The Eyes of the Wolf

Rose laid down her book with a wistful sigh. The pages were old and the text faded, but the words never ceased to touch her. How she would have wanted to live in the time of Shakespeare, the celebrated Muggle playwright and poet. All those dark, fascinating castles, all those fiery men on their horses, all that poetry, fresh from the pens of the geniuses...

Rose's gaze wandered from the page to the window. A lone light shone like a guiding star in the valley; the Potters were at home. Dusk was descending over the hills like a quiet, nightly blanket, and from the open window, she could hear the soft hooting of Juno, the family owl.

All of a sudden, the door burst open, and Hugo rushed in, holding his mini Quidditch playing set.

'Rose, play with me!'

Rose returned to the real world with a deep sigh.

'Not now, Hugo, I'm reading.'

'Is it the love book again?' Hugo rose on tiptoe by the desk. 'Yeah, you're reading the love book.'

'Stop it,' Rose said, but Hugo retreated and grinned in a way that made him look just like Uncle George.

'Rose's reading about looove,' Hugo sang in a singsong voice. 'Rose's dreaming of Jaaames!'

'Shut up, you little goblin!' Rose made an attempt to catch Hugo, but after a dozen or so similar scenes, Hugo had known to step back.

'Rose is all lovey-dovey! Mmmm....kissy!' Hugo made a smacking noise. 'Rose is thinking about kissing cousin James!'

'I'm NOT!' Rose ran after Hugo, who darted down the stairs. 'I'm not thinking about James, you little ball of snot!'

'Rose wants to snog Jaaames...' Hugo's voice trailed off downstairs. Rose arrived at the kitchen door, but the room was empty. She whirled around and saw Hugo's ankle flash in the living room.

'I'll show you!' She jumped behind the sofa, landed painfully on the floor and almost caught Hugo's shoe, but Hugo kicked his legs and scarpered to the guest room. He banged the door shut after him, and Rose could hear the curtains tear apart. Fine, he was going to jump, and she'd never catch him.

Panting, Rose pushed her spectacles up her nose and stared at the corner of the fireplace. Like she'd care about James. Or, like James'd care about her.

A door shut somewhere, and Dad's voice sounded from the hall. Rose lay quietly, hoping he'd go to the kitchen. She had no business lying behind the sofa at that moment; she was supposed to be packing for Hogwarts.

'Ron, I thought I heard you,' Mum's voice said, and a smack not unlike Hugo's mock-attempt followed the words.

'Where're the kids?' Dad's voice asked.

'Upstairs. Rosie's packing for school and Hugo's playing.'

'You look tired, Hermione. Have you been writing all day?'

There was a moment's pause, then Dad's voice spoke again.

'Come on, you'll sit down for a while now. Dinner can wait.'

Rose grimaced and pulled herself further behind the sofa. Soon she could see two pairs of ankles walk into the room.

'I want to sit by the fireplace,' Mum said. 'I'm cold.'

Rose craned her neck to peek around the corner of the sofa. Mum and Dad were sitting on the floor, very close to the crackling fire. Mum looked pale and worn out.

'Hermione, you have to rest,' Dad said and brushed aside a curl that had parted from the big bun Mum usually wore. 'Otherwise this thing will eat you alive.'

Mum said nothing, but she shook her head, and Rose saw something glimmering in her eyes.

'You had a dream again, didn't you?' Dad asked and moved closer. Rose wanted to turn her head away, but she was mesmerised by the softness in Dad's eyes, the way he pulled Mum close. Mum let out sob and buried her head against Dad's chest.

This was one of those days again. Aunt Ginny said it was because of the war, dreams that haunted you and painted the terrible scenes in your mind over and over again. Then they left you alone, until one day, they attacked you again. After those nights, Mum was always quiet and withdrawn, and even the smallest things made her eyes well. Others had those nights, too: Uncle Harry and Grandma Molly.

Mum was still sobbing, and Dad was stroking her hair. Rose stared fixedly, even though she realised that this was not for her eyes. But there was something so tempting in the tenderness, something that filled a small, empty place in her chest.

Right then, Dad looked up. Rose pulled an apologetic face, but Dad just smiled. He raised his finger quietly on his lips and pointed at the door. Rose took the hint and retreated from her trap.

'Close the door,' Dad mouthed, and Rose obeyed. She ascended the stairs slowly, deep in thought. Outside, the dusk was changing into inky blackness, and the candle flickering on a small table in the upstairs hall bathed its surroundings in a soft, golden light. Hugo had apparently returned; he was babbling alone in his room.

'...Rooke catches the Quaffle, passes to Wood...'

Rose closed the door and sat on her bed. The book of Shakespeare's sonnets lay open on her desk, but she couldn't bring herself to pick it up. She had just seen something better: a sonnet come alive. If only she'd be given something like it.

'Just a verse would do, you know,' she whispered to the invisible Someone, and pulled her duvet tightly around her.