vanity.
By the time Harry gathered enough of himself to face the bed again, he found Julius watching him. Harry lit so many candles, Julius's cheeks practically glowed. He was red-cheeked, outlined by shiny tear tracks, though his eyes were now quite dry.
Harry joined him on the bed, careful not to touch. They sat in silence, their breath slowing while Harry quickly went soft. He thought of Verona's party, their quiet enclave of three, and wondered if they might ever find such a comfortable quiet ever again. Probably not tonight, at any rate.
"So," he said, feeling very stupid. "So. Thomas was a shock."
"A shock. Yes! Yes, Harry, quite a shock. Rather like falling off a horse."
Harry did touch him then—a hand on his knee, nothing more, which Julius permitted; he didn't even flinch. It felt like grace, maybe, and it was something.
"You know that, just because I said I wanted to retire, and we retired to your rooms, it doesn't mean we have to…That is, I'm fine if we only sit together and—"
"Oh do get off it."
Harry shut his mouth.
“I don’t ask for things I don’t want.”
“You don’t ask to be fucked, ever.”
Julius fixed him with a glare. But it was true, wasn’t it? Harry should have known this was all wrong from the moment he heard Julius say, fuck me.
“Nor do I submit to things I find unpleasant, not if I believe the results aren’t worth their cost.”
“Was this worth it, then?”
More bloody silence.
What would make this worth it? He thought of Julius's hand on his cheek, not quite a comfort; he thought of that hand in his hair, and their kiss, sweet but sickly. He thought of the way Julius had looked at him, lost at the sound of his own name as if it barely belonged to him at all.
"Suppose..." he said softly, "Suppose you call me Thomas."
Julius sucked in a breath, followed by nothing but more silence. Like the hand on his knee, like their thighs pressed together, Harry understood his silence meant permission to press on.
"I look just like him."
"You do."
Harry turned his head to look at him; Julius cupped his face. They kissed, unhurried, and God, it was nice. Julius licked his lips and Harry opened, no more hurried but for the depth of it. Still kissing, still without urgency, Harry climbed into his lap. Julius wrapped his other arm around Harry’s waist, and they rocked instinctively.
Yes, he thought, relieved. Julius reached his other arm around Harry, gripped his arse, dragged him in harder, ground their hips harder. Yes, finally, yes.
He spared a glance toward the vanity. He and Thomas really looked quite a lot alike, didn't they? Thomas did have more muscle, and he held himself like a soldier, but if Harry just squared his shoulders a bit, if he made his spine just a little straighter, yes, you could hardly tell the difference at all—not in this light, at this distance. Harry looked in the mirror and saw Thomas gazing back, Marcus Norreys beneath him.
"Suppose you fuck me like this," he continued, emboldened. "Suppose I call you Marcus."
Julius still had a hand on his cheek. Harry brought that hand to his mouth where he kissed each trembling finger. Julius’s pupils covered all but the thinnest ring of iris. Harry shook too.
“How does that sound? Would you like that, Marcus? Would you?”
“Yes,” Julius said, sounding distant. Then his expression cleared, and Julius looked not much like himself at all. “Yes, I want that very much. Here and like this. It’s been nothing but barracks and cots until now and, and we deserve a bed, Thomas. We deserve that.”
Julius’s hand stopped shaking. Harry released him, reaching for oil, but Julius paused him with a hand to his chest. Harry waited.
“The mirror.” Julius looked to the vanity—then deeper, into his bedroom, at the full-length. That mirror was positioned very precisely away in the corner and tilted forward on its stand when not in use, so that the thing reflected nothing much of substance at all. Harry took a long moment to realise what Julius was even asking for, but his next words removed all doubt. “I’d like to— I need, Thomas— I want to watch myself fuck you, and take my time with you because there will be no marching in the morning, I— I need to see.”
Harry went for the mirror, heaving it carefully as he could into position, so the whole bed lay within view. By that time Julius had the oil in hand, which was promising. Harry considered from which angle might be best, how he might hold himself so Julius could see what it was he needed to see. But surely if Thomas got it wrong, Marcus would tell him.
Harry straddled him again without any real sort of plan. How did a man plan for a thing like this? He wished he’d had more time with Thomas, if not to hear his stories then at least so Harry might know him, and better play this part.
Julius kissed him. If they only kissed, Harry would be fine with that. He wouldn't mind at all. This kissing was already so much better than Julius gritting his teeth through grief. Julius kissed so hard Harry found himself bent backward, kept upright only by the hand on his back, as comforting as it was commanding. It really wasn't like kissing Julius at all.
They broke for breath, both panting. Harry gasped, "How do you want me, Marcus?"
Julius glanced at the mirror. "I'll have you in my lap."
It took less fumbling than Harry would have imagined. Julius sat on the mattress's edge, Harry seated with his back to Julius's chest, legs on either side of his thighs. The mirror stood before them. Marcus and Thomas watched on.
To the mirror, Harry commented, "Not much leverage like this."
"Can a lieutenant not support his man?"
Harry laughed at the ridiculousness of it all—the dramatic, over-cocked, beautiful ridiculousness. Laughter turned to Julius’s mouth on his shoulders, his back, the nape of his neck. Apparently Marcus loved to kiss, and so did Harry, but God, he was ready.
"Marcus, please ."
Marcus reached around and took his cock in hand, stroking lazily. In his ear, Marcus murmured, "Go on."
How was he meant to go on, being touched like this? Thomas watched from the mirror, face flush and distorted by pleasure. Harry watched through the mirror as Marcus worked his fist up and down. Thomas's cock appeared and disappeared like an obscene jack-in-the-box. He laughed, a little delirious.
That fist turned to a single knuckle, merely tracing his length but no more. Harry rolled his head back onto Julius’s shoulder, pleading, "Marcus."
"You're quite capable, dear one."
Such cruel encouragement from such a lovely mouth.
"Fuck yourself, Thomas. I know you can."
He really did have terrible leverage. But Marcus said he could do it, so he could do it.
In the mirror, Harry watched Thomas rise, muscle flexing, thighs trembling. His face twitched with concentration. Thomas was gorgeous, sweaty chest catching candlelight as he panted. He pushed himself because Marcus commanded it to be so. Marcus knew what he was capable of better than he knew himself. That's what a good lieutenant did, and his Marcus was a good lieutenant.
Harry groaned at the sight. His cock twitched against that single glorious and horrible knuckle. Sweet Christ, this was filthy. He would stay suspended here forever if he could, thighs burning while Marcus looked at him like the only thing that mattered in the entire world.
"There's a good man," Marcus whispered. "Look at you, you filthy thing, you beautiful thing— Yes, oh, come now, you can do this. You want my cock, don't you, love? You can fight Napoleon's war, I know you can do this too. Such a good man. Look at you."
Such sweet, filthy things. Harry spared a moment to wonder if Marcus had ever really been this sweetly cruel, allowed himself a moment to mourn that he would never truly know, and sank down.
It burned a little. It burned a lot, actually. It hardly mattered. They did most of their fucking in worse conditions, hadn't they? It was no hardship at all to watch Marcus disappear inside of him, centimeter by slow and pretty centimeter. He thought briefly of letting go and allowing gravity to do its work. But they looked so lovely in the mirror. This slow ache felt so wonderful. He never wanted this part to end.
It had to end. Everything ended. This resurrection was a temporary reprieve, nothing more. Eyes aching—all of him, aching—Thomas gave himself over. There was only this moment. No past and no future. He slid down that final bit.
"Ready," he said softly.
Marcus wrapped an arm around Thomas and began to move, pressing firmly so Thomas wouldn't topple. He wondered if Marcus could feel himself.
"Oh," Thomas said, or gasped, or moaned, he couldn't tell anymore. The mirror fluttered in and out of vision. Thomas fought to keep his eyes open, but each thrust shook through him and every little movement made him gasp—an endless chorus of, "Oh, oh, oh."
Marcus grabbed his prick, stroking in time. Thomas had never been so cradled. All this sweetness burned the back of his tongue. His eyes burned too. They got to have this. Finally, finally, they got to have this. Thomas had never let himself imagine that they could.
"Marcus," he said, or sobbed. "Oh, Marcus, oh God, Marcus, I love you, I love you, I—" he choked on, I miss you, too raw to face. It wasn’t even his grief, not really . But it just wasn't fair. What right did Napoleon have to take this future from him? From them? It wasn't fair!
Were his cheeks wet? Was he crying?
Marcus thrust harder, though they weren't really thrusts at all. It was mostly grinding hips now, neither willing to part for even a moment, not even more pleasure. Thomas pushed back into every movement. He'd do this forever if he could. He wasn't going to last. He was close, he was so close. He tried to say so, but only got as far as, “Marcus.”
"Yes," Marcus said. "Yes, yes." He made a sound, not a moan or a sob, but the sweetest parts of both. Thomas heard only his grief mirrored back at him. They were both close. This would end soon. It would all end. It had to. That’s okay , Thomas thought. They got to have this . Thomas nodded to Marcus in the mirror; Harry and Julius nodded back.
His orgasm struck in waves. Thomas couldn't keep his eyes open. Blind, he scrabbled for Marcus's hand atop his abdomen and clasped their hands together as the second wave crested above them both. By the third, Thomas lost himself completely. It was the good kind of oblivion. He gave himself over, utterly. Pleasure built and crested and it seemed to last forever even though he knew he couldn't, that was half the point: it couldn't last.
When Harry finally returned to himself, he was on his side, heat flat against his back and soft warmth over his stomach, where Julius's hand still lay. Breath tickled the back of his neck, each slower and deeper than the last. His own breath slowed to match it. The ache came next. Harry enjoyed it slightly less than Thomas had, but he was grateful for the reminder too. As they settled into their afterglow, Harry could scarcely believe any of that happened.
He rolled in Julius's arms. Through the aftermath of tears, Julius smiled at him, rare and unburdened. Whatever Harry hoped to accomplish—whatever unnamed grief he hoped to soothe—he was certain he had done it.
Knowing this, Harry said, "Fancy a game of cards?"
Julius shoved at him and together, laughing, the four of them went to sleep.