A/N – A little longish, a little M-ish, and perhaps a little AU

Ruth quickened her pace as she walked beside Harry, their footsteps echoing through the cavern of the car park. Over the years, she had learned to match her step with his, in conversation, on the phone, lost in thought. Or had he over time, imperceptibly slowed his pace to match hers? They had not said a word since leaving the Grid, though Harry had bid goodnight to the officers at security, carrying on as if nothing had happened. They came upon the Land Rover and he moved to unlock the passenger side door.

"No driver tonight?" Ruth asked.

Harry kept his eyes down as he opened the door for her. "I gave him a bottle of Laphroaig and sent him on his way. Thought it best to distance everyone from the maelstrom that is now my career."

"No such thought for me?"

He looked at her, a tilt to his head. "I wasn't aware you wanted a bottle of scotch." She pursed her lips to stop a smile and stepped into the car.

Harry hauled himself into the driver's seat and started the engine. "You'll have to make do with my driving. I hope it meets your standards." He twisted his body towards her, stretching his arm over the back of her seat. For a moment she thought he was going to draw her into an embrace but she quickly realised he was only positioning himself to get a better view through the rear window of the car. He paused, looking at her intently, his face younger in the dim light of the vehicle. A wave of warmth washed over her and she turned away from the unguarded intimacy of the act.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Just a little hot."

"Open the window if it helps."

They left the labyrinth of Thames House, weaving their way through the evening traffic. Ruth opened her window letting in a soft spring breeze. It was as if winter had taken up permanent residence in her heart, the change of season having passed by unnoticed. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes willing herself to absorb everything around her, a vow she had made should death spare her. The tang of the air, the exhaust from passing cars, the wet earth, the faint scent of Harry. She pressed her hand against the leather of the seat feeling its smoothness, her fingers playing with the hem of dress as she rubbed the soft fabric. She looked out and saw the haze of lights, the dark of the enclosing night broken by their glimmer. She had no idea what she would say to this man once they reached their destination. She found herself wishing that he would keep driving, all night if need be, away from their lives. She knew where they were headed, but she felt compelled to comment.

"This isn't the way to my house."

"No. We're going to mine."

"You could have asked."

"I thought you wanted a bottle of scotch."

This time, she didn't stop the smile.

...

The keys rattled as Harry tossed them on the table, switching on the lights, fiddling with the alarm. She waited, absorbing the atmosphere that was his house. It was brighter than she had imagined though the air was cool, a hushed quality to it, undisturbed. He shrugged off his coat, holding out his hand to take hers, which she dutifully handed to him. He put them on the hooks, where they hung side-by-side, sleeves touching in harmonious alignment. So unlike their owners, Ruth thought. She bent down to remove her boots.

"Don't worry about those," Harry said.

"You wear your shoes in the house?" she asked, appalled.

"Why not?"

"It's like bringing the world in with you."

He looked at her as if she had revealed the mystery of the sphinx. "Is that how it works? I should leave the world where it is then."

He braced his hand against the arch leading into the living room and toed off his shoes. They stood in their stocking feet looking at each other, the small act having taken their wonderfully imbalanced non-relationship to another level. She looked up at him, the removal of her boots now highlighting the difference in their height. This was a new point on the spiral if indeed she was still on a spiral.

"I've never been to your house."

"Yes, you have."

"I think I would have remembered if that were true."

"Hmm." Harry thought a moment. "Perhaps I only imagined you here." With that, he swept past her into the kitchen leaving her to stand in the hallway, brows furrowed as she wondered what imaginings Harry had dreamt of her doing in his house.

"I can offer you a bit to eat," his voice called from the kitchen.

Ruth padded after him, looking about the house as she did. She wondered how long they could continue this dance of the mundane, talking of the inconsequential, ignoring what loomed between them. "Please don't go to any bother," she said as she entered the immaculate little kitchen, noticing its gleaming counter tops, not so much as a dirty dish in sight. "You have a housekeeper," she concluded.

"Is it so hard to believe that I could be so conscientiously tidy?" he asked, opening up the fridge and pulling out a large dish, a note taped to the lid.

"And I supposed you whipped that up too?"

Harry looked at her. "She worries that I don't eat enough." He noticed Ruth's raised eyebrow. "Of the right things." He put the casserole in the oven and turned the dials. He removed his jacket, cavalierly tossing it on a chair, loosening his tie, releasing the top button of his shirt.

Was this his routine, she wondered, shoes on, jacket off, casserole in the fridge?

He turned to her. "Drink?"

"Do I get my bottle of scotch now?"

"I have wine if you prefer?"

"I shouldn't, the doctor cautioned against it, after the anesthetic."

Harry pointed to the gash, still fresh on his forehead. "They cautioned me too. What do they know?"

She felt an urge to run her thumb over the wound on his head. Both of them wounded. Indeed, what did anyone know of them? "White then, red gives-"

"Gives you a headache. I remember."

Harry paused with his hand on the cupboard door. They both waited while the hiccup in time passed. This was the place they had dared not revisit - the time filled with intimacy and longing. The dinner where she had confessed that she drank red wine though it gave her a headache, he claiming that once she tasted a good white Burgundy she would never go back.

The moment vanished and he rounded off the movement, grabbing a glass and taking a bottle of wine from the fridge. He fished a corkscrew from the drawer and pierced the stopper. His fingers deftly twisted the handle as he drove the helix into the soft cork, his other hand gripping the bottle. Ruth looked on, mesmerised, as his hand tightened on the handle, pushing it in, his arm muscles tensing, a small grunt as he pulled the cork out. The pop caused Ruth to jump. Harry looked at her and she quickly looked away, the whole experience leaving her flustered. He poured the wine into her glass and moved it across to her by the base.

"I'll have a scotch if you don't mind." He motioned for Ruth to move into the lounge. She cradled her wine and tentatively stepped through.

He moved about shutting the curtains, keeping them in and the world out. He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a drink.

She took in the pictures on the wall, books leaning on shelves, the surprising amount of bric-a-brac. "You have a record player," she said with surprise.

"You make it sound like it's a Victrola."

"I didn't mean it like that. The sound quality is better on vinyl, isn't it?"

"I had to replace my old system. It was trounced when CO19 barged into the house. Haven't been able to listen to Verdi the same since."

Ruth looked at him, a confused expression on her face, wanting to ask what had happened but not quite sure if she had heard him correctly. Harry, on the other hand, carried on as if it were a common occurrence for his house to be under siege by armed forces. Perhaps his evenings weren't so routine after all. She walked over to the records set up on a small table and focused her attention on perusing the titles.

"Brahms," she murmured, half to herself.

"Is that so unexpected?" Harry came up close behind her.

"No, no." She picked up the album, turning it over to read the back.

"One can't always have sturm and drang." He reached around her, taking the album from her hand. He placed his scotch on the table and slipped the vinyl disc from its cover. "The violin sonatas. Good choice." He gently lowered the record over the metal rod of the turntable, lifting the arm, the record spinning in anticipation.

"A Romantic."

Harry stopped, the record needle poised in mid-air.

"Composer. Brahms. Romantic as opposed to Classical or Baroque," she stated logically as if there could be no other meaning to her observation.

Harry placed the needle on the record and the echoing static of the vinyl filled the speaker for a brief moment before the strings started, the chords of the piano rolling underneath. They stood side by side, looking down at the revolving record, the needle bumping along.

"He led a very strange life, Brahms did."

"How so?" asked Harry.

"He was in love with Clara Schumann. Of course, she was married to Robert Schumann, they had umpteen children, it made things rather complicated. She was a marvelous pianist in her own right." In the back of her mind, Ruth conceded that Harry would already know this.

"And were his feelings returned?"

Ruth rubbed her thumb along the polished veneer of the stereo, belatedly realising that she had started a conversation that could easily veer into the personal. She sidestepped the question. "Robert spent the end of his life in an asylum, said he continually heard one note in his ear, A, I think it was. Terrible really.

"I thought it was syphilis," Harry commented, looking into his glass.

"Ah yes, well, there was that. Even after Robert's death, she and Brahms never married." She knew she was rambling, that being her defense mechanism against revealing anything, her strategy to avoid talking about them. She sensed that Harry was looking at her as he took a slow sip from his tumbler.

"Why? Why did they not marry after his death?" Harry asked, quietly.

Ruth took a sip of her wine and kept her gaze down at the spinning record. "Guilt, I should think." She cleared her throat. "Brahms was no saint. Apparently he found other outlets for his appetites."

"Men do," Harry stated, dryly.

Ruth cast a sidelong glance at him as he swirled his scotch. Harry was a man; what appetites had he sated in her absence? When she had refused his proposal, there was no commitment between them; he was free to be with whoever he chose. There must have been other woman in the intervening years. Perhaps recently. The thought wound around in her mind and she found herself becoming unaccountably jealous of a woman who in all probability didn't exist.

Harry took a deep breath and continued. "At some point, we're going to have to talk about the elephant in the room, Ruth."

It was if he read her thoughts. She kept her head down, not responding, feeling rather like a child called upon to explain a misdeed.

He finished off his scotch, setting it down on the little table with a definitive flourish.

"Albany is a fake."

Ruth looked at him in disbelief.

The buzzer on the oven sounded.

"Ah, that would be the casserole."

He walked away without further comment, leaving Ruth standing stupefied. She could hear the violin swell to a crescendo, but her brain seemed unable to function in any other capacity. She finally gathered herself and followed Harry into the kitchen.

"What do you mean a fake?" she asked incredulously.

"Do you want some?" he motioned to the dish he had removed from the oven.

"I'm not hungry," she replied dismissively. "What do you mean Albany is a fake?"

"I had hoped to get some food into you first."

"Harry!" She forcefully placed her wine glass down on the counter.

"Or wine."

He picked up the wine bottle and moved to fill her glass. She quickly placed her hand over the top to stop him. Gently easing the glass from underneath her hand, he busied himself by filling it up.

"I'm not having any more to drink," she said, bristling at his nonchalance.

"Well, I plan to get blind stinking drunk, fall asleep in my clothes and wake up tomorrow to the end of my career," he proclaimed, taking a swig from her glass.

"Harry," she said curtly, bringing him back, "Albany."

"It's a scientific sleight of hand. The technology doesn't work. There will be no plague and pestilence visited upon the land. But as long as hostile governments believed it to be a genetic weapon, it acted as a deterrent."

Ruth stood looking at him, completely bewildered by this confession, trying to process the information.

Harry took another mouthful of the wine. "Even as such, it was still a state secret and I gave it up."

"If you had listened to me in the first place, when I came to you about Lucas none of this would have happened." A voice in her head told her to step back, that her words were not helping, but this new revelation and his apparent indifference to its fallout served to stoke her previous indignation.

"I did listen to you."

"No, you didn't! You reprimanded me for surveillance on a fellow officer."

"Which was, as you said yourself, unethical. I had Beth investigate-

"You shut me out. You said I had no right to question you." Her words started feeding on each other, the anger over the past months spilling out."You protected him at the expense of the section, your career. And when you said you would do the same for me, I told you it would be wrong."

"I thought I could do it," he rubbed his hand over his eyes, "Play both ends against the middle. Save Albany, save Lucas, save you."

"It should never have even been a consideration. It was unfair-"

"Yes, Ruth, don't you think I remember that," his tone biting. "Don't you think those words aren't imprinted on my brain," he tapped his fingers against his temple to illustrate the point, "how unfair it was to love you."

She wasn't going to back down. "Jo, Ros, Adam, they all sacrificed-"

"What about me, Ruth?" He took a step, closing the gap between them, backing her up against the counter, his voice on the edge of anger. "What about my sacrifice? I gave you up once, was I supposed to do it again? And this time, it would not have been a fake death."

Her eyes flashed at him. "I'm not yours to give up."

"That's the problem, isn't it?"

He slammed the wine glass down on the counter beside her, causing her to flinch. He kept his hand planted on the glass, effectively trapping her, his body coming in close, his leg touching hers. The edge of the counter dug into her as she pulled back. She stood mute, not knowing how to respond, her heart frantically beating, whether from his outburst or his proximity she wasn't sure. She knew he was looking down at her, she could feel his breath on her forehead. She tried to control her breathing not wanting to draw his attention to the rise and fall of her breasts, although she suspected his eyes had gravitated there. She stared at the whiteness of his shirt, beneath it his chest heaving in anger. Through the silence, she heard the soft click of the needle hitting the end of the record, over and over, as if the machine were alive, keeping in time with Harry's breathing.

"The record's stopped," she said quietly.

"I don't give a damn about the blasted record!"

He stormed away from her and into the living room, the force of his stride creating a back draft so strong it pulled her along behind him. He crossed over to the record player and lifted the needle, scratching the stylus across the vinyl, making Ruth wince. She thought he might rip the record from the turntable and throw it across the room. Instead, he stood hands braced on either side of the machine, looking down, his jaw clenched at the effort of controlling his temper. She had come to a halt a few paces away from him, feeling very small next to his anger.

Looking upward, hoping for divine intervention, a muse to deliver words that would help her unravel the mess, she said the first thing that came to her mind. "I told Lucas that you asked me to marry you. And that I said no."

Harry looked up at her, a hurt expression on his face. "Why? Why would you tell him that?"

She ran her fingers through a strand of hair, her eyes darting about. She hadn't said it to hurt him; she only wanted to pick her way through the knot they had created. "I wanted him to think that I didn't mean anything to you. That you wouldn't give up Albany."

"He wasn't a stupid man. He was there when Mani used you against me. He knew your value."

"I know. I think that's why he told me to be selfish."

"He was right. Whatever penance you think you owe, surely it's been enough."

"I should be dead, Harry."

"So should I." He looked back down at the record player.

"Do you think the universe is trying to tell us something?"

"That we need to find different careers."

Ruth let out a strangled laugh that quickly turned into a half sob.

Harry turned towards her a concerned look on his face. "You're shaking."

She looked down at her hands. They were trembling. She wrapped her arms around body, winding tight into herself. "Maybe it's the wine. Or the anesthesia. Or ..." She looked down at her crossed arms, her thumb rubbing over the bruise hidden by the fabric of her dress. She felt out of her depth, barely treading water, grasping at words that would save her. "He said he was going to shoot me in the back of the head, but it was a needle. I cried for him to stop. I couldn't fight it, I couldn't stay awake." Her fingers ceased moving and she stood perfectly still. "It was a test and I failed. I wanted one more chance to do it over again. Because this time, I would do it right. But when I had the chance, I let you walk away."

Harry moved but stopped when he saw her shoulders rise, her body tensing, pulling further into herself.

She looked down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. "I don't know if I can, Harry, be what you want me to be," she confessed quietly.

The silence hung about them, the house held its breath, waiting for the next word.

"I told him if he was going to shoot me to get it over with."

Ruth looked at him, startled, confused.

"I was ready to die, Ruth."

"You see, that's where you're braver than I."

"No. I wanted it to end. I phoned Catherine from the car, haven't seen her in I don't know how long, I have no idea where my son is. I let Albany slip through my fingers, my career was gone, I hadn't saved Lucas, and I was no closer to you. There was nothing left."

He stood still, arms hanging by his sides, completely open to her. "And as I stood there waiting for the bullet, remembering a life of so many regrets, my las thought was that I would die never having kissed you."

She took a moment to digest this, her mouth forming words before she was able to speak. "But you have," she pointed out logically, "when we-"

"No, Ruth," he shook his head, "Never having tasted you."

Ruth inhaled sharply; the rawness of his words pierced her being, twisting into her, pulling out her heart. It was a confession too great to bear. This was not how they did things. They were controlled and contained, not peeled back and exposed. A voice in her head told her to walk away, leave before the knots became even tighter, but her feet did not listen. Deep inside she felt a whirl of longing, calling to him.

As if in response, he took two steps towards her, close enough to be touching but for the barrier of her crossed arms still separating them. She looked at him, blinking. Harry slowly raised his hand. Seeing that she didn't pull away, he continued the movement, brushing his hand under her hair, two fingers gently coming to rest on the nape of her neck. Her lips parted to let out a gasp of surprise, his touch releasing a tension she hadn't realised she was holding. "I would never have tasted you here..." He moved his fingers from the base of her neck across her shoulders, dipping over her back. "Or here ..." His fingers pressed the ridge of her shoulder blade through the thin fabric of her dress. Along her arm, to the crook of her elbow, over the bruise, his fingers came to rest under the swell of her breast. "Or here ..." She let out a shaky breath and her arms fell to her sides. He ran his finger down her sternum to her stomach and then swept over to her waist. "Or here..." His hand spanned her waist and he drew her in closer. She moved into him as if hypnotised. He closed his eyes and bent his head low, his cheek against hers. She could feel the slow release of his breath wash over her neck. "Or here." His thumb rubbed over the crest of her hipbone.

"Harry," she sighed, wanting him to stop, wanting him to go further.

His free hand came up to cradle her head, his thumb massaging the point under her ear so that her neck arched, exposing a column of white. His lips pressed close to where his fingers had touched. He moved his mouth over her throat, her jaw, her cheekbone, her temple, back to her ear, a kiss, a whisper. "Let me love you, Ruth." She gave a small whimper and moved her lips to his.

This must be a dream, she thought, as his lips moved against hers. There was no rescue; she had succumbed to the anesthetic and was now falling into oblivion, her last thoughts being of Harry and his lips on hers. She felt him shift away. "No," she murmured, clasping her hands behind his head and bring him back to her, wanting him to be real. She ran her tongue across his lips opening her mouth in invitation. He thrust his tongue in, filling her completely, no room for breath or thought.

His arms came around her, crushing, as if he were afraid this was his only chance, seizing the moment before she pulled away. They stood locked together. Their kisses grew more insistent as their pulses accelerated, overwhelmed by want, the damn breaking, years of desire pouring forth. Opened mouthed, demanding, greedy for more. Hands everywhere, grasping, clutching, tugging. Her hands under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his back, pulling him in. His fingers sliding along her thigh hitching up her skirt, looking for contact, fingers against flesh. Lost in each other. His hands pressing into her, she pushing into him, blood pumping, hearts pounding, alive.

He stumbled backwards, coming up against the wall, leaning against it for support. She fell into him, her foot hitting the table, the needle of the stereo coming dislodged and falling onto the record. The sound of strings wove its way into their kisses, the bittersweet notes causing Harry to moan.

"Harry," she spoke between kisses.

"Brahms may be my new favourite composer," he mumbled against her lips.

She leaned against him, panting, trying to catch her breath. "Is this just adrenaline?"

"Eight years worth."

She gave a low laugh into his mouth and he pulled back to look at her. She smiled at him that way that she did, fleeting across her lips but lingering in her eyes. For a moment, he considered it might well be the cocktail of wine and anesthetic that made her face glow and not her want for him. He drew her in, taking a slow hungry kiss, running his hands the length of her body.

They stopped kissing, their foreheads resting against each other. He swallowed as if trying to speak. She knew what he wanted to say. She rocked back and forth on her toes, swaying into him, pulling away. She looked at him under heavy lids and gave a subtle motion with her head. He didn't need to be asked. He grabbed her by the hand, pulling her behind him as he bounded towards the stairs. He would have run if he could, picked her up and carried her if he were a younger man.

She pulled him up short when they reached the bottom of the stairs, huge eyes looking up into the darkness, the enormity of their actions overwhelming her. Harry looked at her questioningly; his want to understand her reluctance warring with his need to take her right there on the stairs. His gaze moved to her hand poised on the banister; the tender under skin of her wrist exposed, raw and red. He raised the hand that he was holding and looked at that wrist.

"Burns from the iron," she explained. "They hadn't healed and the cuffs..." she trailed off.

He tightened his grip around her hand, the realisation sinking in of how many times over the last months she had been in harm's way. He stood and waited for her. There was no need to rush. She looked at him, shirt tails out, his eyes raking over her. The Grid seemed so very far away, a place where they had spent an eternity together and never moved. Here in his house, they had travelled such a great distance in so little time. She bobbed her head and together they stepped on the stair, the wood creaking gently under their feet. He held onto one hand so she would not float away, she trailed the other over the polished railing.

"I like you house, Harry," she softly confided.

He pulled her into his side and whispered in her ear, "My house likes you." They left a trail behind them on the steps, years falling away as they moved into the darkness of the landing.

"This is where I imagined you."

"At the top of your stairs?"

He smiled and pulled her in. Soft wet kisses, breathing, sighing, his hands on her waist, backing her into his bedroom. He crossed the room to close the curtains, never letting go of her. As they rounded the room, she looked about at the darkened silhouettes, dresser, wardrobe, bed. The source of all things Harry, his suits, his ties, his scent, the centre of him.

They made their way to the side of the bed, two people no longer in the blush of youth, knowing what to do but hesitating, caught in the moment that was so splendidly new to them. She rested her palms flat on his chest, feeling the crisp cotton of his shirt and under it the beat of his heart. She moved her fingers to his tie and slipped the knot free. "Do you know how often I've wanted to do that?"

His hand moved to her side. "Do you know how often I've wanted to do this?" With surprising dexterity, he nimbly undid the sash of her dress, his other hand undoing the hook on the opposite side. He moved the material away, his fingers finding their way under the layer of her tee shirt. "But I was afraid if I ever did, there would be no one underneath, you would disappear, a dream."

What had they become that they could not believe in the reality of each other?

He held her close, whispering into her hair. "But you're not a dream. You're here."

Their mouths found each other, their fingers intently occupied, unwrapping, unravelling, clothes falling to the floor, dress, trousers, shirt. They paused, leaning into each other, relishing the freedom. Sweeping the covers back, he gently lowered her onto the bed, the mattress sighing beneath their weight.

"Beautiful," he whispered as he gazed down on her, "beautiful."

He bent over her blocking everything out, overwhelming her senses. The coarse hair of his chest against her breasts, his thigh between her legs, skin tasting of salt, the warm smell of him. The moved together, skin sliding against hot skin. He turned her over and pressed his lips against the ridge of her shoulder blade. She shuddered and smiled. His lips followed the trail his fingers had mapped earlier, turning her back into him. Across her arm, the crook of her elbow, stopping at her breast, taking it in, pausing to savour. His mouth moved down her stomach, to her waist, to the crest of her hipbone, inside her thigh, his fingers plunging into her soft core, followed by his tongue.

Ruth gasped. Her eyes flew open and then fluttered closed as the edges of her universe faded into nothing. Wide slow circles, dipping in and out, drawing everything into the centre, moving faster, guilt and regret falling away. Twisting, panting, arching into him, moans breaking from her depths. Oh let this never end, she prayed. The spiral wound in tighter and tighter, a coil of need, begging for release. She stilled, waiting on the edge not daring to breathe, holding on. Then it came, sweet release, flowing outward, wave upon wave, rippling through her body. Her breaths escaping in hoarse gasps as she laid spent, limbs of liquid.

She opened her eyes to see him hovering above her. She smiled into the darkness and pulled him down, kissing him, tasting her, feeling his hardness. She pushed him onto his back, her lips charting the territory he had followed on her. He groaned, stopping her progress and pulled her on top of him. She understood. Her fingers guided him in and they moved together, his hips rising to meet her. Her body curved above him, the prow of a ship, rocking into him, as his hands moved over the swell of her breasts. He lowered his hands, his fingers digging into her thighs, stilling her movements. She waited. He brought himself up, wrapping his arm around her, his mouth on her breast, her hands on his shoulder, head flung back in glorious abandon.

He rolled them over and paused, hanging above her. She ran her hands over his arms, legs open, nudging him. He entered her eliciting a low moan from both them. His thrusts became harder as she moved beneath him, her soft whimpers urging him on. He leaned into her, his mouth at her ear; panting breaths, pounding hearts, sinking deeper, moving as one. She felt his muscles tense, his breath suspended, and then a shudder as he thrust into her once, twice, three times.

He collapsed on top of her and she held onto him, not caring about the weight. "Thank you," he whispered in her ear, "thank you, thank you." She wrapped her arms around him. He rolled away and they lay side by side, chests heaving, holding hands, never letting go. He reached down and pulled the covers up and over them.

The quiet of the house settled over their bodies, breathing along with them. He pulled her into him, her leg over his, his arm around her. It felt strange and familiar at the same time. A tear pricked at the corner of her eye, but she wouldn't cry. What a fool she had been to deny them for so long.

"What's going to happen, Harry?" she asked softly, her head resting on his chest.

"I don't know and frankly, at this moment, I don't much care."

"Will they stop us from seeing each other?"

"They'll try."

"But we won't let them."

"No."

He played with her hair, twisting it about his fingers. She absent-mindedly drew circles on his chest. Her lids weighed down, but she struggled to keep them open, not ready to give up the moment they had found, afraid that they might never discover it again.

"I'm sorry about your casserole."

"We'll have it for breakfast," he answered his voice heavy with sleep.

"I'm so very tired," she murmured.

"I know."

"I haven't slept in years."

"Neither have I."

She smiled into his chest. His fingers came up and touched her lips, then moved to follow the contours of her face, gently tracing her nose, her cheeks, her eyes.

"It's alright, you can close your eyes," he assured her softly, "I'm here."

A sliver of light filtered through the curtains, the radiator gave off a faint hiss, the clocked ticked softly. She wondered what his room looked like in the daylight, wondered what would become of them in the daylight. She should be worried, but she couldn't muster the energy, her thoughts refusing to knit together, wandering free like dust. He rubbed his thumb along her forehead and she lay listening to the constant beat of his heart. She closed her eyes, her breath becoming soft as her fingers stilled, the last circle left undrawn, finally giving herself over to sleep and to Harry.

Thank you for reading.