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"He's dead." Harry whispered. "That's the idea."

"He's dead." He repeats. "I mean his eyes are separate from his sockets and his spleen is somewhere mixed in with his teeth. So yes."

"You killed him!" He points. "Don't point what if he's shy."

"Oh god he's dead." I smack my hand over my head. "And the award for best directive goes to Harry Styles."