he kisses you like he's memorizing the shape of your lips for the afterlife, every brush of his mouth a silent apology. you learn to read him in the spaces between words—how his "this is foolish" really means "i'm terrified of losing you," how his trembling fingers as they button your cloak whisper "stay" even as his voice says "go."

he's the boy who leaves your favorite book face-down on his nightstand, the pages dog-eared at all your best-loved passages. who notices when you skip meals and has a house-elf deliver tea exactly how you like it—two sugars, no milk—without ever admitting it was him. who traces your features in the dark like he's trying to carve you into his bones, because he knows better than anyone how fragile forever really is.

and when he finally pulls away for good, pressing your forgotten scarf into your hands with shaking fingers, his eyes say what his lips never will: you were the only real thing in this godforsaken war, and i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry.