Disclaimer: I gain nothing but satisfaction and have no affiliations with JKR.
"sunday morning"
and i love to hear you'd live with me
gives me the greatest peace i've ever known
( house ; patrick wolf )
She barely remembers him from school, a fact that can be forgiven since most of her time was taken up in protecting and aiding Harry, but it astounds her, looking at him now, because his form isn't exactly unassuming.
Wayne Hopkins is pushing six foot three but, unlike Ron, his build isn't so much gangly as it is hard muscle. He has a mop of blond curls through which Hermione adores running her fingers, a lovely broad back, and a delicacy of movement that is almost out of place in such an impressive figure.
Hannah calls him stoic, and Justin says he's honest working class, but Hermione doesn't need to borrow other people's descriptions anymore, not when he's standing in her kitchen confidently brewing tea, the muscles in his shoulder rippling slightly under the casual, striped polo as he reaches for the mugs on the top shelf.
She could watch him for hours, she thinks; the lithe movements of someone so completely at home in their own body is hypnotising, and Hermione leans forward, resting her elbows on the bench top, right index finger drawing lazy circles on the granite as she lets her imagination drift.
In her mind's eye, she can picture the grooves that run enticingly down from his hips; feel the ghost of his finger tips dancing across her skin; hear the echo of his comforting Welsh lilt as he murmurs to her of the ordinary and extraordinary, whispers sweet nothings and jests.
He's all soft, lingering touches today; gently he places her tea down, a hand caressing her bare shoulder as he passes once more to fetch his own mug from the work top, and Hermione's eyes follow his graceful movements until he deposits himself into the neighbouring bar stool. When he does, she leans forward to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"What was that for?" Wayne asks, smiling indulgently.
"Just a whim," she replies gaily.
"Well, you missed," he tells her and grasps her chin firmly, dropping one of his own to her lips. She laughs merrily as he says with satisfaction: "There we go; bang on the money. Now, pass us the sports pages."
An easy silence descends, punctuated only by the singular meow of Crookshanks, the great ginger feline requesting an embrace which his mistress is only too happy to grant. Cuddling the part-kneazle close, Hermione reads the business section while Wayne checks the League Tables for Quidditch and Quodpot; his left hand rests casually on her thigh as the morning fades leisurely into midday, and a wonderful serenity settles over the house.
This is happiness, Hermione thinks privately: Sunday mornings, tea, and a lover.
End.
Um, yeah; how James Joyce of me, seeing beauty in writing about the mundane everyday…
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