The days are scattered. Time is in broken intervals. There are pieces missing, lost or irreparable. They don't know anymore. He's lying on the sofa, a soft blue blanket covering him. The firelight makes his skin look too pale. She watches him, his eyes fluttering beneath closed lids, the rest of his body still. She's barely able to make out the rise and fall of his chest; his breaths are too quiet to hear. She sits down on the floor, looking away from him for a moment, staring at the orange flames. She muses that heat sustains life, for a little while, but not forever. She looks at him again and sees the beads of sweat across his forehead. She takes the cloth from the basin beside her and wrings it out, dabbing the cool fabric at his skin. She's waiting for his fever to break.
This is fear.
Waiting. Not knowing. Needing everything to be ok and trying not to think it won't be. It won't, she knows. She doesn't know if she can do this, but she knows it isn't a choice; she has to do this, and she's afraid of the shreds she will be left in. They'll all be left in tatters.
His eyes are open, hazy, glazed with fever. His hands are hot on her skin, covering her wrist as she touches his cheek. He needs this. Her. Whatever it is they are. Before it's over, he'll have something.
"You don't have to," he says hoarsely. "I'll be fine."
"Don't be silly," she whispers, forcing a slight smile. "I don't mind. We have to get your fever down."
He nods slightly and tugs at her wrist. "Sit with me," he whispers. She wants to crawl beneath the blanket, hold on to him. Hold on to him. She lowers her eyes to his chest; she doesn't want him to see the tears in her eyes. "It'll be alright."
"Harry," she whispers, looking at his face. "You need to be hospitalized. You're sick."
"I'm ok."
"Stop that. You're not ok. Just… just let me take you to St. Mungo's, please, at least let them try to-"
"Don't," he says quietly, cutting her off and slightly shaking his head. The simple movement takes too much effort. "Magic didn't do this. Magic won't cure it."
"Just let them try; they can at least bring this fever down."
"Hermione," he whispers. He reaches up, touching her face and she leans into his hand. She closes her eyes and breathes slowly. When she opens them again he doesn't need to speak and she understands. His hand falls back to his side and she turns away. She puts the cloth back in the basin. She slips off her shoes, her sweatshirt, and so carefully she climbs under the blanket as he lifts it up, sliding next to him. There isn't nearly enough room, but at least - this way - she's close to him. There's a comfort in feeling his heart beat. She turns her head up toward him and she can feel the heat radiating from him. "Don't fight this."
There is too much meaning in those words.
"I don't know how not to," she whispers softly. In this, they know, there is too much truth. His arm slides around her, pulling her against him. He's trembling again. His fingers gently trace the outline of her face, sliding along her jaw, brushing against her lips. His face is so close to hers, his mouth so close to hers. She looks up at him. Maybe she's trembling, too. She touches his face, his skin burning beneath her fingers. "I don't know how to let go." The tears burn. Her throat aches.
He takes her hand, placing it against his chest. His heartbeat is thready, and it scares her. "Can you feel that," he whispers. She nods, unable to speak against the knot in her throat. "Trust it." She looks up again, finding him looking at her - into her. She feels the tears sliding from the corner of her eyes, into her hair, dripping off the end of her nose.
"I do," she whispers, crying. "I do…"
His lips are warm and slightly chapped. It's strange how she's always imagined he would taste just like this - something sweet, elemental, and something she can't describe. Something she could get lost in over and over again. She chokes on a quiet sob. "Don't," she cries hoarsely, her hands resting on his neck. "Don't do that to me, Harry. Don't you dare kiss me goodbye." And she can't fight this breakdown. he smoothes her hair with his hands, pulling her closer to him until her head is resting on his chest. She's pulling at him, needing to feel him closer, to be closer, so much closer than this. His hands run over her hair, over her back, her body shaking against his.
And shadows blend one last time (save those kisses).
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