DISCLAIMER: See previous installment.
A/N: So here's the second part. Sorry it's taken a while (mildly put), but I've been rather busy, what with end of term school stuff, work and, well, summer holidays… okay, I'm aware of the fact that my excuses aren't very good. But anyway, here's the continuation. This part is pretty sappy and fluffy, but I wanted and liked it like that, so I hope you will too. Enjoy!
Caught in the Fire
Part 2
Half an hour later, Hermione once again stood in the bathroom with Ron's toothbrush in her hand, studying her face in the mirror. She turned her head from side to side, examining her bruises. She was quite a colourful sight by now. Her bruised cheek was an interesting mix of blue and green and yellow, and her cracked lip had grown even more red and swollen. I won't be able to go outside or meet anybody for a week, she thought to herself. She could only imagine how Harry would react if she'd show up at his doorstep tomorrow morning, looking like this, with a cheerful "Hello, Harry, how are things with you?". She smiled, in spite of herself, at the absurdity of such a situation.
Making a face at her reflection, she put toothpaste on Ron's toothbrush and began brushing her teeth. It wasn't really necessary, seeing as she'd brushed her teeth less than an hour earlier, and she'd barely drunk any tea, but when he'd told her she could use his toothbrush she hadn't felt like telling him she'd already used it, and had instead accepted it with a thank you.
She could hear him bustling about out there, probably arranging a bed for himself on the hideous sofa. She'd objected forcefully when he'd offered her his bed and announced himself to be sleeping out in the living room, it'd felt like too much of an intrusion. But his perseverance had prevailed in the end, mostly because she didn't have the strength to argue with him. Not after the talk.
It'd been an arduous talk, which had begun straight after Hermione's announcement of Gary's probable death. First, a near deafening silence, which she'd refused to break, then questions, questions, questions. He'd asked them gently, so as to avoid scaring her away it seemed, and she'd told the full story, bit by bit, urged on by his questions. Everything from the first blow she'd taken to that fatal moment when she'd pointed her wand at Gary and uttered the curse. When he'd asked her which curse, she'd said she couldn't remember. He'd nodded, looking grim. And then he'd been wonderful, wonderful Ron and said he'd take care of it, that he'd help her and that she wasn't alone in this; he'd told her she'd be staying the night ("it's a demand, not an offer, 'Mione") and gone off to arrange everything, sending her off with his toothbrush in the process. And now here she was.
After one final spit in the sink, she put the toothbrush back in place and exited the bathroom. Upon entering the living room, she found Ron, asleep, lying on his back on the sofa, one arm draped over his eyes. The sofa was long enough for him to lie stretched out, but just barely.
She stood there studying him for a while. His chest rose with every breath he took and his mouth was slightly open. She had a sudden impulse to go over and lie down next to him; to hide again, be warm again. Talk with him about everything and nothing until the sun came up. It wasn't as if she was going to get any sleep anyway, not all alone in Ron's dark room, with nothing to keep her mind off the events of the night.
She realised that if she stayed here watching him much longer she'd most certainly do something insane, like actually cuddling up next to him, or throwing herself out the window in sheer frustration. Careful not to wake him up, she tiptoed to the doorway leading into Ron's room. There she turned around and whispered goodnight to the back of the sofa holding the sleeping Ron.
When inside the bedroom, she didn't even bother to undress. Instead she went straight to the bed, drew back the covers and crept in, pulling the blankets up all the way to her chin.
Lying down in Ron's bed gave the same effect that putting on his sweater had. Everything in the bed – the pillows, the blankets, the sheets – bore his scent. It made her slightly dizzy, being so completely wrapped up in things smelling like him. It once more gave her the urge to run out and lie down next to him, to feel his scent for real. 'Cause as nice as sweaters and pillows and sheets could smell, they were nothing compared to the real thing.
It suddenly occurred to her that this was the very bed in which Ron slept every night, and this realisation of such an obvious fact made her stomach flutter in a funny way. She turned to lie on her side, facing the bedside table. On it there was, besides an odd lamp and a worn wristwatch, a small stack of books. She reached for the top one and brought it close to her face so she could read the title in the dark.
"Seventeen Snazzy Styles for Snatching the Snitch".
How typical, she thought, that he's willing to spend money on a book like this when he wouldn't even spend time on "Hogwart's, A History", which he, without any doubt, would have had much more use of. She checked the next two books in the pile. They were both about Quidditch as well. One was filled with detailed accounts of memorable moments of various World Cups, and the other was an old, well-thumbed guide to the history of the Chudley Cannons. She smiled to herself. Him and those Cannons. He just wouldn't give up on them.
Just like he'd never give up on her.
She grabbed the last book of the pile, finding, to her surprise, that it was a pocket book of the kind found in Muggle bookstores. Not once during all the years she'd been a member of the Wizarding Community had she seen a book of magic have anything but a hard cover.
It was near impossible to make out the title, seeing as it seemed to be written in a dark colour on an even darker background. After having strained her eyes to the point where her head ached from the effort, she instead opened the book and read the title on the first page.
"Watership Down".
She was truly astonished. Not one time during all the years she'd known Ron had she heard of him reading a fictional novel. Comic books, yes, and the occasional short story if it was required for a homework assignment at Hogwart's, but never a novel, and most certainly not of own free will.
She put the book back, making a mental note to ask him about it in the morning. Right now she needed to get some sleep. The headache that had been threatening to arrive all night had finally reached her, probably much thanks to the amount of crying she'd been doing. Her eyelids suddenly felt terribly heavy, and she slowly let her eyes fall shut.
But that proved to be a grave mistake. The minute her eyes closed, she was met by the image of Gary charging at her, arms outstretched, and then being struck by her curse, flying back with a scream.
Her eyes flew back open and she immediately broke into a cold sweat. Her heart was racing and her mind was spinning. Reality was once again catching up with her and she wasn't sure she was ready for that yet. Sitting up, she looked around, frantically searching for something to concentrate on. She had to keep busy, keep her mind occupied, keep all those frightening thoughts from entering her head; even if it meant she wouldn't get any sleep at all.
Once more she reached towards the bedside table, and her hand fumbled to grab hold of one of the books lying there. But she was shaking so violently that her attempts resulted in all the books being knocked off the table and falling to the floor with a series of thuds.
Instinctively, she covered her mouth with her hand at the sound and flattened herself back down on the bed. Had Ron heard? Had she woken him up? She both hoped and didn't hope she had. Because even though she knew he needed to sleep, it would've been nice in a way, to see him come rushing into the room – worried, barely awake and ready to fight off any possible threat to her safety.
But no Ron arrived. She rolled her eyes in spite of herself, and marvelled at his ability to sleep through all sorts of mayhem. But then the panic caught hold of her again. Heart racing, she stared intently at the ceiling, willing her eyelids to stay up. She mustn't close her eyes. Mustn't, mustn't, mustn't.
At the same time she knew she had to get some sleep. Furthermore, she wanted to sleep. She had no desire whatsoever to lie here awake all night, plagued by her own thoughts and forced to watch "The End of Gary" repeat itself, surround-sound, in her brain.
"Sleep," she suddenly hissed at herself. It was a ridiculous thing to do, seeing as she could hardly command herself to go to sleep, but in some strange way it seemed to help a little. She felt her body relax, and suddenly it didn't seem entirely impossible for her to fall asleep tonight.
Just not here.
She was a bit startled at the thought, and yet it suddenly seemed very obvious. She would never get any sleep in here, not in this room. It didn't matter how much comfort the scent of the bedding brought her, or how reassuring it was that Ron spent all his nights here (well, nearly all his nights anyway, but she didn't want to think about that right now). The room was simply too dark and lonely and big, especially in comparison to how utterly small she felt tonight.
Without putting any thought to her actions, she got out of bed and tip-toed to the door. Opening it, she peered into the living room.
Ah, yes. This room was much, much better. Warmer.
Warmth was in the dim light emanating from the floor lamp by the bookshelves; warmth was in the colours, even those belonging to the hideous sofa and warmth – the source of all the warmth in the room, it seemed – was in the creature lying in that very sofa, hidden from her view by a wall of green and blue squares.
She swallowed hard – doubt, reasoning and logic threatening to catch up with her as she pondered whether or not to approach the sofa. What would he say? She could just imagine the look on his face if he awoke to find her standing by his side, smiling coyly and asking to share the sofa with him. Her cheeks flushed at the mere thought of sounding so... cheap.
She realised that she couldn't stay here shilly-shallying any longer. If she wanted to go over to him, she had to do it now, or else she'd most certainly chicken out and be condemned to a night of tossing and turning in Ron's far too big bed. Do you want to sleep or not? a voice said to her irritably. Her throbbing head answered for her and she suddenly found herself, after having taken a few swift steps, standing next to the sleeping Ron.
What to do now? She bit her lip nervously as she studied him. He was lying in the exact same position as he had been earlier, stretched out and with one arm flung over his eyes. She considered, and subsequently discarded, a variety of methods to wake him, among them poking a finger in his ribs (too cruel), tapping him on the shoulder 'til he reacted in some way (too annoying) and – this was the one she felt like the most – stroking him gently on the forehead and whispering his name.
In the end she settled for a variant of the latter, but without the stroking. She whispered his name, and it was left hanging in the deathly quiet of the room, evoking no reaction whatsoever from him.
She tried again, a little louder.
"Ron!"
Apparently this was more than enough to wake him. He flew up as if shot from a cannon and stood on the floor, arms out and blinking, with a somewhat wild expression on his face.
"Wh-what? What is it?" he said, shaking his head as if to clear it from sleep.
"Ron!" Hermione said, one hand over her heart, looking shaken and offended. "Don't scare me like that!"
"Scare you?" Ron retorted, pulling a hand through his wild, red hair. "I had my heart right up with my tonsils! What did you do that for?"
"I was trying to wake you up! And I don't see how I could've scared you, I spoke in a normal conversational tone."
He rested one hand on top of his head and the other on his hip. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath. "You're right," he said. "Sorry. I was in the middle of a pretty dramatic dream." Opening his eyes again, he looked her straight in the eye.
"You okay?" he asked, brow furrowed. She nodded and suddenly found herself smiling at him as she took in the sight of him.
He was quite a vision. Mrs Weasley's sweater was gone and now he was instead wearing a white tank-top along with his striped pyjama pants. Hermione recognised the top; she'd won it for him at a fair they'd visited some years ago. It was white and yellow, with a far too cute print of two dogs playing with a ball. Furthermore, it was several sizes too small, and that, along with the childish print, was proof enough that it was actually meant for a child. But Ron hadn't budged when the stall-holder had questioned if this was actually the prize he wanted. He'd taken it with a satisfied smile and worn it the whole day. Hermione hadn't seen him wear it since. Not until now.
His hair was messy and unruly, as it'd always been. Fashionably unkempt, stylishly careless, just like the rest of him. Its colour seemed, in this semi-darkness, slightly more modest than its usual fiery red. Not that she didn't like it when it glowed, as it did in sunlight, but this slightly darker shade of red made him look so… grown-up. So serious. And it was thrilling in a way. At twenty-two, he was just about to take the final steps into manhood. Bit by bit, he was adjusting to playing the role of Mr Ronald Weasley, certified adult; but she could still see him as she'd always known him, as the tall, red-headed boy who'd lived through countless adventures with her, who was passionate and wild and always up to something, who never backed away from an argument as well as he never gave up on a friend, the boy who'd teased her and fought with her and called her a know-it-all, but who'd always, always stood up for her, no matter what. And now she saw him here, Ron Weasley, an old boy and at the same time a young man, and she found her stomach flutter at the mere thought of seeing him in a few years time, when he'd really be a man, and what he would be like. She hoped he would still be Ron. An older, wiser and more serious Ron, surely, but still him. She hoped he would still be capable of pulling pranks on people, of innocently teasing Percy, and of bickering with her about stupid things and rolling his eyes at her sky-high ambitions. Because as much as she scolded him when he did such things, as little did she want him to stop doing them. It was part of who he was, of what made him Ron Weasley, and she didn't ever want him to be somebody else.
It was the puzzled look on Ron's face that made her realise she'd been staring at him far too long. And she was still smiling in a silly manner – a smile that she quickly lost. Blushing, she looked away, at loss of any possible comment. What could she say? She'd been staring at him – studying him – for quite some time, all the while smiling stupidly. How could she possibly explain that without making a fool of herself? "Oh, sorry Ron, I was just terribly amused by the print on your tank top." He'd never buy that. Sure, they'd all laughed long and hard when he'd first put it on, but it wasn't that funny, and hardly entertaining enough to keep a goofy grin on her face for five minutes. Plus, he'd think she'd been staring at his chest the whole time, and that would be… well, not very good.
He was eyeing her, brow furrowed.
"You hungry or something?"
She just about melted into a little puddle right there on the floor, that was how mortified she was to hear his words. Had she looked hungry??!! Oh, goodness, goodness, goodness… Somehow she managed to find her voice, or some semblance of it.
"No thank you," she croaked. "I'm just... tired."
Oh, how very clever, Hermione, she sneered mentally at herself, still blushing furiously. What a marvellous explanation.
But he just gave her a brilliant smile, his eyes sparkling mirthfully.
"Well, forgive me, but if you're so damn tired, would you mind explaining to me why in the world you, instead of going to sleep, left my big, comfortable, inviting bed to come out here and bug me?"
After a brief embarrassment over hearing Ron refer to his own bed as "inviting", she found herself getting annoyed. "Well, excuse me for disturbing your peaceful sleep," she spat. "I didn't mean to be such a nuisance. I guess I'll just leave you alone so you can go back to whatever stupid Quidditch dream you were having."
She turned around, ready to stomp off, but he grabbed her by the arm to stop her. Carefully turning her back around to face him, he stood there holding her by the arms in a gentle yet firm grip. She glared up at him, but couldn't stay angry after seeing his excusing expression.
"Sorry," he said. "You're not a nuisance. I was just trying to make a joke."
Of course he was. She knew that and felt ashamed for blowing up at him. "Sorry," she said as well. "I'm sorry for yelling. I'm just a bit… you know. Tonight. It's not you."
He nodded and gave her a little smile. "So why did you wake me?"
She took a deep breath, holding it in a while before breathing out, and looked away, feeling flustered. It suddenly seemed quite impossible to ask him if she could sleep out here. With him. It didn't matter how dark it was, or how simple it'd seemed when she'd been lying in Ron's bed. Some things were just too… unconventional to be suggested.
"I couldn't sleep," she managed in a tiny voice.
There was a pause of maybe four or five seconds before he spoke.
"D'you want to lie out here? With me?"
She didn't think she'd ever loved him as much as she did at that very moment. It was as if somebody had stuck their hand straight into her chest and given her heart a squeeze – the sensation was so physically evident it made her lift a hand to her chest. How did he know? How did he always know what she meant, what she wanted, even before she'd uttered the words? How did he always know how to, with no more than a few sentences, make her feel cared for and make her feel better?
She looked up at him, wanting to respond, wanting to tell him yes, and thank you, and exactly how much his understanding meant to her. But her vocal cords refused to co-operate, and her throat was strangely tight. As he looked back at her, worry was evident in his eyes. Clearly he thought his offer had rendered her speechless with shock and offence. His cheeks began turning red, along with the tips of his ears.
"You don't…" he began, but had to pause to clear his voice. "You don't have to. I didn't mean…"
Wishing to free him from his embarrassment, she managed a quick nod and a shaky smile. He looked relieved, and she could've sworn he even looked a bit pleased. Grateful that the awkwardness was out of the way, and that she was actually going to get to lie next to Ron all night, Hermione sat down at one end of the sofa. Ron still stood, looking indecisive as whether or not to sit down next to her. She looked up at him, ignoring the fact that she must look ridiculously expectant. After a brief glance at her, he blushed, mumbled "I'll go get another blanket" and disappeared.
Hermione couldn't help smiling to herself. It was so typically Ron – so typically, adorably her best friend Ron – to get nervous when facing a situation like this one. It wasn't as if this would be the first time they slept next to each other, but he still got flustered at the thought.
She remembered the first time they'd shared a bed, how agitated he'd seemed. He'd paced around for more than five minutes – making lame excuses to why he couldn't lie down next to her just yet – before he'd even come within ten feet of the bed. It'd been in their sixth year at Hogwart's, at a night on which Dumbledore had received a written threat – attached to a large rock which had been thrown through one of the windows of the Great Hall – where an infamous Death Eater had claimed Voldemort himself was heading for the school, with the simple intent to wipe out as many Muggle-born students as he could manage. Everyone had been ordered to the Great Hall, where they were to spend the night under the supervision of a large part of the faculty. The remaining teachers had taken turns to be on watch on various locations in the castle. The prefects – among them Ron and Hermione – had been put on guard in the common rooms. Dumbledore, who never wanted to jeopardise the safety of a student, had agreed to this only because he considered the possibility of Voldemort first heading to any of the common rooms nearly non-existent. When in the Gryffindor common room, Ron and Hermione had placed themselves on the sofa and engaged in conversation that was, despite the constant presence of Ron's joking remarks, quite grave. They'd discussed the written threat that had come flying through the window of the Great Hall, and whether or not it was to be taken seriously. They'd talked about the future and what it would look like for them, for everyone. They'd expressed their fears of having to live in a world controlled by Dark Magic, having to live in fear of losing family and friends, and having to bow down to a creature so cold and vile and heartless. And then they'd vowed to never, not ever, bow down to Voldemort. They'd agreed they'd rather die than have to live on his terms, and that they'd go down fighting him if it ever came to that.
With midnight approaching, both of them had showed clear signs of weariness. Hermione had stated that they needed to get some sleep, but that at least one of them had to be awake, so they would have to take turns. Ron, who'd been sixteen years old at the time, and had just begun to understand the characteristics of a gentleman, had offered to take the first shift and Hermione had gratefully, and without objection, made herself comfortable on the sofa.
But for some strange reason, and despite her weariness, she hadn't been able to fall asleep. Maybe it'd been the somewhat clichéd yet chilling combination of branches scraping the window and the wind howling menacingly. Maybe it'd been the thoughts that had filled her head the moment the room had gone quiet; terrifying thoughts triggered by their talk earlier, or rather the discussed issue itself.
Or maybe it had just been the fact that the distance between her and Ron was a painful fifteen feet, and it felt as if he wouldn't be able to save her, had Voldemort come barging in at that very moment, seeing as the sofa she was lying on was closer to the portrait-hole than his armchair.
Whatever the cause of her uneasiness had been, it had made her blurt out a request for Ron to come closer. The dim lighting, along with the ever growing fist of fear in her stomach, had stopped her from getting embarrassed after having expressed her wish. Ron had moved closer, somewhat hesitantly and clearly nervous. This had made Hermione feel strangely brave, and before she could stop herself, she'd heard herself ask him if he would mind lying down next to her. The moment the words had left her mouth, all her courage had left her and she'd felt herself blush furiously. Not that her facial colour had been anything compared to Ron's. His eyes had looked about ready to pop out of his head, and his whole face had been red enough to shame a sky in the final stages of a sunset. She'd started rambling – quite frantically at that – about why she'd like for him to lie next to her, and had been amazed at how reasonable her reasons sounded.
In the end he'd agreed it sounded like a good idea for them to stay as close together as possible. But he'd paced and babbled and coughed nervously for more than five minutes before he'd actually taken the plunge and placed himself next to her on the couch.
It'd been awkward at first, lying so close together, their bodies touching in so many places it was difficult for Hermione to concentrate on them all at the same time. But as time had passed, and as drowsiness had taken them over more and more, the awkwardness had slowly dissipated, and they'd shifted to make themselves more comfortable, not bothering with trying to prevent any increase of physical contact.
They'd rested like that, side by side and subsequently in each other's arms, until they'd heard footsteps approaching outside the portrait-hole sometime during the early morning hours. It'd been McGonnagall, coming to fetch them and thank them for their help, and undoubtedly she'd registered – as well as had some idea of the cause of – the two students' flushed faces, because she'd given them a knowing smile before announcing that an early breakfast was being served in the Great Hall. She'd also informed them that the teachers had, after a night of thorough investigation, been able to conclude that the written threat had been a distasteful and unacceptable joke performed by a former student from the house of Slytherin – a boy who also happened to be Draco Malfoy's cousin.
Ron's and Hermione's sharing of the sofa in the Gryffindor common room that night was something that no one knew of besides themselves (and, to a certain degree, Professor McGonnagall). They hadn't even mentioned it to Harry. It'd been a silent agreement between them to keep it to themselves, not only because of the high taunting-risk a depiction, however brief, of the night's events would bring, but also because of the fact that this was something that was completely theirs. Something only the two of them had shared. And it felt as if telling somebody else about it would make it too public, too much a case for everybody to dissect and discuss and make their own. And it wasn't theirs. It was hers. Hers and Ron's.
Ron returned to the living room, carrying a black and grey wool-quilt, which Hermione couldn't help but think, would look awful together with the blue and green of the sofa. He stood there for a moment, hugging the quilt and staring out the window, something Hermione took as yet another sign of nervousness. She was just about to give him an exasperated "Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron!" when his gaze suddenly shifted to her, and he made his way to the sofa in two long strides. She moved inwards, making room for him to lie down, but he didn't. Instead he sat down with his back to her and placed his head in his hands, letting out a sigh.
Hermione frowned, puzzled by this sudden display of resignation. After a moment of hesitation, she reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. At this, he turned around and looked down at her, giving her a small smile which was sad and excusing and affectionate all at once. He took her hand, which was still on his shoulder, in his and held it for a while, studying it. Finally he spoke.
"I don't know what to do with this," he said in a somewhat strained voice.
"With what, my hand?" Hermione joked, desperate to lighten things up a bit. It wasn't often that Ron was subdued like this, and the few times it happened, Hermione didn't really know how to handle it.
Her lame attempt at a joke seemed to have some of the intended effect as Ron turned to meet her eyes again, this time giving her a smile that was a little less dismal.
"You know what I mean."
In a sense she did. But a part of her was a bit worried about what Ron meant when he said he didn't know what to do with this. What did he feel like he had to do? She wanted to make him understand that his being here right now was enough. She didn't need anything more from him.
"Ron, you don't…"
"I know what you're going to say," he interrupted, once again looking away. "I know you'll say I don't have to do anything, that you'll be fine on your own and that you don't need me taking care of things for you. But I just…"
He paused, looking almost pained.
"I just can't help feeling like I could've stopped this."
Hermione retracted her hand from his and placed it on his cheek, gently turning his head and forcing him to look at her.
"Don't you dare think that, Ron Weasley," she said. "Don't you dare. You have no fault in this, no fault whatsoever, you hear me?"
"Hermione…"
"No, you listen to me now. There is no way you could've stopped this, no possible way. Gary was the one who hurt me, not you. He's entirely to blame. And I don't want you going around believing anything else."
He didn't respond at once, and when he did he shifted his gaze to somewhere right above her head.
"Look, Hermione, I'm not daft. It's not like I believe I'm solely responsible for everything that's happened to you. But it doesn't matter what you say, it still feels like I could've done something to stop this. I mean… I knew, I just knew there was something dodgy about that git, I sensed it the first time I met him."
Hermione couldn't help but smile. She remembered all too well Ron's stiff posture and icy tone when he'd first been introduced to Gary. It'd been in this very apartment, at one of Ron's dinner parties, and after dinner he'd given his verdict. "Smarmy bugger, if you ask me. Someone who comes to a dinner party all dressed up in a suit like that is either involved in something illegal or plainly an obnoxious snob." He'd been speaking to Harry, but Hermione had overheard and told him off for being so judgmental and superficial, and for not trusting her to pick a nice boyfriend. He'd muttered something about Gary being rude to him – "in my own, bloody apartment" – but Hermione had defended Gary and said that he was probably nervous, seeing as he didn't know anyone there but her.
She'd defended him. Of course, that was before he'd felt the need to prove his power over her. She had liked him, maybe even been seriously in love with him.
It'd all started out so perfectly. He was so handsome and stylish and polite, and had brought flowers for her on their first date. All her friends (well, everyone except Ron) had been impressed by his good-nature and sophistication and had immediately approved of him, urging Hermione to bring him with her whenever she came for a visit. And she'd revelled in it. She'd loved having a boyfriend whom everybody appreciated, she'd loved the envious glares she'd gotten from other girls when she and Gary went out together, and she'd loved introducing him to people, hooking her arm in his and casually saying "…and this is Gary…", as if it wasn't something to make a big deal of.
Looking back, it was hard to see how something that had started out so perfectly could've ended so horribly. How it could've ended with her taking somebody's life.
At this thought, a cold hand closed around her heart and the panic rose in her again. She looked up at Ron, almost pleadingly, and it was as if there was a window straight into her head, allowing him to see just how scared and helpless she felt, because without a word he turned and laid down by her side. Lying on his back, he opened his arms to her and she crept closer, placing her head on his chest. She could feel his breath in her hair and she squeezed her eyes shut, allowing herself to be completely enclosed in his warmth and his scent.
"I wasn't, you know," he murmured, suddenly. She opened her eyes, puzzled.
"Wasn't what?"
"Dreaming about Quidditch."
She smiled at this, having forgotten her earlier accusation. "Okay," she whispered, shifting her head a little to get more comfortable. Her hand was resting on his chest and she felt him lace his fingers through hers, then lift her hand and kiss it, ever so lightly. As he put her hand back and let it go, she burrowed deeper into his chest and he held her even tighter.
It wasn't awkward. Not at all. It was just safe. And warm.
She didn't even have time to marvel at the sudden peace and quiet in her head before something – or someone, rather – softly carried her off into sleep.
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A/N: Ha. Didn't I say it was going to be fluffy? Anyway, to be honest, I don't expect to have another chapter up any time soon, 'cause seeing as I'm a tad over-ambitious, I'm working on a number of stories at the same time, and the chapter-posting tends to be, well, not very frequent. I'm really, really sorry about this. But a great big thank you goes out to all you patient people who take time to read and review. Thanks!!