ii. il rêve.
It smells of wind and wet grass when he falls asleep, doors to the veranda thrown open, raindrops striking the railings.
When he dreams a world of pain opens unto him, and when he awakens is when he thinks seriously about the God he heard so much about, the one that muggles exclaim to when so inclined. Stupid, he thinks, how could a God do such things when I can do such things? Turn milk into honey, water into wine.
Maybe God was a wizard, he thinks again, and falls back into fretful sleep.
He wishes only for a dreamless slumber, long, dark, one that will last. He won't find it; he'll just keep trying to nurse old hurts by drowning them in endless cups of earl grey.
next: il souhaite.
