She couldn't sleep one night, and so found herself wandering the castle, as she so often did these days. The war was drifting ever closer to her friends.

Her bare feet took her deeper into the bowels of the castle than usual. Slytherin territory. The air was warm in the higher levels, but here it was crisp, and the flagstones were cool on her feet. In many ways she felt like a ghost on these late night excursions. She'd been on many, and never once encountered another soul. Sometimes she would wake in the morning, and believe her memories to be a dream.

When she heard the sounds of weeping nearby, it didn't surprise her as it should have done. The sharp intakes of breath that met her ears were the only noise and yet they did not alarm her. Perhaps she'd been expecting it. Perhaps her feet had led her here because of those very sounds.

She wasn't surprised when she found him, sat in an alcove, head in hands, shoulders shuddering. He'd been different for months. Just as angry, of course, but quieter in that anger, more resigned, more despairing. She walked over, her bare feet silent, and lay her hand on his shoulder.

When he looked up at her, it was as if through a fog of intolerable pain, and it took his red eyes several seconds to register who was there, and longer still for his face to show surprise, which was so strangely lacking in the girl before him. His pale face turned angry, but she was not alarmed, and did not move. In time, his face shifted again into something more thoughtful, and she thought she might even have seen a flicker of understanding.

They stayed that way for a time, sad black eyes boring into calm amber. She noticed a thin scar under his cheekbone that had been previously unknown to her, and counted to 210 before he stood. He stood closer to her than she was expecting, but she didn't back away. Her index finger traced the scar on his cheek. His skin was soft.

She was surprised when he kissed her, not by the action itself, but by her own reaction to it, to him. Her hands found his face, his hair, and he clutched her against him as the kiss deepened. His body was warm against hers, his robes rough against her bare arms. He tasted of coffee. And loss.

She ran her hands down his body, finding a buckle, and tugging on it. His eyes were still sad when he looked down at her then, but not surprised, and she felt her lips lifting into a smile.

It was him who sat back on the bench, and him who guided her over him, his hands gentle. Smooth velvet, hard steel. She moved above him, her hands on his shoulders as he peppered every available inch of her with kisses. Their mingled breaths were the only sound. Her skin was cool, her insides burning. She wasn't surprised when his head fell back and his body stiffened, but the droplets of water on his lashes hurt her heart, and the wave of pleasure that rushed over her was bitter sweet.

He rested his head in the crook of her neck, and her arms found their way back around him. He clutched the back of her nightdress, his fingers bunching the fabric.


The night can sometimes be so fundamentally different to the day, that it becomes winter to summer, ice to fire. Those who have walked alone, silent, deep in the darkness can understand this. Night is different. It is powerful.


She woke the next day, wrapped in blankets, and for a moment, kept her eyes tight shut, savouring the memory of a dream. When she turned on her side to see him watching her, she couldn't help the smile that crept up onto her face.

This was not her bed.

It was not a dream.

His eyes weren't sad.


Yay! Hope you enjoyed this little one shot, it popped into my head a few weeks ago and wouldn't leave me alone.

For readers of OOTM - I haven't abandoned that story, I just needed a little time away from it with revision and exams and stress. I'll get back into it soon I promise.

Andie x