She finds him in the middle of the night; tears stain his cheeks and dried blood cakes skin behind his ears.
Green, green eyes meet hers in the dark, moonlight sparkling and sending a sharp pain from her stomach to her heart.
He wipes away the wetness and looks away, pretending his glasses need cleaning. Her hand drifts to the doorknob and she pushes it closed, stepping into the room and stopping at the foot of the bed. The wrinkled sheets tickle her knees and her hands nervously fidget with the edge of her sweater.
There's an empty pocket of air on the other side of the room, dust on the creaky floorboards where there shouldn't be. Suddenly—seven years all gone in seven seconds, if that—they're an incomplete puzzle, a piece is missing. Not even lost. More like gone, taken.
Her hand reaches out to touch his shoulder, the rip in his cotton shirt stained and the skin underneath. He's shaking or maybe she is.
"Harry." It shatters the silence and she almost regrets it, but it's time she got to be a little selfish for once. A little selfish and wanting to say his name, to let herself know that she's speaking to him, that he might say something back, that he can.
If she says Ron's name, she won't hear him say anything back.
"I…" His voice breaks and the shoot of pain (stomach to heart, heart to stomach; repeat, repeat) comes back. He refuses to look at her, and in turn she sits on the edge of the bed with him, arm touching his, not meeting his eyes. After a moment, she clasps his hand in hers—it's awkward and their hands are cold and she doesn't really know what to say next.
She just wants to know that he'll still be there in the morning. His hand squeezes hers and she gets that he feels (wants, needs) the same.