With no idea of where it began, he welcomes her when she comes to him in the night. He lifts the sheets. They twine together with no thought of the world around them, simply lying silent in the night's shadows.
He wants to paint her, to immortalize her as she is this moment; to replicate her fiery hair upon a canvas and to compose poetry praising her skin; neither a painter nor a poet, he holds her close.
The warmth of her body is that he's known before; the summer of his seventeenth year. He remembers the golden autumn days of his youth when he touches her and her lips leave him dizzy with memories of Hogwarts in May. His coldest winters are forgotten. The scent of her remains with him when he nods off to sleep, cinnamon and faded innocence.
She thinks that his soul must be the very grey of his eyes. She can see Azkaban in them when he looks at her. He laughs often, like a man without so many hidden scars... but he has many. She sees them all.
When she opens her eyes to the cold morning, she isn't surprised to find herself in the comfort of his bed. Any memory of the night before had left with the dark sky. She wants to remember it but instead watches him. His pale skin deserves sunlight; to feel the warmth of yellowish rays. His vision deserves to be obscured by a sunset's oranges and yellows and reds. This house is too much for him.
His eyes follow her as she rises and gathers her clothing. She says nothing and neither does he. In her night dress, she's out the door and into hallway and out of the sight of eyes she could have sworn were blue in the morning light.