My hand is against your throat and I can feel your pulse vibrating under my skin, under your skin. Skin to skin, I can feel your life, precious and endearing, thrumming. I move fingers and they feather against the soft felt of your flesh.
I outline the curve of your jaw and can't help but notice the intricate ways in which it connects to your neck, your ear, your mouth. It lines the way of a great crossroads. Your lips are still, closed off. I don't bother to wonder why.
"Why are we waiting here, Potter?"
"Waiting for what?"
"For something that will never exist."