He tells her he loves her again, now, in the moment, and the heels of her hands are vices on his shoulders, making the dislocated one scream out with sharp fire, and he bites his swollen tongue so hard it splits and blood fills his mouth. More blood. More blood; they are coated in it already and so he doesn't care when it sputters and dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin as he repeats those three words to her, like she wants him to. Needs him to. They are painted in blood, fresh and old, and as he has since he first started falling in love with Hermione, he thinks about how her blood looks exactly the fucking same as his. Their blood is black in the dark, tasting like iron filings and life and death at once, when she kisses him and the taste fills both their mouths.