The Dungeons

Everything is a mess. A horrible mess.

The situation warrants words, but I've none. None other than worry. I'm worried for Ron, for Bill, for all the Weasleys, really.

He left my bed on Monday night, or rather Tuesday morning, and I did not see him again until his return from Peru that night, and I wouldn't have if I had not taken over the corner of his sofa again. It was quiet. So much quieter than usual. We curled together on the sofa and he told me what he knew, that there was nothing that anyone could do. And that should have been, not the end of it, but something, instead it all turned around yet again.

It hurts him to see his family in pieces. That much has always been clear to me, and I hurt for him in return. But there is little that I can do other than to entwine our fingers and lean into him when he wraps himself around me. It's comfort, pure and unadulterated by anything else. Physical and emotional and all tied up in the desire on both our parts to alleviate hurt.

( So many different parts to the same thing, equally important )

And yet another piece is where it should be. The last edge piece of the frame, making it easier to build. Inward instead of outward. It is no longer his bed. It isn't even my bed. It's our bed.