Chapter Text
He’d woken to a steady tap-tap-tap he’d come to realize wasn’t coming from his mind.
It took him a minute to blink the sleep from his eyes, which wasn’t much use in the pitch-black room.
It took him longer to remember where he was—though not as long as those first days in the cottage, when he’d wake in the night and lie there, disoriented, wondering why the ceiling felt so low, why the room—drowned in the shadows of dense spruce—refused to lighten.
He pushed the blankets aside, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.
The rain was persistent as he padded across the wooden floors toward his shoes. The haze of clouds had been threatening it for days, suffusing the sun until it finally gave way—building into a tumult while he slept.
He’d woken earlier at sunrise, of course. A habit he couldn’t quite shake, even if he’d been displaced from nearly everything else. But the sun had refused to start the day, and so he’d turned over, not bothering to start it either.
The only light guiding him now was a soft amber glow from the hall.
He stepped out into the T-shaped space that housed the bedrooms, finding it only slightly lighter than his room. Rina’s door sat directly opposite his; the unused master lay farther back, more completely swallowed by shadow.
Again, he turned toward the light.
The background sound of downpour was now joined by something closer—a faint, irregular tinkling, like metal against a dish. The kitchen was gently lit, glass lanterns casting a bright yellow glow that threw shifting shadows along the walls.
His steps slowed as he crossed the threshold.
He found, with mild surprise, his gaze skirting the light entirely—sliding past it, past her—and landing instead on the bedraggled living room.
He moved toward the large window opposite in no more than three strides—the room allowing for little more—as though that had been his intention all along.
He stood there a moment, looking out with vague, performative interest. A barren clearing—only just large enough for a chair and a small table—sat before him. Beyond it, the wilderness pressed in on all sides, dense and unmoving, a more imposing sight the longer he looked.
He tore his eyes away from it.
The soft tinkling began again, and he found himself turning back, as if permitted.
He took in the state of the room. He’d only avoided stepping on—or into—anything by sheer instinct, not because it was in any way organized. Fine china teacups littered the floor, jacket sleeves hung from the backs of cushions, books lay open on their spines where they’d been abandoned mid-thought.
He had seen her at it. In those first few days—when he’d wondered how such a quiet presence could make such a mess—he’d taken it upon himself to watch.
She never seemed to realize.
She drifted through the space—soft fingers grazing the back of a cushion as she passed, pausing only to lift a marble figurine, or trace the worn edge of a leather spine. And then, without thought, she would set it down somewhere else entirely, already drawn to the next thing that caught her attention.
He realized he was fighting a smile when the tinkling stopped, and without deciding, he looked up.
His eyes landed on the apron first. Navy blue, nearly the length of a dress, tied behind her neck in a way that looked far too delicate to hold. Lacy sleeves—if they could be called sleeves—fluttered faintly at her shoulders. There was a smear of white along her cheek.
“Muffins.” She gestured toward a blue bowl, in which sat an oddly entwined metal instrument, its thin loops slick with batter.
That, more than anything else, seemed to warrant closer inspection.
He stepped in, peering over her shoulder, his nose scrunching almost on instinct at the sight of it. There were all manner of things dotted throughout the mixture—black, glistening beads, tan seeds, tiny rainbow-colored sticks, flecks of something brown and powdery.
All of it suspended in a distinctly blue batter.
When he looked back at her, her face—lit warm by the lanterns—held something almost like pride. She waited, he realized dimly, for his opinion.
He couldn’t think of anything that would preserve that expression, and so said nothing at all.
She turned away.
He exhaled—then immediately regretted it, as he knew what would follow. He would be expected to eat them.
He set the dread aside for later as she turned back with a pan and thin paper liners.
His back met the “refrigerator”—a Muggle invention she had introduced him to, the list of such things ever growing.
He was presented with her back as she worked, scooping the monstrous batter into circular slots lined with paper. He could have been one of the glass lanterns for all the notice she gave him.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead—subtly, he thought—then immediately cursed himself for the dramatics.
A moment later, as she opened it, he realized it was the other thing—the oven—that was radiating heat without any sign of a fire.
He stepped out of the four cubic centimeters they called a kitchen. With both him and the muffins, it was overcrowded.
And it was quite clear which of them she preferred.
He made his way to the couch with quiet solemnity, the thought lingering longer than it should. His eyes caught on the grandfather clock as he passed—just after one.
The day had turned out differently than he’d expected, but seemed, at last, to be settling into itself.
He sighed as the downpour continued its assault against the windows, reaching for his book on the end table.
He’d forgotten to mark his place again, and was halfheartedly flipping through the pages when he heard the oven open.
A soft slide of metal—and then it shut. Three pings followed. He found himself trying to count them, before wrenching his attention back to the text.
It was an important chapter—Antidotes—but complex for his overwrought mind, and heavy on memorization.
A weight settled onto the couch beside him.
He kept his eyes unflinchingly on the page. It was quiet enough now that he could hear breathing—hers—and so he made a point of continuing his own, steady and deliberate, as though it might drown it out.
The weight shifted, then propped its trainers up on the low table.
His eyes flicked over despite himself.
It did not go unnoticed.
He returned to the page with an almost defiant aloofness.
Mandrake and powdered Graphorn horn, being of a generally restorative character, may be substituted one for the other with little effect upon the final draught. Not so the transformative ingredient, which must bear a particular and exact relation to the malady in question, or the antidote will prove ineffectual.
The weight redistributed into two dents—his eyes registered them as knees—as they made their way closer.
He found himself looking at a dark head peering over the edge of the book.
“An-ti-dotes,” she read, upside down.
“Hm,” he acknowledged, not intending to sound curt, though his throat felt inexplicably hoarse.
The silent game resumed. So did the breathing.
He would not break it.
“You should brush up on them,” he prompted anyway.
He watched her face move through its familiar—though no less compelling—sequence. First, surprise. Then a guarded expression as she thought. Then the pause—just long enough to be noticed. And then—
“Why?”
Bait taken.
He leaned back, more at ease now, though his arms remained tightly crossed.
“Accidental poisoning,” he replied, keeping his answer brief, matching hers.
He watched her eyes dance—almost with interest—as she parsed the reply. Something like triumph stirred in him, but he pressed it down.
“I suppose there’s a chance…” she allowed, soft and thoughtful.
He waited.
She kept watching him, her gaze flicking between thoughts. His stayed steady, though it was determination alone that held it there.
“…Are you planning to poison me?” she asked, without the slightest hint of a smile.
He could have jumped, though he kept himself perfectly still.
“…Not at all,” he returned, after a beat. “I’ve just been reading up.”
He returned to his book.
She leaned in closer, almost unconsciously.
And there it was again—that flicker of something, disproportionate and misplaced.
He could feel her eyes. Almost hear her puzzling his meaning.
But the moment faded into nothing.
He’d miscalculated.
He pushed the faint disappointment away.
Just as he’d started considering how he might play it next time, he heard,
“You can’t be too careful.”
He looked up into a playful face, mouth quirking with understanding.
He smiled back—just for a moment.
And then he stopped.
His eyes returned to the next line of text, but it was wordy and convoluted, its meaning evading him. Half his attention lingered elsewhere—on the shift of her weight as she leaned back against the headrest.
He startled when a shrill beeping started, and she scurried away.
Leaving him alone with the uncomfortable awareness of what he’d just been doing.
⚚
He was colder after the muffins came out. She didn’t understand.
He had been warmer before. Not warmer—just less sharp.
But then again, he was unpredictable.
She set the tray down carefully, spacing them out without thinking. Some had spilled over the edges. One leaned into another.
He came to look down his nose at them.
Then walked away.
She frowned down at one as well, picking it up and turning it over in her fingers.
It smelled nice, if squishy. She took a bite.
“Mmm,” she said. It melted in her mouth, perfectly sweet and crunchy.
His head remained obstinately turned. She frowned.
She picked one up and carried it over.
He did not look, apparently engrossed in the book. Not even when she set it near his hand, peeling back the wrapper.
“Careful.”
He didn’t smile.
She set it back on the table and folded her hands in her lap.
Maybe he didn’t like sweets.
Maybe he’d remembered where they were.
She left him to his book.
The last bookshelf caught her attention; she had been going through it, learning about the nearby plants and mushrooms. The highlands were rich with things that could be eaten.
Within minutes, they were both absorbed again, as if no one had spoken.
⚚
When he woke next, it took him a few moments to realize why he felt so miserable. Or rather—more miserable than most mornings.
He fought out of the bedding; it had twisted into something suffocating in the night. Breath came ragged and quick.
He brushed the hair from his damp forehead, the skin there sticky with sweat. Tried to swallow it down—but it rose again, until he could only chase it to the restroom.
He made it just in time, shutting the door behind him.
It felt familiar.
Once, it had been because he’d eaten or drunk something he wasn’t meant to—something he didn’t want discovered.
But he was no longer a child. There was no excuse.
When it was over, there was no one to steady him. No soft hands, no quiet reassurances.
He straightened slowly. Made his way to the kitchen, feeling hollowed out.
It was still dark out. She was awake—before him—and he felt a pang of shame that she must have heard.
He kept his head down. Filled a glass of water. Tried to avoid her gaze while he drained it.
She had the apron on again, and he could see more bowls of blue batter before he turned to the couch.
His steps were slow, measured. Each step sent another pound through his head.
This was no time for shame.
And yet, he felt it. Acutely.
The feeling settled as soon as he sat down. Good. He would need to find the antidote.
But first, he would need to find out what it was.
And before that, he would rest his eyes. Just for a second.
⚚
When he opened them again, the room was filled with weak sunlight.
In front of him was a small table he didn’t remember being there, set with a brimming glass of water, several cubes of ice clinking faintly at the surface, and a napkin placed beside it.
And on top of it—a muffin.
He turned his head slightly. An anxious face was peering at him.
“You fell asleep,” she said, before he could speak.
He felt the shame stir again, low in his stomach, and looked back down at the table instead. He lifted the glass, the coolness of it steadying as it went down.
Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, he reached for the muffin.
It was every bit as good as it smelled—better than it looked, certainly.
The single bite loosened something in him, his body relaxing despite himself. His thoughts, still slightly dulled, settled on a conclusion he would not have entertained otherwise.
It was because she had made it. Something of her—her hands, her care, her presence—had leaked into it, and he took another bite without thinking.
“I laced it with a wellness draught,” she said, watching him.
He let out a quiet snicker.
“Just as well.”
Neither of them spoke as he finished. Then he asked, politely, for another. She beamed, and skipped off to fetch it.
When she returned, he let his fingers linger, just slightly, against hers.
The touch was brief. She did not seem perturbed.
That feeling had no point of reference.
⚚