togethercoloured instant

And what poetry!

Nothing from her primary schooling, memorized by the dozen to impress teachers and win prizes. Surely, if they'd known young Dora read other poems by the nice man who wrote about little Christmas trees and moon balloons and pretty how towns (whatever they were), they'd have had an apoplexy (young Dora was never sure what that was, but if they were upset by a little pink hair or change in eye color, surely her extracurricular reading from Dad's library wouldn't go over well).

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.

It was true, though, in her case quite literally. She, who knew how to manipulate every cell of her body, had been surprised by her response to the man who lay, still sleeping, a few feet from her.

How many people had found her nearly perfect, the "if only" that would be the kiss of doom in any other relationship bursting forth, because she, loving, could become perfect, ideal? For a time, at least -- those who would have her change rarely stopped with one request. Her soft heart quickly hardened to the words of physical compliments, letting them roll off with a half-smile.

But here, she was herself: somehow, whatever she chose to look like mattered little, though he seemed to prefer the face she was born with. She had her theories: the effect of the war years, when he could only walk out with her when she was altered, lest the Department reprimand her for Order membership, or her friendship with a werewolf. Other times she suspected that it had something to do with his own agonizing change each month, that he found comfort in the constancy of her resting form.

He'd always been so kind -- to her, to everyone. She loved him because of his boundless care for others. Hufflepuffs, even jaded ones, are suckers for altruists, after all.

(slightly smiling, patient, unspeaking

He'd been so shocked by the very idea that anyone could love him more than disinterestedly.

with a sign on his
chest
BLIND)

Affection he understood, friendship he cherished, and he was content to enjoy what he had -- it had been hard won, after all. He had told her once that he was content to think of himself as an elder, a teacher surrounded by community, belonging to all and no one. Peace, after years of detente, exile, and war.

does not ask for more than
just enough dreams to
live on)

She's tried teasing him out of it, debating with him (surprising him with her skill), even admitting her own attraction... but without pressing the point, he remained unconvinced.

after all, kid

you might as well
toss him a few thoughts

a little love preferably,
anything which you can't
pass off on other people:

It had taken stern words -- from the unlikely and yet appropriate duo of Professors McGonagall and Granger-Weasley -- to open his eyes. Funny -- she wasn't sure if werewolves really mated for life, but those whom Helga had taught all she knew certainly did.

Hadn't he read "Hogwarts, A History"?

the he will maybe (hearing something
fall into his hat)go wandering
after it with fingers;

He hadn't wandered very long, thank God.

He shifted, turning toward the light, eye still nearly shut. The breeze from the open window ruffled his greying hair, and when a robin's song trickled in, he smiled vaguely.

"may my heart always be open to little birds/ who are the secrets of living" he murmured, voice still half-muffled by pillow and sleep.

Hardly a heart-shattering piece of poetry, but so perfectly in line with her thoughts she dove back into bed, nudging her face close to his.

"and if men should not hear them men are old," she teased, exulting in the broadening of his smile.

The voice was still sleepy, but stronger now. "for whenever men are right they are not young/ and may myself do nothing usefully"

Like music, she hadn't really given much thought to where the lines were leading -- as dear as these moments of two minds with but a single thought were, they'd never really gone into such a dialogue before. She wondered what she should say... was the moment over? The poem wasn't.

As her train of thought raced, she realized he was fully awake now, watching her with those bright eyes, young and quick in the setting of soft lines. A hand moved to her face, stroking gently.

"and love yourself so more than truly"

The world blurred, focused, and blurred again, but she knew what to say.

"there's never been quite such a fool who could fail/ pulling all the sky over him with one smile."

sometimes i am alive because with
me her alert treelike body sleeps
which i will feel slowly sharpening
becoming distinct with love slowly,
who in my shoulder sinks sweetly teeth
until we shall attain the Springsmelling
intense large togethercoloured instant