38

Chapter 38

Thursday 13 March 2003: PM

I have to tell her. I have to tell Hermione before she finds out from someone else. The skeletons are rattling, and they never stay buried. Someone always talks, no matter how many Galleons you throw at a scandal.

Draco tosses down the charcoal stick he's been aimlessly twirling, disgusted by his cowardliness. I could live with the lie by omission in the beginning, when I thought our liaison had a use-by date… but now? How will Hermione look at me, when she knows the depths of my weakness and toxicity? Will her fierce loyalty and pity cloak her disgust? Or will she walk away without a second thought, glad to have escaped the taint of the corrupt Malfoys before she got in too deep?

He can't decide which is worse. He doesn't allow himself the luxury of believing in a fairy tale future. He is no prince; just a desperate man clinging to a short-lived dream.

Those wretched Howlers underline his every misgiving. He cannot – he will not – allow Hermione to suffer the relentless disapprobation that is part and parcel of aligning oneself with the most hated family of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He thinks of the ostracism his mother has endured for the last five years, with no end in sight to her social shunning. Narcissa is starving for social intercourse, and as for Lucius…

Sinking onto the tall stool situated in front of his latest canvas, Draco realizes it will serve him exactly right if he ends up like his disreputable father: a skinny old wraith, cloaked in bitterness, despair, and the crushing weight of his self-inflicted failures.

And yet, Mother loves him… she chooses to stay, when any other witch would have left…

Maybe Hermione will still want me? Even after she knows the whole truth? Draco scratches at his flaxen locks as he struggles to get a handle on his flip-flopping emotions and fears. I have to tell her. I've promised, and she's right – I need to learn to share my problems.

The memory of her sweet, worried face when he'd returned from destroying the last of the Howlers in the laundry pops into his mind. Luna must have recommended that Hermione not immediately pursue his abrupt withdrawal, after their brief argument; it was unlike his gutsy little Gryffindor to let a subject drop. He'd managed to avoid a continuance of the topic, sitting quietly throughout a luncheon of Caesar salad with a side of awkwardness. Luna and Macdolas had carried the majority of the conversation, as he and Hermione had taken turns in sneaking anxious peeks at one another before quickly glancing away.

Accompanying Hemione to the Muggle therapist's appointment had not lessened the emotional tension between them, though he'd been unable to stop himself touching her at every opportunity. Draco had spent most of the hour-long wait in the reception area remembering (and treasuring anew) every single moment they'd had together since he found her on his doorstep, before he'd recalled passing a small florist's shop on their short walk here from the townhouse.

He'd returned just in time, barrelling through the front door as his teary-eyed girlfriend had emerged from the therapist's office, stuffing a combination of used and fresh tissues into the pockets of her long, red and blue paisley dress.

Draco had hastily hidden his purchase (as best he could) behind his back as he'd tentatively smiled down at Hermione. "Everything go alright, Granger?". He'd been relieved when she'd offered him a small, composed smile of her own.

"Yes, Dr McCarthy – Rica – was really helpful. She's scheduled my next appointment for Monday evening; I should be back at work by then," Hermione had informed him, as she'd reached for his hand.

He'd let that assertion slide, as he'd quickly juggled hands and laced his fingers through hers. "Excellent. Are you ready to return home, or would you like a few minutes?" Draco had keenly scrutinized her expressive chocolate eyes as she'd dabbed away the last vestiges of tears with a clean tissue.

"I'm fine, just a little tired. I think I'll have a nap… you won't have to badger me into it, today. Although I wouldn't mind being carried upstairs again," she'd shyly hinted, as Draco had somehow managed to push open the door with his elbow and foot and follow her outside. "I rather liked being swept off my feet; you made me feel like a princess – but don't tell anyone I said that, please," Hermione had softly chuckled.

"You are a queen, ma petite. Or rather, a Prime Minister – for you have earned every single one of your many accomplishments, not merely been born into privilege," Draco had emphatically avowed, easing them to a gentle stop on a currently unoccupied patch of pavement.

"Here – I got – I chose these. For you," he'd oh-so-smoothly stammered, thrusting the vibrant bunch of long-stemmed sunflowers beneath Hermione's surprised nose. "Sunflowers represent loyalty, longevity, and… and adoration."

Draco had swallowed hard before he'd continued, "Granger, I'm sorry I shut down on you, about the Howlers. I'm used to keeping things – problems – to myself, and I need to work on that. And I know I'm too overprotective of you, I'm sorry – I just can't bear to see you hurt, Hermione. I want… I want to share my troubles with you, I do… and I will. Can you forgive me, please? And… grant me just a little more time?".

He'd sucked in a deep gulp of oxygen after jabbering out his apologetic monologue, buoyed by Hermione's immediate energetic nodding as she'd fiercely clasped the cheery yellow and black flowers to her chest. She'd narrowly avoided crushing the bouquet as she'd stepped closer and lightly slapped at his pectorals.

"Of course I forgive you, my darling dolt – but please, I don't need you to shelter me from the unpleasantness of life. I always want your support, but I need to know that you respect me enough to share your burdens. Our burdens, now," she'd emphasized, eyes moistening as she'd gazed up tenderly into his ameliorated face.

Hermione had grinned as she'd declared, "Thank you for the gorgeous flowers, Draco – but I knew you were savvy about floriography! 'A mite cheesy, don't you think?'" she'd scoffed, repeating his prevarication about the first bunch of roses he'd sent to her office.

Compelled to defend his honour, Draco had chuckled as he'd protested, "Hey – I didn't lie – I merely expressed an opinion, if it pleases the prosecution." He'd ignored the gawking of passing pedestrians as he'd succumbed to his overwhelming urge to plunge his hands into her soft, thick hair and plunder her rosy lips, imparting every ounce of his inexpressible emotions into his deep, passionate kiss.

One or two of the bright sunflowers had been unfortunately battered by their enthusiastic embrace, as Hermione had eagerly kissed him back with her own sensual fervour. They'd stayed ardently lip-locked and blocking the footpath until a passing older gentleman had sourly commented, "Clear the way and get a room, you randy young'uns!".

They'd broken apart and moved to the side, giggling as the same grouchy retiree had whacked his sturdy cane against the ground for added effect, glowering harder at the young lovers as Hermione had blown him a saucy kiss while Draco uttered a perfunctory apology.

The Hater of Young Love had gotten in the last word, muttering, "Shameless – just shameless!" as their chuckles had developed into full-blown belly laughs, before Draco had looped his arm around Hermione's curvy waist and dropped a soft peck on the tip of her nose.

"Come on, Granger – our comfortable bed awaits."

Upon their return to the townhouse, Draco had gladly carried Hermione upstairs, placed her gently onto their bed, and set about changing her pretty dress for her preferred sleep attire, i.e. one of his fine cotton white t-shirts. He'd lain down himself and snuggled her until she'd fallen asleep, only slipping upstairs to his studio when he'd worried that his restlessness was hampering her need for restorative slumber.

His reverie is now interrupted by a brisk knock at the door. Bidding entry, Draco nods as his animated little house elf slips through the portal. "What's up, Macdolas?".

The chamberlain excitedly announces, "A visitor comes for Her Grace Lady Granger, Master Malfoy! The Professional and Perfectly Presented Mistress Pansy Parkinson arrives by Floo and brings Her Grace the 'ballgown of her dreams'; Macdolas asks Mistress Pansy to wait downstairs while he seeks Master Malfoy's permission to wake Her Grace from her afternoon nap."

"I'll come down and speak with Pansy; thank you, Macdolas. Please tell her I'll be with her in a moment."

Macdolas nods and snaps his fingers, Disapparating to complete his task, as Draco shuts the studio door behind him and takes the stairs. He is halfway down the last staircase when Hermione walks onto the landing above him. "Malfoy, is someone here? I thought I heard voices," she yawns, still wearing his t-shirt as her delectable bare legs move her closer to the balustrade.

"It's just Pansy – Macdolas said she's brought your dress for the Gala. Go back to bed, Granger. I'm sorry we woke you." Draco isn't surprised when Hermione mutinously shakes her head.

"I've rested long enough. I want to see my dress – will you ask Pansy to bring it upstairs, please? She probably needs to check the final alterations are correct," Hermione requests, smiling at his exasperated reaction. "And no sneaking a look – Pansy said it's not allowed, you have to experience 'the full effect' on the night of the ball," she warns.

I may not have thoroughly considered the ramifications of Pansy, Luna and Hermione joining forces to gang up on me, Draco uneasily decides. Crap.

"Very well," he sighs, capitulating to Hermione's demands. "As ever – I am putty in your pretty hands."

Hermione leans over the wooden railing to blow him a derisive raspberry. "Pfffffttt! You're a smooth operator, aren't you?" she teases. "Remember – no snooping!" she winks, before retreating to their bedroom.

His contented smile is still plastered across his face as Draco walks into the lounge room. "Hi, Pansy," he hugs her briefly as the brunette witch air-kisses both his cheeks; she does hate to mess up her pristine lipstick.

"Well, I see married life agrees with you, you disgustingly happy git," Pansy gibes, smirking gleefully as Draco blushes hotly.

"You know full well we're not married, Pansy!" he hisses, sotto voice. Inviting Pansy into Hermione's social circle truly was not your best idea, his inner critic chirps.

"Pah. You may as well be; and I suspect you've been embroidering fancy daydreams about co-existing in connubial bliss with a certain little Gryffindor since you first clapped eyes on her frizzy head – spare me the outraged denials, we both know you're full of shit," Pansy rips in, her striking jasper-green eyes glinting with amusement as Draco's blush stings his cheeks and neck.

"Hermione asked if you'd mind taking the dress upstairs to our bedroom for the fitting, please," Draco frantically changes the subject.

"'Our bedroom' – well, you'd better make sure I get the wedding dress commission," Pansy shows no mercy. "Lead the way, Romeo." Her high heels clack imperiously on the wooden floors as he leads her to the stairs, taking the zipped-up opaque garment bag from her arm before they start to ascend the stairway.

"Pansy – will you promise me you won't tell tales out of school, to Hermione? Please?" Draco fails to stop desperation tingeing his request.

"Nice choice of idiom, Draco. Look, I won't swap sexcapades, if that's what's worrying you – but if Hermione asks me a direct question, I won't lie to her, either."

Pansy relents a little as they reach the landing. "Relax – I highly doubt that Hermione will probe for any details about our lacklustre 'relationship', and she's never been one to compare notes on dick sizes or preferred positions. So wipe that frightened look off your face, you drip."

"Dick sizes? What, do you mean the Weasel? Does he have a monster cock – is that what you're saying?" Draco growls at the unwelcome thought.

Something wicked flashes in Pansy's eyes as she shrugs. "Like I said, Hermione doesn't shag and tell. Let it go, Draco. From the look of both of you, you've been going at it like bunnies, so I take it as a given she has no complaints."

"Shut up, Pansy," Draco feebly objects as he knocks on the bedroom door. "Granger? May I send in Pansy?". He hands the covered dress bag back to the businesswoman as Hermione opens the door.

"Hi, Pansy; go away, Malfoy. This is secret women's business," she shoos him away with a mischievous grin.

"Still calling each other by your last names? Soooo cute," Pansy pretends to dry-retch.

Draco ignores her as he quickly kisses Hermione before the door closes. "Ma petite, don't believe anything Pansy tells you about me, OK?".

The door slams as Pansy cackles.

Perhaps shutting my eyes while Pansy Parkinson is standing behind me – armed with tiny sharp pins – isn't such a good idea. Hermione surreptitiously crosses her fingers as Pansy barks out another directive.

"Breathe out – you'll have a terrible time of it if you're fainting non-stop because your dress is too tight," Pansy berates, skilfully tugging the fabric around her hips into place as Hermione obeys.

"Can I look in the mirror yet?" Hermione whines, desperate to see if the luxurious ballgown looks as stunning 'on' as she remembers. Her eyes remain squeezed closed as she awaits permission from the strict Slytherin fashionmonger.

"No – in fact – " Pansy slides her wand from a cunningly-disguised hip pocket, points it at the looking glass and chants, "Obscuro". "You can open your eyes now; remind me to reverse that before I leave."

A disgruntled Hermione bleats, "You blindfolded the mirror? That's mean, Pansy." She folds her arms crossly.

Straightening as she pockets the tailor's pins she's removed, Pansy impatiently sweeps her long straight fall of dark brown hair back behind her shoulder. "Would you rather I'd blindfolded you? Salazar, imagine the outcry! No, I'll leave that to Draco," she winks, as Hermione flushes pink and bites her lip.

"How do I look?" Hermione asks nervously, choosing to ignore Pansy's little jest. She moves to smooth her hands against her hips, but the other witch knocks away her digits with ease.

"No touching! Grubby Gryffindors, no respect for high-end fashion." Pansy steps back and runs her critical velvet green eyes over Hermione's jittery form. "Turn around… right. Just as I thought."

"What? Does it look terrible? Oh, I told you that I wasn't sure – but you insisted– "

"Hermione Granger – you look utterly divine. No, Divine with a capital 'D'," Pansy nods, thoroughly pleased with herself. "Draco is going to need a heart-starter potion once he gloms his hungry eyes onto you while you're wearing this. Fuck, I'm good," she congratulates herself. She moves forward again, her agile fingers quickly undoing the hooks and hidden side-zip.

"Can I trust you not to try it on again, until the night of the Ball? Luna and I will come over early to help with your dress, hair and make-up. Step out," Pansy makes short work of carefully rehanging the gown and popping it back into its garment bag, before opening the wardrobe and stowing it in the farthest corner on Hermione's side.

"Aww, Draco's already cleared it out for 'your side' – moonstruck berk," Pansy observes. Closing the wardrobe door, she reverses the blindfold spell and the mirror's reflection clears. Hermione has changed back into the red paisley frock she wore to her therapy appointment, and sets about donning her brown leather ankle boots.

"Pansy… why are you being so nice to me?" Hermione slowly seeks to gain some clarity on this unexpected new amity. "Did Luna or Draco ask it as a favour?". I'm surprised at how much that idea upsets me… I wish I'd known how cool Pansy is before now…

"Mind the sentimentality dead ahead – here comes the deep and meaningful discourse," Pansy sighs. She motions to the big white bed. "Sit down, and don't look so edgy, Hermione. I haven't bitten anyone in years."

Perching beside her, Pansy swivels her silk-clad hips to better look Hermione in the eye. "Luna and Draco asked me to assist with your ballgown, but I'm being friendly to you because I want to be, OK? I don't have many female friends – well, I have Luna, and she's a proper fucking treasure… I don't have to tell you that," she remarks, as Hermione vigorously nods.

"I always envied you in school, you know." Pansy laughs at Hermione's incredulous reaction. "Yeah, you were revoltingly self-righteous, and you wore your heart on your sleeve like a bloody medal… but you were a scholastic genius, you were unfailing kind and just; and from what I heard, your parents love you to bits. And then, there was Draco's poorly-disguised yen for everything Granger.'

"Don't shake your head in denial – that blond arsehole was forever eye-fucking you and scheming out opportunities to 'accidentally' cross your path like a chess Grandmaster. Did you never wonder at how frequently your Prefect patrol just happened to bust us necking in a darkened alcove? Wake up, Pollyanna," she snickers at Hermione's dumbfounded face.

"It took me a while to figure it out, but then I stuck to Draco like glue, out of spite. I used to wish someone would look at me like that – luckily for the male population (and my healthy sex life), I've moved on and up, many moons ago. It's not for everyone, but safe and consensual casual sex suits me perfectly. I won't be anyone's victim… not again… ". Pansy's eyes cloud momentarily before she irritably shakes her head.

"Anyway – I respect and commend you, Hermione. You're strong and gutsy, and you don't back down from a fight. Besides, I'm committed to fostering positive and productive connections between witches. We need to support fellow women, not compete with them for male attention and privilege. Oh, don't start up with the waterworks," she groans as Hermione fumbles a clean(ish) tissue out of her pocket.

"Pansy – can I give you a hug? Please?" Hermione swipes ruthlessly at her damp eyelashes and wraps her arms around the sputtering green-eyed witch.

"Careful of the shantung!" Pansy briefly returns the embrace, before firmly pushing Hermione away and fussing at the heavy textured silk of her long bespoke black dress.

"You look like Holly Golightly from 'Breakfast at Tiffany's," Hermione admiringly notes aloud, as a frowning Pansy checks for non-existent creases in the mirror.

"Thanks! Audrey Hepburn's my true style icon, actually," Pansy grins in delight. "There's hope for your piss-poor fashion sense after all, Hermione."

"Oh, fuck off… " Hermione collapses back on the bed, laughing like a drain at the shock on the other woman's face at her casual cussing. It doesn't take more than a couple of beats before Pansy joins in.

"Hey, can I ask you something personal? It's not a sex thing," Pansy drolly qualifies. Hermione cautiously nods her assent.

"How come you and Ginny Weasley aren't besties anymore? I won't gossip – but Luna said I should ask you directly. The two of you seemed tight as ticks, at Hogwarts."

Hermione sits upright again, her laughter dwindling as she pensively wrings her hands. "We were besties… I don't want to badmouth Ginny, OK? I guess the simplest answer is: Ginny's jealousy about my close friendship with Harry poisoned her perspective. Plus, my stubborn pride refused to accept her apology, after she hot-headedly accused me of 'throwing away a perfectly good relationship' when I broke up with Ron, last year," she sadly expounds.

"I think Ginny reacted like that because she'd fixated on the idea of the four of us hitting the same milestones, you know? Getting married, having kids, interweaving our families, that sort of thing… and then, when I made it clear Ron and I simply weren't going to work out, it might have illuminated the cracks in her relationship with Harry." Hermione shrugs unhappily.

"I miss her – but I don't want toxicity in my life, Pansy. I'm hopeful that we can someday reconnect and rebuild our friendship – but without all the baggage that weighed it down in the first place."

"Makes sense. Thanks for sharing, Pollyanna," Pansy smirks. "Yeah, that's your nickname now, and it suits you to a tee. Right: I've endured enough schmaltziness for one day – let's go downstairs and twit Draco until he loses his shit, huh? Maybe ask Macdolas to whip us up some snacks?" she holds out her hand to hoist Hermione upright.

"Pansy – are you responsible for Mac's fantastical attire? His clothes are amazingly ornate; and I've yet to see him wear the same outfit twice," Hermione asks, as she opens the bedroom door.

"Not me, personally – I set him up with a Muggle mail-order business that specializes in tailor-made children's costumes. They have his measurements, and he sends through his choices every month," Pansy solves the mystery of Mac's inexhaustible wacky wardrobe. "But don't mention the 'children's costumes' thing, he's sensitive about that."

No wonder Mac was crushed when Draco ribbed him about his clothes supplier, the day that Crookshanks shredded the little elf's astronomical blue and gold smoking jacket. The memory of that comical morning brings a smile to Hermione's face.

She hooks her arm through Pansy's as they reach the ground floor.

"Thanks, Pansy. For everything."

"De nada, Pollyanna."

Glaring up at the high lounge room ceiling, Draco broods over what the two witches are potentially saying about him right now. 'Dick sizes'? They'd better not be comparing my cock with that ginger wanker's! Anyway, as if the Weasel is bigger than me – wouldn't matter, he could be hung like a Hippogriff and still fail to satisfy a witch… egotistical bastard probably believes the female orgasm is a myth…

He bolts off his favourite armchair with a fright as the Floo fireplace flares green. More sodding drop-ins!

"Hey, did you miss me?" Blaise Zabini strolls out first, slapping Draco hard on the back before he pulls him into an unwilling hug. "Of course you did – I'm the whipped cream on everyone's strawberries." He ignores Draco's scowl. "Where's Hermione? We want to see how she's recovering."

Theo Nott shuffles out from behind Zabini's taller figure. "Hi, Draco." He looks apprehensive, but self-possessed and resolute.

"Hey, Theo." Time to bite the apology bullet. "I'm sorry I throttled you, in the cafeteria. Thanks for looking out for Hermione – well, as much as she'd let you. And for accompanying them to St Mungo's. I appreciate your support." Draco grabs Theo's hand and pumps it in a rough handshake, relieved when Theo quietly smiles his forgiveness.

"Where's my thanks? I selflessly volunteered to stay behind and deal with the endless Ministry red tape and wild hysteria, you know," Blaise peevishly inserts himself back into the dialogue. "And I was in charge of guarding Flint – he's a feral, dangerous criminal. I could have been seriously injured, had he awoken."

Draco scoffs, "What a bunch of baloney, Zabini: you sent Theo ahead because you knew I would be furious about the fact you didn't accompany her back from the courtrooms, and that I was likely to lash out at the nearest scapegoat. Don't go playing the magnanimous hero, we all know you better than that."

"I would be grossly offended, were that statement not partially true," Blaise admits with one of his wide effervescent grins. "So where is your beloved? Are you engaged yet? Or are you content to live in sin for a while, while Hermione weighs up the cons and cons of dating a whey-faced, wily Snake?". He flops down onto the powder-blue sofa and indolently stretches his long arms along its back.

"How about that cuppa you promised me, on my first visit to your domicile? And some crustless sandwiches? I'm famished," Blaise yawns.

"Get your filthy feet off my coffee table – and I don't reward uninvited visitors with afternoon tea." Draco turns to Nott. "Theo, may I offer you some refreshment?".

Blaise's exaggerated miffed howl makes them all laugh. Draco throws up his hands in querulous surrender.

"Fine. I'll ask Macdolas to bring out some hot drinks and nibbles. But you'll get whatever you're given, Zabini. No hassling Macdolas, he has enough responsibilities already," Draco admonishes.

A quick clacketing noise has all their heads turning to the doorway, as Pansy and Hermione enter, arms loosely linked.

Blaise finds his manners and slouches to his feet, remarking delightedly, "Ah – here comes the entertainment." He lightly places a hand on each woman's hip as he kisses their cheeks in the European fashion.

"Hallo! Hermione, I'm thrilled to see you looking so robust, Golden Girl. Pansy – you're a sight for sore eyes. It's been too long." He gestures to the couch. "Come, have a seat. Draco was just about to organise afternoon tea." Snapping his graceful fingers, he baits the blond wizard. "Honestly, Malfoy – your hospitality is appalling. Narcissa would be mortified to witness how parched and hungry we are."

Theo grabs Draco's arm before he can pull his wand and Stupefy the fool. "Leave him – he is good for comical value," his old friend points out. "Go sit with your lady, Draco."

Before he rushes over to liberate his girlfriend from Blaise's lingering hold, Draco summons Macdolas. He blinks at the startling new addition to the house elf's garb: a horned Viking helmet that appears positively dangerous, given the width and angle of the silly horns.

"Macdolas, do you know that the horned Viking helmet is a fallacy? It's been proven that it was a construct applied by Germans when they appropriated Norse myths into their own culture," Draco chides. "And I'm honestly concerned you'll stab one of us – or yourself – with that pointy monstrosity atop your head."

The Scottish steward rebelliously juts his bottom lip as he retorts, "Macdolas files down the horns, Master Malfoy! Accessories maketh the man, so says Elf Vanguard magazine," he argues, hitching his wide brown leather belt higher and fiddling at the chunky faux-fur leg warmers that cover the roughly-stitched boots. "Macdolas does not wear the complementary Carolingian sword, after Master Malfoy forbids the sabre scabbard," he states, in a tone of great suffering and personal sacrifice.

"Way to go, Mac! You're a true hero, and it's only right that you should dress the part," Blaise claps approvingly. "Now, may we trouble you for some afternoon tea, please? Perhaps a pot of Earl Grey, some tasty little sandwiches… I'm certainly not averse to noshing on a hot scone or four, or some buttery shortbread biscuits would really hit the spot– "

"Zabini, did I not warn you – three minutes ago! – not to pester Macdolas?" Draco snipes. He snaps his jaws hard enough to rattle his teeth. Hermione beckons him to sit beside her. Macdolas beams broadly at the gathered company before trotting importantly towards the kitchen.

"Malfoy, please come sit down – I need a hug," she petitions. "Ignore Blaise – it's the best revenge. He thrives on any attention, good or bad. Starve him with indifference."

Pansy hoots and Theo grins at Hermione's caustic put-down, as Draco walks over to lead Hermione from the sofa. He sits down in his armchair and manoeuvres her onto his lap, waiting until she has found her balance before zealously hugging and kissing his charming witch. Their cuddles immediately assuage his cranky mood, and send intoxicating tingles throughout his nervous system.

Of course, the peanut gallery begins to catcall them; Draco breaks their kiss to unequivocally proclaim, "This is our home, and you are all unsolicited, shameless moochers or wannabe comedians. If you don't like the view – piss off. Or prepare to be hexed."

His stern reproof fails to gain any traction with the trio of ex-Slytherins, who merely adopt identical po-faced miens, before simultaneously bursting into loud, sniggering cackles.

Pack of unfunny arseholes. Draco sets aside his ire as Hermione gently turns his face back to hers. "It's nice to have friends, isn't it?" she whispers. He nods in reply, as emotion closes his vocal chords. She cards her fingers through the blond strands at the back of his head, before she slants her lips across his for another drugging kiss.

You've done this, he thinks in wonderment and gratitude. You've brought these idiotic, extraordinary people back into my orbit – because you're my sun, Hermione Jean Granger.

My glorious, golden sun.