a/n: auauau what au? royalty au! well, kind of.
. . .
seven — flower crowns.
. . .
She hums a tune and he listens with eyes closed, breeze gently caressing his face.
The tree is an excellent provider of shade, he notes. Perfect for a snooze.
His breath evens and her humming lulls him further and further away from consciousness with the feeling of comfort strangely embracing him as he falls deeper into—
There is something on his head, he realizes with a jolt. He quickly pulls himself up, alert and ready (still disoriented too, in a way) but then he hears giggling.
Hermione's, to be precise.
He groans. What a way to spoil his almost nap.
"What are you even—" His words are slightly (just slightly) slurred and it seems to amuse her more.
"It fits you and don't you dare take it off." She orders him, challenging tone promising something he knows that he will definitely find unpleasant if he disobeys.
(The last time it was frogs stuffed in his boots and coat. He refuses a second, similar experience.)
Tentatively, he touches the top of his head.
"How in the world am I going to go back like this?" He points towards the flower crown for emphasis, voice pleading laced with disbelief.
She merely laughs— twirling and dancing out of his reach.
. . .