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"i dreamt i drank the colour of your voice"
[evelyn graham frost]
xxx
Time passed like honey pouring from a jar—so, so slow, and it was impossible to stop her thoughts coming back to him.
She'd peer at the lavender outside and think about the stunning purple, and then the mauve of Harry's bruise when he first arrived. She'd shake this from her mind, and close her eyes to pass time with sleep as the sun bathed her through the window, and she'd think of its warmth, and then of his warm arms around her. She'd roll over in a huff and open her eyes—just to be met with the empty bed next to her.
Never before had someone lurked around the corners of her head this often—and this, whatever 'this' was between them, couldn't have come at a worse time. Why couldn't it have been last year; before she was in the hospital wing every waking minute? Before the bandages and the pain and the constant state of unknowing? Before she was counting her days?
He did come for his appointment in the end. He was at the other end of the hospital wing, sat on one of the beds, facing her direction—Madame Pomfrey sitting in front of him, blocking him from view. Although they'd catch a glimpse of each other when they could, making faces at each other, she already felt so, so far away from him. And she didn't know what to do.
The sun was lower in the sky now, and much to her distaste, time had now gone so fast that it felt as soon as he'd arrived, he was standing up again to leave, and Madame Pomfrey was now waving him to the door. Ignoring this, Harry began in Mia's direction, though Madame Pomfrey stopped him, holding her arm out.
"Potter—no visitors after 5-o'clock. You of all people know the rules."
He peered at Mia over her shoulder "But—"
"Out," She beckoned, looking back at Mia, and then to him again. "I'll be gone from here for about a half-hour, and I can't leave visitors and patients unattended—especially you two, might I add."
Mia's cheeks burned.
"I—"
"I'll follow you out, Potter."
Defeated, Harry gave one last fleeting glance to Mia, and her heart dropped as he walked away; her eyes trained to him until the wooden doors closed and he was gone.
Rolling over to face the wall, her back to the door, and what once was Harry's bed, she tried to ignore the growing soreness in her chest as her memory of him running his hand through his hair as he laughed played on repeat. Stop. The feeling of his arms around her, It'll only be harder, her head on his chest, you know it can't last, his hand in hers, stop it, Mia, his eyes flickering down to her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, arms crossed over her stomach—homesick, but for him. For what they can't have. For what will never last.
A few minutes of silence, and then a creek of something old opening, and then a brush of cold air, shuffling, and then shoes landing on tiles. She rolled over, confused—and her heart stuttered as her eyes met the out-of-breath face of Harry standing beside his empty bed—and open window.
"I'm back," he said; his cheeks and nose flushed pink from outside's breeze and hair ruffled much more than usual. Oh god.
"You realise she'll be coming back soon," she said, sitting up, ignoring the guilty twist in her stomach to strain a little smile.
"Don't worry," he laughed, pushing the bed closer to hers, though leaving a gap just big enough for his legs as he sat down opposite her on his old mattress' edge—now complete with fresh, tightly tucked-in sheets. At first, she was looking down, fiddling with her hands, legs tucked to one side, and he started saying something, and she looked up to meet his eyes, and his face was a lot closer than she thought it'd be, and her breath hitched, and her face became warm, and then he stuttered, and the words he was going to say vanished into the thin air between them, and then their foreheads were almost touching and she could feel his breath and his eyes flickered down to her lips—and she pulled away.
"Sorry—" He said, flustered, pulling back, his ears red. "I'm sorry, I—"
"No, it's—it's not you, it's not that, I—" She fell silent and looked down at her hands once more, and she avoided his eyes as best as she could given their proximity as a lump formed in her throat.
"...Are you okay?" He asked, and for a moment she was brought back to last night.
"Are you okay?" She asked, and the rain got louder. "You started breathing really quickly."
He'd sounded scared, anxious, overwhelmed, and god she knew that feeling all too well. She had those same hollow, fearful breaths the first few nights she spent in this wing all those months ago—but she had no one for her in the dark as she drowned in its depths. No one on the surface. No hand reaching down for her.
But now that she had it, had him, had someone there for her, she almost wished she didn't--because soon, at some unknown point, she'll be drowning again, but in a different kind of darkness, and he'll be too far away to bring her back to the surface.
"Mia?" He put his hand over hers, and she was brought back down to earth. "You're spacing out—"
She looked up, meeting his gaze, and his heart broke a little bit as her eyes glistened in thick, hot tears. She looked back down, and they trailed down her cheeks and dripped onto his hand as a small sob made its way out of her throat.
"Hey—" he whispered, bringing an arm around her to pull her in, a warm arm, in a warm hug, and she almost melted at his touch—but she brought her hand to his arm and lightly pushed it away, shaking her head.
She didn't know how to say it—there was so much to it, so many details; a whole story to it really—so where does she start? And when is she supposed to say the details?
Does she start with the Herbology greenhouse those months ago, or the stabbing pain in her feet? Does she start with the fact that after they pulled the thorns out, her feet became as black as ink and fragile and useless? Or does she lead with the fact that it's crawling up her legs, and now she can't walk, and it's still spreading? Does she say that there's no cure and no doctor or nurse or wizard knows what it is—let alone what plant did it? If it's poison or magic or something greater? Does she pull off the blankets and take off her socks and unravel the bandages and show him?
She started with the biggest thing—the thing weighing on her mind the most; the lump in her throat. The reason why her stomach felt all twisted, why she's so scared, why she just broke down after they almost kissed.
Her voice was nasally as she spoke, and she couldn't really believe the words were leaving her mouth—and god she wished she prepared for this because now she'll never be able to unsee that look in his eyes once the words met his ears.
