it also compelled me to ~feelings... which i will now share with you in the form of pronoun filled fiction. i hate myself sometimes. WHY DO I DO THIS?! it's not very good...
He’s angry where she’s sad and everything is just so damned cold and empty.
She walks away.
He catches her wrist as his hand extends without permission. He isn’t sure what he’s asking with her name hanging in the air. It’s probably not fair to lay this all on her, whatever this is. Maybe she knows the question. He doesn’t know if there are answers anymore.
She turns back, folds herself into his chest. She doesn’t cry, exactly, but he can feel her shudder and inhale deeply. He can feel her warmth seep through the front of his body. He holds on to her tight, like he wasn’t just twirling her about this space they’ve never called home.
He was hoping some physical instinct would kick in as it did earlier but he just stands there, immobile, not sure what is supposed to happen next.
She withdraws from him a bit. He can see calculations and ideas running across her features. She’s figuring something out and it has nothing to do with Horcruxes or Voldemort or this insane quest they’re on. Except, knowing her, it probably does. After a long while she fixes her eyes on him and he can see it click into place.
She leads him to the cot at the back of the tent, their fingers entwined.
They never really sleep.
He wakes to a chilling early pre-dawn despite the heating charms in and around the tent. Tiredness runs bone deep and he’d like nothing more than to have a lie in. They’ve learned though. Any good strategist knows early morning is the best time to strike. He swings his legs over the edge of the cot to shove his boots onto his feet when a stirring behind him stalls his movement. It’s becoming an increasingly basic part of their routine.
She moves and it paralyses him.
He wonders what it means.
She sits up and leans into his heat placing her chin on his shoulder. With a well practised rhythm her hands snake around him until one is directly over his heart. He can’t help but lace his fingers through hers. He turns his head to place a kiss on her temple.
She smiles faintly.
They talk strategy sometimes. Mostly, they’re silent. They find other ways of talking. They were always good at that.
He can’t explain it. He doesn’t try to define it. She doesn’t either. He feels like a man on borrowed time attempting to cram every bit of goodness into what remains. He stretches every moment just that millisecond more to make it count. They fill every waking hour with meaning and substance as if they’re staking a claim. No one else will have this. No other will be this close to touching what they’ve made. He’s afraid if he tries, if he gives voice to what they’re doing, what they’re really doing, it’s one more trump card his enemy will have against him.
He can’t afford to get distracted but every day the fight becomes more about her.
She sets up stronger wards during the night.