It was, perhaps, a gift that his feet were warm.
Or a curse.
He wasn't sure what happiness felt like after so many years of having cold dungeon feet and a dueling pair of megalomaniacs telling him what to do.
One had the twinkling eyes of a old man and saint.
One had no nose with a propensity to Crucio.
But this—
This was something that was warm and wonderful.
But it came with a hefty price tag.
A lifetime—of—
"Marry me," he told the otter curled up on his feet like it was her job.
The warm brown eyes stared up at him as he picked her up from her favourite place to loaf.
"I find I cannot imagine my life without your squeakiness infesting my life."
Suddenly, he had an armful of happy, curly-haired witch.
"Yes."