EPILOGUE

"Durinson, wake up, you arse!" Gloin's voice pierced Thorin's fogged noggin.

Seriously, that's not what he wanted to wake up to. A pair of warm hands, and even maybe lips on his sensitive parts would be best, but he would agree just to a faceful of orange curls, and a bum pressed into his...

"Durinson!" A pillow smacked into his face, and he groaned and rolled on another side, blindly waving his hand with the middle finger in the air. "Common, you're sleeping through some mental shite happening at school. They say there's been a dragon in the dungeons, and the Smaugs are gone, and..."

Thorin pushed his hand from under the duvet, grabbed Gloin's collar, and jerked him down to his face.

"I don't give a fuck, you git. I'm sleeping..."

"Listen, you twat, I had to run back and forth with messages to your bird for three weeks, like a fucking owl, so I deserve some explanation!" The ginger was all puffed up. Yeah, they'd used Gloin to communicate, because the Smaugs wouldn't suspect him, since he was seemingly the only one who didn't like Wren. Which was complete rubbish, they'd been actually getting along quite well.

Thorin sat up and ruffled his hair. Most of his mates were either in showers, or getting dressed, but Gloin, Bifur, Bombur, and Dwalin were standing around his bed. Dwalin had actually been in the know the whole time, so he just stood his arms folded on his chest, knowing smirk on his lips.

"There was a dragon in the dungeon last night..." Thorin yawned, and savoured the shocked faces. "Benny fucking Smaug was the dragon, and Balin escorted the wanker to St. Mungo's." The heads whipped and everyone stared at Dwalin, who tried to look like it was every day that his bro walked the Castle. No biggie, just Balin Fundinson, the best dragonologist after Charlie Weasley, visiting his little brother. "And Smaug's sister as well. She'd been off her onion, and now both of them will finish their studies in nice comfy straight jackets. End of story," Thorin announced and flopped back on the bed.

And yeah, after that there'd been eight times in the prefect bathroom, but that was between him and a certain ginger.

Oh right, he'd also promised something to the aforementioned ginger.

"Hey, Mick!" Thorin called after Bofur who was lacing his shoes on his bed. The Irishman had been sort of down these days, kept to himself, and Thorin threw a pillow at him. Quidditch reflexes allowed the Mick to batter it off, but the dischuffed clock remained. "So you know, your bird played a crucial role in apprehending the psycho pricks, and the photos were fake."

Bofur froze one shoe dangling in his hand by the lace, and then it was Thorin who needed all his Quidditch reflexes to duck since it flew into his head. The whole self of the Irishman followed, fist first.

"Ye bitseach, couldn't've said it before?!"

Thorin blocked the punch, they rolled on the floor, the dorm cheered. After couple minutes the Irishman was clearly cooling down already, and it was more wrestling than anything, though Thorin's head was throbbing from a sensitive thud on the floor. The rest of his skins were very supportive, meaning they were yelling suggestions how to better arse the other one up, and probably taking wagers.


The night before, after yet another round on the mattress - oh, wait, no, it was against the wall - she curled into him and was doing her usual nuzzling thing. It consisted of the same barmy thorough rubbing of her nose to his sternum and happy purry noises. Apparently she had a thing for his chest. He couldn't say he minded. Her mental orange curls were tickling his stomach, and he gathered handfuls of them. She froze, and then he heard a long sad sigh. Oh right, the hair. It wasn't that bad though, just sort of a bob on one side, and still long on the other. He got it though, he cared for his too. His stepmum would send him this nettle shampoo, and the Durinsons generally grew theirs out, family tradition and such. And yeah, dragon fire damage was irreparable. It's just he didn't think it looked that bad, yeah?

"You'll just have to even it out, Leary. You'll look cute with a bob." He was properly trying the whole considerate boyfriend thing, yeah? And it wasn't like he was lying. He did think she'd look good.

Another sad sigh followed. Maybe he could distract her with a bit of scratching the back of her head, that was her thing after all. He pushed the hand into the mane, but she tensed and started backing off. Thorin sighed as well. He'd already tried everything he had in his arsenal.

Maybe it'd sort itself out somehow...


It did. And fuck him, he was properly unprepared to the way it did.

After picking himself and the Mick from the floor, clapping shoulders to reconfirm their bromance, and their mates paying each other their bets, they all got ready and went down to the Great Hall.

The gawking and the whispering behind his back had become old story by then. That was a fucking deja-vu from the last term. A monster in the sewage again, him being all heroic, and somehow again he needed to reestablish him and the ginger being official. The night before they'd agreed she'd just sit at the Slytherin table as before, as if nothing happened. Of course, they'd be the center of attention again, but whatever.

He sat, poured his tea, and already started on his eggs on toast, when the doors opened.

He properly wished he hadn't started noshing. Sitting like a moronic imbecile, fork mid-air, eggs hanging off it, piece of bread behind his cheek, when his newly re-acquired girlfriend entered the Great Hall was definitely not his prefered option.

Especially considering what she looked like.

It was a bob alright, but also the hair was cut short on the sides, and at the back - he reckoned that it was called an undercut - and she held her head high, and marched between the tables, and suddenly he noticed that he wasn't the only bloke looking. Seriously, every muscles in his body went through some sort of randy spasm from this mop of curls, and the neck, and that orange fuzz peeking from under the spirals above her cute pink ears. And again, it wasn't just him. The black lines in the corners of her eyes were only adding to the overall moreishness, and why did he suddenly get a feeling he'd have to fix couple hooters to remind the wankers whose bird they were drooling over?

Judging by the proud grin on Martin's clock - she was following Leary - that was her creation. Bloody fucking hell! If Martin ever needed career advice from Durinson, he'd definitely tell her to go for PR. She just turned his girlfriend from 'that super smart chick from Ravenclaw' into 'fit redhead everyone would nail given the smallest chance.'

Wren smiled to his mates and sat near him. He still hadn't swallowed his nosh.

"Morning."

Some sort of mental shudder ran through his body from that voice of hers, he threw the fork on the plate, hurriedly swallowed, and pulled her in. PDA ahoy! And lashings of it, because everyone had to properly observe and remember that... That. Was. His. Girlfriend. Her arms flew up and flailed in the air, but he properly didn't give a fuck. Who fucking cared for some propriety, or whatever!

"Thorin… Thorin..." Oh, fucking yes to the breathy tone and the pink spilling on her delish skin. "Thorin!" Oops, sucking at her neck might have been a bit too much for a brekkie but, common, she was so bleeding fit, with this hair, and the confident stride, and the black thing on her eyes, and fuck him, he was crazy about her!

His nose bumped into her collarbones, and he smirked and peeked up at her. The cheeks were predictably red. Seriously, fire breathing chicken was cooler than her cheekbones.

"Do you want your necklace back, love?" he asked. It was in his pocket, but he wasn't sure if she did. She nodded, and he handed it to her. She turned her back to him, asking to help with the clasp, and he quickly considered a jog to a loo and dunking his head in cold water. Seriously, this silky orange buzz at the back of her head with soft curls falling over it was doing something to him!

She turned again, faced him, and blushed even more. He reckoned by now she could read his clock pretty easily.

She then rummaged in her pocket and opened her palm. Her Mum's bracelet was on it, the one she'd given to him on Christmas, and he smiled to her widely, and moved his hand to her. Wow, he even didn't have any randy thoughts here for a mo, just all touchy-feely stuff. The bracelet was the only memory of her Mum, just like the necklace to him, and she whispered Epoximise. The ends of the string wrapped around his wrist and bound together. He quickly leaned in and pressed his lips to her cheek. Nothing shag related, just… Fuck, he didn't have a name for it, but it was… so fucking perfect, and somehow different, somehow adult, and more important, and their eyes met, and he opened his mouth…

"I still don't get how they knew what's in Wren's locket." Martin grumbled, flopping on the bench near Wren, and the magic was sodding gone. Ta, Martin, for fucking ruining the moment.

Wren moved away from him, and cleared her throat. She threw him a look from under her lashes though, full of very, very interesting promises, and he smirked to her. Later, he decided, after hours, on the mattress...

"They were on the seats, when you took the photo," Thorin answered, turning to Martin. "I remembered catching the view of them at the background. I needed to get properly arsed up for the memory to resurface, but yeah..."

"So, they found your photo with your bleachy ex in the same exact pose? What are the chances?" Martin snatched a toast and bit into it loudly.

Was she not aware of a pair of puppy eyes on her? Apparently not. Or ignoring the poor Mick with all possible determination. None of Thorin's business, to think of it.

"Well, it wasn't that original of a pose," Wren spoke quietly, and Thorin threw a worried look at her. She seemed fine though, drinking her cuppa. "And if there hadn't been a photo, they'd have found something else. Not that it would have worked anyroad." She smiled to him softly, and he once again pecked her cheek. He was a jammy sod, wasn't he?

"Sickos," Martin announced her diagnosis, and then got up. "Alrighty, I'm off to my table. You two keep your hands to yourselves, you are properly disgusting, and peeps are trying to eat here, and I'll see you in Potions."

She turned around, all curls, curves, and sweet perfume, and walked away. Yeah, the Mick properly needed to pull his finger out, because clearly the bird required effort. That was if the Mick wanted the bird. Judging by the cut up expression and droopy corners of his mouth, he did. Again, none of Thorin's fucking business.

The super fit ginger decorously drinking tea to his right, on the other hand... Thorin grabbed Wren under arms, there was the squeak of course, and he pulled her on his lap.

"Thorin!" She properly should try harder to pretend she's not enjoying it. He gives her a wide grin.

"Le-e-e-eary..." Remember when it looked like she hadn't been affected by his voice although other chicks properly fancied it? Well, tough tits. Now she couldn't hide it fuck. The lashes fluttered, and he slowly brushed his lips to hers. "Do you think that's the last monster, and now we are gonna live happily ever fucking after?"

The slanted cat eyes opened.

"I'll see what I can do." The sarcastic lilt in her voice was properly arsing up synopses in his noggin. He decided to give in and snogged the hell out of her, until he had to take her off his lap after a pointed cough from the Professors' table.

"Remember, Leary, you promised."

"I did. And I do remember."

She smiled to him, and he smiled to her back. And went back to his eggs and toast. He had his ginger back. What could possible go wrong now?

End of Part 2


Final note:

After this, there will be a one-shot. Wren and Thorin go to an official party organised for his Dad's anniversary. Remember, Wren was choosing a dress at the very beginning of the term?

How mean of me would be to place Thorin's ex at the very same party? :P The answer is 'very mean' :D

And then Part 3, with Egypt, mummies (possibly), Bofur making the move, while mini-Durins test the buoyancy of various objects :)

Check out my Pinterest if you want to see Wren's haircut and the new character that will be introduced in Part 3 and will make our Thorin ve-e-e-e-ery nervous :P


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Summary:

Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom.

John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm.

Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more.

Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?