She clutched again at the shawl in her hand, as through trying to draw courage from it. She brought it to her face and breathed deeply. It smelled of Harry, so familiar yet markedly different. It was comforting. She marvelled at it. All morning, she hadn't been able to shake the image of Harry sat at her bedside, sat so close by. Worrying for her, caring for her, trying to make her better. All the while suffering so himself. Suffering with irrational fear that she hated him, that she would reject him. She longed to tell him that nothing could be further from the truth.