There is something about the right to remain silent.
Harry knows this one like he knows his own name; fresh and raw and vague, with the lingering impression of importance. He looks over at Kim through the brainfog of Electrochemistry's screaming protest, Volition wrestling Physical Instrument to the ground, allowing his knees not to tremble.
The lieutenant doesn't notice. His face is deep in his notebook, and his peripheral vision is worse than whatever the looking straight ahead one is called.
Whose right is it? Encylopedia is silent. Kim doesn't need it. Harry, dry tongue aching, does not want it.
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