The Buddy System. *Updating In Process*

67. Written Between Heartbeats

Azaleah was asleep within fifteen minutes.

Not the restless, fractured kind of sleep that comes and goes in uneasy waves — but the deep, boneless kind that takes the whole body with it, claiming her entirely. The sort of sleep born not of exhaustion alone, but of safety. Her breathing evened out into a slow, steady rhythm, each rise and fall of her chest gentle and unhurried, as though her body had finally decided it could stop bracing for the next blow.

Her lashes rested softly against her cheeks, casting faint shadows in the low light of the room. Her mouth had relaxed, lips parting just slightly, and the lines of worry that had lived so permanently on her face had smoothed away. One hand was curled loosely around the edge of the blanket, fingers slack and trusting, while the other lay tucked beneath her chin — a childlike posture that twisted something deep in my chest.

For the first time since I'd known her, there was no tension in her brow.

No flinch.
No fear.
No vigilance.

Just rest.

I stayed in the doorway far longer than I meant to.

I didn't move. Didn't breathe too loudly. Didn't dare disturb the fragile peace that had settled over her like a blessing. I watched the subtle flutter of her eyelashes, the minute shift of her fingers as sleep pulled her deeper, the quiet certainty that she was still here — still breathing, still safe, still real.

I listened.

To the soft brush of her breath.
To the house settling around us.
To the silence that, for once, didn't feel heavy or threatening.

It felt earned.

It felt precious.

My chest ached with it — with the relief, with the fear that still lingered beneath it, with the overwhelming need to protect this moment from anything that might steal it away. I memorised the scene as though I might need it later, imprinting it into myself: the way the blanket rose and fell, the way her hair fanned across the pillow, the way peace looked on her when she finally allowed herself to have it.

Only when I was certain — when her breathing had deepened further, when her grip on the blanket loosened completely — did I allow myself to move.

Carefully.
Painfully carefully.

I reached out and nudged the door closed inch by inch, holding the handle so it wouldn't click, so it wouldn't betray us with noise. The latch slid home with barely a whisper.

Then I turned away.

I padded down the stairs, my socked feet barely making a sound against the wood, every step measured, deliberate — as though the house itself were holding its breath with me, guarding her sleep alongside us.

And I didn't rush.

Not now.

The kitchen light was still on.

Mrs Weasley stood at the table, utterly still, a single piece of parchment clutched in her hand.

She looked... furious.

Not loud fury. Not explosive. The dangerous kind — the tight, contained anger of a woman who had already decided exactly how she felt and was now waiting for someone to explain themselves.

"Sit," she said.

Just one word. Flat. Commanding.

She pointed to the chair I'd occupied not even half an hour ago.

I sat.

The chair scraped softly against the floor, the sound far too loud in the sudden stillness. My stomach tightened instinctively, the way it always did when I realised I was about to be on the receiving end of a Mrs Weasley conversation.