Name

Hermione stood up from her chair near the fire, moving gracefully to the window that overlooked the Quidditch Pitch. She remained there for a moment, simply taking in the scenery, before she reached up her left hand to draw the heavy curtains fully away from the window. The weak winter sunlight flooded the room, turning the rims of Percy Weasley's old-fashioned glasses from burnt umber to gold. It dazzled her eyes when she turned toward him, and she had to look away for a moment, blinded. Finally, she spoke, breaking the nearly ten-minute silence.

"How are you?" her eyelids were purple with exhaustion.

"Existing," he responded, and turned away from her. The sight of her tugged at him, his chest tightened, and he suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands. The war against Voldemort had taken it's toll on her, she was all angles and bones and huge, dark eyes too large for her small face. Looking at her represented everything they'd lost - loved ones, possessions, innocence. He remembered how her eyes used to sparkle with laughter and a certain simplicity, now they were filled with a dark look that he couldn't exactly place.

"Only existing?" she replied in the same tone as before, and moved towards a threadbare chair near the Gryffindor common room fire, closer to Percy. For the first time since she'd started Hogwarts - nearly seven years ago - she was all alone in the tower over winter holidays. Even Harry was gone, electing to stay with the Weasleys this Christmas. They had invited her too, but she declined, wanting some time to be alone with herself. The fire was low, and she stretched her hands out over the embers, trying to capture some of the warmth.

"Only existing," he echoed, rubbing his temples as he felt the beginnings of a headache. He was tired of the questions about his mental state.

"I can tell you're tired of people questioning you, but it isn't like you to not show up for work for a week straight. I'm suprised you even came to visit me today," she gave a weak smile in her boyfriend's direction, hoping a little joke would lighten the mood.

"I just don't care about work anymore, I don't care about any of it," the headache was coming in at full force. He knew a charm to banish it, but his wand was in his coat on the other side of the room, and he didn't feel like getting up.

"You know, sometimes I think you'd sell your soul for pain," she remarked absentmindedly, her chin was now resting on her hands, a far away gaze in her eyes.

"Pain is the only thing I feel anymore. And besides, I have no soul, Voldemort took it the night he took my brother," his face looked like he was far away, and there was no _expression in his tone. Even regret, which she'd become accustomed to hearing whenever he spoke, was no longer there. Hermione was on her feet now. She moved to sit beside him, and clasped his hand in-between her palms.

"Don't say that," a note of urgency was in her voice that he hadn't heard in a long time. He turned towards her, suprised to see a tear run from her enormous brown eye down to her cheek - it wasn't like Hermione to cry. He was even more suprised to find that her action didn't sadden him, instead it just made him feel even more weary, and he suddenly wished that he could just go to sleep and not wake up for days.

"Don't say that ever again, Percy," she repeated, tasting the salt from her tear grace her lip. "That makes you no better than...than...Voldemort," she spat out his name, "and you're so much more, you're brave and kind, and fair, you're not responsible for Ron's death, you've got to stop blaming yourself. You couldn't do anything, he petrified you before you could speak -"

She was cut off as he placed his mouth on top of hers, his lips seeking her own with a sudden, desperate urgency, and she knew that he wanted her to love him, since he was incapable of loving himself. Both sets of hands tore at clothes, and then he was moaning her name as they moved in unison. In his frenzy, he accidentally bit at her lip, making it bleed, and she'd find scratch marks on her back for days, but she didn't care. He was saying HER name, and she reveled in it, it was the first time he'd spoken it aloud in several days. All too soon, they were finished, and they dressed silently, avoiding each other's eyes. He'd done this many times before with her, but for some reason, this time he felt ashamed daring to enjoy himself in light of everything.

"Have you seen my sock?" he queried, and she pointed towards the corner. He nodded his response, not vocalizing, and she realised just how much she missed his voice. She missed the intellectual conversations they used to have, and the private jokes they often shared, that only the two of them would understand. But most of all, she missed the way he'd just hold her without question, comforting her with a touch, peace flooding through her veins.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he stood in the middle of the room, still only wearing one sock. He had a defeated look on his face, and his hands hung helplessly at his side. She knew he hated to apologise, and she smiled a little at the use of her name. Crossing the room in a few short strides, she flung her arms around him, trying to take his place as comforter. He drew in shuddering breaths, and she knew he'd let a bit of his guard drop. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and shivered a little. She drew him in closer, as if she could bridge the rift between them with their close proximity, but in her heart, she knew the chasm still lay between them, temporarily uncrossable, and vastly deep.