Had he said something wrong? The question ran through his mind as she spoke her first words. He allowed her to lift his gaze up even though it pained him to do so. He felt as if was doing her a great dishonor for not worrying about her wellbeing enough to let her go. He listened as she spoke, wanting to argue, but holding back. He didn't want to interupt her when she was kind enough to let him clear his mind. He wanted to say that he knew she was in danger at work but that didn't mean they needed to increase the danger, but he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to say it. Instead, he was fixated on her every word.
He stopped shaking from his frustration at some point during her words, his eyes staring into hers as she continued. He knew how important she was to him and he'd be lying if he tried to say he thought she felt otherwise. But to hear it spoke allowed brought a sense of joy to him that he hadn't experienced enough as of late. It was similar to the feeling of hope but in this case far more rewarding.
She loved him.
The words cycled in his mind over and over as he tried to comprehend that. He knew he loved her, he had come to that realization at some point over the simplest thing. He had watched her emerge from the fireplace, covered in soot from the journey, and thought to himself those very words. But he had never said them before. Not to her, not to anyone. And he couldn't recall a time when he had heard them spoken to him from anyone other then a friend. He couldn't recall because there had never really been anyone willing to take a chance with him the way Dora had. He didn't even realize that he was letting moments go by in silence, nor that his eyes had glassed over partially with the first trace of tears.
He took in a breath, full of certainty, and brushed his hand through her hair, keeping his gaze with her. "And I love you, Nymphadora," he whispered, savoring the way the words felt escaping from him. He loved Nymphadora.