Bill had made a last minute decision to Apparate back to the Burrow after Grimmauld Place because he'd been struck by a thought to not arrive at Fleur's flat empty handed. He hadn't even bothered to go inside; he'd merely walked around to the back garden while narrowly avoiding a cluster of fighting gnomes who had set up their brawl just beyond the main walkway. He had half an urge to chuck them over the garden fence and be rid of them, but lucky for them, he was preoccupied with the task at hand.
"Sorry, mum," he said to no one as he pulled out his wand and went to cut several of white and gold roses off of the bushes that his mother took great care of. He'd got an earful for doing this in the past, back when he was a teenager picking them for the exact same reasons he was doing it today—to impress a girl. But, to be fair, he had been a bit overzealous back then and practically stripped the bushes of about three dozen roses. He knew better now, having cut a modest eight. He'd go round the rest of the garden and collect a few other varieties of flowers to fill the bouquet out.
After he gathered everything together, he pulled out the piece of paper that Fleur had written down her address for him the night before. He'd already read it about ten times and had it memorized, but just for good measure he checked it again before Disapparating on the spot and landing in—what he soon discovered—was a corridor in a thankfully deserted walk up. He glanced around, thankful that no one was in the corridor to question him.
He found the door that he was looking for and knocked twice, standing back then and hoping he hadn't gotten something mixed up in the process. Thankfully for him, the door swung open a minute later and there stood Fleur. She was wearing a white apron over a pretty green dress that he couldn't quite make out, but even with the apron on, she looked amazing. She had her hair pulled back, but had begun pulling it down the moment she opened the door, letting it fall around her shoulders. She was smiling brightly back at him.
"Bonsoir," she said in an equally bright voice, opening the door wider and stepping aside. "You are earlier zan I expected." It was then that she noticed the flowers and her smile took on a rather amused quality to it. "Did you bring me…?"
He held them up for her. "I did."
"Where...?" She laughed as she took them, but it was sweet and clearly appreciative. "You did not need to."
"Sure, I did," he said with a modest shrug. "You never let me buy you dinner and you're making me dinner tonight, so flowers are the least I can do."
She laughed again before saying, "You are very sweet," before she leaned in then to kiss him quickly—as if they'd done this a hundred times before and knew the drill. It was almost strange how natural it felt, as if they'd been together for ages and there were no holds barred between them. Even that kiss had felt somewhat expected; it felt normal and easy.
She invited him inside, claiming that she was going to get the flowers in some water, but to make himself comfortable. As soon as he'd entered he could sense the lovely smell of something cooking. He took a moment to glance around her place, which was small but quaint.
It was all mostly one large room, though it had a tiny kitchen area in one corner and a lavatory in another. The bedroom/sitting room combination was taking up the rest of the space, and her sofa looked as if it turned into a bed—though it was currently in sofa mode. There was a small table beside it, and a wardrobe and a trunk just beyond that, but otherwise she didn't have much furniture. What she did have was neatly kept and organized; everything was very clean and light or white in color. It made the place seem brighter.
While her furnishings were quite minimal, he was struck by her accessories—silver picture frames of family and friends, a few leather bound books, really soft and quality looking blankets, fashionable looking clothes and shoes—and realized that her lack of stuff was probably due more to having not entirely moved; not because she couldn't afford more. It wasn't hard to see she came from some money—he'd already sensed that—but now he was starting to wonder just how much.
He'd always thought Fleur looked like that type of girl who had grown up accustomed to a certain sort of lifestyle—one that was very different from his own. It was a posher one; one where she enjoyed the finer things; one where her parents never had to question whether she got new shoes or a pair of her father's old ones. Fleur wouldn't know poor or hand-me-down if it was standing directly in front of her. She'd probably find the concept bizarre.
He knew it well, however, considering nine people under one roof living off of a single, middle management income only ever went so far. While he didn't exactly announce that he came from the opposite of money, it wasn't something that was hard to sniff out of him. Mending holes in his clothes and buying things second-hand were still habits he had even as an adult, despite not having to now. But somewhere inside of him, he was still that fourteen-year-old kid who felt the need to scrimp and save; mend and fix in order to make sure there was enough money for basic necessities.
It hadn't always been like that; he could still remember the days where his family had been financially stable. Never rich, but certainly not poor. He'd actually enjoyed a relatively normal childhood where new toys and clothes weren't a luxury, but rather a treat. That was how it was until he hit about ten and suddenly money grew impossibly tight due to their ever expanding family. Charlie and he once deduced that had his parents stopped after Percy, none of them would have ever needed a hand-me-down robe or a tattered copy of a used book.
However, was the way life panned out. There was no changing the past.
He glanced around at Fleur's things again as he made his way over to the sofa area. Her situation was obviously different. She probably grew up in a lovely, large sort of home; just her parents and her sister. They may have even had something like a housekeeper or a gardener—some sort of help. There was nothing wrong with that. It was just very different.
"I do not 'ave a vase," Fleur said, returning to the center room then with the flowers sticking out of a very large looking drinking glass. If Bill had to guess, she'd used an engorgement charm, which clearly worked in a pinch. She set them down on the small table in front of her sofa bed. "I 'ave a lovely antique, dragon fire crystal one zat I left at 'ome zat would ave been perfect, but," she smiled at him, "zis will do."
He smiled at her. Not a thing she'd said in that sentence surprised him.
"This is a nice place."
She shrugged a little, a mixture of modesty and doubt echoing off her features. "It iz small, I know. But it iz owned by a family friend of my fazer's, so he was given a good price to rent. She lives next door, actually." She pointed to the left wall." "Ze last tenant recently left, and she purchased the space and plans to knock down ze walls and make 'er flat much larger. After speaking to my fazer, she was kind enough to 'old her plans for a bit while I am 'ere."
Bill nodded as Fleur moved some of the flowers around aimlessly as if specifically placing them. He found himself stuck on something she'd said. "While you are here?"
She looked up at him, not understanding what he'd asked.
"You'd mentioned you were living here 'while you were here,'" he said. "That she's going to tear down the walls after that. I was just wondering how long that was. I wasn't aware you were only here temporarily."
"Oh," Fleur said, standing back up straight. "Well, nozing iz decided yet. I do not know what will 'appen, but my goal was always to live 'ere for a year. Zat iz what I made plans for. After zat…" She smiled. "We will just 'ave to see."
He nodded again. He wasn't sure why that surprised him—it made perfect sense she'd be testing the waters of living in England—but it did a bit. He supposed he just assumed she was a permanent fixture around here now...or perhaps he'd just wanted her to be.
But...it was honestly for the better that she wasn't. This was all the more reason not to let himself get more attached to her than he already was. He'd been slipping and letting himself fall for her, even though the fact remained he still did not have time to be falling for anyone. Not to mention, he too had plans to leave again and get back to Egypt when—if—this shit with Voldemort blew over, and was hoping his time here would be brief. He wasn't a permanent fixture either.
Not if he could help it.
"Are you alright?" Fleur suddenly asked, and it was then that he noticed she'd been watching him stare into space.
"Yeah," he said, blinking himself into a smile. "Yeah, sorry. Long day, you know?" He leaned back against the sofa in an attempt to look more relaxed. "But I'm fine. I swear. Dinner smells amazing."
She smiled and tucked her perfectly shiny hair behind her ears. "I cooked simple. Steak et pommes de terre aux haricots verts." She paused to clarify. "Steak, potatoes and...well, haricots verts." She shrugged. "Zat iz what zey are called."
"Those are green beans, right?"
"Yes and no. I 'ave seen English green beans and zese are different. Zey are better. I make zem wiz almonds, which I hope iz alright. I never did ask if you 'ad any food dislikes."
"No, that sounds amazing," he said. "I'll eat just about anything nowadays. Middle Eastern living really toughened up my palate." He paused for a moment before adding. "Except coconut. I don't eat coconut."
"No?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing about the taste, I just always feel a bit sick after. It's strange. It doesn't agree with me, so I stay away from it."
"Per'aps you 'ave an allergy," she offered, turning to walk back toward the kitchen then. "I am allergic to most animals. Ze dander."
"Really?" Bill asked, standing then to follow her toward the kitchen area to see if she needed any help. "How does that work in a world where cats, owls, and all those animals are so prevalent? How do you answer post?" He suddenly pointed to where she was spooning around green beans—or 'areecovair,' however it was pronounced—"Do you need any help with anything?"
She shook head at his help, but answered his first question with, "I take a potion, which 'elps wiz ze day to day matters such as owl post. But I could never own an owl or most pets." She looked back at him and smiled. "As a child I was devastated when my friends 'ad zeir owls and I could not."
"I bet," he said, watching her as moved around the small kitchen with relative ease. She was charming things with such a quickness to scrape, plate, and spoon themselves onto nearby platters; considering how small the kitchen was, he was almost surprised by how much she'd managed to cook in it because this looked nearly professional. She hadn't been lying when she said she knew how to do this. He almost felt that in the way by standing there.
"Do you like red wine?" she asked.
"Um, yes," he offered. It wasn't his usual thing, but he'd certainly drink it.
"Which do you prefer?" she asked, stopping what she was doing to stare at him. "I 'ave many different kinds."
He stared at her as his immediate thought went to, the red kind? Truth was he was the furthest thing from a wine connoisseur in the world. It all mostly tasted the same, but that was not an answer he was willing to admit to this clearly sophisticated seeming girl right now.
"Cabernet?" she prompted, pointing her wand at a nearby small cupboard, causing the door to swing open. "Zat is a razer classic pairing with steak, no? But I also 'ave Malbec and—"
"Cabernet's good," he said quickly, watching as she summoned a bottle out of the cupboard and it landed on the counter beside her. All the plating was done now and she was discarding all the dirty pans and utensils she'd used to prepare everything. Her systems for handling everything were so organized and impressive.
She then turned to him and smiled rather sweetly. "Would you still like to 'elp?"
"Sure."
She handed him the wine bottle. "Open zis, s'il vous plait? I will be back."
"Alright," he said, glancing around for some wine glasses as she excused herself from the kitchen. "Where would I find—?"
He didn't even get to finish before a cupboard door directly beside him opened to reveal its contents. He looked from it back to where Fleur was—her wand out and pointed behind her into the kitchen. She had just stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.
He hummed and smiled a little. She was quick.
He picked up a wine glass and was immediately struck by the quality of it, which he wouldn't have been able to say the same for when he was eighteen. When he was fresh out of school, he'd essentially had the same glassware for everything he drank. And if he remembered correctly, he was fairly certain they were all mismatched teacups.
It was probably a very good thing that she'd met the twenty-four year old version of him and not the eighteen-year-old one.
Dinner had gone wonderfully, despite a few small hiccups. The first one, she'd been well aware of before things had kicked off. She didn't have a proper dining set—she didn't even have a real table—so she'd merely used a spell to make her coffee table larger and more appropriate for eating at. She'd transfigured some boxes into chairs, and while she was a bit embarrassed since it all seemed very thrown together, Bill hadn't seemed to care one way or another. He'd mentioned rather lightheartedly that her place looked much nicer than any of the spaces he'd lived in since he was on his own; he'd actually seemed impressed by her quick thinking.
The other hiccup was that she could tell his steak was more undercooked than he'd usually have it, even if he ate it all the same. He'd said it was delicious, and he'd raved about everything on the plate while eating, but she could sense given his first look after cutting into the steak that he wasn't used to it being on the rarer side of things.
She hadn't thought much of it when cooking—everyone she knew at home ate their steak with a warm but red center, if not even more underdone—but the English...well, she'd forgotten that they tended to cook things more toward well done. It was just another reason she'd had a hard time eating the food here.
"How do you usually like it cooked?" she asked him halfway through dinner, sipping on her wine and watching him eat his steak carefully. She'd been with him enough times at the Leaky Cauldron to know how he normally ate. Today he seemed to be taking a much more careful approach.
"What do you mean?" he asked, clearly playing dumb. "This is perfect."
She grinned at him, letting her wine glass lean against her chin. "If you do not tell me how you prefer it, if we ever do this again, you are going to get the same thing."
He cracked a smile, but didn't look at her as he cut through his steak. "A bit more done. Usually just a touch of pink."
She pulled a slight face, but it was good-natured. What a perfectly good waste of meat to have it cooked it so much.
"I know, I've been told that's no way to eat a steak before," he said with a shrug, piercing his piece with his fork then. "I blame my upbringing." He grinned at her. "I'm uncultured."
She let herself laugh as she set her wine down. "When it comes to some of the things you eat, I may have to agree. But, if your choice in steak temperatures is your worst fault, then I think I will manage."
"It's still really good. As you can see," he gestured to his nearly empty plate, "I can't stop eating. It's probably one of the best meals I've had in ages."
"Glad to hear it is better than the Leaky Cauldron," she teased.
"Oh well, that goes without saying." He set his utensils down. "I'm fairly certain even I can pull something out better than them, and I can barely boil water. You're actually amazing."
Perhaps she was overthinking it, but she found herself caught on the fact that he'd specifically called her amazing and not the food. Between that and him eating and complimenting her cooking—despite it not being exactly as he'd like it—she found herself rather charmed by how sweet he was. It may have been the rose-colored glasses that she viewed everything he did through, but he truly was so thoughtful and well-mannered. It was so very refreshing. She already found him to be quite the catch, but he kept surprising her by revealing more and more wonderful qualities.
They'd tidied up after dinner and she'd fixed all of her furniture back to the way it was supposed to be. After that first hour had passed, Bill commented that this was officially the longest amount of time they'd ever spent together, which she found rather funny considering she felt as if she'd known him for ages. There was never an awkward silence; everything between them felt so comfortable and relaxed. The fact that their entire history up until this evening had never surpassed an hour was rather astonishing.
"What was the longest relationship you have ever had?" she asked him later on that night, several glasses of wine later as the pair sat beside each other on her sofa. He'd been sitting normally all night, though after his third glass of wine, he'd finally relaxed to the point where he was lounging more comfortably on the sofa—as if he planned to stay a bit. She was hoping he would make himself comfortable enough to stay all night.
He seemed to think how to answer that for a second. The question was an attempt to gauge what his idea of a relationship was and hopefully feel how open he was to having one. If all he had in his past were a series of flings and one night-stands, then that didn't bode well for his interest in something more serious.
"I dated a girl in school for about nine months," he finally said. "She was my first proper girlfriend."
"Why did it not work out?" she asked, pulling her knees up underneath her on the sofa and facing him head on.
He smiled a little obviously. "I wanted to move to Egypt and she wasn't fond of that plan." He shrugged. "That was that. Nice girl, but we had very different plans for our lives. Since then I haven't really been in a position to have many. My job has always kept me busy."
She forced a smile. She had already figured out that much. She had to admit it wasn't exactly the sort of thing she wanted to hear, considering work currently kept him nothing if not busy. If a busy schedule was keeping him from pursuing an actual relationship with someone—with her—then that wasn't promising.
"How about you?" he asked, adjusting himself so that he too was now directly facing her. He even draped his arm along the back of the sofa so that—if he wanted—he could easily pass his hand through her hair. It was close enough now.
She shrugged and looked away, sipping her wine slowly. She'd dated handfuls of boys if you included the dates that went nowhere, the week-long flings for fun, and the two actual relationships she'd had that lasted a couple of months. She'd always been popular and generally had her pick of whichever boy she wanted. Clever boys, athletic boys, rebellious boys—she didn't have a type as long as they were handsome. Looks, however, certainly weren't everything, and she often got bored rather quickly when they proved to be too dumb or immature to deal with. It was why nothing really lasted. Her friends claimed her standards were too high—and she sometimes thought they may be correct. Obviously the person she was looking for didn't exist anywhere inside any of the better Beauxbatons' social circles.
But outside of those circles...
She looked back at Bill. "Nothing serious. Nothing that has even lasted more than a few months or is worth talking about."
"Well, you just got done with school," he offered. "Personally, that's the way I feel it should be."
He shifted himself in his seat, making himself more comfortable on the sofa. "So many people I know got serious with someone in school, and I'd say the majority of them end up married. My parents met in school and got married straight away; a few of my classmates paired off and are already married. I get it's normal—at least here—but I don't know."
He looked down at his glass. "It just seems limited. I can't even begin to tell you how many people I've met; how many experiences I've had since leaving school—things I wouldn't know had I gone and married my ex like I could have if things in my life were different.
He sipped his own wine then, pausing for a second before adding. "I guess I just think it's good to see what's out there beyond the familiar. Beyond the people you've known your entire life—or at least since you've started school. And yeah, odds are you're probably going to end up married to someone you went to school with if you don't A) go out and see the world or B) end up with a Muggle, but…" He glanced at her. "I guess I just don't see why more people don't explore their options. You never know what you're going to find."
She smiled a little. He wasn't wrong. Especially considering the first person she'd found when exploring her options was beginning to feel like the person she was always meant to find.
"But," he added, looking as if he felt he was talking too much. "I don't need to tell you that. I'm preaching to the choir." He smiled at her. "You get it. I feel that's one of the many reasons we get on so well."
She nodded. "We seem to have much in common."
"We really do," he said, now letting his fingertips grace over the tips of her hair then. He made it seem like an absent gesture—as if his hand just happened to come in contact with her hair and he'd started playing with it—but she knew he was doing it on purpose. She'd seen it coming.
"The first time I saw you at the bank," he said after a moment, "something about you told me I needed to get to know you."
She smiled.
"I mean, much of that was because you're beautiful and who wouldn't want to talk to you, but it was more than that. Something about you just…" He trailed off. "I can't explain it. I'm just glad you burned your hand that day since it gave me a reason to talk to you."
"You did not need a reason," she said, reaching over to set her wine glass down since she sensed she may need her hands free in a moment. "I also remember wanting to know you better the first time I saw you." She sat back and looked at him. "Before Gringotts. You caught my attention at Hogwarts."
He laughed. "With all you had going on that day, you found the time to pick me out of a crowd?"
"I picked you because you were the most handsome man in that entire castle."
He smiled in a way that said he wasn't sure he believed that, which...he had to be acting modest. Why wouldn't he believe that? He had eyes after all. Did he not see what the other men around here looked like?
"Also," she added. "I told you how sweet I found it that you came for Harry. Between those two things, you more than caught my attention."
He continued to smile, though it slipped it a bit at Harry's name. "Harry's a really good kid. Turning up to support him was the least I could do."
He broke eye contact from her for the first time since they'd gotten close and seemed to be thinking about something. This happened a lot at the mention of Harry, but it was usually her who found herself at a loss. The topic of him—the memories he was attached to—tended to bring out a stillness in her; however this time she felt the urge to push the conversation further. She couldn't seem to get any answers anywhere else; even the papers were full of nothing but disparaging comments about him. Bill seemed like the safest source to ask.
"How is Harry?" she asked.
He looked back at her, though before he could comment she added, "Is he alright after what happened? The nightmares I have are dreadful, I can only imagine—"
"I think he's alright," he said rather abruptly. "As far as I know he is."
She stared at him. She'd assumed they were close—or rather, his family was close with him. She'd assumed his answer would have been far less vague than that. "Do you not speak to him? Does your brother not? You said they were close."
"They are," he said. "But, it's complicated. At the moment Ron can't properly talk to Harry—"
"Why not?" she interrupted, finding herself sitting up rather stiffly. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong," he said quickly. "He just lives with his Muggle relatives in the summer and they're not keen on magic or our world. They cut him off. A load of grumpy, horrible gits says my brother. So from what I'm told, Harry ends up rather isolated—"
Fleur gawked. "Isolated? After what happened to him? After what he saw and survived? He does not need to be isolated, he needs to be—"
"I agree with you," Bill cut in. "Believe me, I do. And so does my family, because if my parents had their way, Harry would move straight in tomorrow. But he's underage and it's not their decision to make. He goes home to his family during the holiday and there's nothing any of us can do about that."
"I do not see why not—"
"Neither do I," he said, and he sounded as if he meant it. "I honestly don't."
She let herself collapse back onto the sofa. Now she was annoyed. Not with Bill, but with the nonsense he was telling her. The idea of poor Harry off with some so-called family who couldn't support what he'd been through—away from his friends; their world—seemed awful. Between this and what the papers were saying about him—what people were saying about him—she found herself worried. If she were being honest, other than Bill, she hadn't met anyone lately who seemed to believe in Harry. The throwaway comments around the bank were usually of the, "I just find it hard to believe…" variety, if not complete denial.
She turned to face Bill, her expression now serious. "Can you explain to me why no one here believes Harry? Other than you and me?"
"There are other people who believe him."
"Where are they, then?" she asked rather impatiently. If they were out there, they sure were keeping their mouths shut. What good was that doing anyone?
"They're around, I promise," he said, hastily adding, "As for why people don't believe him, I have to assume they're scared right now. They don't want him to be right because they don't want it to be true. What he's saying means everything is going to change, and many of them can remember how bad things were the first time You-Know Who was around.
"It doesn't help that the government doesn't want to believe it either. They don't want to deal with it, hence why you see them pushing this 'Harry is a liar and Dumbledore's a crackpot' narrative in the Prophet."
So she hadn't been imagining that when she read the Prophet; she'd read it correctly after all.
"Your papers are ridiculous. I thought perhaps I was misunderstanding—"
"No, you understand perfectly," he said, suddenly moving forward on the couch to reach out and grab the wine. He was pouring himself another glass and he held it up in a way to silently ask if she would like some more.
She shook her head and absently watched him pour. "Things will still change whether people believe him or not. Disbelief helps no one."
"I know that and you know that, but they…" He pulled a face as he set the wine bottle back down and picked up his glass. He sipped it quickly before adding, "It's like a disease. Look at my brother, the one I told you I fell out with. He knows Harry personally and has for years. They've spent time together at my family's home. They'd always gotten on from what I was told, but now he's so far up the Ministry's arse that he's fallen right in step in with them and refuses to believe any of it—despite knowing Harry."
She arched her eyebrow at him after hearing that. "Is that why you and your family fell out with him?"
"That's why he fell out with us," he corrected before he gulped down more wine. "He made his choice. We made ours."
"You chose Harry and he did not," she said, realizing now that this falling out with his brother went much deeper than she'd originally thought. It was far more than just a clash of personalities.
She looked down at a random spot on her sofa where Bill's knee was resting close to her. "I simply feel awful for Harry. I think about him—and Cedric—often." She paused. "After the maze, we were all expected to just return to normal, but I could not possibly. Cedric and I were friendly. He was such a lovely person. You cannot go through what he, and I, and Viktor, and Harry went through and not feel a kinship—especially when it could have been any of us. But it was not any one of us, it was Cedric..."
She suddenly felt compelled to take a huge breath. It had come out of nowhere, surprising even her. This was a newer development—something she found herself dealing with since that fateful night in June when her life changed forever. It was always the same image: Cedric's dead body on the grass—rigid, still, expressionless. Harry clutching onto him on the spot they'd reappeared to; only several yards away from where she'd been standing with Madame Maxime. Someone had started screaming, but she couldn't remember if it was her or not. Other screams had followed. People were rushing forward. So much confusion. Everything felt like a nightmare.
Bill didn't say anything straight away, but she felt his hand reach out to take hers; squeezing it in a comforting and warm way. After a moment he said, "It was awful."
She nodded, this time taking a deep breath to calm herself.
"Are you alright? Do you need me to—?"
She shook her head quickly, attempting to shake the image off. "It...I…" She glanced at her wine glass on the table. "When I have been drinking it can harder to stop the thoughts—"
"Hey, you don't have to explain," he said, still holding her hand and squeezing it again. "I still hear and see things from that night, and I wasn't in the thick of it like you were. I can't even imagine what you, or what Harry—"
"Compared to Harry, I have nothing to even complain about," she said, suddenly feeling a little foolish. "What he went through was..."
"It's not a competition," he said.
She smiled a little meekly. How had they even got to this point? A few minutes earlier the vibe had been relaxed and comfortable. It had felt flirty and full of possibilities. Now it felt rife with a mixture of chaotic and sad energy. She hadn't intended to let the trauma of that night seep out—not on their first proper date. He probably thought she was going mad.
"I am sorry that—" she began to say.
"You don't have anything to be sorry for," he immediately said and he let his hand slip out of hers and onto her leg. He was now giving her an affectionate sort of rub. "You've been through some shit."
"Yes, but I usually would not speak to it on our first date," she offered, even smiling a little as she said. "It is the sort of thing probably best left for a third or fourth date, don't you think?"
He smiled too and set his wine glass back down on the table. "I don't consider this our first date. I think it's more our fourth or fifth. And if that's the case, then we're right on schedule."
She laughed a little, but also groaned at the exact same time. "I refuse to allow the Leaky Cauldron to be the site of our first date."
"Oh, it most definitely was," he said playfully.
"No," she said through a small bout of laughter, letting herself lean back into the sofa. "No."
He was grinning and had moved himself over into a position where he was prime for leaning in and kissing her where she sat. She knew he was going to do it before he did, and for a brief moment they locked eyes rather raptly.
"I think four dates means we're doing something right," he said quietly, his face hovering just inches away from hers.
"Except that we have only kissed once. By the fourth date I would have expected more."
"Well, then we should fix that," he said, barely getting the words out before his lips were on top of her.
Kissing him was always such an experience. His warm, soft mouth working it's way around hers as if he'd been doing it for ages. How could something be so exciting and new, but also so familiar and comfortable? She didn't even think about what she was doing; she just let herself get lost in all the tingles and feels that were now creeping around body and senses
It was sweet and slow at first, but that quickly gave way to roaming hands, busy tongues, and lips that didn't seem capable of separating under any given circumstances. He was such a good kisser that she honestly could have done this alone all night. Not that she wasn't hoping there would be more than just kissing. The way his mouth worked itself down to her neck already was only making her consider the other parts he could run that soft and stubbly mouth over.
"The sofa turns into a bed," she said a little breathlessly after they'd worked themselves down into a horizontal position with him on top. "There is a lever on the side."
He stopped and propped himself up on his arms to gaze down at her; a smirk playing on his mouth, "You don't waste any time."
She shrugged unabashedly, reaching up to unbutton his shirt. "It is the fourth date and I have only just got you where I want you. I am done wasting time." She pointed to the coffee table, where her wand was resting beside her empty wine glass. "Now either hand me my wand so I can charm the sofa into the proper position, or reach to the side and pull the lever yourself."
He glanced around the side of the sofa before stretching himself awkwardly; a moment later for the back of the sofa to collapse into a bed with a soft thump. When he looked back at her, he grinned and said, "You're in charge."