A/N: I know it's been forever since I updated. Unfortunately this whole 'writing books' thing has turned from a hobby into a career. God only knows when that happened; still, it means that something had to be bumped down my priority list, and sadly this was it!
I'm not sure if anyone is still reading, but I'm going to keep posting just in case. I've had writers abandon stories that I was really into before, and it sucks. Even if there's only one reader left, to me, it's worth writing just for you.
So, thank you, whoever you are, for giving me a reason to keep going!
When Ron and Hermione let themselves in through the Floo, the first thing they heard was a long, drawn out moan of pleasure.
"Should we go home?" Ron asked, his voice hushed.
"They knew we were on our way," Hermione hissed back. "Plus, I think I'd quite enjoy interrupting them mid-shag."
They were to be disappointed; on walking through to the living room Hermione found harry sprawled on the sofa, Charlie on the floor in front of him massaging the arch of his foot.
"Fuck, that feels good," Harry said.
"Are we interrupting something?" Hermione asked sweetly.
"Yes. Fuck off," Harry said.
"Stop it, you," Charlie chastised him. After planting a kiss on the top of Harry's foot, Charlie unfolded himself and pulled first Hermione, then Ron into a hug. "Dinner won't be long," he said. "Make yourself at home."
Ron held up a bottle of wine and raised his eyebrows, following his brother through to the kitchen to decant it into glasses while Hermione sat down at the other end of the sofa. In a wine coloured dress with her hair worn loose, Hermione looked relaxed and at home. Which, of course, she practically was. She kicked off her shoes and nudged them under the coffee table, then put her feet up on it.
Like this, her pregnancy was more obvious. They had made the announcement a few weeks previously and she'd now stopped being sick every morning, which put her in an infinitely better mood.
Hugo was spending the evening at his grandmother's; Nana Granger, who didn't have any other grandchildren.
"So," she said lightly. "Foot fetish?"
"Fuck off, Hermione," Harry said with a laugh.
"Your language is atrocious."
"I know." He didn't sound too bothered by the fact.
"How's the reading going?"
Ron and Hermione, and Luna, of course, were among the few people who knew Harry had been studying his dad's old journal. He was still working through it, trying to decide on whether following in his father's footsteps and learning to become an Animagus was a good idea, or a very foolish one. It didn't help that everyone seemed to have their own (often conflicting) opinions.
"It's going," he said. He leaned over to pluck the red leather journal from a drawer in the coffee table and handed it to her. "Take a look – I marked the page."
With the prospect of learning something new looming, Hermione tucked her feet up underneath herself and fell silent to read. Harry was amused but wisely didn't say so.
Charlie and Ron returned with three large glasses of wine, and one much smaller one, and Harry accepted his gratefully. For reasons Harry had never quite figured out, Ron had an excellent skill at picking out good wine.
When warm lips found the back of his neck, Harry turned to share a kiss with his husband. This kind of easy affection was one of the highlights of his day – his life – and he'd vowed never to take it for granted. Good friends, good food, an amazing partner… Harry knew what the last piece of the puzzle was.
All he had to do now was pluck up the courage to go and get it.
