002.
Inside
She sits at the table surrounded by dusty books and parchments. The wooden surface is scratched and gouged, worn with time; she traces some of the grooves with her fingers, remembering what it used to be like during meals here. She looks around her and realizes that the Weasley kitchen isn't quite the same anymore; it seems empty without everyone crowded in for a meal, without everyone practically on top of each other. She misses the way it used to feel like home. There are some scorch marks on the far wall near the door and one of the windows has been boarded up since it had been shattered. Occasionally someone would pass through, get what they needed without bothering her and leave again. This wasn't how it always was. They used to have more than this, she thinks. She can't be sure anymore.
She turns a few more brittle pages, looking for something useful - anything at this point. She's tired (she's always tired) but she refuses to let this go; there has to be something useful, something that will help him in this that won't kill him in the process.
"It's one in the morning," he says standing in the doorway. She doesn't look up. He's always trying to figure out ways to do this, and his conclusion is always that his life is a price he is going to have to and willing to pay. She can't agree with that; she won't let him do it. "What are you still doing up?" She hears his bare feet slap the floor quietly as he walks into and across the kitchen, sitting at the opposite end of the able.
"What you won't," she replies.
"Don't do this," he says quietly. "Just come to bed, Hermione."
She looks up at him. His hair is a mess, he's wearing a grey tee-shirt and a pair of flannel sleep pants. She can tell he wasn't sleeping well again; she doesn't ask because he'll lie. "You don't do it, Harry. Someone has to figure out how to keep you alive." She looks back at the pages again. There's silence for a time and she thinks he might just go back up to bed and leave her there. He sighs, instead. He sounds tired and when she looks up again he looks much older than he should.
"I wish you would let this go." He shakes his head and looks out the kitchen window that isn't broken.
She slams the book shut and he looks at her. "Let it go, Harry? You're so willing to just… give up your life, and I'm supposed to let it go?" She shakes her head. "I would love to get inside your head. Maybe I would understand." She can feel the prickle of tears and she fights it. She's sick of crying.
The legs of his chair scrape the floor as he pushes it back. Sometimes it hurts to look at him and she looks down at the table instead. She really wishes she could get inside of his head, inside of his thoughts; she needs to know why he thinks the things he does. She doesn't want to understand anymore because it's not a matter of wanting; she needs to know. His hands are warm on her arms as he touches her.
"If I die protecting you, protecting Ron and the rest of the Weasley's; if I die protecting Lupin and Tonks -"
"Stop it," she cuts him off and looks up at him. "I don't need you to protect me. I need you to live."
He watches tears slide down her cheeks. He brushes them away with the pads of his thumbs as he gently captures her face in his hands. He realizes that she looks older now. He couldn't promise her because he was tired of broken promises, of broken people and the tatters of what hung between them. He couldn't do that to her. Not this time. Not again. Not ever. He kisses her softly. "Don't," she whispers. "Don't do that, Harry."
"I don't know how to beat him," he says quietly. "I don't know how to destroy him completely and then live like nothing happened." She searches his eyes and he continues. "You want to get inside my head, Hermione? All I think about every day is who he is going to kill next; I wonder if it's going to be someone else I love - Mrs. Weasley, Lupin, Ron…you. All I think about every waking moment is how I'm going to save you, all of you, and I don't know how." Watching the emotions flicker in her eyes, suddenly the thought of death was forgotten and her lips were pressing against his. What started gentle became insistent, tongues clashing and claiming. It was too easy to get lost in this. He pulled away resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed, and their pulses quickened. He slid his forehead away and nudged her to turn her head, placing soft kisses below her ear, at her pulse point; placing soft kisses along her jaw and down the side of her neck.
"I need you," she whispers. And then she feels his arms lifting her. She forgets everything around them, forgets everything for the moment except him and how he feels (and it's better than anything she remembers for so long). He tells her not to worry about getting inside his head, and for the time she doesn't (because it doesn't matter when he's touching her this way). When they are nothing but flesh against flesh, she swears she hears him whisper that the only thing that matters is being inside of her. She feels him, is full with him, and forgets the books and parchment, and there is no death here tonight.
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