He conjured a mirror with a flick of his wand and set it hovering in the air in front of his face, and for the first time that day (as he was now in the habit of avoiding his own reflection), he caught a glimpse of the red and angry scar. It looked no different, but he’d long stopped thinking it might. With a long-suffering sigh, Harry tried his best to angle his head and body in such a way that the dittany would not immediately run down his front into his pyjama top. Holding the pipette above his neck, he winced in anticipation and held his breath, before quickly administering three drops. It burnt just as he had expected too, though thankfully not for long. What he hadn’t been expecting, was for the dittany to be drawn into the wound like iron filings being drawn to a magnet, and he needn’t have worried about any dribbling down his front, as even the final drop that had fallen just behind his shoulder ended up being drawn towards its intended target. 