[the softness – of the words, of the touch – disarms koby’s carefully-planned explanation, and he falters for a beat, voice catching in his throat as harry leans in, kisses his forehead.

then, soft, voice quavering like the child he’d been when the scars were left on him:] Yes. It hurt a lot. [it was excruciating, it was like being flayed alive, there on the grimy table and every day after, as his endless chores tore the stitches again and again, no time allowed to rest or recover, not when there were sails to mend and decks to swap. koby wonders if harry can read the story in the gnarled scar tissue, the long horizontal lines with irregular vertical notches where the stitches had been.

swallowing tightly, koby manages a small smile, looks back up through the round lenses of his glasses and nods.] I grew up in a – girl’s orphanage, on an island. But I could, um. Tell from very early that something wasn’t right, it didn’t – it all felt terrible. And then I left and started calling myself Koby and cut off all my hair and things started to feel better.

[a bit more shyly:] I’m glad you don’t mind. I wasn’t sure, um, what your…preferences were?