Chapter 2: Morning Light and Morning Wood
The first thing Harry registered was the heat.
Not the ambient warmth of a bedroom in late spring, not the residual glow of candle stubs burned down to wax puddles on the nightstand. This was a living, breathing heat—the kind that came from skin pressed against skin, from breath shared between two bodies tangled so thoroughly they might as well have been one.
His arm was draped over her waist. His chest was flush against her back. And his cock was still inside her.
Soft. Half-hard. Nestled in the wet, warm clutch of her cunt like it had found a home and had no intention of leaving.
Harry's eyes opened slowly. The pale gray light of dawn filtered through sheer green curtains, painting the room in shades of sea-glass and shadow. Draco's bedroom resolved itself in pieces: the black lacquered dresser against the far wall, the heavy crimson silk duvet tangled around their legs, the faint scent of cedarwood rising from the polished floorboards beneath the discarded robes and trousers from the night before.
She was still asleep.
Her platinum hair was a mess of tangles spread across the pillow, and her breathing was slow and even, the kind of deep sleep that came after hours of thorough fucking. Harry could see the faint rise and fall of her ribs beneath the sheet, could feel the steady thrum of her heartbeat through her back where it pressed against his chest.
He should pull out.
He knew he should pull out. It was the decent thing to do, the respectful thing, the kind of thing a normal person would do after waking up in a virtual stranger's bed with his dick still buried inside her.
But he didn't move.
He couldn't.
Not when she was this warm. Not when her arse was pressed so perfectly against his hips, the curve of it fitting against him like a missing piece. Not when the smell of her—sweat and sex and that faint floral something from her shampoo—was filling his lungs and making his head swim.
His hips shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the drag of her inner walls against his cock, the slick resistance that made his breath catch in his throat.
Draco made a small sound in her sleep. Something between a sigh and a whimper. Her body shifted against his, unconsciously seeking more of the contact, and Harry felt himself harden the rest of the way inside her.
Fuck.
He should stop. He should wake her up properly, apologize for overstaying his welcome, gather his clothes and Apparate back to his flat like a civilized human being.
Instead, he started to move.
Slow. Lazy. The kind of rhythm that didn't demand anything, that just existed for its own sake. He pulled back until just the head of his cock remained inside her, then pushed forward again, burying himself to the hilt in one long, easy stroke.
Draco's breath hitched. Her body tightened around him, a sleepy, instinctive response that made Harry's eyes roll back in his head.
"Mm." The sound was barely audible, muffled by the pillow. She shifted again, pressing her arse back against him, and Harry had to bite down on his lip to keep from groaning.
He did it again. Slower this time. Drawing out the pleasure until it was almost unbearable, until every nerve ending in his body was focused on the hot, wet friction of her cunt around his cock. The silk sheets rustled beneath them. The cedarwood scent mixed with the musk of sex until Harry couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"Harry?"
Her voice was thick with sleep, confused and groggy. He felt her tense, felt the moment she realized what was happening—that he was still inside her, that he was moving, that his hand had somehow found its way to her hip and was holding her in place.
"What the fuck—" She twisted her head to look at him over her shoulder, gray eyes wide and wild. "Are you—are you fucking me right now?"
"Morning," Harry said, and thrust deeper.
Draco's mouth fell open. A filthy curse spilled from her lips—something about his parentage and his audacity and what she was going to do to him when she got her hands on her wand—but her hips were already pushing back to meet his, her body betraying every word coming out of her mouth.
"You're—" She gasped as he hit a particularly deep spot. "You're insufferable."
"You mentioned that."
"I hate you."
"You really don't."
She tried to glare at him, but it was hard to look intimidating with her face pressed into a pillow and her arse in the air. Harry tightened his grip on her hip and picked up the pace, driving into her with a rhythm that made the bed creak beneath them.
"Fuck," Draco moaned. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"Say my name."
"Potter—"
"Harry."
She turned her face into the pillow, muffling a string of obscenities. Harry reached up, tangled his fingers in her hair, and pulled her head back.
"Say it."
"Harry." The word came out broken, desperate. "Harry, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
He didn't.
The dawn light grew brighter, casting long shadows across the empty space where the bed should be—wait, no, the bed was right there, solid and real beneath them, the crimson duvet bunched at the foot of the mattress. Harry's sleep-fogged brain was still catching up, still trying to process the surreal reality of waking up inside Draco Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy, who was currently pushing back against him like she'd been doing this for years. Draco Malfoy, whose cunt was clenching around his cock in a rhythm that made his vision blur. Draco Malfoy, who had apparently decided that morning sex was an acceptable substitute for conversation.
He could work with that.
Harry shifted his angle, driving deeper, and Draco cried out—a sound that was half-moan, half-sob. Her fingers were fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, and he could see the tension building in her shoulders, the way her whole body was winding tighter and tighter with every thrust.
"Harder," she demanded.
He gave her harder.
The headboard slammed against the wall. The candles on the nightstand rattled. Harry's hand slid from her hip to her stomach, pulling her up until her back was flush against his chest, until he could bury his face in her neck and breathe her in.
"You're mine," he said, the words rough and low against her skin.
Draco shuddered.
"You've been mine since you first pulled my jersey over your head." He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving the point home. "Since you decided to steal my colors and wear them against your skin. Since you dropped to your knees in that changing room and offered yourself to me without a single word."
"Harry—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
The words came out on a sob, and Harry felt something shift in his chest. Something primal and possessive and utterly terrifying. He wrapped his hand around her throat—not squeezing, just holding—and Draco moaned like it was the best thing she'd ever felt.
"Again."
"I'm yours. I'm yours. I'm—"
She came with a broken cry, body convulsing around him, and Harry followed a heartbeat later. His release hit him like a curse to the chest, stealing his breath, making his vision go white at the edges. He buried himself as deep as he could go and spilled inside her, pulse after pulse, until he had nothing left to give.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The room was quiet except for their ragged breathing. The dawn light had shifted, painting the walls in shades of gold and rose. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing.
Harry pulled out slowly. Draco made a small sound—loss, maybe, or relief—and rolled onto her back. Her chest was heaving. Her hair was a disaster. There was a red mark on her throat where his hand had been.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
"I've been in love with you since I was thirteen," she said.
The words landed like a bludger to the gut. Harry's brain stuttered, stopped, tried to restart. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I'm not going to pretend I'm not anymore."
Her voice was steady. Her eyes were steady. Everything about her was steady, like she'd been rehearsing this moment for years, like she'd known exactly what she was going to say and had decided that now—sweaty and spent and still trembling from orgasm—was the right time to say it.
Harry should run.
Every instinct he had was screaming at him to run. This was too much, too fast, too real. He was an Auror. He dealt with dark wizards and dangerous artifacts and life-or-death situations on a daily basis. He didn't deal with this. He didn't deal with feelings and confessions and women who looked at him like he was the center of their universe.
But he didn't run.
He reached out instead. Brushed a strand of hair from her face. Let his fingers trail down her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her neck.
"I know," he said.
Draco blinked. "You know?"
"I've known since eighth year." He smiled—a small, crooked thing that felt foreign on his face. "You weren't exactly subtle, Malfoy. Always watching me in the Great Hall. Always finding excuses to be in the same room. Always looking at me like you wanted to either hex me or kiss me, and I could never figure out which."
"You knew?"
"I suspected." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I didn't know what to do about it. So I did nothing."
"And now?"
"Now I'm done doing nothing."
Draco stared at him. Her gray eyes were bright, almost glassy, and Harry realized with a start that she was trying not to cry.
"You're not running," she said.
"No."
"You should be."
"Probably." He shrugged. "But I'm not."
She laughed—a wet, broken sound that was half-sob, half-relief. "You're impossible."
"So you keep telling me."
"I mean it, Potter. I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for almost a decade. I've spent years trying to convince myself I wasn't, trying to hate you, trying to forget you. It didn't work. It never worked."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Why?"
"Because it makes me feel stupid."
Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. The sound filled the room, warm and genuine, and Draco's expression softened into something almost like wonder.
"You're not stupid," he said. "You're just stubborn."
"And you're arrogant."
"That too."
She reached up and touched his face. Her fingers were cold, but they traced the line of his jaw like they were memorizing it.
"I don't know what happens now," she said.
"Neither do I."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's not supposed to be." He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "I'm not good at this, Draco. I'm not good at relationships. I'm not good at feelings. I'm not good at letting people in."
"You let me in."
"You climbed in through the window."
She snorted. "That's not—"
"You stole my jersey. You wore it against your skin for three years. You waited for me in that changing room like you knew I'd come." He shook his head. "You didn't climb through the window. You demolished the wall."
Draco was silent for a moment. Then she pulled him down and kissed him.
It was different than before. Softer. Slower. Less about hunger and more about something else—something that felt dangerously close to hope.
When they broke apart, she was smiling. A real smile, small and private, like it was just for him.
"What happens now?" she asked again.
Harry considered the question. He thought about the day ahead—the meetings he'd miss, the reports he'd have to write, the inevitable questions from Ron and Hermione about where he'd disappeared to last night.
He thought about the jersey, still crumpled on the floor of the changing room. He thought about the way Draco had looked on her knees, her gray eyes dark with want. He thought about the confession she'd just made, the vulnerability she'd offered him like a gift.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I'm not going anywhere."
Draco's breath caught. "Promise?"
"Promise."
She kissed him again, and Harry let himself sink into it. Let himself believe that this was real, that this was possible, that two people who had spent the better part of a decade hating each other could find something worth holding onto.
The light through the curtains grew brighter. The city outside woke up, indifferent to the two people tangled together in a bed that smelled like cedar and sex and something that might have been the beginning of everything.
Harry's stomach growled.
Draco laughed. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
She pushed at his chest. "Go shower. I'll make breakfast."
"You cook?"
"I'm a Malfoy. We don't cook. We have house-elves."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"I'm joking, Potter. I can make toast. Maybe eggs, if you're lucky."
"High standards."
"Lower them."
He climbed off the bed, his body protesting the movement. His muscles ached in ways they hadn't in years—the good kind of ache, the kind that came from a night well spent.
Draco watched him walk to the bathroom. He could feel her eyes on his back, on his arse, on the scratches she'd left down his spine.
"You're staring," he said, echoing her words from the night before.
"You're worth staring at."
He turned. She was propped up on her elbows, the sheet pooled around her waist, her hair a silver tangle around her shoulders. She looked like a painting. She looked like trouble.
She looked like his.
"Hurry up," she said. "Before I change my mind about breakfast."
"The eggs?"
"The toast."
Harry grinned and disappeared into the bathroom.
The shower was hot. The water pressure was excellent—Malfoy money, he assumed, had bought more than just the flat. He stood under the spray and let the heat seep into his muscles, let the events of the past twelve hours settle into something approaching reality.
He'd woken up inside Draco Malfoy.
He'd fucked her awake.
She'd told him she loved him.
He'd stayed.
Any one of those things would have been enough to make his head spin. All four together felt like a fever dream.
But it wasn't. It was real. He could still taste her on his lips, still feel the phantom pressure of her cunt around his cock, still hear her voice saying the words that had changed everything.
I've been in love with you since I was thirteen.
The water ran cold. Harry turned it off, grabbed the first towel he could find, and dried himself off. When he stepped back into the bedroom, Draco had already left—the bed was rumpled but empty, the duvet pulled up in a half-hearted attempt at tidiness.
He found his trousers on the floor. His shirt was draped over the back of a chair. His shoes were somewhere near the door, next to Draco's discarded robes.
He dressed slowly, deliberately. Part of him wanted to linger, to drag out the morning as long as possible, to pretend that the real world didn't exist. But the real world was waiting. It always was.
He found Draco in the kitchen.
She was standing at the counter, wearing nothing but his jersey—his jersey, the same one from the night before—and a pair of knickers. Her hair was still tangled, her face still flushed, but she was holding a spatula like it was a wand and glaring at a frying pan like it had personally offended her.
"I thought you couldn't cook," Harry said.
"I can't." She gestured at the pan. "The eggs are burning."
He crossed the room and looked over her shoulder. The eggs were, indeed, burning. Blackened at the edges, smoking slightly, and emitting a smell that was more charcoal than breakfast.
"You're supposed to grease the pan," he said.
"I did."
"With what?"
"Olive oil?"
The pan was definitely not greased with olive oil. It looked like she'd poured half a bottle of something into it and called it a day.
"Step aside," Harry said.
"I can fix it."
"You definitely can't."
She huffed but handed him the spatula. Harry scraped the burnt eggs into the bin, washed the pan, and started over. Draco watched him work, her arms crossed, her expression somewhere between annoyance and fascination.
"You cook," she said.
"I live alone. It was either learn or starve."
"You could eat out."
"I could. But I like cooking."
"You're full of surprises, Potter."
"I'm a man of hidden depths."
She snorted. "Deep as a puddle."
Harry cracked two eggs into the pan. They sizzled and spat, the edges turning golden. He added salt, pepper, a handful of shredded cheese from the fridge, and slid the results onto two plates.
"Toast?" he asked.
"Bread's on the counter."
He found it, popped two slices into the toaster, and leaned against the counter while Draco examined her eggs like they might bite her.
"They look... edible," she said.
"High praise."
She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Her eyes widened slightly.
"Okay," she admitted. "That's good."
"I know."
"Arrogant."
"Accurate."
They ate standing up, neither of them willing to sit down, both of them aware of the strange gravity pulling them together. Every time Draco looked at him, Harry felt it—a tug in his chest, a heat in his blood, a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
When she reached for the butter, he caught her wrist.
She looked up.
"I have to go," he said. "I have work."
"I know."
"I'll come back tonight."
"I know."
"I'll bring the jersey."
"I'm keeping it."
"No, you're not."
She smirked. "Try and take it."
Harry pulled her toward him and kissed her—hard and fast and full of promise. She melted into him, her hands fisting in his shirt, her body pressing close. When he pulled back, she was breathless.
"Tonight," he said.
"Tonight."
He found his wand, his keys, his jacket. He paused at the door, one hand on the frame, and looked back at her.
She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, wearing his jersey and nothing else, light streaming through the window and catching in her hair.
"Draco."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I love you too."
Her breath caught. Her eyes went wide. The words hit her like a hex, and he watched the shock ripple across her face, followed by something soft and fierce and impossibly bright.
"Harry—"
He was already gone.
But he'd be back.
He'd definitely be back.
The Ministry was a tomb of paperwork and fluorescent light.
Harry sat through three meetings he couldn't remember, nodded at observations he didn't process, and signed documents without reading a single word. His mind kept drifting back to green curtains and cedarwood, to the taste of her skin, to the way she'd looked standing in his jersey with the morning light catching in her hair.
Ron cornered him by the coffee cart around noon.
"You look like shit," Ron said.
"Thanks."
"Good night?"
Harry grunted.
"That good, eh?" Ron grinned. "Who is she?"
"No one."
"Bullshit. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The I-got-laid-and-I'm-still-thinking-about-it look." Ron poured himself a coffee. "So who is she?"
Harry stared at his own cup. The liquid was dark and bitter, and he'd let it go cold an hour ago.
"Can't say."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
Ron raised an eyebrow but didn't push. That was one of the things Harry loved about him—the ability to read a room, to know when to back off. Hermione had taught him that, probably. Or maybe the war had.
"Just be careful," Ron said finally.
"Always am."
"You're never careful."
"Fair point."
Ron clapped him on the shoulder and walked away. Harry dumped his cold coffee in the bin and went back to his desk.
The afternoon crawled.
He filed reports. He answered memos. He stared at the clock and willed the hands to move faster. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—on her knees in the changing room, pressed against the lockers, spread out beneath him in that massive bed.
By the time six o'clock rolled around, he was vibrating with barely contained need.
He Apparated to her flat without checking the coordinates. His body knew the way, apparently. Some primal part of him had memorized the path from the Ministry to her door, and he didn't have the energy to question it.
The door was unlocked.
He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The flat was dark except for a single candle burning on the kitchen counter. The smell of cedar and something floral wrapped around him like a welcome. And there, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, was Draco.
She was wearing his jersey again.
Nothing else. Just the crimson and gold, the number seven, his name stretched across her back. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her feet were bare on the hardwood floor.
"You came back," she said.
"I said I would."
"I didn't believe you."
He crossed the room in four strides. His hands found her waist, pulled her close, and he kissed her like he'd been starving for it. She melted into him, fingers tangling in his hair, and he walked her backward until her spine hit the wall.
"I've been thinking about you all day," he said against her mouth.
"Have you."
"Couldn't focus. Couldn't work. Couldn't do anything but remember what you looked like this morning."
"What did I look like?"
"Naked. Flushed. Wearing my name."
She shivered. He felt it ripple through her body, felt the way her breath caught in her throat.
"I've been thinking about you too," she admitted.
"What were you thinking?"
She hesitated. He saw it—a flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes before she smoothed it away. But he'd seen it. He always saw it now.
"Tell me," he said.
"It's embarrassing."
"I don't care."
She looked at him. Really looked. Her gray eyes searched his face, looking for something—mockery, judgment, a reason to retreat. He let her look. He had nothing to hide.
"I was thinking about your mouth," she said finally.
"My mouth?"
"On me."
The words hung in the air between them. Harry felt his cock twitch, felt the heat spike in his blood.
"Where on you?"
She didn't answer. Just looked at him with those sharp gray eyes, her cheeks flushing pink.
"Show me," he said.
"I—"
"Show me where you wanted my mouth."
She took his hand. Her fingers were cold, but they curled around his with a certainty that made his heart stutter. She led him through the dark flat, past the kitchen, past the bedroom door, until they were standing at the foot of her bed.
Then she let go of his hand and climbed onto the mattress.
She lay back against the pillows, the jersey rucking up around her waist. Her legs fell open, and Harry saw everything—the pale skin of her thighs, the glistening evidence of how much she'd been thinking about him, the way her cunt was already wet and ready.
"Here," she said. "I wanted your mouth here."
Harry didn't need to be told twice.
He climbed onto the bed and positioned himself between her legs. The jersey had fallen open at the collar, revealing the curve of her breasts, and he could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. She was nervous. Excited. Waiting.
He lowered his head and licked into her.
The taste hit him like a spell to the chest—musky and sweet and utterly fucking perfect. Draco gasped, her hips bucking off the mattress, and he had to press his hands to her thighs to hold her down.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He did it again. Slower this time, dragging his tongue from her entrance to her clit, savoring every inch of her. She squirmed beneath him, fingers fisting in the sheets, and he could hear the breathy little moans escaping her lips.
"You taste like mine," he said against her skin.
"I—what?"
"Mine. You taste like you're mine."
She didn't argue. Just arched her back and pressed her cunt against his mouth, demanding more. He gave it to her. He licked and sucked and worshipped her with his tongue, learning every ridge and fold, finding the spots that made her gasp, the rhythm that made her moan.
When he pushed two fingers inside her, she nearly came off the bed.
"Harry—"
"Not yet."
"I can't—"
"You can." He curled his fingers, pressing against that spot inside her that made her whole body tremble. "You will."
She was close. He could feel it in the way her walls clenched around his fingers, the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps. But he wasn't ready to let her come. Not yet. Not until she begged.
He pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his tongue.
Draco screamed.
He fucked her with his mouth, his nose pressing against her clit, his tongue buried deep inside her. She was writhing beneath him, her hands tangled in his hair, her hips rocking against his face. The sounds she made were obscene—wet, desperate, utterly fucking perfect.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, Harry, I need—"
"What do you need?"
"To come. Please let me come."
He pulled back just enough to speak. "I'm not stopping you."
She shattered.
Her orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing through her body and leaving her trembling in its wake. Harry kept his mouth on her, drinking her down, savoring every last drop of her release. When she finally slumped back against the mattress, boneless and gasping, he climbed up her body and kissed her.
She tasted herself on his lips. He felt her tongue slide against his, hungry and unashamed, and he groaned into her mouth.
"Good?" he asked.
"You know it was."
"Tell me."
She rolled her eyes. "It was good."
"Just good?"
"It was the best orgasm I've had in years." She paused. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
She laughed. And then she flipped them over.
Harry found himself on his back, staring up at her as she straddled his hips. The jersey had fallen open completely now, revealing her breasts, her stomach, the slick heat between her legs.
"My turn," she said.
"Your turn?"
"You made me come. Now I want to make you come."
She reached for his belt. He caught her wrist.
"Not yet," he said.
"Not yet?"
"I'm not done with you."
He flipped them again.
Draco ended up on her stomach, face pressed into the pillow, arse in the air. Harry knelt behind her, his hands on her hips, his cock aching with need.
"What are you—"
"Trust me."
"I do."
The words hit him harder than they should have. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her spine, then reached between her legs and found her still wet, still ready.
He pushed inside her.
She moaned—a long, low sound that vibrated through the mattress. He fucked her slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of her cunt around his cock. Every thrust made her gasp. Every moan made him harder.
"I want to try something," he said.
"What?"
"Tell me if you don't like it."
He pulled out. She made a sound of protest, but he was already moving—sliding down her body, pressing his mouth to the place where her thigh met her arse.
Draco tensed.
"Harry—"
"Trust me."
"I—"
"I've got you."
He licked a path from her cunt to her arsehole. She shuddered, hands fisting in the pillow.
"No one's ever—"
"I know."
"I don't know if I—"
"Do you want me to stop?"
A pause. Her body was trembling, but her hips pushed back against him. Just slightly. Just enough.
"No."
He smiled against her skin and got to work.
He used his tongue first, wetting her, loosening her. She gasped and squirmed, overwhelmed but not pulling away. He added a finger, then two, stretching her slowly, carefully.
"Relax," he murmured.
"I'm trying."
"Breathe."
She exhaled. Her body loosened around his fingers.
"Good girl."
She moaned.
He kept going, working her open with his fingers and tongue until she was whimpering, until her body was slick and ready. Then he pulled back and positioned himself behind her.
"You're sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure."
"You tell me if it's too much."
"I will."
He pushed inside her.
She cried out—not pain, but something else. Something raw and overwhelming. He paused, let her adjust, waited until her breathing steadied.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Okay. Keep going."
He moved slowly at first. Gentle, careful strokes. He watched her face in the dim light, watched for any sign of discomfort. But she was arching back against him, her fingers clawing at the pillow, her moans growing louder with every thrust.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, Harry, don't stop."
"Not stopping."
"Harder."
He gave her harder.
The bed creaked beneath them. The headboard slammed against the wall. Draco was moaning and cursing and pushing back against him like she'd been doing this her whole life. He grabbed her hair, pulled her head back, and fucked her like he owned her.
"Whose are you?" he demanded.
"Yours."
"Say it again."
"Yours. I'm yours. Always yours."
He came with a groan, burying himself deep inside her and spilling into her arse. She followed a moment later, her whole body convulsing around him, and they collapsed together on the mattress in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
The candle in the kitchen had burned down to nothing, leaving the flat in darkness. Harry could hear Draco's heartbeat against his chest, steady and strong. He could smell her—the sweat of their bodies, the lingering scent of sex, the faint floral something underneath.
"That was..." She trailed off.
"Yeah."
"I don't have words."
"Me neither."
She turned her head to look at him. Her hair was a disaster. Her cheeks were flushed. She had that just-fucked glow that he was starting to recognize.
"I love you," she said.
The words didn't scare him anymore. They felt true, solid, real. He pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I love you too."
She smiled. A real smile, soft and private, the kind she only wore for him.
"Stay," she said.
"I wasn't going anywhere."
"I mean it, Potter. I want you to stay. Tonight, tomorrow, next week—I don't know. I just know I don't want you to leave."
Harry looked at her. At this woman who had spent years pretending to hate him, who had stolen his jersey and worn it against her skin, who had dropped to her knees in a changing room and offered herself without a word. At this woman who loved him. Who was terrified of losing him.
"I'll stay," he said.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She kissed him. Slow and deep, like they had all the time in the world. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn't. There was a war coming—there was always a war coming—but for now, for tonight, for as long as he could hold onto it, he had this.
He had her.
And that was enough.