A/N: Based on the Potter's Place 'Exile' Challenge Prompt. Plainly, it's not being submitted for the contest. I just liked the idea, and it sort of wrote itself thus far. I might just make this a daily update while I work on the next chapter of TSU RAI KU. As always, thanks for the support!
Disclaimer: JKR owns all.
VIVAASA
by: carpetfibers
Day 61
The door is cracked open, and in between the shadows of the unlit room, there flashes hurried patches of her moving figure. Each passing movement shows a new development. Hair up, then down, neither curly or straight, simply a thick mass of entanglement. He questions the texture, surely such a heap must catch on the fingers, ensnare the hands. She emerges, finally, wearing red, the skirt falling to her knees and shoulders bare.
She gestures to her back. "Help me?"
He rises, overly aware of his greater height and knots the slim strap that holds up her dress. "You're going out," he says, a question not necessary.
She nods, dragging the weight of her hair to one shoulder, a gold clip trapping it in place. "Just a small thing, really. I wouldn't usually get so dressed up, but you know- it's supposed to be a nice sort of place."
She smiles, in an artless unconscious sort of way, and he grows annoyed, bothered by the ease in which she shows her happiness. "Your wand isn't going to fit in that," he tells her, pointing to the small bag in her hands.
She pauses in her rummaging, her purse forgotten. The smile leaves her lips. "It'll be fine."
Her lips do not move again until a knock at the door summons her into her shoes and outside. Through the door, he listens as she exchanges greetings, a low voice responding in carefree tones to her own. In the kitchen he finds a chipped mug and relishes the rush of comfort that skims his blood when he smashes it into the counter. The fragments reverberate in the still air, and he remembers a time when it was impossible to ever permanently damage something.
It is the first piece of the mundane that he's enjoyed, and briefly, he wonders whether the Ministry would be pleased with this development. He imagines not.
"It's chocolate," she tells him at midnight. He is awake when she returns, and he pretends to not notice the smudged make-up or freed hair. "Come on, there's nothing quite as good as birthday cake."
He only eats because she's watching; he only finishes it because she seems so pleased. He does not shudder when she touches his shoulder, passing by the couch to her bedroom door beyond. Her fingers disappear beneath her hair, and the dress loosens on her shoulders. "Good night," she says.
It is her birthday, and he does not return the courtesy. He sits, his back to her shut door, and closes his eyes. The lidded darkness appeases nothing of the vision remaining; his skin forgets nothing of her light touch. He blames proximity, and yet, before sleep can completely claim him, he opens the empty hall closet and fills it. His suitcase, vacated of its holdings, is left beside her door. He tells himself it is not purposefully done, and then he sleeps, his dreams carrying him past her waking and through the press of her hand on his cheek.
End Day 62