It gets dark outside by degrees. The sky is a benign powdery blue with
a hint of deep rose, like the blush of warm human skin, then slowly
darkens to a rich purple, the colour of kings' robes. Your breath
hitches in your throat. So beautiful, so wild, the countryside. The
dark bramble shivers in the wind outside, jaws open to engulf the sky,
and you're safe in his arms in your little world.
He's asleep, his breathing ragged under his thin robes, and you lay a hand on his heart and feel it beating erratically and you're comforted.
You turn back to the window. The sky bleeds like it did that day the last vestiges of sense were ripped away from your world, the day that wound began to bleed inside you, threatening to never heal again. The fear of losing him churned everpresent in your stomach as the dark wings beat on either side of you. You remember watching the beetle-cars winding across the dark ribbon-roads far below you, when you had no thought for anyone but him, and the dark fur on your mount's neck darkened further with your tears.
'Wha--Harry?' He wakes with a start as your hot tears run down his collarbone. 'What's wrong?' he whispers, holding you close.
And you can't answer because the lump in your throat won't let you speak. Pressing your face against his tangled hair and feeling his pulse through the skin of his neck pounding in your ears, echoing the great tempest in your soul, for a moment, everything makes sense again.
''ere we are then, 'ogsmeade Road,' the conductor calls out lazily as the bus rumbles to a fractious stop.
And when you step out, the last remaining hint of sunlight is pale and cold, the immense sky stares coldly down at the two of you, small dark shadows under its omnipotence, and the air itself is winter-frigid, but Sirius's fingers are warm as they rest lightly on your arm.
He's asleep, his breathing ragged under his thin robes, and you lay a hand on his heart and feel it beating erratically and you're comforted.
You turn back to the window. The sky bleeds like it did that day the last vestiges of sense were ripped away from your world, the day that wound began to bleed inside you, threatening to never heal again. The fear of losing him churned everpresent in your stomach as the dark wings beat on either side of you. You remember watching the beetle-cars winding across the dark ribbon-roads far below you, when you had no thought for anyone but him, and the dark fur on your mount's neck darkened further with your tears.
'Wha--Harry?' He wakes with a start as your hot tears run down his collarbone. 'What's wrong?' he whispers, holding you close.
And you can't answer because the lump in your throat won't let you speak. Pressing your face against his tangled hair and feeling his pulse through the skin of his neck pounding in your ears, echoing the great tempest in your soul, for a moment, everything makes sense again.
''ere we are then, 'ogsmeade Road,' the conductor calls out lazily as the bus rumbles to a fractious stop.
And when you step out, the last remaining hint of sunlight is pale and cold, the immense sky stares coldly down at the two of you, small dark shadows under its omnipotence, and the air itself is winter-frigid, but Sirius's fingers are warm as they rest lightly on your arm.