We Can't Wake Up

They sat together in the clearing, leaning against a thick trunk of one of the many trees. Anne’s head rested on Marcus’ chest, her eyes were closed and one of her arms was draped across his stomach. Marcus gently played with her long hair, running his fingers through the smooth strands. He watched as Anne’s lips flickered as she smiled slightly.

“Marcus?” she whispered, moving her head slightly so that she could see his face.

“Hmm,” Marcus sighed, their eyes meeting. He gently traced a long white finger along her bottom lip.

Anne closed her eyes as Marcus ran his fingers along her cheekbone. She sighed contentedly and pressed her head against his chest.

“What Anne?” Marcus asked, his fingers stopped moving and his voice became impatient.

Anne’s eyes flew open, “What?” she bit her lip and tried to remember what she had wanted to ask him. “Damn,” she whispered harshly, her brow creasing in concentration.

Marcus watched her, his impatience growing. Anne could see that and she hurriedly tried to think of something could say.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Marcus could feel her tense, as if she expected him to do something. She opened her mouth to speak but Marcus placed a hand across her lips.

Marcus moved his hand to the back of her head and pulled her closer so that she was sitting on his lap. Anne moved forwards so that her lips met his.

Anne curled her fingers into his messy hair and held herself close to him. Marcus’ arms crept around her back and held her tightly.

Marcus broke away from the kiss, pressing his lips to the base of her neck. Anne breathed deeply as Marcus kissed her throat, pausing as his lips hit her pulse; it was quick and fluttering. Marcus closed his eyes as he kissed down her neck and up again.

Anne’s fingers remained wound in Marcus’ hair as he continued to kiss her neck. Behind her closed lids she could see the dancing sunlight coming through the trees. Though there was a brisk breeze that day, Anne was warm, sitting tightly against Marcus.

Marcus sat on his bed, the curtains drawn around him so that no light could enter. No-one knew he was in there, he could hear them talking around him. They were talking about the trial of Matthew. He had been sentenced to Azkaban for life for trying to kill other witches and wizards. Marcus heard but the words meant nothing to him. His mind was engaged elsewhere.

Marcus could not stop thinking about Anne; no matter how much he tried. The memories were haunting him, never letting up.

Angrily, Marcus shook his head. What did he mean by not ready? Marcus thought. The thought had plagued him for the past week. It was sitting still and quietly in the back of his mind, waiting for him to stop obsessing over Anne. Now it pounced, eager to have its turn.

Not ready. What does he mean? Marcus scowled. Muffliato he muttered in his mind and flicked his wand around the bedroom. He slid the stone from his pocket and turned it over in his hands. As his father and mother appeared he gently laid the stone on his bed.

“What did you mean when you said I wasn’t ready?” Marcus asked quietly.

“You are not capable Marcus,” Voldemort replied in the same quiet tone. “You may think you are, but you aren’t.”

“How?” Marcus hissed, straining to hide his annoyance.

“Think boy, THINK!” Voldemort continued calmly, his voice rising only slightly.

Marcus scowled and slapped his hand over the stone. The two figures disappeared quickly. He could hear the silence in the room around him. Carefully, Marcus drew back the curtains around his bed, he was alone.

He grabbed some tatty old books from his cupboard and took them back to his bed, drawing the curtains around him once again. He flipped through the notebooks, reading articles and scribbled notes.

One word caught his eye, “Horcruxes,” he whispered, his voice strained and excited. Quickly, he read on to find out how they were made.