When Hermione takes the bus from the highway, nothing feels unexpected whatsoever.
When Harry catches up with her in the last minute, her skepticism is apparent on her face.
It pisses him off; her doubt has always annoyed the hell out of him. He doesn't play games with her, she has to know.
She takes his hand anyway. He squeezes hers, she can't help but sigh. He's with her, can it change anything ― Reassurance goes a long way plus she doesn't mind returning favors. It doesn't put a smile upon his face; indeed she's very much aware of that fact, thank you.
Utter a few words: Come away with me. I could always use your company. No. She doesn't say any of that. They don't need her pretending it's something unusual; it's always been an unspoken deal. She knows he understands when she looks into his eyes and intensity of his stare makes her look away.
It may be pretending she's at a loss for words when his eyes catch hers too. She leans closer. Don't ask.
Around a time the bus passes a pretty village, she drifts into sleep.
*
Her window is closed, the drawn curtains are dirty, her head keeps falling on his shoulder, and he remains unattached. Lack of sleep isn't that bad; it's just she feels restless and wants to get comfortable.
"Tea?" he asks her. She opens her eyes and immensely disturbed from the light. "Ugh, no," she mumbles.
He sighs. He wonders if the road will ever end.
*
She's always woken up at dawn. She's still.
There is a coat over her; her shoes are off of her feet. She looks next to her seat, he's asleep. He somehow manages to look much more tired than her. It annoys her for no reason.
Promise me we will never look back and away when we get there.
She wants to say. However, she feels too much of a coward to be imagining a future with him. Even if their future only means a simple mental image of them sitting in front of a tent, her with her books and him with his thoughts.
Longing for things she'll never have, there it starts again. Something catches in her throat and she likes to think that she's fine. Her eyes are cheery and wide, not red rimmed and sleepy. And he's fine too, he's not cold because he draped his coat over her and he is happy: he's in the real world now.
The sun stays behind mountains; she's taken a peek, pulled the curtain.
They could travel for a long time. She's scared of arriving.
down undertones
When Hermione takes the bus from the highway, nothing feels unexpected whatsoever.
When Harry catches up with her in the last minute, her skepticism is apparent on her face.
It pisses him off; her doubt has always annoyed the hell out of him. He doesn't play games with her, she has to know.
She takes his hand anyway. He squeezes hers, she can't help but sigh. He's with her, can it change anything ― Reassurance goes a long way plus she doesn't mind returning favors. It doesn't put a smile upon his face; indeed she's very much aware of that fact, thank you.
Utter a few words: Come away with me. I could always use your company. No. She doesn't say any of that. They don't need her pretending it's something unusual; it's always been an unspoken deal. She knows he understands when she looks into his eyes and intensity of his stare makes her look away.
It may be pretending she's at a loss for words when his eyes catch hers too. She leans closer. Don't ask.
Around a time the bus passes a pretty village, she drifts into sleep.
Her window is closed, the drawn curtains are dirty, her head keeps falling on his shoulder, and he remains unattached. Lack of sleep isn't that bad; it's just she feels restless and wants to get comfortable.
"Tea?" he asks her. She opens her eyes and immensely disturbed from the light. "Ugh, no," she mumbles.
He sighs. He wonders if the road will ever end.
She's always woken up at dawn. She's still.
There is a coat over her; her shoes are off of her feet. She looks next to her seat, he's asleep. He somehow manages to look much more tired than her. It annoys her for no reason.
Promise me we will never look back and away when we get there.
She wants to say. However, she feels too much of a coward to be imagining a future with him. Even if their future only means a simple mental image of them sitting in front of a tent, her with her books and him with his thoughts.
Longing for things she'll never have, there it starts again. Something catches in her throat and she likes to think that she's fine. Her eyes are cheery and wide, not red rimmed and sleepy. And he's fine too, he's not cold because he draped his coat over her and he is happy: he's in the real world now.
The sun stays behind mountains; she's taken a peek, pulled the curtain.
They could travel for a long time. She's scared of arriving.