Interlude [h.s]

eighty-eight

THE PALACE

Alouette falls to the ground beside Harry. "What's wrong?! Are you hurting? Are you feverish?" Her heart is in her throat, she's so worried she feels sick.

Harry leans his head back against the side of his desk, closing his eyes and breathing in slowly. Panic washed over her in waves. She feels his forehead with the back of her hand, but he isn't warm. She scans his frame quickly, from the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest under his dress shirt and vest to his raised knees, slightly tilted to the side, but nothing seems amiss.

"Harry?" Her hand cups his face, trying to elicit a response from him. Her thumb brushes his cheekbone; under a thin layer of make-up, his under-eyes are darkened by exhaustion. A tight lump forms in her throat. "Are you sick? Are you—"

There's a movement behind her. When Alouette looks up, Evie is standing over the desk with a glass of water in her hand. "You should drink some," she states, handing it down to Harry. Alouette's heartbeat is so loud in her ears that she can barely hear her voice. She feels like she might pass out, but Evie is calm, as if this isn't news to her.

Harry's eyes open by a sliver and he takes the glass from her hand. He takes a sip and puts it down at his side. He takes a deep breath. Then another. Then he blinks his eyes open and looks at Alouette. "You're crying," he murmurs. "Why?"

Alouette's eyes widen. She hadn't even noticed, but there are tears streaming down her face. Her cheeks are completely wet. "I—I don't—"

Harry reaches into his black suit and pulls out a black handkerchief, with his initials engrained in deeper black in a corner. He offers it to her holding it between his middle and pointer finger. Alouette cries harder. He tilts his head at her, as if he doesn't quite know what to make of her. He takes another sip of water and clears his throat. "It was only momentary dizziness,"  he says. He's keeping his voice steady, but there's still the echo of a cloud in his eyes. He folds his legs with non-deliberate slowness.

Alouette looks down. She can't even see him anymore through her wall of tears; her hands are clenching the jacket of his suit, crumpling the pristine black fabric. Her heart is so loud, so loud, so loud it could jump out of her chest.

"You're shaking." Another low sentence coming from a deep voice, accompanied by a set of hands on her wrists. Cold slender fingers slide into her fists, slowly releasing her grip on the jacket. A hand leaves her, and then fingers snap in front of her face. "Look at me."

Alouette rubs the tears out of her eyes and meets Harry's green irises. He's still sitting on the ground, his back to the desk. There are papers on the floor next to him—he accidentally took them down with him when he sat down, but she was so freaked out she didn't even notice. "I—" She can't put her racing thoughts into words.

Harry studies her for a long while. Then, "Get up."

She forces her taut nerves to relax and slowly gets to her feet. She isn't crying anymore now—Harry's steady voice has calmed her down a little. Still, her fingers hurt because they were clenched so tight, and her mind keeps saying, something's wrong, something's wrong, something's wrong. Harry wouldn't fall to the ground for no reason. "Is it—" Her eyes fall to his lower stomach, still wrapped by that black vest and the jacket of his suit so elegantly. Did she let him go back to the Palace too soon? Was he too badly hurt, did he get sick because of the strain of travelling and working? Was a month not long enough to recover from nearly dying? Was he faking it when he acted like he was fine?

Harry stands up as well. It takes him a while too long, a hand on top of the desk to keep him from losing his balance. He looks down, a slight frown on his face. He keeps still for a second, then five, then twenty. At last, he blinks. "It was only a moment," he says. It does nothing to ease the panic spreading through Alouette's mind. Something's wrong, she needs to find out, she needs to—