Mellifluous

- for

He extracted the thermometer from under my tongue and read it, a worried expression creeping over his handsome face.

"A little higher than I'd like, but normal in any case. You're probably just dehydrated and cold more than anything. What on earth were you thinking?"

I coughed hoarsely, my shoulders shaking, ribs creaking, with the effort.

There were Christmas decorations everywhere, a clinging-onto-childhood kind of sparkle and ritzy; a warm essence being thrown up by fairy lights and brightly coloured tinsel. It smelled bright, in all its gentleness and foreign tongue, presents glittering under the tree with a pleasant good humour.

I'd travelled on the train most of the way from home, right up to Ipswich, but was forced to walk the rest of the way, three and a half miles over the fields and snow right to his front door.

Now I was huddled up in one of the huge sinking armchairs in his den; two thick blankets huddled around me, my wet outer clothes spread out around the room, draped over the backs of chairs. I had started to fell like I was coming down with a temperature half way here, I could feel it building steadily in my chest and behind my temples; dehydrated from the walk and shaking with the intense cold.

I was so afraid that he wouldn't let me over the threshold, we hadn't spoken in a month or so, despite the general population of Hogwarts trying to get us back together. But he'd taken one look at my bedraggled self and swept me up, pulling me inside, chattering teeth and all, forcing me on the couch and fussing over my poor, suffering body. I had suffered without him.

I'd suffered without his body next to mine while we were sleeping; I'd ached for the touch of his hand on my knee while we were studying together in the library or outside; I'd missed his kisses that were for no reason at all. I'd yearned to run my mouth around his belly button, dig my teeth into his shoulder blades, push my fingers into the hollows behind his knees and watch his squirm deliciously.

I missed the way he tease my feet while I was reading; missed the way he'd roll is eyes when I said something so educationally naive before laughing together until our sides ached with mirth. I'd miss the way he'd let me burrow under his arm and fold myself around him while we slept. I'd missed the way he'd steal the bedclothes and then get angry because I'd warm my freezing feet against his legs. I'd even missed the way he'd patronise me and then kiss me until I forgave him, worrying his tongue into my mouth like a button through a jacket cuff.

I had missed him in a way that I never thought possible, that I though would only come with death and praying that I would be the first to go because there was no way I could ever live without him.

It started to snow again outside and I sniffled pathetically.

I avoided his gaze as he tried to read my thoughts before he clumped off into the kitchen where I could hear pots and pans being thumped around; a distant whirr, a buzz and a ding, before he returned, carrying something hot and steamy back with him on a tray. Chicken soup and hot chocolate, with marshmallows floating around like little ships waiting for a harbour, and I melted at the thoughtfulness. It was hot and a smooth broth, with thick, crusty bread on the side and a potion for the ache that had moved behind my eyes and to bring my unsteady high temperature down.

"Eat, I'm sure you're probably starving by now," He commanded of me as he sat in the other chair, tucking his well arched feet under him, another blanket pulled around his body, clenched there with determination to not let go.

I shakily picked up the spoon and tried to lift it to my mouth, but lost the contents in the battle to get it from bowl to tongue. I bent over the bowl, shaking desperately as I tried to get it past my lips, but to no avail. I tried again, and again, almost on the edge of tears with frustration and desperation.

He was suddenly there, dropping the spoon back into the bowl and lifting the tray away from my useless grasp. I almost lost my cool to his touch when he suddenly sat on my lap reassuringly, drawing his blanket around the both of us, the tray on his lap now. He stirred the soup twice before lifting out a spoonful and guiding it into my waiting mouth.

He sat on my lap for over an hour, gently feeding the entire bowl to me, waiting out my coughing fits, rubbing the flat of his hands into aching muscles, wiping my fringe away from my blazing forehead. We never spoke, never touched except my arms around his waist, useless limbs around small hips, his fingertips brushing my forehead with reassurance and calming, palm pressed against back, soothingly. I felt warm again, sedated in pleasantries and his familiar body on my lap and in my arms.

"What were you thinking?" his tone was soft as the tray lay next to us forgotten, our mouths against two new mugs of hot chocolate. His familiar weight was steady in my lap and he spoke to me over the rum of his mug with tenderness, his eyes silent and needy.

I ran my hand up his warm left thigh as they were pressed into me and leaned my head against his chest, the flame of my head an extinguished flame against his will and seaward gaze. I heard his heart, deep in his chest, beat, beat, beat with the strength of his love that I had almost carelessly left standing alone for someone else to rescue from the roadside of patient regret.

"I missed you," his words were patient, uncertain eyes dancing a path between earlobe and neck, the slipped edge of the blanket providing his with a feast of thoughts.

I traced the edge of his mouth with the top of my little finger, a pale expanse on fallowed skin. "I missed you too."

He drew closer to me, pressing his weight and comfort into me, a steady force against my irregular angles, tracing my face with hand and mouth; before lips found lips in warm communion, ship coming into harbour and safety.

I traced my sorrow into his mouth at having almost lost him, spoke to him without ever uttering a word. I sat back into the cushions as he bent busily over me, wriggling on my lap, warm tongue waltzing with mine. His hands had a healing touch that sparked in me. Flushed hands, steady weight, all harmonies and lost love and knocks on the door of uncertainty.

It was with those unsure footsteps that he carried me to his bedroom, my head, like a limp puppet, resting on his familiar shoulder. He pressed me down into the mattress, drawing my clothes off me with practiced grace, a reverence in his plaintive touch.

He burrowed down next to me, a warm pressing energy at my side and we rediscovered each other. Worshiping, familiarising, clinging to each other like small children with no fears for the future. He tangled his fingers in my hair and drew my eyes to the depths of his.

"I love you," he murmured. "I always did."

I looked up to him. "I don't want you to go back to Hogwarts."

"I know you don't. But I must," he sighed.

Together, we tried to right the world, our fears pushed aside as we lost ourselves in the deep expanse of skin and magical touch; the future some pale moth in the horizon of possibility, forced away by my Harry-love and me.

- finished -