Harry still has one hand braced against the back of Feuilly's head, and now he slides it round to cup Feuilly's cheek, which is a little red, because there is blood under there, because he is alive or at least something that looks like it.

He has protested, in his time, that he is no good at talking-- which is a bit silly, of course, because he's perfectly capable of talking incessantly-- but only about himself, about ideas, about what must be done. When it comes to what has been done, what is praiseworthy, what deserves-- condolences? sympathy? he doesn't even know what-- he is, as now, entirely at a loss. So he just leans his forehead the little way down to press it against Feuilly's.