Heavy rain pattered down across the lawn, rattling at the kitchen window on the gusts of wind. A soaked brown leaf stuck to the glass, sliding down in the streaming rain and flopping away. The sound of the rain and the wind besieged the still silence of the house, their muffled, muted clamour clawing at the thick quiet. How long will Fleur be away?
Harry pushed a cherry tomato around the small plate with his fork, cold anxiety churning in the pit of his stomach. Is Fleur doing wards or is she just gone again? He stabbed the tomato and poked it into his mouth, chewing three times and forcing it down swallow by swallow, the tang fading from his tongue. Why would she want to leave like that if she loved me? All the little questions bubbled up, rising on the stirring whisper of the storm.
Why has it been so long since she last kissed me? Little stabs of panic tore through him like stinging rose thorns pricking the tips of his fingers and beneath it, bittersweet despair smiled that small sad, knowing smile.
You know why. He let the world sink into the smooth shining silver tines; it drifted away out into the muffled wind and rain, fading into a still empty silence as thick and heavy as the darkness in the cupboard beneath the stairs. Harry cut his heart free into the dark.
Better hope than despair. Speculation about simple transmutation being the root of all wild forms of magic. The wind and rain buffeted the window and Harry let the book slump closed. This is so slow. A murmur of yearning rose, a swelling wave of simmering heat, sweeping his heart upon its foaming crest. There are two holes and none of these books on alchemy actually help.
