Chapter 3
T1 - The Dearth of Night
George looked up as Teresa gave a giant upset cough at reading the last bit of her husband's story. Shaking his head, he went back to reading hers, which was a much slower (and in his opinion, stuffy) read.
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The Dearth of Night
By Teresa Michaelson
Pains coursed through Ginny's bosom, an emptiness and coldness that only love's absence could inspire. "Harry..." she whispered to herself, somehow hoping the name would bring her relief from the silent agony she'd endured since he told her those hated words the year before. But while the hope was not answered, memories washed over her; moments that seemed perfect when they arrived, now seemed like an icy breeze that chilled the heart when played back before her eyes.
His voice, his hands, and his kisses. All of them girded a bubble paradise which she longed to once again throw herself into. Now, though, Time had slipped that from her grip and left instead toying memories, hollow shells containing nothing. She wanted him here. She wanted to hold him, to let him envelop her into his arms and feel the dark cold despair from the pit of her stomach fade into the peace his mere presence gave her. Ginny lethargically slipped from her bed covers, pajamas doing little to shield her from the cool October night's air. Shivering slightly, she looked out the window.
Harry squirmed under his covers, a sweat running down the spine of his back despite the chilly temperature. Gnarled bedsheets and feverish thoughts gripped his brain, taunting him of the uncertainty of future. "Why?" he half-moaned, half-awake. It was as if his soul had found the perfect compliment to itself in Ginny, entwined and meshed so completely and fully that when they were forced to part it shone a harsh light upon the weaknesses of his being, the holes and gaps in his heart which his love had been able to fill without trial or effort.
Her laughter, her face, and her touch. All of them seemed to both nestle and lift his spirit. The purgatory fate had cast him into was all the more despairing from the divine moments of heaven that she'd given to him. He wanted her here. He wanted to hold her, to feel their bodies gently nestle against each other, driving away the piercing loneliness as they lovingly cradled one another to sleep. Almost possessed, Harry's frame rose from the bed. The occasional quidditch magazine and misplaced sock or shirt did little to dull the stone floor's chill upon his bare feet. Eyes half open and even less awake, he gazed out the window.
Though but a small curve of tower separated them, it was as a universe's span. No sight, nor sound, nor touch greeted either as their breath slowly fogged the old glass panes facing them. A ritual shared, their thoughts slowly wound down to nothingness, the dwelling on the love built over the entirety of a decade fading back to the innermost recesses of their minds and souls. With one long last soft sigh, both turned from the windowsill.
"Harry," Ginny whispered, slowly collapsing upon the bed before falling into a light and unsatisfying slumber.
"Ginny," Harry whispered in return, a sad murmur before his mind once again slipped blessedly blank in grey sleep.
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