⫶⫶⫶ ᴇ ᴅ ᴇ ʟ y ɴ ⫶⫶⫶
― Edelyn Aurélia Black learned
from a young age that h e r o e s
aren't always the ones who win.
They're the ones who fight. And
so, Edelyn fights, until the green
lying dormant beh...
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THERE WERE EIGHT DAYS LEFT until November the 7th, and Harry woke at the break of dawn with a terrible throb in his head; he had slept poorly the night before, tossing and turning as the argument he had had with Ron replayed in his mind, angered words ringing loudly in his ears.
Rubbing his tired eyes, he sat upright and reached for his glasses. Blurred vision turning clear, his gaze landed on the photo frame sitting on his bedside table, and he felt an inexplicable foreboding bubble in the pit of his stomach. Crossing his legs, he sat with the frame held in his hands, fingers brushing against the wooden borders as he stared down at the picture of him and Edelyn that had been taken what felt like a lifetime ago.
There was only a little over a week now before her seventeenth birthday, and Harry wondered if she would set out to find them once she had turned of age. A part of him greatly wished her to do so, yet another part wished her to stay put. To stay safe. Besides, with all the protective enchantments Hermione had cast upon them, she, just like Ron now, would never be able to locate them anyways.
He blinked rather rapidly.
"I miss you," he muttered under his breath, and he wondered if Ron was with her now. If Ron had explained to her what had happened; if Ron had expressed his frustration with his lack of preparation for the mission; if Ron had passed on his absurd belief that there was something between him and Hermione that was more than just friendship.
He shuddered at the thought of the last one and felt the desperate urge to dig up the two-way mirror from his rucksack. He longed to hear her voice; to see her smile. He yearned with an ache in all his bones to speak to her. To tell her that he was thinking of her, that he missed her, and that he wanted to take it all back. He wanted — needed — to kiss her and to whisper to her the three tender words that had always got lost on his tongue.
He ran a hand through his hair, and feeling tears begin to brim his eyes, buried his face in his palms.
Meanwhile, miles away out on the outskirts of Tinworth, Cornwall, Edelyn too woke with a terrible throb in her head. Hers, however, was not so much caused by a lack of sleep, but by the after-effects of having drunk too much Firewhiskey.
The pain in her head — it was as if someone had clubbed her with a Beater's bat. The pounding in her skull was so strong that she wondered why it hadn't simply cracked open, her brain swelling to a size far too great for her skull. Her body felt terribly heavy; her throat like sandpaper; and there was a sore ache in all her muscles. All she wanted to do was to stay curled into a ball under the soft duvet, but there was an inexplicable foreboding bubbling in the pit of her stomach, and Edelyn couldn't help but feel as if something was terribly wrong. Something was off.
Slowly, she tried to flutter her eyes open, only to immediately squeeze them shut when blinding rays of sunlight burned through her dilated pupils. Her face contorted into a grimace as if she could wring the discomfort away, and she knitted her brow in concentration, searching her mind and trying to piece together the blurred fragments of the previous night. But gathering her thoughts into focus was like holding water in cupped hands, there for only a second before slipping through her grasp.
