July

"Feet off the fucking furniture." Theo kicked Blaise's ankles, knocking them from where they'd been perched on the coffee table. Draco rolled his eyes, accepting the drink Theo delivered, and indulging in a genuine smile for what felt like the first time in months.

Blaise, eternally unaffected by Theo's ire as he was, simply pulled out his cigarette case and lit up in an alternative show of annoyance. Theo glared, let out a low, frustrated growl, and set Blaise's drink down just out of his reach.

Scotch, cigarettes, and banter between Blaise and Theo. Not the worst way to spend a Friday evening, and truth be told, he doubted anything could dampen his mood after receiving an owl from Hermione that afternoon.

She'd returned from Australia.

They planned to meet in Diagon Alley the next day: Saturday.

A simple, predictable evening with drinks and friends seemed like a fine way to cap such a hopeful day.

Then Pansy Parkinson stepped through the Floo, gave them all one severely derisive sneer, and announced that they were boring old men.

"I'm making an effort to reestablish this friend group and you three would rather laze about on a Friday night," she said, dragging them from the parlor and into one of the manor's many entertaining spaces. This particular room included a large, well-stocked bar and spacious round table.

"Insults are a part of reestablishing a friend group?" Draco asked, incapable of suppressing a smile.

"And inviting yourself over?" Theo added.

She shrugged and pointed them to the table with a silent demand that they all sit. Theo and Draco obeyed; Blaise raided the bar and dropped more drinks and snacks on the table before taking his seat as well.

Pansy produced a pack of cards from a comically small pocket in her tight dress that had to have had an extension charm on it.

"She's planning on robbing us, too," Blaise said, entirely unfazed as he leaned back in his seat and propped his feet up on the table. He took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the vaulted ceiling.

Draco nearly laughed at the way Theo's hand twitched, too far away to knock either Blaise's feet or the cigarette away. Pansy began dealing cards, having yet to fully explain what game they'd be playing or how extensively she planned to liberate them of their money. It wouldn't have been much of a concern for Draco before recently, but now, he hardly had the discretionary income to waste on Pansy's ruthless ability to out bet and outplay each of them while barely blinking. He could only assume she'd refined her skills in the years since he'd last gambled with her.

"Here's how this is going to work," Pansy started, flicking her head such that her fringe swayed as a curtain before returning to its perfect, neutral position. "I'm going to tell you that yes, I did move to France for a few years and yes, it was good for me to disconnect from this place for a while. But also yes, I did miss it here and yes, I missed all of you. And yes, I'm being obscenely sincere when I say that so we won't be bringing it up again. And yes, I'm sticking around for good now so yes, you're all stuck with me again. Any questions?"

"You're going to tell us that, are you?" Draco lifted a brow.

"I just did, didn't I?"

"If you say so," he shrugged, smirk stealing his expression.

She threw a tiny olive at his face.

"Missed you too, Pans."

"Yes we already covered the part where you missed me during your"—she grimaced—"illness."

Theo snorted. "This isn't so bad. Kind of reminds me of my birthday we spent drinking with Granger."

Two legs of Blaise's chair made contact with the floor again as his feet dropped from the table, laughing with a surprising volume and force. Blaise, of all people, did not often laugh loudly and unexpectedly.

"What's so funny, then?" Theo asked, eyes narrowed.

Blaise made a gesture towards Draco.

Draco's shoulders tensed. He could feel himself bristling. "Care to elaborate or are we playing charades?"

Blaise's laughter stilled, features neutralizing as he graced them with his insight. "I had to remind you that you were betrothed."

"Thanks for that, by the way," Draco grumbled.

"Granger needed the reminder, too."

"Again, many thanks."

"And you both needed to have it pointed out that you hadn't invited Astoria. Probably for a reason."

Draco's words spilled with more sincerity when he said it this time: "Thanks, for that, then. I think."

Pansy cleared her throat across from them, tilting her head towards a pile of coins at the center of the table.

"So, to be clear, we're in support of this Granger situation?" she asked.

Theo and Blaise responded simultaneously: "Yes."

The rapidity with which they offered their agreement genuinely stunned Draco, rooting him to his seat for a moment as he rotated, watching them. Theo ignored him, barreling onward.

"And assuming Draco fixes this fucking mess when he sees her tomorrow, you'll get to experience the joy that is drunk Granger, too."

"Can't wait," Pansy said.

"No, really. She knows all kinds of strange and fascinating things. I'm getting a proper muggle education."

"She's going to have to dress better if I'm expected to socialize with her." Pansy threw another galleon to the middle of the table. "I suppose I could always take her shopping, if I must."

"I like how she dresses," Draco said, setting his cards down.

Pansy's smile, sickly sweet and coated in condescension, irritated him before she even said a word. "Of course you do, darling. You're hopelessly in love with her."

Draco narrowed his eyes, frowning. A feeling of being painfully on display made him want to shrink, to vanish.

"Don't look so put out," Pansy said. "If it counts for anything, she's hopelessly in love with you, too."

"And you know this from taking one lunch with her?"

Pansy's head wobbled side to side as if she couldn't decide if her jaw needed to hang open in disbelief or if she needed to shake everyone else's stupidity from her perfect hair.

"It's no wonder everything fell apart without me here. Men."

Blaise made a sound that might generously be labeled as another small laugh.

Pansy lifted her brows, gaze tracking between the three of them, as if expecting a rebuttal, or an answer, or something resembling an explanation. She sighed; she'd refined the efficacy of such a long-suffering sound during her time in France. She sounded truly beleaguered, war-worn with a single sigh.

"Seems to me, as a completely nonpartisan, third party observer, that it's a little more complicated than that." She scooped the pile of gold from the center of the table and dragged it towards her. Had she won? Draco hadn't been paying attention. "Seems more like the two of you got cold feet when you both realized how huge and how difficult it is to be Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger in a long-term relationship."

She shrugged as if that were obvious and dealt another hand.

"It's not free, being you two. It's going to cost you"—she frowned when she made eye contact with Draco, voice slipping into something disdainful—"well, it's cost you everything, hasn't it? Too much, if you ask me. But apparently, too much if you ask her, too." She didn't start playing, but set her cards down on the table with a little too much force. The disdain in her tone swelled, pitch increasing. "I mean, what woman in her right mind wants someone she loves to lose his family and his name and his money and his home because of her? And so yes, from the one lunch I had with her I certainly got the sense that the great Hermione Granger is still the self-sacrificing sort."

Draco opened his mouth to say—something? Anything? He didn't know if he needed to defend himself or Hermione.

"And you," she continued before Draco could make a sound. "Well, you let her be right, didn't you? She said the cost wasn't worth it and you agreed. The sooner you two idiots realize that your relationship is going to have costs and decide whether or not you're willing to pay them, the better."

She finished on a heavy breath, almost angry, agitated in the way she picked up her cards again, darted her gaze between the three of them, and then snapped, "Whose turn is it?"

Theo, brave soul that he was, attempted to answer.

"I think—"

"And don't even get me started on the two of you," she said, pointing a finger between Theo and Blaise.

"At us? What have we done?" Theo asked.

Blaise answered instead. "I think we've had enough brutal psychoanalysis for one night, Pans. Lovely to have you back."

She rolled her eyes and held his eye contact for long enough that Draco got the sense they were attempting a silent conversation. He sipped his scotch rather than involve himself. He'd had enough of Pansy's relationship advice dumped on him for one evening. His chest ached.

She had an uncanny, divination-adjacent sort of ability to see straight through him, through most people, and cut straight to the quick in order to bleed him dry of his excuses. Her accuracy annoyed him.

Draco had spent the better part of the last year fumbling his way towards a different, more distant relationship with his father, struggling to find the right path. In trying to protect Hermione from the debilitating disappointment that was his parents' ever-apparent unwillingness to change, he'd let her nurture an unrealistic hope. And then at Christmas he'd lost his cool, let years of resentment build up and explode, quite literally, in a way that put Hermione in danger, but also highlighted just how toxic and unrepentant his parents truly were.

Hermione knew she'd be forever at odds with Lucius Malfoy, and didn't want the same for Draco. And even though it felt like she'd abandoned him, given up and cast him aside, he'd given up, too, and with less fight than both of them deserved. He'd wallowed for months rather than reach out to her. He'd told himself it was because she didn't want him to. But just like with Pansy, his lack of action probably had more to do with his own fears of being rejected, doubly so, than it did with his understanding of her wishes.

They'd needed some space, some time, but somehow ended up with far too much of both.

Pansy released a breath, breaking her silent stalemate with Blaise.

"Yes, it's certainly lovely to be back." She turned her attention back to Draco and it took an embarrassing amount of self control not to recoil under her inspection once again. "So, do we think Granger is a spring or summer wedding sort of girl?"

On the one hand, Draco's trips to Gringotts took significantly less time when he didn't have to travel so deep underground to visit the generational vaults. On the other hand, not having access to those vaults inspired a new kind of anxiety deep in Draco's stomach that he'd never known before: financial insecurity.

Did most people feel this way? Was this how it felt to navigate the world and not have the ability to buy whatever he wanted? He didn't much care for it, as evidenced by the ache in his jaw when he realized he'd been grinding his teeth together.

He slid the jewelry box across the desk: the last of the Malfoy heirlooms to be returned to vaults he no longer had access to.

He'd returned the ring a month before, but he'd forgotten about the ruby necklace, the one he'd never successfully given her anyway. It carried mostly unpleasant memories, and yet, watching as the Goblin reached across the desk and took the flat velvet box, Draco felt like he'd lost something precious.

"Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy have formally forfeited claim on any remaining furniture or belongings from the confiscated flat," the Goblin said, sliding a parchment towards Draco.

He ground his teeth tighter. He'd known that, but having it spelled out in writing irritated his already raw nerves. They'd wanted the expensive bits of jewelry back and nothing more. They'd washed their hands of him. Soon, he'd be removed from the wards too, the family magic, the blood magic. All of it.

"Is there anything else Gringotts can do for you today, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes," he said.

The Goblin waited for him to elaborate. Draco wondered, briefly, why he'd not been offered champagne. Perhaps that was another thing no longer afforded to him now that he could afford very little.

"I need to open a new account. My own, that is."

"There is a twenty galleon deposit minimum for account openings."

Draco molars made an unsettling grinding noise as he forced his jaw shut, bit back the nasty thing he wanted to say. He did run a business after all; he had a stable income. The shop performed well and Blaise certainly knew how to manage its finances. That this Goblin didn't think he had even twenty galleons left to his name after his disinheritance—

He took a deep breath.

"Of course. I'm aware of the deposit minimum"—because he'd checked, mortifying as such a thought had been—"and I have it prepared."

He placed his galleons on the desk. The Goblin barely blinked, gathering the gold, counting it, and recording the totals in his ledger.

"You will be the primary account holder?"

"Yes."

"Any secondary or authorized parties you wish to have access to the account?"

It sprung from him on impulse. A stupid, wildly optimistic impulse.

"Yes."

"Name?"

"Hermione Jean Granger."

The Goblin looked up from his ledger, frowned, and restated Hermione's name.

"Yes," Draco confirmed. "Hermione Jean Granger."

"Your secondary account holder will need to submit her wand for inspection and access verification to complete the process."

Draco nodded. "Of course," he said. He forced himself to believe it. He would be meeting her in less than an hour. And it was going to go well. He could feel it, he could manifest it, if he tried hard enough. It was going to go so fucking well.

Meeting for ice cream had been her idea. He liked to think the choice involved a touch of sentimentality, meant as a reminder of where much of it began: him bringing her ice cream when he had no business doing so.

He stood near the door to Florean Fortescue's. A glance at his pocket watch told him he'd arrived early after such an expedient meeting at Gringotts. Waiting wasn't good for him; it agitated his nerves. Left him bouncing his leg. Tapping his fingers against his trousers. Counting the seconds he swore he could hear ticking away on the watch inside his pocket.

He reached for it again, cool metal against his fingertips. She'd fixed it for him once, so long ago. Before he could pull it from his pocket and confirm for the umpteenth time that, indeed, it still wasn't quite time, he caught sight of her riotous curls approaching.

He saw the exact moment her eyes found him, a tiny worried furrow smoothing from between her brows.

He didn't let himself think too hard about his actions. He simply did what came naturally, what had always come so naturally with her. He greeted her with a light hug, chin against her curls, savoring the sensation of her arms encircling his torso, if just for that moment.

She stepped back, a cautious smile pulling at her lips.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi." He tilted his head towards the door. "They have apple caramel again."

Her smile quirked brighter. "Do they? They'd taken it off the menu for a while."

She followed him inside, and what might have been an awkward reintroduction, standing in line at an ice cream shop, felt casual, enjoyable. The silence didn't feel damning. It felt like it usually did with her: easy, a natural respite from the din of life bustling around them. He liked sharing silences with her.

They ordered. He didn't even bother offering to pay. She forced her money onto the countertop before he'd even finished requesting his flavor.

When they sat in a corner booth by the window, with a lovely view of the street, she smiled at him. Something cautious, something hopeful.

"Hi."

"Hi," he said again, smiling back.

"Sorry," she said, exhaling. "I'm nervous." She let out a disbelieving, breathy laugh.

"That's ridiculous. It's just me—just us."

She nodded, chest and shoulders lifting as she inhaled. He watched her hold it for a beat and then, slowly, she let it out, shoulders sinking, tension unwinding.

"How was Australia?" he asked. Diligently, he forced himself not to watch her mouth as she ate a bite of her ice cream. The lecherous thought was there though, planted in his forebrain with echoes that remembered what that mouth could do, how it tasted, how it felt.

"Oh, it was—it was alright. Good, for the most part." She tilted her head once, features scrunching as she determined how to word what she might say next. He'd missed watching this process. "It was a bit uncomfortable, sometimes. But I think we needed it. We all had a good cry over a bottle of wine one night."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could have helped."

She looked at her ice cream, then back up at him. She smiled, small but bright. "Me too." She swirled her spoon in her bowl. "You're feeling better?"

"Much." He allowed himself a grin. "Recovery from a nasty cold is actually quite quick when you take your potions and let people help you."

"Imagine that."

"Remarkable, in fact."

"You were fairly pathetic looking."

He nodded. "I got sick on my birthday and—well, my mother didn't send any toffees this year, understandably. I suppose I was feeling a bit sorry for myself."

He didn't say it, but he knew they were on the same page, meeting somewhere in the middle.

He didn't have her, either.

He'd been focusing on his expression, trying not to look too serious, too dour, too accusatory, when her hand found his on the tabletop, chilly fingers wrapping around his palm.

"It's been a hard few months," she said. "I'm sorry I wasn't—there. With your parents—I just—"

He shook his head, stopped her.

"I know."

She took a deep breath, wincing as she gnawed on the inside of her cheek.

"I regret it," she said, eyes on their hands. She looked a little unsteady, but her voice came out clear, level. "I was trying to protect myself and, well, I made the decision for you, for us—that it wasn't worth losing them. I'll never do that again—no matter what we are to each other."

"Don't. Hermione, I let you. I decided I was bad for you. And I should have told you how bad it was—with them. I should have picked you." He faltered, in search of his own version of Pansy's insight. "It'll never be easy, being us. But, it was worth it. It is worth it."

She nodded, fingers pulsating pressure against his.

"I'm sorry." This time, when she said it, it had a full stop.

"Me too." His did as well.

He followed her gaze, watching their interlocked hands.

"Can we"—she swallowed mid-sentence, her grip on his hand tightening—"pretend it was a bad dream? The beginning of this year?"

He wished.

"I don't think so. It was awful. But it was—good? Because now I know, and with absolute certainty." He paused. Braced himself. Asked it. "Don't you?"

She blinked, question settling against her skin, inside her brain. It took her a moment, perhaps to comprehend the scope of what he meant. But when she understood, her smile took his breath away, thieving his oxygen with every second it spread.

Years passed in moments, whole abandoned futures sliding back into place, possible once again. Coming together had always been easy when they let it, when they stopped fighting themselves, when they gave into the current that drew them in. They could have fought. They could have gone back and forth, scouring their mutual guilts and crimes and grievances. But instead, in a simple moment that eased six months of pain in a blink, they decided to move on.

"Come to my flat," she said.

He puffed a disbelieving breath, the last air he had left. He chuckled, feeling so light, so genuinely hopeful.

"What for?"

"Forever."

They'd barely taken one step out of the Floo and into Hermione's cramped flat when she burst into tears. Then she groaned, wiping at her face. Draco let himself laugh, stepping up to her, into her space, and cradled her head in his hands, thumbs swiping at warm tears.

"Overwhelmed?" he asked.

She laughed, too, but sounded rather annoyed about it. She nodded. "I missed you so much." Her voice nearly gave out at the end, wiping her tears from her face with a determination that said she would not cry anymore. Her hands found his shirt instead, fingers walking from his lower ribs to the center of his chest. Her hands flatted, palms pressed against him. Then they curled, crumpling his shirt in her grip.

"Please?" she asked.

And he knew all the ways she meant it.

Please stay.

Please hold me.

Please forgive me.

Please kiss me.

He knew, because he meant them for himself, too.

His hands moved opposite each other. His right travelled from her cheek to the back of her skull, winding in her curls and pulling, ever so gently, to tilt her head upward. His left descended, from her jaw to her neck, fingers trailing lightly down her throat, between her breasts, to her waist where he wrapped his arm around her.

He'd pay any price for this.

When he kissed her—just outside the Floo grate, in a tiny flat he'd never seen before, after months left unmoored, alone, and quite literally homeless—it felt like finally finding his place. He didn't need a manor or his expensive flat. He didn't need generational vaults at Gringotts or a name that opened doors.

He needed her, and the fire that shot through him when he tasted her lips, inhaled her sighs, shared her air.

He trapped her bottom lip between his teeth, applied enough pressure such that she whimpered, hands gripping and pulling at his shirt. He smirked as he released her lip, trailing a line of kisses along her jaw, towards her ear.

"Do I get a tour?" he asked, knowing she'd be able to hear the smile in his voice.

The breath whooshed out of her, a sort of half-laugh, half-groan. Her hands dropped from his chest, looping around his belt, guiding him by the waist as she pulled him away from the Floo.

"Yes," she said. "This is my very small living room. As you can see, I don't own much furniture. A coffee table, here, and a sofa I won in a rather ill-advised bet." She pulled him towards it, twisted them, and pushed him down onto the green velvet cushions. A blink later, she positioned herself in his lap, knees bracketing his hips as her hands flew to his jaw, demanding another kiss.

A groan slipped from his throat as his hands roamed the tops of her thighs, sliding around to her arse. He pulled her hips against his, unrepentant in the way he ground up into her, indecently aroused after having gone without her for so long.

"I have plenty of furniture," he said, latching onto the skin at the base of her throat as her head tilted back. He slipped his hands beneath her jumper, pushing it up and over her head. "Just sitting in a ballroom getting no use."

She wore a green lace bra, the same she'd procured for his birthday the year before. He hadn't intended on losing control of his voice, but the sound that escaped his lungs sounded mostly inhuman, feral in its overwhelming want.

"Did you wear this for me?" he asked as he traced his tongue along the laced edges. He surmised her nod by the way her curls moved in his periphery. If she'd intended to answer with her voice, the sound got caught in her throat, washed out by the panted breath she released as his tongue circled her nipple over the lace of her pretty little bra.

She heaved a shaky breath, hands on his shoulders, then at his collar, fumbling with his buttons.

"Yes," she finally said. "I hoped. I missed—I just, hoped."

"You're beautiful," he whispered to her skin as she unbuttoned more of his shirt. When it finally fell open, her hands roamed his chest. She giggled.

"What?"

"Pansy Parkinson, of all people, sent me an owl and threatened me bodily harm if I didn't wear my nicest lingerie today."

"She's bossier than you are."

"She was right; I needed it." And with that, she ground her hips down against him again, forcing a moan from his throat.

"Granger," he nearly growled. "I love this sofa. I have missed this sofa. But I am not fucking you on it right now. I am having you in a bed." He shifted forward, hands beneath her arse, and lifted her off his lap.

She sighed, dramatic and overdone, a glorious smile giving her away. She stood and reached for his arm, pulling him up as well. "This way."

He needed to catch his breath. He needed to slow this down. Just a little, just enough. He wanted to savor this, savor her, savor this tiny fucking flat and all the places he might love her in it.

"What about my tour?" he asked as he rose, smirk firmly in residence on his face.

She rolled her eyes, gesturing rather haphazardly at the space around them.

"Well, you can see the entire kitchen from right here because this is a very small flat. I don't even have a kitchen table yet, but if I did, it would go right about here"—more vague gesturing—"for now I've just been using the sofa—"

"Good countertops," he said, cutting her off.

Her head tilted, a bolt of confusion mixed with frustration as she repeated him.

"Good countertops?"

He closed the distance between them again, fingers catching easily around her waist, dancing along ribs, traveling towards her spine. He bent.

"Perfect height," he said, and hoisted her up, taking two deep strides to plant her on the countertop in question. He muffled her surprised laugh with his mouth, drawing her in for another kiss.

His fingers worked the button to her denims, his lips still desperate to devour every inch of her skin as he did so. She spoke as she wriggled, broken words as she twisted and leaned so he could peel her clothes off.

"I thought"—a lean to the left, hand braced on his shoulder—"you wanted the bedroom?" She leaned to the right; he yanked her denims down the rest of the way. Her knickers, too.

"Yes, and we'll get there," he said, dropping to his knees as he placed a kiss on the inside of her thigh. He tugged her forward, to the very edge of the counter. "But first—"

She whined, hand slapping down on the countertop when he tasted her. He lifted her knees over his shoulders, gripping her hips to hold her in place as he reacquainted himself with all the ways he might use his mouth to make her moan and sigh and keen so prettily.

A nearly inaudible oh transformed into a whimper as one of her hands found his hair, dragging her nails through it. He sucked directly on her clit, swirling his tongue such that her sharp inhale seemed to surprise even her.

Something fell into the sink beside them with a clatter: a jar or a bowl or something else of entirely no consequence.

He loosened his grip on her hips just as her fingers scraped across his scalp again.

He slipped a finger inside her—then another—twisting and dragging and pulling. He could hardly believe how little time it took her, how close and how ready she'd been, already reduced to a writhing mess on her countertops.

The oh came loudly, this time.

Her hands didn't leave his hair, not until she'd caught her breath, descending from her orgasm. She sat straighter as he stood, hands fisting his open shirt, using it to pull him towards her before she forced it off his shoulders. She clung to him, in her bra and nothing else.

She kissed the center of his chest and it sent warmth radiating out from her point of impact.

She kissed the base of his throat, and it stalled his breathing, hand curled around her waist.

She trailed her fingers down his arm, holding his left hand in her right.

She whispered in his ear as he unhooked her bra.

"Drop your glamours?" she asked, words barely audible. Her eyes darted to his left arm, held between them. "You don't need them. Especially not with me. I'll drop mine, too."

He expected the pang in his chest to feel like panic, like fear, exposure rubbing him raw. He felt some fear, but mostly—inexplicably—he felt something like peace: resignation without the sense of failure. He trusted her not to judge him for the vile brand on his arm, not to look at him any differently. Not after all this time.

He pulled his wand from his trouser pocket and cast a silent finite on himself. Hermione didn't even spare a glance for his Dark Mark. Instead, she reached for his wand, pulling it tentatively from his grip with an unspoken May I? etched in the set of her jaw. With his wand, she cast a finite on herself.

He knew she'd been hiding dark circles under the eyes; he didn't know about the scar above her right brow. Tiny, almost invisible, probably completely unnoticeable to everyone she came across on a day-to-day basis. But Draco had made a study of her features, of the face that bore them.

He'd blown up all the glassware and she'd had a tiny stream of blood dripping down the side of her face.

"I can vanish it for you."

"Don't, Draco. Not now. Later"—she pleaded with her eyes—"we'll talk about it later. But right now. Will you please—please take me to bed."

His yes disappeared into the fabric of her skin, answering as he kissed her shoulder, pulling her from the counter. She wobbled, unsteady for a moment, before she led him to the tiny corridor, entirely naked, mind-bogglingly beautiful.

Hand in his, she pulled him to follow. He didn't need the direction; he would follow her anywhere.

She tilted her head to the right. "That's the guest room. As you can see, I have no furniture for it."

He pinned her to the open door jamb, dropping a kiss to her clavicle. His belt fell to the floor, liberated from his trousers.

"A great space for brewing," he said. She nodded, sighed, canted against him as he kissed her neck.

She tilted her head to the left, to the door opposite them.

"That's the bathroom, very small."

"Room in the shower for two?"

"We'd have to stand very close."

"I don't mind."

He kissed her lips again, tongue lazy and satisfied as he explored her. Warmth hummed in his bones, not enough to scorch, but plenty to sate, to fuel him. It all felt a bit dreamlike: having her, touching her, pulling delicious little moans and whimpers from her with his touch. He never wanted to wake.

She unbuttoned his trousers, shoved them down, and made an impatient noise when she realized he still wore his shoes and had to separate from her long enough to kick them off and step out of his clothes. When her hand slipped inside the waistband to his underwear, she must have heard his breath catch as he kissed the skin beneath her jaw.

With her hand wrapped around his cock, she pumped slowly, several deadly strokes until his control broke. He dipped, hands beneath her arse to lift her up, into his arms. His teeth grazed her neck before coming to rest at her ear.

"Bedroom." Partly a question, mostly a command. He rocked against her, heat exploding into flames that licked the underside of his skin. Her shoulder bore the brunt of his groan as he held her flush against him, a single layer of fabric separating them.

A vague gesture, a limp arm, pointing generally down the corridor.

"Only one door left," she breathed and he nodded against her skin, moving before he'd even fully realized his legs had gone into motion.

Left unlatched, the door to her bedroom swung open with the tiniest push.

"You got a new bed," he said, a quiet observation as he lowered her onto it and finally rid himself of his underwear.

"I got used to having more room, even sharing."

She pulled him into the bed with her, facing each other, side by side. He couldn't help but grin: a stupidly wide, idiotic one.

To be in a bed with her again.

"Your sheets are white."

"I left the burgundy with you."

She wrapped her arms around his neck as he shifted onto his elbows, closer, partly above her.

"I love those sheets," he said. A kiss at her temple. "Those hideous, Gryffindor sheets—gods, I've missed you."

Her grip around his neck and shoulders tightened: no more room left to pull him in, but perhaps to hold him there.

"Speaking of sheets, I'm cold." She breathed a quiet laugh, eyes darting towards the foot of the bed where they'd thrown the covers. He laughed as he leaned down and grabbed them, pulling white sheets and an atrocious quilt up to cover them.

She made a happy, contented sound against his skin. Vibrations hummed against him.

"Cozy," she whispered.

"Perfect."

He shifted, adjusted again, a slow drag of his body against hers, arousal not forgotten, but shifting towards something slower, sweeter. He bracketed his arms around her shoulders, hovering face to face. Her chest moved his when she inhaled, noses brushing.

He took advantage of their proximity, of how much easier it was to have hard conversations with her when they were close, sharing thoughts as much as oxygen or body heat.

"You aren't allowed to leave me again."

She shook her head. "You aren't allowed to let me."

He shook his.

He kissed her shoulder, her chest, her heart, and upwards again: her neck, her jaw, her lips.

When they came apart, lungs desperate for air, he forced words to form from heaving breath. "And when I ask you to marry me, you're going to say yes."

She canted against him, a sharp intake followed by a bitten back sound deep in her throat.

"I am," she said, mouth on his, assent barrelling straight through him.

"And we're going to get married."

She nodded with her face pressed to his, hands clutching at his shoulders as he sank into her.

"Yes," she breathed.

"And I'm going to spend every day of my life loving you."

"Yes."

"And you're going to let me."

"Yes," again.

"Fuck—Hermione."

"Yes," seemed to be all she could say, and it was all he wanted to hear.