Quidditch

DISCLAIMER:

-: Fan fiction: Fun! Harry Potter Universe: Favourite! JK Rowling: Not me! This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official storyline. I do not profit. OB-viously.

-: And I shouldn't have to tell you this, but...!! PLEASE don't steal words from my brain! Not that I'm going to hunt you down with a fork but, really... Karma's a red-haired bitch. With a whip.

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She woke up slowly, languid, soaking up the sounds of a quiet morning. She felt the softness of warm breathing on her neck and the weight of the strong arm that was curled around her belly. And she smiled. Glancing to her left was that Roman emperors nose, tucked into her shoulder, and long strands of black hair lying across her neck, curling onto her shoulder and her left breast. She lay still and let him sleep. He'd had a long meeting, into the early hours yesterday, and deserved this bit of a lie-in. It was the weekend now after all. And, oh, she had plans to disrupt his peaceful weekend, yes she did. She closed her eyes and hummed happily to herself, amazed that waking up with this man felt as wonderful as a Christmas morning when you were six years old.

She felt him stir, as his breathing changed, and the arm around her middle gripped tighter as he stretched his long legs. "Shhh," she murmured, stroking his arm, "Go back to sleep, love..." From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the small quirk of a smile.

"If you had wanted me to sleep, witch, you wouldn't have been humming, now would you..." Pulling her closer, his husky voice murmured,  "And why, why are you still here? In this bed? With me?"

He had started this a couple of years ago, on that very first morning, when he had woken up with her still in his arms. She was not gone, as he'd feared she would be, and she'd seen the disbelief and that whisper of hope in his dark grey eyes. That morning she had replied easily, stroking his rough cheek, "Because I love you madly..." Then, she'd spent the rest of the morning convincing him of that all over again. 

Much to his, and her, glorious satisfaction.

And he kept asking... Not every morning. Not even every week. He asked, she had deduced, when he was completely relaxed and happy, wanting to tease. It was their bit of nonsensical intimacy, something for their own private amusement. And now, whenever he questioned her logic on staying, she would come up with a new reason every time, though "all the previous reasons still apply..., for-ever," she'd reminded him sternly.

Once she'd said, "I love the way you smell ... like herbs and potions, India ink and books, fresh roses and peppermint."

"Roses?!" he'd queried, "Peppermint??"

"I've seen the way you tend your mother's roses, with such love and mindfulness. And you use peppermint toothpaste. Always. I love peppermint toothpaste, I am a dentist's daughter, after all," she'd grinned.

Other times she'd replied with, "I adore your beautiful hands and long fingers." (his response to that one was oh so delicious) ... "I am entranced by your many, many buttons" ... "Your billowing black robes are delectable" ... "Because your big, beautiful... brain is wonderfully captivating" and "I'm still here because watching you prepare a potion is hypnotizing."

"Silly, addled witch," he would say as he smiled down at her. Then she would hum, smiling back up at him.

So this morning, as she was feeling a bit quietly giddy, she decided to tell him something different. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She tried again..., and started to giggle before the words would come. She sat up quick enough to make herself dizzy and clamped her hands over her mouth. She watched from over her fingers as he propped himself up on one arm. He lay the other arm on her knee, a long finger lazily stroking circles onto her thigh.