Alone in Room 42

This room has been a place of happiness and of reunion and of love and of communion, but now it feels little better than a prison. Of all the times to not be able to leave...

Whenever he closes his eyes, the fight with Fleur replays in glorious colour, full sound effects included. He can hear the angry hissing she made and the way the magic filled the room so clearly her hair stood on end -- was she really about to assume Veela form? -- but the worst thing of all is hearing the door slam behind him over and over and over again. It was the loudest sound in the world.

All he wanted to do was step outside and take a few deep breaths in the early-morning air.

He didn't want to leave her. He didn't want to run away.

Most of all, he didn't want to end up at the end of the universe, unable to leave. It's too familiar in a horribly uncomfortable way. What if he can never get back to her? What if time passes and she never gets his note, assumes he's left her for good, and wanders off somewhere? What if she has their baby without him? What if, what if, what if...

"Fuck."

It does no good to say the word aloud, but it feels better than holding it inside. There's nothing to do but wait.

He's never been the patient sort.

(no subject)

Bill's thoughts are not fit for public consumption. They're barely fit for his own: he paces the floor of Room 42. Back and forth, back and forth: does she think he's stayed away this whole time over a buggering fight? Has she got his letter yet? Does she have a sense he's trying to reach her and can't? All the thoughts, of course, are punctuated heavily by fuck! and bloody hell! and damn! and his brother Charlie's favourite, fuckity fuck fuck!

He's miserable. Completely, utterly miserable and frantic. It's a bloody fuck of a good fucking thing she's as good a witch as she is. Fuck's sake, she saved his life. Twice.

And this is how you repay her, Bill. How very genteel of you.

He's so caught up in angry thought that he doesn't even hear the door opening.