Chapter 6: Wands Only

The wind came off the sea at half past midnight and took the lamps with it.

Harry saw the nearest one go out, and then the second.

The Boundary Gallery was lit only by the silver lines on the hill beyond the glass.

"That's not a draught," said Draconia.

She did not say it as a joke.

The window rattled in its frame, and the whole table shook.

The brass cradle slid an inch toward the edge, and both wands rolled in it.

Harry's hand came off his wand to catch the nearest one.

It was hers, the pale ash, and he closed his fingers around it just as she reached for the dark bent one.

Her hand landed over his.

It was not a brush of fingertips or the edge of a knuckle.

Her whole palm lay flat across the back of his hand.

His fingers were closed round her wand, and her thumb was against the bone of his wrist.

She was warm.

He had not expected that, after a week of her sitting in the cold with her eyes on the sea.

The wind hit the window again.

The lines of light on the hill, which had been silver all night, flared up and went gold from end to end.

It lit the whole gallery.

It lit her face, a little turned toward him, with her eyes wide and her mouth just open on a word she had not said.

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