The portraits snored and he kind of leaned into her when he walked. It was late for Monday night, it was dark in the corridor, it was hard not to reach out and touch him.

It wasn't like her to stay up past ten, but being up an hour later than usual and being (completely) alone with him was some sort of reward for the extra energy she had to control at times like this.

And yes, it was quiet and shaky and breath was ragged, involuntary, pulled out by gravity; and yes, she was afraid of him tonight. Because it had become exhausting, this running.

It would be so much easier to stop and turn around and say yes instead of nonononono, but she was Lily Evans and when did she ever actually follow her heart? It was all logical (or, in this case, illogical).

Up the stairs, down a corridor that was empty except for their footsteps, which really were the only conversation between them (besides the pitter patter of the rain against the windows). She wished it was as easy to talk to him as it had been early on- before December when friends changed to something else; before long pauses could be filled in with I'm different or I might love you a little.

Or a lot.

The time was getting thin, thin, thin, like the stain glass windows when the rain wore them down. Two months until graduation, until they had goodbyes on their lips, and her chances were slowly diminishing.

And by the time she (finally) got up the nerve to say something, anything, he was whispering "Flumina." The portrait swung open and before she could even blink they were standing in the center of the Common Room, on the thick red rug. He was looking right at her, his face earnest, his hand soft on her wrist and-

"Goodnight, Lily."

She didn't have time to say anything but "See you in the morning," before he was safely up the steps, (close the door) in his dormitory.

Before bed she took three sips of water just to give herself some body weight, so gravity wouldn't forget to hold onto her, so she wouldn't slip and fall further, further, further into nothing.

The bed was neither warm nor cold, just necessary, there so she could somehow remain balanced and on schedule. The rain (drip, drip) dripped in the dark unknown outside her window until she faded with it, met it somewhere between alive and dead- dreams.

XXX

She woke up in an infinite field of green, at home or at the place that used to be home; her parents' house in Ireland. She was without three senses- touch, taste, smell- but she knew how things should be. The sky was a little gray, the way it was right after a downpour, right before another one.

When she stood up, she absently kicked the heels of her tiny Mary Janes and realized, with astonishing calmness, that she was standing in her six year old skin.

I'm dreaming she clarified immediately, allowing this dream-self, this shadow of her true self, to stand up and look around this big, vast world.

Somewhere to the right was her mother's garden, to the left her tiny old house and- Could it be? Somewhere between the grove of trees and the tiny stream stood a ten year old Petunia.

For the slightest second, her sister's raven black hair blowing in the wind reminded her of someone else. She cast off the feeling quickly, but the shadow of it lingered, then died with a rustle of leaves.

Petunia, having spotted her, took four steps forward and let Lily come the rest of the way.

"Mum wants you to pull the weeds from the garden," her sister said, sounding tired and a little bossy.

Lily only nodded, staring around wildly at the enormous expanse of world- it had been so long since it had seemed so big, so untouchable. When she turned back to her sister, Petunia had vanished, leaving a lone dandelion in the place she stood seconds ago.

Sighing, Lily trotted to the garden, finding it to be immense in size and immeasurable in beauty. Getting on her hands and knees, she began pulling the weeds free from the soil, managing to make the flowers seem flawless in the process.

The pile of weeds grew larger, her hands grew dirtier, and everything around her was a perfect symphony of motion and sound until-

To her left, a rustle in the leaves, and soon, a shadow stood, curtained by the dark clouds.

When she looked up all she saw was a simple silhouette but, upon further examination, she caught it all- the raven hair, the earnest eyes, the easy smile. He inhaled once before joining her on the soil, without hesitation.

Even in her dream state she could smell him- spice, something like wood and surprisingly, something faintly similar to alcohol.

"You don't have to do this alone, you know," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"I know," she smiled at him, and her voice came out lower, more mature- she was back to her present day self.

By the time she'd pulled out three more weeds, the sky was threatening more than just rain and time felt pressed, condensed like always. What was she supposed to do anymore?

He pulled up a weed, not seeming to notice the predicament they were in. She stared at him a little longer, wondering: Should she say something now, in a dream, just so she knew that she could at least try?

"James-" she began, stopping when he looked up (his eyes held surprise, she thought). His hands, so dirty, set down the last of the flaws (weeds) before resting in the dirt somewhere close to there her knee bent.

He opened his mouth, then, at the sound of thunder, looked up, blinking as raindrops fell into his eyes and hair. She could see the water on her arms, could tell it was swimming down the edge of her face (she had the strangest notion that it wasn't rain, but rather, tears). She needed to run for cover- surely, he'd follow her.

When she stood up and ran towards the house she heard his laugh somewhere beneath the rain, but didn't look back until she realized he wasn't anywhere near her. Turning around, making her hair spin, dance in front of her, she saw him standing in the garden.

He tilted his head slightly when their eyes met, asking her something- the clap of thunder made her blink, and when she looked again, he was gone, along with the rain, the scenery, and she was falling, falling, falling into nothing, through the castle walls, onto her soft mattress.

When she finally opened her eyes, her hair was a little wet, a little wavy from perspiration, or, quite possibly, rain.