꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 116

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕿he hours that pass are hours spent in his arms.

No aspiration to break off, engage in the other slow dances she fell flat baiting him and his usually jealous arse with had been conjured up by Romie. He couldn't object though. Not when it means swaying softly beneath the sunsetting sky, the blooming colour the same meaningful shade as their complementary dress.

He got it spot on, the vision had come to life, surpassed his expectations. She surpassed his expectations. It's hardly the first time. His eyes soften at the subtle movements, her hands slowly slipping from the clasp around his neck to rest against the slender contours of his waist, facilitating the slump into his body. Wordlessly, he adjusts the levelling of his chin, accommodating the little nuzzle into his neck and holding her closer.

The tallness of him more or less shrouds them from the rest of the enchanted tent that's alive, far and wide, with laughter and love, and if he closes his eyes, they could be anywhere in the world, be anything. Relieved and cleansed of duty and honour and every goddamn thing that stands in the way of their everlasting unity. The concealed mark on his left forearm stings sharply and his eyes open, dancing over the French braid he has to admit she's pulling off swimmingly as the present celebrations fade in again.

Warm breath fans over the easily affected skin of his neck, throwing the steady rhythm of his heart all over the place when his head cranes to appraise her. For the first time in a while, he breaks the comfortable silence, murmuring a question he already knows the answer to. The poorly stifled yawn was a huge telltale sign.

"Tired?"

Her eyelashes flutter and the molten violet that greets him seconds later runs his mouth dry. He tries to swallow, moisten his lips, but it's no use. The honest confession leaking out of her is as good as it's bad.

"Haven't been sleeping so well lately"

A selfish slither of him is glad, glad that the weeks of separation has been impacting on her too, that he's not alone in his sleepless nights, longing, aching for that other half they've found within each other. He's missed sleeping, but he's missed sleeping with her more. A sting sharper than his dark mark has him internally wincing, guilt seeping into his bones when he spots her elongating soft blinks.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to push the boundaries further, stay in this part of the garden, swaying soft and silent until dawn breaks and reclaim the unparalleled loveliness that is being Romie Lupin's own, personal sleeping draught. But it's risky and impracticable and he hates himself a tad for the mumble that leaves him without full, unanimous consent.

"Come on"

Romie peels herself off him and lets him pull her into his side instead, leading the way off the couple dominated dance-floor and in between the small tables containing smaller bunches of minglers, one of which seating the elder Potters and Minerva McGonagall seemingly discussing the years of havoc the Marauders caused and how in what feels like the a blink of an eye, they're all grown, matured men. Mostly matured. They smile and nod at Romie and Regulus when they brush past, seizing the new topic starter as they watch them step out the tent together.