"You're not supposed to be in here."
Harry's hands trembled as he smoothed out the parchment, crisp from days spent absorbing raindrops in the unprotected pockets of his coat.
He missed her.
"I know." She bit her lip, pulling her dressing gown shut more tightly as she drew the curtains of his four poster around them, clothing them in burgundy-tinted darkness. "I couldn't sleep."
He wondered how many times he'd sat down to write to her. How many times he'd done an erasure spell, watching his words curl away into nothing as though they'd been scorched.
He always said too much or too little.
She never could sleep anymore.
Not now. Not when the air burned overhead every night. Sickly green above Hogwarts.
Not when everything around them was fading away, pulling in at the edges like something ill had crawled inside and there was nothing to do but wait it out.
Her nightgown dipped low enough to make his mouth run dry.
"Can I kiss you?"
She could never know where he was.
"Yes," her reply was breathless, a little shaky. They'd kissed before.
But it had been different. Funerals and flowers. Stained glass and salt.
He pulled his knees to his chest. The cold seemed more prominent now: it had crawled into Harry's cells, melded itself into the air he breathed.
Cold was everywhere.
Burgundy darkness played on her skin as Harry brushed his lips against hers.
The quill sounded too loud in the odd silence.
"I miss you."
The words looked bleak on the parchment.
He always said too much or too little.