Everywhere they go it's cold and musty, and it's settled into Harry, into his bones as he curls in on himself, into his lungs now that they're far from Madam Pomfrey and a dose of Pepperup. Hermione can hear him breathe.
It's early morning, and she's on watch outside their tent. She thinks the end will come soon, and she hopes it comes soon enough for him. They've lost enough, and now they're waiting. Waiting for Neville to strike, waiting for the world to turn back to rights. Waiting to see what will happen next.
She pulls her knees tight up to her chest, watching and listening. She's glad of Harry's raspy breathing, because then she still knows he's there. His sleep now is half an act of sheer will on her part. She can imagine him there, cradling himself on the cot, his glasses not far from his hand, his mouth slightly open. She does not allow herself to imagine his dreams.
When it's over, they'll go somewhere, just them. Somewhere warm. She'd say somewhere without fear, but she reads the Muggle news and she's not sure such a place exists anymore. She still wants to study everything, but for now she takes the tea and rations from the runner, slips into the tent, and studies the lines of Harry's face, the map of worry not quite melted away in sleep.
Her hand drifts towards his face, and she wishes she could Charm away the furrow like she Charmed his glasses so many years ago. Charm him whole. He's a soldier, now, and the motion wakes him before her touch has the opportunity. He takes the tea with a muttered "Thanks". She does not ask him what he dreamed.
It's early morning, and she's on watch outside their tent. She thinks the end will come soon, and she hopes it comes soon enough for him. They've lost enough, and now they're waiting. Waiting for Neville to strike, waiting for the world to turn back to rights. Waiting to see what will happen next.
She pulls her knees tight up to her chest, watching and listening. She's glad of Harry's raspy breathing, because then she still knows he's there. His sleep now is half an act of sheer will on her part. She can imagine him there, cradling himself on the cot, his glasses not far from his hand, his mouth slightly open. She does not allow herself to imagine his dreams.
When it's over, they'll go somewhere, just them. Somewhere warm. She'd say somewhere without fear, but she reads the Muggle news and she's not sure such a place exists anymore. She still wants to study everything, but for now she takes the tea and rations from the runner, slips into the tent, and studies the lines of Harry's face, the map of worry not quite melted away in sleep.
Her hand drifts towards his face, and she wishes she could Charm away the furrow like she Charmed his glasses so many years ago. Charm him whole. He's a soldier, now, and the motion wakes him before her touch has the opportunity. He takes the tea with a muttered "Thanks". She does not ask him what he dreamed.