Interlude [h.s]

eighty-seven

Harry's throat moves against the blade, but it truly isn't sharp enough to do much of anything. "You would've had a better run with a paper sheet from that folder." He nods to her hand, still clasped on her lap.

"I guess so," Alouette gives in, "but being the one with the upper hand gets boring after a while. Thought I'd give you a chance to fight back."

He laughs and stands up. "Careful, little bird," he murmurs, leaning towards her, the desk between them, "someone might think you get off holding a blade to my throat. I bet you'd love to do it while ri—"

The knife falls on the desk with a clatter. "Fuck, Harry," Alouette mutters under her breath.

Harry's eyes are twinkling as he takes in her face. "Should I take it as a yes, then?" he asks softly, tilting his head. "It's hard to tell fear and excitement apart sometimes. How troublesome."

Alouette stares deep into his eyes, as if she could see anything other than the dull, greyish-green tint his eyes often turn in his office. "It's funny, I've known you for months and yet I still can't tell if sometimes you're moved by absolute recklessness or a very strong death wish."

"Where would the fun be if I were to tell you?"

Alouette lets out a stiff chuckle and picks up the butter knife again. "It's because the blade's dull," she can't help but share, grazing it with her thumb. "I could never hold an actual knife to your throat."

"You already have."

Her head snaps up. "That was before..." Her voice dies out, but she knows he knows what she's referring to. "I—I could never. Just the thought of a blade coming near you..." She has to close her eyes and shake her head to push back the sudden wave of nausea that comes over her. Harry is still silent, and she opens her eyes again, catching him staring at her. She knows her instinctive reaction hasn't escaped his attention. "I probably shouldn't have told you that, is that right? Now you can use it against me."

A faint smile curves Harry's lips. "You're learning." He sits back down and opens the folder again. "I must admit I thought you were taking revenge for the lack of attention I've given you lately," he adds after a moment.

"Don't give me ideas."

The corners of his lips turn up again even as his eyes drift through the sentences written on the page, as if the mild threat pleases him.

Alouette crouches in front of the desk and leans her head on her folded arms, studying him curiously. "Did it really not scare you?"

Harry's gaze finds hers again. For a long while, she thinks he won't actually answer. "It did," he says in the end, surprising her.

"It didn't look like it did."

He smiles. "I take pride in that."

She bites her lower lip. She truly can't understand him sometimes. It's a good kind of not understanding, though—the one that screams not yet, not yet, not yet. Not a precluded road, but one waiting to be paved. Because this is what Harry is to her—a frozen lake, fresh water just under the icy surface. An unclimbed mountain, a journey half-completed. He doesn't let people in easily—every sentence, every secret is a conquest, a gift. It's been a few months since she's realised that, if she trusts him and sides with him, he'll show her loyalty in return. It's the only way to melt the ice that surrounds him, to break the tip of the spears he protects himself with. She wants every mystery, every whispered confidence. She wants everything he's willing to give her—and suddenly, those three words she let escape weeks ago come back to her. Suddenly she remembers just how defenceless she is in front of him. Harry looking for her that night of a few days ago made her feel like she had the upper hand, but now the weight of the truth seizes her—Harry might feel something for her, but she's irremediably in love with him. Her feelings have soared on newborn wings, and the way back down is long and crowded with asperities—even more so because she's a single sentence from him away from crashing. The lack of ground under her feet steals her awareness.