This is for Karyn who is wonderful and perfect and asked for Alicia/Adrian and I'm kind of in love with this pairing now. Not even kidding. Hope you like it, dear!
Alicia furrows her brow in concentration as she casts what should be a simple spell. Most cleaning spells are easy for her but doing the dishes is a chore she despises. In all honesty, she'd rather do them the Muggle way, but she needs the practice. She flicks her wand and the plates begin to wash themselves in the kitchen sink, clinking against each other in a way that makes her cringe, hoping that they don't break.
Adrian uses her distraction to his advantage. He slips his arms around her waist from behind, pressing his face into the slope of her neck. "Clean up later," he says.
Alicia rolls her eyes, but her mouth betrays her as it curves into a smile. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Mmm. Of course."
"It'll only be a few minutes," she reasons, half-heartedly attempting to shrug him off as he playfully nips the soft skin behind her ear. His hold on her grows tighter as he senses her resolve weakening, but then she flinches.
The dishes splash in the sink and the dish rag goes flying as Alicia clutches the side of her leg.
"What happened?" Adrian asks.
Alicia only shakes her head and pulls a coin out of her pocket- a coin she's kept on her person for months just in case. It burns hot in her hand, and the message is clear. She holds it up for him to observe.
"I have to go," she whispers, meeting his gaze with determination.
"I know."
Adrian doesn't have a coin. He wouldn't know what to do with one. He holds out his hands in a gesture of helplessness, willing her to understand, trying to say what he means without it sounding like an excuse. "I… Alicia, I…"
But she shakes her head and buries her hands in his hair as she kisses him hard, vowing to herself that it won't be the last time, though the war drum pounding in her chest tells her that it very well might be. "You're on my side," she says. "Aren't you?"
He swallows hard, but the words stay lodged in his throat. Words like I'm sorry and something vague about neutrality. But they agreed a long time ago that he was on her side and she was on his. That's the deal. That's love. So he nods.
"Good," she says. And there's a pause filled with stifling silence, their eyes locked, coming to terms with the fact that this is it. She has to go.
And as he begins to lean in for a kiss goodbye she turns and Disapparates with a pop. Her coin falls to the floor with a heavy thud and rolls out of sight.
"Damn it."
One.
St. Mungo's is a battle field all its own. Healers pass each other quickly, calling out for supplies or else asking for assistance. Adrian ignores their irritated glares and their muttering about visiting hours at a time like this.
He finds the room hastily scribbled on the slip of paper in his hand and goes in without knocking.
Alicia's mother is dabbing her eyes, clutching her daughter's hand. Her father looks up when Adrian comes in but nods his head in greeting. Adrian lingers in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. He doesn't want to intrude, and he wouldn't blame her parents for being angry with him. He's angry at himself for not being there.
Alicia is awake but she doesn't seem to be aware of their presence, doesn't acknowledge the touch of her mother's hand. She stares unseeingly at the wall to her right. Her parents stay a few minutes longer before her father puts a hand on his wife's shoulder and leads her out of the room. As they pass, they smile weakly at Adrian and inform him that she's physically fine.
Perhaps that should be a relief.
But it's not.
Five.
He sits with her for hours on end. He holds her hand, and sometimes he swears that she squeezes it back, that she's acknowledging his presence. The Healer who sometimes comes in to check on them isn't as optimistic.
"Don't get your hopes up," she says.
"Bugger off," is his reply.
And then he turns to Alicia who is grinding her teeth in her sleep and strokes her hair. He says he's sorry for everything. Sorry that he wasn't there. Sorry that he doesn't know what she's been through. Sorry that he was so willing to be left behind.
"I told you I'd be on your side," he says. "But I wasn't. Not really."
She doesn't contradict him.
Nine.
It's been over a week now. She's finally begun to look him in the eye. She doesn't speak though.
She won't tell him what happened, what she's seen, but there's a horror in her gaze, a darkness that only she knows. It clouds her vision and he can tell that she doesn't always see him when she looks at him. It's almost as if she's looking inward and shutting him out at the same time.
Sometimes she shivers, but she refuses the blanket he offers her. She denies the only source of comfort he knows how to give.
Sometimes he wonders why he sits here at all.
He asks the idiot of a Healer if she can fix it, but she only shakes her head. "It's a magic of a different sort. Some things can't be healed."
That settles it. He stands up and heads for the door, and every step is filled with purpose. "Then I'm taking her home."
Fifteen.
She sits at the kitchen table and mechanically eats the soup he's made for her. The clink of the spoon against the side of the bowl is deafening. Every sound in their house is deafening anymore.
Where it was once filled with the sound of her laughter, it is now hollow, echoing with the noise of a life not being lived. It's the shuffle of her feet against the carpet, and the kettle whistling in late afternoon. It's the clock ticking away the days that are slowly turning into weeks, and her soft sighs that are the loudest thing to escape her lips. Adrian thinks that perhaps she lost her voice somewhere. Perhaps it was trapped beneath the ruins of Hogwarts. Or maybe it's stuck somewhere inside her. Somewhere lonely.
He tries not to feel offended when he tells her he loves her and he gets no response, but it's hard. It's so goddamn hard and perhaps bringing her home wasn't a good idea after all. Perhaps he's doing all the wrong things.
"When you're ready to talk, I'm here," he says, and he threads his fingers through her dark hair, kissing her forehead before going to bed. She doesn't slip beneath the covers until 2:17 every morning without fail.
Nineteen.
This time he can't leave well enough alone. He turns on his side and he can barely make out her features in the dim moonlight shining through the curtains. 2:17 am is a miserable time of day. He wants to be asleep, but he needs to know and he doesn't care how awful it sounds to say it out loud.
"What am I doing wrong?" he asks.
Still, her words are missing. She only shakes her head vigorously, fingers grasping at the front of his shirt. And suddenly she's crying and he's sorry he said anything at all. It's the first time she's cried since the war ended. And maybe that's something.
But it doesn't escape his notice that he doesn't have an answer to his question.
Twenty-five.
He clasps her hand in his as he leads the way outside. Tells her the fresh air will do her good. Tells her she needs to see the sun.
It's been almost a month that she's kept herself hidden away, safe behind closed doors and beneath the covers. This isn't the Alicia he used to know. But sometimes when she looks at him from across the table, or when she climbs into bed and wraps an arm about his waist, he sees that the old Alicia is still there. He likes to think that maybe she's just resting, that she'll come out when she's ready.
They walk down a worn down path in the park, a warm summer wind blowing through their hair. And he starts talking. He talks enough for the both of them these days, and he's painfully self conscious about it, but he talks anyway.
He tells her she's beautiful. Always has been. And it's true. She is horror-struck and torn apart at the seams, but she is utterly beautiful.
He tells her he found her coin. It had rolled all the way into the pantry somehow. He places it in her palm, and she closes her hand tightly around it before wrapping her arms around his neck.
She doesn't let go for a long while.
Thirty.
It's possible he's just imagining things. That's what happens when the world gets too quiet. One begins to think up conversations that never actually take place. One begins to fantasize about how life ought to be. How it used to be.
For example, it used to be that Alicia would be the one to suggest they go to bed early, and by 2:17 am they would both be dead to the world until morning. It used to be that they would curl up beneath the covers and she'd rest her head on his chest. It used to be that she'd whisper I love you against his skin.
Everything about this scenario is familiar and Adrian swears he must be dreaming because life post-war doesn't include any of these things.
And yet.
He prepares to get into bed alone, knowing she won't be joining him for a few hours, when suddenly she's there sitting on her side of the bed, and smiling at him.
"All right, love?" he asks, hesitantly.
She nods her head and pats the space beside her.
He settles into the mattress, and his arms remember how good it feels to hold her gently. And somehow the silence between them changes. It's not a miserable silence, filled with misunderstanding and hurt and bitterness and all sorts of horrid things. No. It's a comfortable sort of silence- the kind that lovers fall into.
And he only breaks it to remind her one more time. "I'm always on your side, you know."
And finally she turns to him, and presses her lips to his, soft but insistent. He feels her voice rather than hears it, but the ghost of a whisper reaches his ears in reply.
"I know."