It’s been four months since Hermione has seen anybody. It’s been two months that she’s been in the woods, with Harry’s blood still under her nails and tears in her eyes. She’s terrified, and there’s fear in her bones when she wakes, when she breathes, when she sleeps. Her heart is a pendulum in her chest, a wild thrum of chaos that swings with the weight of a church bell. Sometimes it beats so hard that she thinks her ribs will crack wide open and she’ll splinter from the inside out.
“do you know what draws people together, granger?” he asks her desperately, eyes burning into hers as his hands grip her shoulders. “it’s fear, granger. it’s not love. it’s fear. it’s that feeling you get when you wake up in the middle of the night and you think your chest will break right open, that your skull, that your bones and every thing in you will splinter. it’s that feeling that will kill you, that forces you to love people, to love me. never, ever forget that. love rarely survives without fear.”