Ilvermorny: Winter Solstice
"The shortest day and longest night of the year, the Winter Solstice celebrates the rebirth of the sun."
Write about a long night beginning or ending. Take it literally or figuratively.
Mandatory prompt: [Weather] Snowing
Additional prompt: [Song] Used to the Darkness, by Des Rocs
Word count: 1187
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The light filtering through the curtains was grey, the shadows on the wall distorted as the snow outside fell and fell and fell, knocking against the windows and rooftops in discordant, staccato bursts.
Kingsley couldn't be sure if he was awake or merely dreaming as he lay curled beneath the blankets. He was a broad man, but the bed seemed impossibly large for just him to occupy it. Carefully—as even the slightest movement caused his stomach to riot and roll like he was trapped on the deck of a ship caught in a storm—he stretched one arm out to the other side of the bed. The sheets were cold beneath his grasp, and Kingsley groaned, pressing his face into the pillow.
The action made no difference: grey light pressed against the back of his eyelids whether his eyes were open or closed. The night never seemed to end.
Kingsley slowly pushed himself up, blankets slipping down his back and goosebumps erupting in the chilled air. He lowered his head, eyes squeezed shut and teeth sinking into his lower lip as he struggled to breathe. In the loft, he could hear the strange crackling noise as snow worked its way through the hidden gaps neither he nor Moody could find and focused on that for a moment. He had let the boredom consume him for long enough.
He stumbled when he first stood, numb feet on an even colder floor knocking against Moody's slipper first—a fluffy pink monstrosity—before he located his own pair. Kingsley cast a quick Tempus, squinting at glowing numbers before dimming them with a gesture. They left a glowing imprint in front of his eyes, so Kingsley didn't bother turning on the light, instead carefully picking his way down the stairs by muscle memory—one hand trailing along the wall as his fingers passed over every notch and gap in the wood—and the dull grey light that seemed to permeate everything.
The sitting room was cold, the fire banked and unlit. Unbidden, Kingsley turned, heart stuttering in his chest. He hoped to see Moody sprawled across the couch, lost in sleep following the stakeout he had gone on before everything went wrong. But he knew it was pointless. He'd been woken enough times by Moody stumbling into their shared room, limbs leaden with exhaustion and running on fumes and instinct, drawn to half collapse on top of Kingsley—cold fingers wriggling beneath his shirt in an unconscious desire to be closer.
Kingsley sighed, scrubbing one hand across his face and feeling the bite of stubble against his palm.
The living room was well lived-in. Even with the oppressive ennui that the never-ending snow filled the room with, Kingsley could appreciate the blanket thrown over the arm of the chair—patterned patchwork squares bright and warm as he reached out to grab it, wrapping it around his shoulders—and the stray piles of paperwork that littered the coffee table, mixing in with the cheap paperback thrillers Moody picked up every time they were in Muggle London.
Idly, Kingsley plucked a piece from the pile, resting his hip against the side of the chair as his head protested the motion, scanning over the partially completed form. Warmth bloomed in his chest as he read his own name as Moody's emergency contact. It had been such a casual statement: a check on how Kingsley spelt his middle name, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He set it back down, moving carefully back into the kitchen, pressing his hands into the furniture as he passed for balance.
Outside, the snow swirled heavy and thick, blotting out the sun and everything beyond the windowsill into featureless grey. The window stuck, warped wood groaning beneath the pressure as Kingsley set his shoulder against it, but eventually it moved just enough for Kingsley to scoop up some snow, pulling the window closed once more.
Chills ran down his arm, fingers trembling from the cold, but it was nothing compared to the faint buzz of magic that the snow carried with it. The memory was faded, unnaturally so by the seemingly impossibly long stretch of time, but he could just remember Moody complaining about having to stay at work until the magical explosion that had caused the snow—and interfered with the transportation network—had been dealt with. The Owl Post and Floo Network had swiftly followed into suspension, and Kingsley had been left alone with only bleary memory of Moody kissing his forehead while he grumbled about Moody getting sick too—his words met with laughter, and a rough, calloused hand pulling the blanket further up around him before Kingsley fell back into an uncomfortable sleep.
The boredom was the worst. So he had slept, in hopes of waking up to a warm body in the bed next to him, and an end in sight to the snow.
It was out of habit that he flicked the kettle—a deeply burnished copper, with a dent on one curved edge—on as he opened the fridge, gaze flitting over the carefully packaged meals his family had pressed into his hands the last time he had seen them. They worried about him, so he let them fuss and give him food that he ate, curled into Moody's side as they watched the crackling TV, sound distorted and picture fuzzy.
The slow hissing of the kettle nearly obscured the sudden flare of the Floo into life—Kingsley stepping into the small nook next to the fridge, the wooden handle of his wand biting into his hand. No one knew about this place but him and Moody, but—his training warring with his instincts—he had to be careful.
When he cast, it still felt muted by the overwhelming pressure of the snow, but there was something else there.
"Good on you, lad, for checking," Moody called, his voice rough and slurred, "but once you're done with that, mind coming in here?"
The pressure of Moody's magic against his skin was like a thunderstorm, electric and sharp with an almost knife-like twist at the edges, and Kingsley was already moving, previous exhaustion forgotten.
Moody's skin had an unhealthy grey tinge that had nothing to do with the strange light, and his eye was sunken, half-lidded; but he reached up to pull Kingsley close, a hand reaching up to cup his skull.
"Knew you'd be climbing the walls without me," Moody grumbled. His stubble rasped against Kingsley skin as he turned to kiss him, uncoordinated but steady. "But you couldn't make me a cuppa, could you? Before I fall asleep on my feet."
"Taskmaster," Kingsley laughed, kissing Moody one more time before he stepped away. He could hear the protest of the springs as Moody lowered himself onto the sofa with a groan. Outside the kitchen window—through the disappearing outline of his palm print—Kingsley could see the faintest scrap of sunlight, far off in the distance.