[Just as she appears in his room, Fred tosses his device carelessly to the working bench across the room then looks up to meet her eyes. Where emotion can be found written across Hermione's face, on his, there can be found none. Or many there is simply too much to read. His eyes are darkened and tired - they'd gone to the Hall early in the morning when Fred noticed Ron's absence during a half-sleeping bathroom run. At first, he thought he was imagining things, or was certain he was downstairs stealing snacks from the cupboard as per usual, something, anything but gone, and there wasn't a moment to spare when he realised he was.
From there, his emotions went from fearful to angry to guilty to distraught to everything in between and far beyond, but the moment he lays eyes on Hermione, he just feels tired. Tired from waking up early and running about, tired from shouting and throwing things and hitting other things. But mostly tired because he has no need to be tired at all.
The soft brush of her touch, the warmth in contrast with his literal deathly cold, sends chills down his spine and he closes his eyes. Focuses on the heat in her palm, the lingering pain beneath it from punching the solid wall of the Hall earlier, and maybe just a little bit of pain from the gesture at all. His name on her lips sounding both a blessing and a curse, soft and sweet and lulling him to the sleep he so desperately wants but jolting him awake to the awareness he so desperately needs.
Ron's gone, he isn't the one that's left them. Fred left, died and went someplace far away where no one can reach him again, but then there's Hermione. Her warm hand on top of his cold one, her voice offering him the comfort that his lost early in the morning, and there's something terribly wonderful in that. When he finally opens his eyes to look at her, they're red from the loss of sleep, the loss of his brother, the loss of that comfortable bubble he'd built around himself - and a loss of resolve. He doesn't want to face all the things he's been denying, but he hasn't the heart to pretend they aren't there anymore.
Fred's dead. They're not. And whether it's in the middle of the night, tomorrow, or three years from now, they will leave this place and none of this will have happened. He can't fight it anymore. He hasn't the strength.
He sighs a humourless laugh and pulls his hand out from beneath hers to place it on top, returning the brush idly.]
action; (SCORE! :D)
From there, his emotions went from fearful to angry to guilty to distraught to everything in between and far beyond, but the moment he lays eyes on Hermione, he just feels tired. Tired from waking up early and running about, tired from shouting and throwing things and hitting other things. But mostly tired because he has no need to be tired at all.
The soft brush of her touch, the warmth in contrast with his literal deathly cold, sends chills down his spine and he closes his eyes. Focuses on the heat in her palm, the lingering pain beneath it from punching the solid wall of the Hall earlier, and maybe just a little bit of pain from the gesture at all. His name on her lips sounding both a blessing and a curse, soft and sweet and lulling him to the sleep he so desperately wants but jolting him awake to the awareness he so desperately needs.
Ron's gone, he isn't the one that's left them. Fred left, died and went someplace far away where no one can reach him again, but then there's Hermione. Her warm hand on top of his cold one, her voice offering him the comfort that his lost early in the morning, and there's something terribly wonderful in that. When he finally opens his eyes to look at her, they're red from the loss of sleep, the loss of his brother, the loss of that comfortable bubble he'd built around himself - and a loss of resolve. He doesn't want to face all the things he's been denying, but he hasn't the heart to pretend they aren't there anymore.
Fred's dead. They're not. And whether it's in the middle of the night, tomorrow, or three years from now, they will leave this place and none of this will have happened. He can't fight it anymore. He hasn't the strength.
He sighs a humourless laugh and pulls his hand out from beneath hers to place it on top, returning the brush idly.]
I'm tired, Hermione.