Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once, there was a point in which she paid no heed to the silly and mundane construction of time. 

It was nothing more than a concept, moulded into a contrived and linear shape, as was death. Both had been fabricated by humans and their inexplicable—laughable, really—desire to exert dominion over the incomprehensible whims of the universe. They were all but an illusion, for what was time to the river which carved its way back home to the sea or the corpse of an animal upon the forest floor, if not returning? No beginning, no end, no before or after, above or below, cyclical in nature but never in form, and that is what it always was and what it always would be.

Thankfully, her silent contemplation is broken by the obscene rustling of fabric. 

Casting a glance over her shoulder, she promptly raises an eyebrow at the sight before her. There, on all fours, his sky blue sweater, now pushed up to his elbows and forearms on full display, was Ford smoothing out a very loud tartan blanket. 

Curiosity pulls her closer until she is hovering just at the woollen edge.

“Where did you even get a blanket?”

He sweeps one of his large palms over it again, “Nicked it from the inn.”

Her mind flits back to earlier in the night, trying to pinpoint not only when he managed to get a bloody woollen blanket but without her or Madam Rosmerta’s notice. It occurs to Willow at this moment that maybe the innkeeper really was in need of glasses in her twilight years, and it wasn’t a self-deprecating joke on her end. Another thought occurs to her shortly after.

She shifts her weight into one hip. “Do I need to get my eyes looked at?” 

“Your eyes are perfect, I’m just incredibly charming.” 

Even with that delectable raspy baritone timbre of his, Willow does not fluster. Not at his melting tone or the compliment. She especially does not flush at the wink he follows it up with, sent over his shoulder before returning to the work at hand. Eager not to descend into another existential crisis—and not because then she’d have to think about what exactly had her contemplating such things mind you—Willow begins counting the squares on the blanket.

She gets to thirty-seven by the time Ford settles back on his haunches. 

“Alright, come on down.”

Willow goes to step on the tartan, but he raises a hand and gives a reproachful tsk before pointing at her feet. With a roll of her eyes, she kicks her shoes off and abandons them at the edge. The action taunts her with a memory from long ago, reeling her towards it and swiftly reminding her of time once more. She tries to move away from it without giving any inkling to the man on the ground, but even the thought of him has her heading straight back into the throes of her earlier rumination.

There was no trace of time on him. His dark-cropped waves retained the streaks of silver throughout, his beard still a calico of white, silver and dark grey, making him look terribly roguish in a way that made her want to feel the brush of it against her cheek. Or between her thighs.

His eyes flit to hers and a devilish grin spreads, as if he could sense her very thoughts.

Leaning back to rest his weight on his palms, she watches in amusement as he casually stretches his legs out one at a time—it was by far the most obvious invitation she had ever seen.

She accepts it all the same.

In no shape or form does Ford even try to hide the way his eyes rake over her as she approaches him, the fine hairs on her arm lifting from his attention. He even gives a low whistle of appraisal as his eyes meet hers once more.

“Breathtaking."

Willow chooses to feign ignorance, and maybe, just maybe, wants to lure out another compliment or two from him. Coming to a halt between his legs, closer to knees than his scuffed boots, she smoothes the skirt of the dress nonchalantly. “It was a pleasant surprise, that’s for certain.”

Ford raises an eyebrow and glances at his own clothes, amusement tinged with curiosity, “And yet, I get the same sweater every time.”

“Maybe next time.”

His smile flickers and her own joy falters at the faux pas. Neither break eye contact, but the weight that looms over these moments makes itself known, breathing on their necks, demanding to be seen, to be heard.

Her refusal is soft, maybe a little unconventional—but it’s too soon in the night to think such things, to have to remember what waits for them. 

Ford has no complaints in her method of sinking to her knees, a lazy grin of sorts spreading across his face. Even when she hikes up the loose skirt of her dress a little more to shuffle in closer so her knees brush against his inner thigh and her hands settle on his thighs, he doesn’t move his hands remain steady on the blanket. He also abdicates any notion of closing the space between he had carved just for her, not with the brace of his legs against hers nor the inclination of his chin. Instead, he attempts to throw her entirely off-kilter.

“Do you remember the night we met?” 

The snort is entirely involuntary. “Met is hardly the word I’d use.”

A wry grin spreads across his face, “And what would you call it?”

‘Collision’ only scratched the surface of how they had met, and ‘accidental’ felt too foolish for a world in which there was magic. It was a thread of red string winding tighter and tighter until he had careened straight into her, promptly breaking an important appendage or two. In all their time together, they had never spoken of it with the exception of the apology at their bizarre and unexpected re-introduction all those years ago. She doesn’t want to think about what may have prompted such a question.

Her eyes flit to the treetops overhead.

“Calamity.” 

The word is soft, far softer than she thought it might be.

Even now, she cannot tell if it is misfortune or providence that has led them here. No part of her is remiss of the blissful ignorance that was swallowed the first time that moon extended its hand to her. However, she does wonder what it would be to live like this always, and if the wanting of more was the price to be paid for here and now. 

Was it an affordable price, worthwhile and equal, something they both would always be willing to pay? This clearing does not belong to them, they have no manner in which to claim it. Yet even with that innate understanding, her chest still aches at the thought that maybe one night, she would spend it entirely waiting for something that will no longer return.

It has become abundantly clear that the things which were once simple in nature are no longer, and even worse, maybe that is the real price to be paid.

He breaks through her thoughts by pressing a hand over his heart, eyes bright with mirth. “Sweet Willow, always out to wound me.”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“Inevitable.”

Chapter Text

Inevitable. 

Like the tide returning to the sea or the rise of the sun and fall of the moon; a thing in which belonged to greater forces than either of them could ever fathom. The sentiment echoes across the silence, reaching out between each syllable and winding around something buried deep within her.

Moonlight floods the clearing until every atom and molecule stand to attention, body rife with anticipation and even with the freedom to roam, habit keeps her rooted to the spot. She hadn’t looked away from him. Couldn’t.

Ford hadn’t even hesitated. There was no thoughtful tip of the head, sly wink or impish grin. Even his trademark playful tone was absent; and in its wake, a question beckons to be answered. Against the incomparable weight of inevitable, Willow finds herself coming up empty-handed.

Then he slides a knuckle under her chin in an affectionate nudge. 

It’s a simple act, all things considered. But the effect, as expected, is instantaneous. Heat that belongs to forest fires floods every fibre of her being, and by the time her gaze meets his, she is flames reforged, fanned only further by his touch. The weight of this sensation along with every shared look, every unspoken word, the countless moons they have basked under arrives like a lightning strike to the soul. For all that is green and good in this world, it is only him which she wants.

It is a truth that shifts the night into more. 

‘More’ didn’t always occur per se, but when it did…

Well.

The last time ‘more’ happened, they were in the cramped bathroom of The Three Broomsticks drunk and poorly stifling their laughter with kisses. The time before that was in the alleyway just outside, urgent with an edge of desperation that left bruises on her even when the morning came. Once, they somehow managed to end up in a car left at Hogsmeade Station—something which gave Ford a slight existential crisis. Regardless, they always kept far from the forest.

Tonight was different.

There was something in the earth, a quiet thing rippling through the dark, damp soil, moving with the winds, a voiceless whisper spoken in words not meant to be understood, only felt. Urging her to return, a soft pleading to come home come home come home. 

Another nudge from his knuckle and she knows he hears it too.

Her hand shifts, skimming over the top of his thigh until it settles on his hip with curling fingers, catching the leather belt and the hem of his sweater.

“What are you doing?” His playfulness returns, but something softer lays over it.

With a singular purpose in mind, Willow slips her hand under the fabric until and brushes her thumb over the bisecting dip next to his hip bone. It would be easy enough to follow its path to the denim and below, to taunt and tease him until she was pinned on her back and he was yanking himself free, covering every inch of her, barely letting up enough for her to finish each gasp all the way through.

But tonight was different.

Her eyes set on his, she gives an exploratory flex of the hand. “Listening.” 

The muscles of his abdomen flex at the graze of her nails, but Willow remains steadfast. Her palm drifts upwards, sliding over the warm expanse of his torso, higher and higher until sweater and shirt alike are gathered taut at her wrist and the planes of his stomach are exposed. All the while, his hand slowly unfurls until it rests across the base of her throat, spanning wide enough that his pinky and thumb brush each respective collarbone. For a moment, they remain like that, standing on the precipice of inevitable.

Then the warm expanse of his palm shifts; sweeping past the pulse point that he delights in bruising, blunt nails skimming the nape of her neck and settling on its curve before giving her the full weight of his kiss.

Willow had felt many things in her existence in this world, echoes of all kinds at the edge of sprawling roots deep below the earth and the sky above—but nothing quite as singular as being kissed by Ford. 

He swallows her delighted exhale hungrily whilst banding his other arm around her waist until his hand is splayed at the centre of her spine and they are flush against the other. 

But it is not enough. 

She is carved for him, crafted by his deft hands, bending, bending, bending until she is arched into his chest, teetering forward on her knees and entirely at his mercy. Her own hands remain pinned between them. But that does not prevent the flex of fingers, nails digging deep, clawing to be close to something precious.

He kisses her as if she is the very water that will sate his thirst; languid and slow and with utter reverence. It is as soft as it is rough, as was everything about Ford. 

The fine hairs that brushed her fingers when she curled her palm into the hard planes of his chest, or the scratch of his beard on her cheek when his nose softly nudged hers as their kiss deepened. Even his weathered palms balance the soft curl of his fingers at the nape of her neck. She’d always appreciated the juxtapositions of Ford, but tonight, she revered them.

Quickly freeing one hand, she wastes no time fastening into his silken strands. Only when she gives a playful soft tug does she feel the unmistakable curve of his smile and she should know, she really should, but Willow is too lost in him to notice—she barely registers movement on the nape of her neck. 

Then Ford gives a hard, sharp tug.

It is the loveliest barbed wire, a perfect hybrid between pain and pleasure, emanating across her scalp and all the way to her toes until they curl into the blanket beneath. A soft gasp escapes her, and the seam of her lips is parted by his tongue. There is no defence to be found, only desire. 

He repeats the motion again, less tug and more pull, and the strength he puts into it has her desperate to hold on. Blunt nails scrape against his scalp and with nowhere to go, her other hand digs into the meat of his chest with such ferocity that one of her nails catches the edge of his nipple. The sound he makes—guttural and heady—is unlike anything she has heard before, delivering a bolt of arousal straight to her cunt and suddenly it is no longer kissing, but marking. 

Claiming. 

Consuming.

Urgency turns frenetic, teeth are dragged over tongues, gasps are lost to groans. He pulls, she scrapes. Again. And again. And again. 

With a fistful of blonde waves, he pulls until her spine is curved, throat bared and eyes on the stars above. But unlike every other instance, he does not relent his grip. Not this time.

Willow tries to move, but he allows no such thing and gives another harsh tug whilst the other hand flattens over the soft flesh of her stomach. A whimper is all it takes for the ascent to begin. The weight of his palm emphasises the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and as she tries to regain an even pattern, control of some kind, any kind, Ford’s hand continues its journey.

The fog is still lifting, desire remaining at the forefront and muddling with the rest of her thoughts as his hand settles further into the space at the top of her ribs, past her sternum and stopping shy at the neckline of her dress.

A thumb strokes the underside of her breast absentmindedly. 

Her voice strains, “What—”

“My turn.”

It would be reasonable to assume that the autumn breeze is what elicited a full- body shiver from Willow. 

It would also be reasonable to say that the dark timbre in his voice followed by the swift tug at the neckline of the dress, which resulted in her breasts on full display and exposed to the elements, contributed to said shiver. 

The gasp was halfway up her throat when Ford drags a tongue over one nipple whilst covering the other with his palm—both actions so erotic that her eyes move into the back of her head. 

It is cruel for a man, who is not a man, to be not only competent, but exceptional in human anatomy to the point that a woman, who is, in fact, not a woman, is wishing how much she could be one if it meant having this. 

Having him. 

With the roll of his palm and another swipe of the tongue, he has her right where he wants her. 

She knew the hunger for the rain, for things hidden deep in the earth and the fresh warmth of a new day. There was also a hunger for violence, fed by the hands which planted her and borne from the innate protection she always harboured.

And then there was this.

Him.

Them.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the graze of Ford’s teeth, and then promptly obliterated as he takes one of her pebbled nipples into his mouth. Ford ensures that both receive the same level of attention and with a rotation of the wrist, he denies her the chance to witness his devotion, keeping her gaze on the stars above. 

Every teasing bite, every agonisingly slow swirl of the tongue and open-mouth kiss pinpoints the acute ache of her body he has manifested, designed and remains the only solution for, worsened by imagination.

A particular bite has her fist winding impossibly tighter in his waves, spine curving, head tilting until she is a bow carved for him, anchored by the heat of his tongue and punishing grip that she copies.

At some point, his fingers abandon their post in favour of more, pausing at the nape of her neck before sweeping down the slope of her spine, an appreciative squeeze of her hips that might leave an imprint. But she is weightless, eyes closed.

An embarrassing keening sound escapes her when he pinches one nipple and bites the other in tandem.

His grip seizes, nails biting flesh and suddenly—she is being hauled up and forward, lifted until she is back upright on her knees again. Ford desperately tries to keep his mouth on her, only to depart with a wet drag of his lips that stop on her sternum, panting ragged gasps. 

Somewhere, she understands he’s trying to catch his breath, to last through the night, but when he flexes his fingers and straightens his arms, forcing her back onto her haunches, Willow cannot bear to mourn the loss no matter how brief. An idea sparks, and before she can take it back, her hands drop to his belt.

But Ford is quicker. 

Her hand is knocked back, the other departing her hip and dropping between them in one swift movement that shouldn’t be as arousing as it was. Neither should the sound of the belt unbuckling, but it was, and it took every ounce of willpower to stop her eyes from dropping like stones.

“Up.” 

She obeys.

Nipples tight and cunt aching, Willow rises back up onto her knees, gathering the fabric of her dress until the hemline tickles her thighs. She settles herself above him one knee at a time as he continues to work himself free, and the slow parting of her legs serve as testament to how much they affected the other. Radiating heat, inner thighs slick with the drip of her own arousal, the electric tension of his hand being so painstakingly close—yet his gaze never strayed from her face. Neither had hers from his. 

They are nothing more than mirrors of the other, desire painted and laid bare.

Sweater and shirt still rucked up, face flushed, hair thoroughly mussed and pupils blown wide, swimming with hunger and something profoundly more. It was a sight that made her heart flutter. Willow can’t recall ever seeing anything quite so breathtaking.

He wipes the thought clean from her mind with a swift drag of his cock through her and breath hitches. 

“Ford—”

“I know.” He does it again, eliciting twin groans from them both. “I know.”

She nearly goes half mad when he repeats the motion, the slow drag ensuring that she can savour the way the ridge of his cock slides over her clit. Once, twice, three times—it would be considered teasing if she didn’t know the truth beneath it, if she hadn’t dragged out every second too. 

Anything to make the night feel longer.

So she lets him drag it out. Relishes in it. Feels the strain at his wrist against her inner thigh, muscles taut as he fists himself, steadily rubbing the head of his cock back and forth and back and forth.

It’s only after a particularly toe-curling swipe that she finally takes over.

A low groan escapes him as she rolls her hips, knuckles brushing against the clit and pressing his cock against his abdomen so it leaves a wet stamp. Her forehead drops to his as she drags herself over his entire length, taking her time as she goes.  

He settles both hands atop her thighs and groans, “That’s cheating.” 

A smile tugs at her lips. “So dramatic.” 

Ford’s huff splinters into a murmured curse as she moves again.

There’s something in the way his weathered hands slide up her thighs, how his fingers catch the fabric of her dress before continuing up, flattening over the soft flesh of her stomach until the dress is pinned under his palms to the curve of her waist. More tender than desire. Deeper than reverence.

Realisation expands in her chest, giving way to a hitch of the breath so soft she scarcely hears it herself. Then his hands flex on her waist, a soft urging that whispers for her to come home.

And so she does.

It is a slow descent, every microsecond dedicated to savouring the mind-melting sensation of sinking onto him, that it was here, and they were now, no matter whatever was to come. 

There are no words, her mind wiped clean as he bottoms out, their shared exhales an amalgamation of anguish and relief. For a moment, neither move, relishing in the divine stretch that edged towards pain only to melt into pleasure.

“You are so…” She rolls her hips again and he groans, a mixture of disbelief and lust. Flexing his fingers on her waist once more, Ford drops his head back and exhales. “Fuck.” 

The pace remains slow, filled with soft exhales and low murmurs as she loses herself to the slow stretch of his cock. Every languid roll of her hips has his wayward grin softening until his jaw is lax, and somewhere along the way her hands had floated to his, hardly noticed by either of them until her thumb absentmindedly strokes over his.

Valiantly, Ford attempts to keep his focus on her face, but on the next thumb stroke she pairs with a rock of the hips with a little more pressure, it drops down to where they’re connected.

The drop of his jaw is enough to make her cunt clench.

His gaze returns to her half-lidded and the heat in it breathes life into the soft flutter from before, drifting down to where their hands remain intertwined. A flicker of something passes through the thin ring of blue, but she cannot linger on it, quickly distracted by hands flexing, gliding down to her hips, squeezing, encouraging, a wordless plea that only she knew. 

Willow’s hands move on their own accord, slipping over his shoulders until her elbows rest atop them and she slants her mouth over his before he can protest. The air around them takes on a fuzzy quality, static and soft and heady—maybe that was just the side-effect of being human. 

Maybe it was just from kissing Ford. 

One moment, she’s grinding down, the delicious friction of her clit on his abdomen growing faster—and the next, she’s on her back with a weathered hand at the crook of her knee and a muscular forearm under her waist, fingers curling into her ribs.

An onslaught of open mouth kisses are planted along her neck, wet and desperate and greedy, his forearm banding tighter and tighter as his lips descend, her back keeps arching until the scratch of his beard brushes the swell of her breast. Then he takes her into his mouth and simultaneously sinks himself all the way to the hilt.

He puts his whole body into fucking her, the force of each thrust pushes her further into the earth until she must be an imprint and the mere idea of that reduces her to a wanton wretch of a thing.

Every stroke is searing, building pressure that creeps up her spine and pricks at her scalp, a band stretching and tightening, and she is gasping an amalgamation of praises and curses—at some point begging maybe—the edge he often took her over fast approaching. Desperate to hold off, to stretch this moment for as long as possible, her hands scramble for distraction, for distance, a reprieve she detested as much as she needed.

Ford seems to think otherwise because one moment his hands are under her arse, the next he has her wrists pinned above her head and the other at her throat. 

It only takes one strong squeeze before her eyes roll backwards, lips parting to but Ford covers them, tongue darting into her mouth, lapping up every sound dragged out of her. With a shift of a knee, Ford shifts her thigh so it splays wider, higher, and the next thrust is spine arching, incoherent noise spilling out. 

“Please, please—”

He gives a soft squeeze of her wrist. “Please what, Willow?”

She is molten lava. Fresh soil unearthed. The crest of a tide—unmoored and unmade by the name. The sound of it on his lips floods her lower abdomen, seeps into her cunt and leaves her dripping all over his cock, something they are both made abundantly aware of by the obscene sounds which fill the clearing. Desperate for reprieve, she twists under him, head turning into the blanket, the stars, the deep waters of his eyes, the silver of his beard, that stupid wicked grin. 

Divinity is forged with every kiss, that thread from long ago tightening until she is gasping his name with every strike. A particular stroke wrenches an unfettered keen straight from her chest.

“The sounds you make.” His strokes begin to quicken, grip punishing and forehead heavy on hers. “Best fucking—”

The words are lost to a strangled groan as her walls clutch around him and he quickly drops to his forearms, wrists released and lips claimed. Time, once infinite, was now suddenly fleeting. There wasn’t enough of it; there would never be enough of it ever again. It would now stretch and bend and twist until it became a slow agonising descent into echoing madness that would soon become memory. 

Clarity leaves her on the next thrust, mind emptied and cunt full; mouth ajar and incapable of uttering a single word.

Every sense is heightened, overstimulated beyond words and when the breeze hits them, sneaking between he scant space of flesh and fabric and bringing an acuity to the slick of their joined arousal as Ford continues to fuck her.

It is that sound alone which has her careening over the edge, slamming into her with such force that everything seizes as the hot clutch of her orgasm shoots from crown to cunt. She thinks she’s saying his name, and it manages to reduce him to a singular phrase too. 

He groans it against the hollow of her throat, gasps it on the shell of her ear, murmurs it against her lips all the while fucking her through her orgasm, unrelenting and purposeful.

It doesn’t take long for him to drag another orgasm from her, this one quicker and hotter and eliciting a series of curses out of her that is smothered with sharp but sweet bites across her skin.

Willow is a pliant mess once the wave of her second orgasm recedes, nothing more than a culmination of sloppy kisses, high pitched and needy sounds, fingers digging deep into his scalp, his shoulders, his jaw. Her head urges itself to tip back, to bask in the pale moonlight, but she won’t. She wants to watch him fall apart. Needs it like the air, like the moon on Samhain, like the earth and rain and warm rays of sunlight.

She’s begging, she thinks, or maybe it’s him, babbling incoherent sounds that tell her how good she is, praising how good he feels. It turns him into a carnal thing, devout and desperate and all instinct—she half wishes she had a wall for her head to knock against just to prevent her from slipping into rolled eyes and gasping keens.

Then her eyes meet his.

A telltale frantic stutter of his hips grants her enough time to dig her heels the backs of his thighs, seating him fully inside her just as he starts to come. Fists twisting in the blanket, teeth bearing down on her jugular and the sound he makes reverberates all the way to her very core. The rich and deep timbre echoes across the clearing, just a visitor passing by—but his soft rasp over the vowels of her name remains pressed into the crook of her neck. 

A river returning to sea, Ford hands his weight to her carefully, enough pressure to feel the hummingbird in his chest flutter against her own whilst carding a hand through her hair tenderly, showering her with soft kisses and still buried inside her.

It doesn’t take long between kisses before she feels the thickening of his cock once more, but it does not alter this bliss they’ve found themselves in. Kisses remain soft as do hus strokes, the languid motion mind-numbing and compounding a pang in her chest she had begun to understand all too well of late.

It sits in her chest, creeps up her spine like a wayward ivy that made its home with her.

They remain a tangle of limbs for some time afterwards, words whispered between the soft press of lips and bump of noses and if there was meant to be a reason or purpose of some kind to these nights, Willow thinks that this might be it.

Ford had many stories, sordid tales about a family that softened that rasp of his and tilted up the corners of his lips whenever he recalled them, and other times he would recount grand adventures of a world that knows not of magic, often leaving Willow in a mixture of awe and envy. 

It had crossed her mind once that that could have been the purpose to whatever they were experiencing, that maybe Ford was meant to serve as a spiritual guide of some kind, a mentor in which to experience a life.

But here now, under the stars, intertwined by their hands alone, it occurs to her that maybe there was no one reason, or a reason at all.

Maybe it just is.

She doesn’t linger in the sorrow as the edges of night begin to peel back, nor at the faint tingling in her blood or when Ford squeezes her hand in that way he does when the night no longer belongs to them.

“Shall we?”

Her eyes drift over the clearing before returning to Ford. “We shall.”

He fixes her dress, and she smoothes his jumper—the routine familiar, forged throughout their time together. Sometimes, they’d still be talking until dawnbreak, others were without so much as a whisper shared. 

This morning, they walked in silence. Gazes wandering from the bleeding sky and to each other as they wound between leviathan trees that Willow had spoken with often, trailed down the paths carved by others but only known by them before they broke the final treeline and there, at the edge of the forest, was a stone hut that belonged to a good man once. 

Willow and Ford always stopped here.

Always. 

They eventually drift up the winding steps, diverting from the castle and stop short of the carved steps descending into the earth, both staring at the path that Willow still protected after all this time. 

She knew the boy was gone, as was the girl who came next, where they had gone she did not know, but in her roots she understood it wasn't distance, but somewhere else they'd ventured to.

Would she venture there too one day?

Would Ford?

There was no fear, but she couldn’t deny the twinge in her chest at the idea that one day, he would no longer be. Would he be dead, or simply gone? Is death of the body or when no being knows your name, or can no longer recall the shape of your soul? 

What a strange thing to think death could only belong to bodies, not moments or feelings or sunsets or voices. Or stranger still, that death was an end. 

There was no ending, no beginning. It was returning.

An instinct which tethered herself to the earth, to him, calls out again, and her eyes drift to him, wondering if he heard it too, if it bound him to her too—but he’s already looking at her. 

He was magnetic, impossible to not draw her eyes to and she feels a little foolish for not seeing the answer before her. He’d no doubt return as the night sky, or the sea—something beyond reckoning, a restless force and a thing of beauty many spent endless hours gazing upon.

Inevitable.

The spring breeze is sweet on her tongue and cool on her cheeks, expanding her lungs to their fullest before she returns it with a slow and long exhale that to the rest of the world, was the telltale groaning limbs of one Whomping Willow. And right there beside it was the Ford Anglia that had crashed into it all those years ago.

He only leaves once the sky has turned his shade, and even then, she is not alone.