Archive of Our Own

Parvati wore the most infuriatingly cheeky grin as she entered the Wood family's dining-room and spotted her sister. Padma had been enjoying her tea and toast all alone at the long table, appreciative of the rare moment of solitude. The pre-wedding craziness of the past few days had offered too little of that.

When she looked up and saw Parvati in the doorway, however, she blushed a furious shade of red and busied herself with a large gulp of too hot tea. "Ow!" she cried out, and set the cup down on the saucer with a clatter. Scowling, and determined not to give in and grin back – at least not yet – she met Parvati's gaze.

"You have no reason at all to look so smug, you know."

"Oh, I don't know that." Parvati grinned on undeterred. "On the contrary, you of all people should know that I've got a reason to look smug."

"Listen, last night, I didn't mean to–" Padma broke herself off smartly when she realised she'd been about to apologise. Something told her that attack would be the best line of defence here. "What the hell were you and Oliver thinking? Anyone could walk into that library at any time. In fact, someone did and you were damned lucky it was me!"

"Don't you mean that you were damned lucky it was you?" Still smirking, Parvati poured tea and reached for a piece of toast, starting to scrape it with butter.

"And what exactly do you mean by that?" Padma asked narrow-eyed, matching insinuating emphasis for emphasis.

"Nothing. Forget it."

Padma pressed her lips together. "It's never nothing with you, Parvati. Especially not when you say it's nothing and ask me to forget it." She reached for the milk jug, adding an extra splash to her tea in order to soothe her scalded tongue.

"Oh, I don't know." Parvati shrugged, waving her toast around between two fingers. "I just meant – well, you don't have that much of a sex life of your own. In fact, I'm a hundred percent positive that you're still a virgin. You have to get your kicks vicariously, I suppose."

Enraged, Padma paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth. Her twin wore a studiously nonchalant expression, one that Padma was very familiar with. Parvati was trying to get a rise out of her, and still, she couldn't completely stop herself from responding as anticipated. "That's none of your beeswax, little sister," she said, reaching for the slice of buttery toast hanging from Parvati's pink-lacquered fingertips and stuffing a corner of it into her smirking mouth. "Shut up."

"Mmm, hit a nerve," Parvati purred, licking butter off her lips after biting off a piece.

"You so did not."

"It was sexy though, wasn't it? I'm mad about him in that kilt. The Scots go au naturel under it, you know."

"Yes, thank you for stating the obvious," Padma said tartly, but she was turning red again, remembering the sight that had met her as she came into the manor's library late last night: an unobstructed view to her soon-to-be brother-in-law's firm, Quidditch-toned backside, revealed by her sister's hands that had rucked up his kilt to hold on to said backside as he seemed to be doing his best to shag her through the couch cushions. Fortunately those hands and Parvati's slim calves twined around his thighs were all she'd seen of her twin; Padma thought she would have been irreparably traumatised otherwise. Oh, and of course Parvati's face, round-eyed and then red with giggles as she peeked over Oliver's shoulder and squeaked in alarm.

"You could have locked the door," she grumbled.

"It was a spur of the moment thing, darling. He pounced on me. Who knows why." Parvati smiled down at her toast as she nibbled at it, and then nudged her. "Admit it was sexy."

"It was not the least bit sexy, not for me," Padma maintained, finishing up her tea. "It was mortifying."

"You're protesting too much, dear sister."

Padma snorted. "Sometimes an 'ew' is just an 'ew', dear sister."

With a sigh, Parvati stretched in her chair, a luxuriant motion that exuded well-shagged feminine contentment. "You should make a fresh start and try a man in a kilt, you know. A passionate Scot could deal with the little virginity problem for you and wipe that old-maid expression off your mouth for a while." She reached for a slice of mango on the fruit platter and took a dainty bite, her mouth pursed against a smile.

"Ha. Ha. You are so funny." Padma rolled her eyes, determined now not to rise to the bait that Parvati was so gleefully dangling in front of her nose. It wasn't, at the heart of it, spitefully meant, she knew that. Neither was it the first time Parvati had urged her to forget about the past and lost opportunities, and grab life by the testes – so to speak. "None of Oliver's ruddy-faced, paunchy McRelatives appeal, sorry."

"How about his freckle-faced, raunchy McBestMan, then?"

Padma shook her head, pushing back her chair. "Charlie Weasley is no Scot, kilt or no kilt. And he's not my type in the least."

"Oh, so that's why you were totally not ogling him all of yesterday during rehearsals," Parvati murmured. "He was looking at you, too, by the way. You may be as stern as an old maid schoolteacher, but you are every bit as gorgeous as me, darling."

"I was totally not–" Padma sighed and looked up at the ceiling as Parvati giggled. All right, so she had peeked. A little. Because she wasn't dead and there was something about a muscular bloke in a kilt. But 'ogled' him? Certainly not. And he'd definitely not been looking at her. "Listen, I'm not going to start simpering and tee-hee'ing trying to catch the eye of a ladies' man who's about as subtle as the dragons he keeps."

"Hey, Charlie can't help it that he's charming!" Parvati protested, looking completely indignant on Charlie Weasley's behalf.

"I see; like you can't help it that you're annoying?" Padma rose up and dropped a conciliatory kiss to the crown of her sister's head. "Listen, Weasley is fit and all, but I go for brain, not brawn, you know that. And I'm not at all sure how well-equipped he is in the brains department. How about if, instead of my admittedly not-happening sex life, you focus on your bloody wedding, which is happening, you know, tomorrow?"

Parvati smiled up at her – or rather, Padma realised, up past her. She glanced over her shoulder, and felt her stomach plummet to her feet as she saw who was standing in the doorway, flushed under his myriad of freckles, a big hand raking through a shock of shoulder-length red hair.

Charlie Weasley.

It took all her fortitude not to smack Parvati's head. How long had he been standing there? What had he heard? Oh gods, she'd insulted him rather horribly. Padma smiled stiffly in response to the tentative grin he offered up to them both. "Good morning, Weasley," she muttered as she brushed past him, out the door.

"Morning, Miss Patil," he called after her, laughter in his voice, and then, apparently addressing Parvati: "And as for you, Miss Patil, you ought to be spanked. I'll notify your husband-to-be."

***

Oliver's dad wasn't a noble laird by birth, but a Glasgow lad from the Gorbals who'd become a successful businessman and owned three well-visited menswear stores in Diagon Alley and the wizarding quarters of Glasgow and Edinburgh. He was wealthy enough that he'd bought a handsome eighteenth century manor right on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, and of course that was where Parvati and Oliver would have their wedding.

Padma had seen the inspired gleam in her twin's eyes the first time Parvati had brought her here after the engagement. And no one could beat Parvati for setting a scene. New Year's Eve, a tranquil loch, a stately home, the ice and snow setting off the vivid colours of Scottish kilts and Indian saris, and, at the dark of midnight, fireworks shooting and arching over the whole scene. It would be glorious.

A steadily increasing number of the wedding entourage had resided at the manor for the past four days. While Padma was delighted for Parvati and admittedly smitten with the beautiful surroundings, she was soon ready for the week and the wedding to be over and for life to go back to its usual pace and pre-occupations. Unlike Parvati, she didn't thrive in crowded surroundings. She'd been very happy last year to move out of the dorms, and that was even before taking into account the nightmare that had been their last year at Hogwarts.

Still, as she shrugged on her warm woollen coat, stepped into her boots and pushed the front door open to the vista of lake, sky and snow-covered grounds, she couldn't help but break into the grin she'd stubbornly held back at the breakfast table. She wasn't much of an outdoors girl, but this was so beautiful she felt her spirits lift as she drew in the first breath and let her lungs expand. The air was cold and smelled bright with snow and sweet from the lake and spicy with wood-smoke from the large chimney, and she held it in for a few seconds before breathing out in a mist of condensation.

With any luck, the weather forecast would hold and give Parvati such ideal conditions for her wedding day. Tomorrow. It felt unreal that her sister would be someone's wife by tomorrow afternoon. Padma herself wasn't at all ready for a wedding, a husband, children. Her days were divided between her Healer apprenticeship at St Mungo's, afternoons working at her father's paediatric practice, and evenings studying, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Meanwhile, Parvati and Lavender had opened up a shop on Diagon Alley, the street's first store of Muggle fashion. Oliver's dad had backed them financially, and Parvati had fashion in her blood – their mother was a successful dress robes designer and the twins had grown up surrounded by needle spells, silk thread and opulent fabrics in rich design. One might think that establishing and running a new business would keep someone busy enough. But Parvati had met Oliver, and Parvati always wanted everything at once and immediately.

The thought made Padma shake her head with a wry smile, shuffling through calf-deep snow as she followed the path towards the copse of trees lining the loch shore. In an hour, everyone at the manor would be awake and working on decorations and organisation of the feast and last-minute deliveries and adjustments. In the afternoon her cousin Deepa would arrive, and tonight she'd paint the mehndi wedding designs on Padma, Parvati, their mother, and Lavender too. But before that there'd be more organising and running about and picking up orders in Edinburgh and London, and they'd go to sleep at night and wake up to the morning of the wedding.

Padma rounded the curve in the path down to the dock – and stopped dead in her tracks, gasping as if she'd got the air in her lungs slammed out of her.

It was Michael, on the edge of the dock, lanky and hunched in dark robes, his hands pushed into his pockets. He must have arrived this morning. She stepped off the path automatically, out of his sight should he turn, dropping down on her haunches behind the thick trunk of a rowan tree. Tipping her head back she saw red berries hang on black branches like drops of blood, and her lips twisted into a sneer of pain. Oh fuck, when was it going to stop hurting? When would she be able to see him and feel cool and rational and in balance again? It had better happen damned quick, because he'd be with Lavender all day and tomorrow at the wedding, dancing with her, flirting, kissing her, and it was very much below Padma's sense of dignity to give any of them any indication that she still felt gutted just at the sight of him, never mind the two of them together.

Breathing out slowly, she craned her neck and glimpsed him between the trees, still gazing out over the lake. It would be an understatement to say he'd been moody the last year, up until the day two months ago when he'd moved out of the flat they'd shared with Terry, Anthony and Mandy. After that, she didn't know. But Lavender definitely looked aglow with happiness. Still, Padma wondered what would happen should she go down to the dock now and greet him. How he would look, what he would say. She wanted him to be happy, of course. She also, of course, wanted him not to be happy without her. It was useless and petty, but she couldn't help it.

She was about to get up on her feet and retrace her steps quietly to the house, when he turned and started up the path from the lake at a brisk pace. Padma sank back, leaning against the trunk, quiet as a white hare hiding in white snow from a fox.

As he passed her on the path, unseeing, she heard him whistle, a bright, cheerful tune, and it cut her like knives, her heart feeling as bare and cold as the red berries on the branches overhead.

She waited until he was inside the house, and then got up and brushed off the back of her robes, her gaze going to the door where he'd disappeared. But movement caught her eye in a window on the first floor; the dining-room window, where someone red-haired was looking out in her direction, and then moved aside as she turned stock still and stared back.

"Damn it," she breathed out angrily.

It could be any of the Weasleys present, of course. In addition to Charlie who'd been there for a couple of days already, George, Ron, Percy and Ginny had all arrived the previous night. She couldn't decide on any that would be better than the others, but after this morning she could definitely think of one Weasley whom she hoped it had not been.

***

She sat curled up in the deep library armchair, leaning on one armrest, her robe discarded to the floor in the heat from the fireplace and her hair, soft and glossy from tonight's henna treatment, falling over her bare shoulder. Her intricately patterned fingers turned the pages in a book she'd picked from the shelves. The hands on the clock on the wall were inching towards half past eleven, and the house was quiet. Bliss.

She'd somehow managed to avoid talking to Michael all day, other than a stiff greeting and smile in passing, and the mehndi ceremony tonight had been nice; it had gone better than she'd expected with both her and Lavender there. Of course, Mum had been there too, and Deepa, which had deflected any Michael-related tension that no doubt simmered right under the surface. Lavender had been determinedly pleasant, not at all as snarky as she usually was, but she'd also been unapologetic, her gaze unflinching whenever it met Padma's own.

Not that Padma and Lavender usually didn't get along. They had no choice, as much time as they both spent with Parvati, but still, there'd always been a competitive edge there. Padma had been shocked from the start when it turned out that not only had her twin been sorted into a different house than her; Parvati had also found herself a best friend – a best friend that wasn't her, unthinkable! – within the first week at Hogwarts. There was no way such a thing could have happened without sore feelings, and conversely, Lavender had been cautious and envious of the established bond between the twins in the beginning.

It had taken the three of them a few years to settle somewhat comfortably, and there was still that precarious balance. Padma and Lavender were friends because of Parvati, and there were two Maids of Honour in Parvati's wedding because any choice Parvati made between them would upset the balance. It was as simple, and as complicated, as that.

Padma sighed and pushed the reading glasses up on her nose, turning the book over in her lap. She had to admit that she'd no idea what she'd been reading. Her head was buzzing with thoughts about Michael and Lavender and about the wedding tomorrow and her various duties, so busy she couldn't quite get past the thoughts to figure out just how she felt about any of it. Maybe she was just tired. Getting to bed early on the day before the wedding would no doubt be a great idea. Well, 'early' was probably already too late, but–

Someone leaned over the top of the armchair, a shadow falling over her just as she heard a whispered, "Boo."

Padma squeaked out of her reverie, the book flying one way while her legs flailed another, and then she turned around on her knees and glared across the back of the chair. Her reading glasses had fallen to the tip of her nose, and her hand was pressed to her chest in an eloquent gesture of outrage that apparently was wasted on Charlie Weasley. He only grinned more broadly.

"Honestly," she gasped, a blush heating her cheeks. "Some people ... the manners of wolves–"

"You've got clothes on," Charlie observed. "I wondered. That bare arm and knee were the only thing I saw."

"Why on earth would I not be wearing clothes in Mr and Mrs Wood's library?" With a flustered gesture, she pushed the glasses back up from the end of her nose, and leaned over the armrest to pick up her fallen book, her long hair sliding down to obscure her flushed face. She was certainly not naked. Even without the night-robe, she was wearing a sturdy tank top and a pair of jersey shorts that covered her up quite adequately, thank you.

"What are you doing, sneaking around in the middle of the night?" she demanded to know as she leaned back up, book in hand.

"I'm not sneaking around. Well, only by chance, just now. I have to use the Floo and ask my mum to take in this bloody thing a bit at the waist," he explained, stepping out from behind the chair and tilting his head slightly as he watched her.

Her gaze dropped to the swathe of tartan wool draped around his hips and falling to just below his knees. A couple of inches too long, which indicated that indeed, it couldn't sit properly at the waist. Still, it looked good on him. The tartan was a deep blue and green check that was a great match to his hair and freckles, and he was wearing it quite roguishly with a scruffy green T-shirt, his strong auburn-haired calves stuck into half-laced dragon-skin boots.

It dawned on Padma that she might be perilously close to 'ogling' and she tilted her chin up to meet his gaze.

"Bonnie Prince Charlie McWeasley, was it?" she asked sardonically.

"Bonnie, now?" He grinned. "All in the eye of the beholder, love."

Padma gave a haughty snort. She tapped her fingers on the book. "Well, couldn't you have fixed this earlier than, you know, around midnight on the day before the wedding?" she asked, her expression prim. "Won't your mother be asleep this time of night?"

"I can wake her," Charlie said with a rueful shrug. "She'll give me a verbal lashing but she does know an emergency when she sees one. I used a sticking spell at the rehearsal but according to my tactful little sister it makes the fabric drape over my arse like a sack of potatoes." He drew up the edge of his t-shirt to show how the kilt hung low at his hips, secured by a very makeshift spell. "Borrowed it from a friend who's considerably more hefty. It would make the front page of the Prophet in a bad way if Oliver Wood's best man lost his kilt in the middle of the nuptial vows. I'd hate to seem like I'm bragging, but a sporran only covers up so much."

Padma nearly choked on something between affronted modesty and a giggle. "Um. Right," she said, trying to dispel the visual from her mind. "I can see why you call it an emergency." She hesitated, and then put the book away on the table. "No need to wake up your mother. My mum's a designer of dress robes; I know the basics of sewing quite well. You'll have to take it off, though."

Charlie considered her for a second or two, his mouth curving up in a wicked grin as he seemed to hold back laughter. "Now, me bonnie lass, ye're aware of our proud Scots traditions, aye?" he asked in an exaggerated burr, rolling his 'r's dramatically.

"Oh, come on!" She looked up at him with her eyes narrowing. "Like you'd go to ask your mum to fix it without wearing something under it."

"You are smart." Charlie gave in to the chuckles, meeting her dirty look with a suggestive little hike up of his kilt. "Well, love, I suppose this is your lucky day." Only grinning broadly at her indignant huff, he let go of the edge of the kilt and pushed it down, perilously low on his hips. The kilt was wide enough to skim over his hips without a hitch, which illustrated the problem.

"See? I borrowed it from Thorfinn McFusty," Charlie explained. "He's ... well–"

"Say no more." She kept her voice neutral, even officious, but it had a little breathless hitch to it that she just couldn't control. She simply wasn't used to men flashing their boxers at her without batting an eyelash. "But please, pull it up again for a moment, I'll need to look at how it hangs on you."

Thorfinn, of the dragon-keeper clan up in the Hebrides, was a good friend of Oliver's, so Padma had met him a couple of times. He was a stocky bloke like Charlie, but Charlie, while muscular, was narrow and tapering through the hips. Thorfinn was at least four inches taller and an even barrel shape. "It's not just too loose at the waist," she observed. "It's simply too big all around. I'll take it in a bit all over – here, and here, at each side, at the pleats."

She touched her fingers to the fabric, feeling her mouth go a bit dry as he tugged the t-shirt up a couple of inches on both sides. The waistline of the kilt hung loosely on his hips, and that tantalising line of red hair traversing his muscled lower stomach from the edge of the kilt to the edge of the shirt did nothing to slow her pulse. But what made her eyes widen for an instant and her breath catch were the lines of red, black and gold ink that curled down over his left hipbone, disappearing under his boxers with the sinuous flick of an arrowed tail.

A dragon in his pants. Well, if that wasn't subtle.

She stepped back, meeting his gaze defiantly as she caught the glint of laughter there. "Wait while I go and get needles and thread?"

"Appreciate it," Charlie said gamely, and Padma took her wand and Apparated up into the room where her mother had been making some last adjustments to her lehnga choli earlier that day. The sewing kit still stood on the table, and she took it and Apparated right back.

He'd taken off the kilt, kicked off his boots and made himself comfortable on the couch in the meantime, legs sprawling, and Padma's face grew hot as she remembered seeing Parvati and Oliver go at it like bunnies on it the previous night. There'd been a reason she'd chosen the armchair to sit in.

"All right, get up. I need to take your measurements."

"No one's complained about them so far, Miss Patil." He grinned at her as he pushed himself up from the soft give of the couch and on to his bare feet, standing at ease in his t-shirt and boxers.

Hands on her hips, she sighed. "I'll just remind you that I'll be wielding some damned sharp pins here."

"Oh, I know you'll be gentle. Meek-mannered lass like you."

She gave him a suspicious look. "I'm not very meek-mannered."

"Depends on what you're used to. I work with dragons," he reminded her cheerfully, lifting up the t-shirt again as she approached with the magical measuring tape.

Padma pressed her lips together, not sure whether to be amused or insulted. "So you're saying I'm only meek compared to a fire-spitting dragon?"

"Hey, I thought you'd be the kind of girl to appreciate that for the compliment it is. Who the fuck wants to be meek?" He glanced down as the measuring tape spanned him from top to toe and then wound itself around his waist and started prattling off numbers to Padma in a kittenish female voice. 'Height five foot nine; waist 32 inches, hips 34 inches, waist to knee–'

She jotted it all down on paper, frowning in concentration. Meanwhile, the measuring tape kept snaking around, measuring more than she strictly needed: thigh and chest circumference, bicep, and inseam, before looping around his bum. 'Bottom, 38 firm inches,' it purred. 'Body type stocky and triangular, highly muscular, harmonious proportions. Sweet! It wound itself together with a cheerful smack of its tail end to Charlie's behind that made him jump slightly and look back and down at his bum with an exclamation. "Hey you! Damn cheeky for a piece of tape," he grumbled and reached for it. "And I'm not bloody 'sweet'."

The tape quickly rolled itself up and jumped into Padma's hand. She was giggling as she caught it, her face a bit flushed – but then, so was his. "I suppose it got carried away. It gets to measure women most of the time. You're apparently more exciting than the average middle-aged, well-to-do client my mother designs for."

"Is that like being meeker than dragons?" Charlie said with one eyebrow raised.

"How does it feel when the shoe is on the other foot, Weasley?" She grinned. "All right, I have what I need here. Just sit down for a bit while I fasten the pleats with pins, and when I'm done, we'll adjust them properly while you wear it."

She put on her reading glasses again, and undid the fastenings of the kilt at the sides, then measured the garment at waistline and hip level, chewing on her bottom lip as she did some quick calculations on her piece of paper. Taking her wand, she cast the spell to undo the previous seams and arrange the pleats to make the waist match up to his own measurements. She knelt on the floor, resting the heavy tartan fabric in her lap as she worked.

Instead of sitting down on the couch again, he sat next to her on the rug. "You really know how to do this, don't you?" he asked, watching her.

"Of course. Wouldn't have offered if I thought I'd botch the job. This isn't too complicated. Both Parvati and I made our own doll's clothes when we were younger, huge luxurious wardrobes for them from Mum's scraps of dress robe fabrics. And clothes for ourselves to dress up in for make-believe games, too. I'm sure my mother or sister could have done an even better job of this, but I don't think either of them would appreciate being woken up the night before the wedding." She worked as she spoke, picking up pins from a box and sticking them into the wool as she re-arranged the pleats.

"How about you?" he asked. "It's just as late for you, don't you need to sleep?"

She shrugged. "Couldn't. Big day tomorrow and lots to keep in mind; I'm too wound up, perhaps."

He nodded slowly. "Is that why you were playing hide-and-seek with that Corner bloke down by the lake this morning, too? Cause that didn't look too ... relaxed."

The pin she was just fastening got shoved in too abruptly, pricking her finger-pad on the other side, and she jumped and grimaced. "Damn," she hissed as she withdrew the finger, and sucked a drop of blood from the fingertip.

"Sorry. I didn't mean–" He frowned, caught her hand by the wrist and tugged on it, easing her finger out of her mouth. Her lips released the digit, and she looked at him in surprise. With a flick of his wand the tiny puncture wound had healed right up, and he rubbed the fleshy pad for a second or two with his thumb as his gaze caught hers. "Forget it. It was an odd thing to see, I suppose, but I'm sure there was an explanation. Anyway, it's none of my business."

"It's all right." She swallowed, a strange warm feeling in the pit of her stomach as she met his gaze and felt his thumb rub the soreness out of her finger. The colour of his eyes was amazing, really, such a lucent, intense blue. He looked a bit wary, not exactly inviting confidences, but open and accepting all the same. "I wondered if it was you I saw in the window," she admitted.

He nodded, and released her hand. Picking up the fabric, she placed the remaining pins, working in silence for a few minutes.

"There." She rose up, clutching the kilt, and he followed, looking at her expectantly. "Now let's put it on you – carefully – and we'll see how that fits."

She held up the garment, and he stood very quiet, tugging the t-shirt up and out of the way again, and watched her as she helped him wrap the kilt around and fasten it at the sides, careful with the pins, but she'd made sure they'd all stick out on the outer side of the fabric. Taking two steps back, she eyed his midriff critically.

There wasn't much to criticise, to be honest.

The kilt wasn't bad, either.

"All right?" he asked after a minute, and Padma dropped her gaze.

"Um, yeah. Mostly. I'll just move these front ones back, only a fraction on each side – that should do it." She stepped up close again and raised her hands to his waist, pulling out the needle at the foremost pleat on one side and inching two fingers of her other hand between the fabric and his skin to avoid pricking him as she eased the pin back in. His skin was warm, tan with freckles peppered over it, and his abdominal muscles moved as he sucked in a breath at her touch.

"Breathe normally unless you want this to end up too tight," she bit out. She was finding it hard to keep her fingers steady, and it seemed safer to turn the attention on him. "No bloody reason for you to suck in your stomach, is there?"

"If you say so, Miss Patil."

"Don't call me that." She moved to the other side, inching two fingers under his waistband there, as well, right atop the twisting lines of ink. They were standing so close that she was breathing in his scent. It was clean and spicy and had a hint of musk, a smoky whiff of Muggle whisky – he must have had a drink earlier.

Her heart seemed to stop as his hand closed over her wrist.

"Well, if you don't want me to suck in my stomach, you'll have to stop your hands shaking so hard that you risk sticking that pin in me... Padma." He said it very gravely, as though it were a critical point in a negotiation, but his eyes were twinkling and somehow, dangerously, curious. And her heart was suddenly about to gallop right out of her chest.

"My hands aren't shaking," she protested, right in the face of facts. "Now will you let me finish this?"

"Finish what, exactly?" Charlie asked with a smirk.

"Finish stitching up your bloody kilt!" she snapped. "Unless you want to attend the wedding tomorrow wearing only a sporran?"

"Hey, calm down." He regarded her steadily, taking his hand away from hers. "I was just teasing you a bit, right? No offence intended, love."

"Okay." She took a deep breath. "All right. I'm sorry." She was finished taking in the pleat at that side, and now unfastened the buttons at the sides, easing the kilt free of his body. "This is because of what you heard me say to Parvati this morning, isn't it?"

"What?" He seemed taken aback, his hand coming up to mess up his red hair as he tilted his head at her, his eyes narrowing.

"The – the brains and brawn thing. And – the other thing. So you tease me about that, to get back at me because I implied that you were stupid. But you see, I didn't really mean that. That is, I didn't even think when I said that; I was just trying to get Parvati off my back, all right? And you've obviously got brawn, so it was easy to jump at that as a defence, and – well. All I mean to say is that you don't need to try to get back at me. Because I didn't bloody mean it!"

"What other thing?" he asked, throwing out a hand in confusion.

She drew a deep breath, eyeing him cautiously to see if he was winding her up. "The – virgin thing. As in, me being one. And then Parvati saying that stuff about – you. And me."

His brow furrowed and he seemed to take a second to catch up. When he did, he raised an arm and shoved his hand back through his hair in a distracted motion. "Right. I heard the part about your sex life being, you know, non-happening, but didn't actually pick up that it was, er, that non-happening. Anyway, what's that got to do with any of this?"

Padma let out the breath she'd been holding, suddenly feeling horribly confused, and a little stupid, herself. As a Ravenclaw, that didn't sit well with her. Focusing on the kilt, she threaded the needle and activated the stitching spell, watching the needle start to dip in and out of the fabric. "Because – you've been flirting with me, I think," she said at last, with an irritable toss of her hair.

Charlie shrugged, a lop-sided smile curling up his lips. "And you think that's to get back at you for an insult that was silly if anything?" He shook his head. "You're damn easy on the eyes, you've got to know that. Smart, too, and smart is fun. No way that blokes flirting with you is something new to you. The virginity, well, I'll admit that's a drawback, but so what? I'm not exactly expecting to get into your knickers here."

She kept her gaze fixed on the kilt, her wand raised to control the needle's motions. "No – no, of course not," she said tightly.

"Hey." He sat down beside her, his legs sprawling in front of him as he leaned on an arm and tilted his head to try to catch her gaze. Then he stretched to reach for his wand on the coffee table, and summoned two glasses and the half-empty bottle of Scotch from the glass cabinet in the corner. He landed it all quietly on the floor and poured a good measure in both glasses. "You need to lower your shoulders a notch," he said, picking up one glass and setting it beside her on the rug.

Her jaw clenched. "Why do you care?"

"Because you're doing me a pretty big favour right now? Have that drink, love. It won't hurt you."

"It might hurt your kilt if I can't keep my wand straight," she pointed out. "I'd better finish this."

"Fine. We'll have a drink when you're done. And I'll rub those tense shoulders, even, before you go to bed. A favour for a favour."

Padma felt a warning heat twist in her belly. Perhaps Charlie Weasley really was as straightforward and lacking in agendas as he appeared. Perhaps he really wasn't trying to get laid and maybe it was true that her inexperience was a turn-off rather than a potential trophy for him. But he was in his underwear for Merlin's sake, she was in pyjamas, he'd just poured them both a drink, and he was offering to rub her shoulders?

It sounded dangerously tempting, though. And his hand that rested on the rug right within her field of vision looked like a promise made solid: square, big and strong, the skin speckled a warm tan like a bird's egg and the back of his hand and his arm sprinkled sparsely with red-gold hairs.

He was so very different from Michael with his long, lanky body, his pale skin and dark hair and eyes, his hot-tempered moods and his swotty manner. And something about that difference felt so comforting. Charlie didn't remind her of anything or anyone. He was too vibrantly, warmly himself.

The sewing charm finished, and she fastened the threads and smoothed down the pleats, studying the work she'd done for any loose ends or sloppy seams. It was good, though. She took off her glasses and laid them on the table by her book, and then picked up the kilt in both hands and offered it to him. "No one could accuse your arse of looking like a sack of potatoes now," she said with a wry smile.

"Brilliant." The smile he offered her back was brilliant, too. It crinkled up his eyes and the faint lines around his mouth and nose.

"How old are you?" she asked curiously.

"Twenty-six." He put the kilt aside over the armrest of the chair.

"You look older."

"I reckon, yeah. It's the sun and the wind, being outdoors all the time." He gave his reply with amusement, seeming quite unfazed.

"It suits you," Padma offered.

"You really don't do the flirting thing much, do you?" Biting his lower lip on a grin, he raised her glass to her again, holding it there until she made a decision and accepted it. "Because telling people they look older than their age goes against all the rules, I think."

"No, I don't." She gave it some thought, swirling the deep amber liquid in her glass. "You were right, though, I'm used to men flirting with me – up to a point. Men who don't know me think I'll be like Parvati, approachable, so they try it on." Padma smirked, taking a first, careful sip. "When they find out I'm not, mostly they give up."

He nodded, eyeing her as he drank from his glass, too. "I've gathered that the two of you aren't much alike. Not like Fred and George, for instance." His tone was very neutral as he mentioned his twin brothers, only one of whom had survived the Battle. Padma studied him, out of the corner of her eye, but there was nothing there inviting questions, and she let it go.

"No." She snorted quiet laughter. "It was always like that, long before we got sorted into separate houses. I don't think anyone was surprised by that except her and me. But I also think – with identical twins, people tend to assign them roles in order to distinguish between them. So I was always the quiet, bookish one, while Parvati was the talkative, fun one. And when it comes to boys, Parvati is the charming, flirtatious one and I'm the sharp-tongued, hard-to-please one."

Charlie tipped back the contents of his glass, reached for the bottle and poured himself another measure. He topped up hers, too, although she hadn't had much of it at all. "And are you actually hard to please?"

That made her drop her gaze. "I can be. I easily find fault with people. Parvati is more tolerant."

"Do you always compare yourself to her?"

She looked up in surprise. "I – I hope not. But sometimes – I guess it's inevitable, because so many others do. Do you always ask so many questions?"

He chuckled. "No, I don't think so. I guess I've got the impression that if I don't make you talk, you're going to clam up on me, take your needles and pins and your thread and go to bed and not offer me another thought."

Yeah, like that was going to happen. Padma was quite realistic about what and whom she'd be thinking of when she finally made it to bed. And she actually didn't mind. It sure as hell was a nice break from thinking of Michael. "Why don't you want me to?" she asked, giving him a curious look.

With a sigh, he put his newly filled glass back on the floor, untouched. "Because... you're good company. Better than I expected, to be honest. Even if you don't flirt back, or maybe even because of it. I'm a bloke; I don't need a reason to want a gorgeous bird to stay a while, do I?"

"You don't strike me as the type of bloke who'd want that without hoping for something out of it."

"Ouch." He looked taken aback, but frowned after a second. "Actually – what if I did? Nothing wrong with hoping for something out of it, is there? That's not at all the same as expecting something out of it. In fact–" he moved behind her, kneeling with a knee on either side of her hips – "I promised that you'd get something out of it, didn't I?"

"What–" She sucked in a sharp breath, just as his warm hand gathered her hair up in a makeshift ponytail, lifting it away from her neck and over her shoulder.

She'd turned her head in surprise, her stomach churning. But his touch was gentle, tentative at her nape, and it disarmed her, a peace offering when she'd expected an arrogant demand. "Just a shoulder rub," he said with a reassuring smile, meeting her gaze. "No strings attached."

"Oh. Hmm." She let out her breath in a tense exhalation. "I suppose that would be all right. I – oh!" His fingertips dug into the muscles along her shoulders, and the relief of it prickled through her in a rush of pleasurable warmth. She let out a small, surprised moan, at once blushing over the revealing sound.

"Haha! Thought so." He laughed quietly, somewhere not far from her ear. "Now if you can try to let go of the thought that I'm going to ravish you any second, you'll be able to relax better."

"I don't–" she started fervently.

"Oh, I'm not saying it's not a reasonable suspicion," he cut in. "But I won't, all things considered. Because gorgeous little virgins like you are bad news for blokes like me. There are too many expectations and assumptions into the bargain. Doesn't mean we can't both enjoy a little physical–" She heard his mouth curve up in a smile as he searched for the word. "Friendliness. Like this."

"Friendliness?" Incongruously, she laughed, but she felt stung, too. "You don't know a thing about my expectations, Weasley. What a bloody arrogant thing to presume." It was hard to work much indignation into her voice, though, when she was simultaneously sighing over what his hands were doing to loosen the tension in her muscles. Her head drooped as his thumbs worked over the top of her shoulder-blades in firm, unhurried circles.

"Is it? I'm sorry, I don't mean to be arrogant. Just cautious enough to avoid both hurting your feelings and landing myself in a big emotional mess."

"I'm not – not some silly, clingy maiden," she shot back. "Which is not an invitation, by the way, just – you really don't know what you're talking about. And you were the one admitting that you had hopes of getting something out of it, by the way."

There was still that grin in his voice. "Well, hope springs eternal. It's a hard thing to get rid of entirely, love. And who's saying I'm not getting anything out of this? You feel gorgeous and you smell amazing. You keep me on my toes, too. Perhaps that gives me a cheap thrill."

"That's perverse."

"Never claimed I wasn't a kinky bastard." He chuckled, and she had to laugh, too, despite herself. His fingertips pressed down on the ridge of her shoulders as his thumbs began pressing and kneading down both sides of her spine, and she let out a deep sigh.

"Oh. Oh, that feels so fantastic, you just don't know–"

"I have some idea." The movements of his hands were slow, hypnotic, and his voice had a corresponding calm as he spoke after a second's pause. "This Michael bloke. Did he manage to get you to flirt with him, then?"

Once again, the sudden mention of Michael made her jump, and he pressed down with his hands for a moment, stilling, urging her to relax.

And strangely, she did. Enough to answer him, anyway. "I don't know. We weren't really about flirting. We were old friends, he was in my house and year, and in our seventh year we got together. But – circumstances were rather dire. It was about needing someone to hold on to, I guess; more ... urgent than playful."

"Mm-hmm." Something in his voice made her picture him frowning, behind her. "That's a year ago, isn't it? Year and a half? And you're still that gutted about him?"

"It's two months since we broke up," she said stiffly. "We moved into a flat after the Battle, sharing with three house-mates. We ... we tried to make it work. It didn't; he was too... And I – and then Lavender–"

"Hey, take it easy. You don't have to tell me anything. I'm just curious – you were together a year, lived together, and you came out of it a virgin? What is this guy, made of stone?"

Unexpectedly, out of the blue, tears prickled behind her eyelids and her throat felt tight. "No, of course he isn't. You're so wrong. We had ... issues. First me, and then him. Because of the war, the bloody Carrows and all that was going on at the school and what they did to Michael, and–" She wrenched away. "Actually, I should leave."

He was on his feet the same second as her. "Fuck. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to– Padma, wait a minute." There was alarm in his voice and she choked down something between a hiccupy sob and a laugh, dashing at her eyes with the backs of her hands and swallowing back the tears with determination. Men never knew what to do with tears. That at least was something Charlie and Michael had in common.

"Don't worry," she said, bending down and picking up her robe. "I'm not going to turn on the waterworks."

"Shit, that's not what I meant. Don't go, love. At least finish that drink and give me a chance to make you feel better – to make it up to you for being a thoughtless idiot."

Padma straightened up and met his gaze. Those blue eyes were warm with honest concern and his stance was braced as he hovered right at the limit of her personal space. And yet he didn't try to touch her. She felt a scared sort of resistance inside her soften, along with the resentment. How could he have known, really? The regret was genuine, she could tell, and he wouldn't push her.

"All right." She sat down again on the rug, but not before putting on the robe, leaving it hanging loose so she wouldn't melt away in the heat from the fireplace. "I'll finish the drink. And then I should really go and get some sleep."

Charlie sat down too, a little distance between them, and picked up his own drink from the floor, the one he hadn't yet touched. He raised his glass to hers and clinked them lightly together, mostly, she suspected, to make her have a sip from hers.

The whisky burned bright and golden like fire down her throat, into her belly, and she took another sip at once, before putting the glass down. She wasn't very fond of whisky or any sort of hard liquor.

He was watching her, and the silence between them wasn't entirely comfortable. It wasn't uncomfortable either, though – it wasn't awkward. But there was a loudness of unspoken words and in the end, Padma sighed and shook her head. "Michael... He wanted to. When we were at school. But I... I was too worried, too tense about everything that was happening and, I guess, not entirely convinced that we should. Parvati and I, we've been raised strictly – and we've both been pretty good at ignoring that when it suited us, but still, I felt that it was a huge step to take, and stalled, no matter how much I knew he wanted... that. And then the Carrows got to him one night, and they tortured him so badly, we weren't sure he'd survive it. Soon after that we all moved into the Room of Requirement, and then when we moved out–" She pressed her lips together, studying the dancing flames. Charlie was sitting very still beside her, and she could sense his gaze, serious and quietly focused on her, but he made no move to interrupt.

"I was so sorry that I'd held back on him before. I felt so guilty about it, that I might have lost him without having given him that. So stingy and mean. And I told him I wanted to, now, and I showed him, too, but – the irony was he couldn't. It wasn't a physical injury or anything. It was in his head; the torture had done things to him and he couldn't even talk about it. And then he felt, I guess, ashamed, or inadequate, and it led to him being mean to me, even if he didn't want to be."

She drew a deep breath, looking at Charlie again. "The Muggles have a word for it. I had to research it in Muggle books because we've hardly got anything about this in wizarding literature. What Michael has got, is called 'post-traumatic stress syndrome', by Muggle Healers. And it wasn't about him being weak, like he felt. It's a word for what happens when someone suffers something so extreme that their mind needs help, or time, to get over it. Torture survivors are pretty much guaranteed to have it to some extent. I mean, once I knew about it, I could recognise symptoms of it in many of our friends, as bad as for Michael, in some cases."

When she picked up her drink this time, she downed the contents in one gulp, and came up coughing, eyes watery as she put down the empty glass and met Charlie's gaze. "So you see, he's not made of stone. Quite the contrary. If anything, it was me who was hard, and when I regretted it, it was too late. Lavender – I suppose she's given him a fresh start, and she's got battle scars too, and maybe that is part of the reason they work, I don't know. But I know he left me because she gives him something I couldn't. And I'm not talking about sex even, primarily, although I'm assuming that is part of it – that he's actually able to–" she stuttered for a moment – "to, to perform, with her."

It was incredible, that she'd said all that – things she'd never even talked with Parvati about in any detail, and he'd not only made her feel safe to tell him, he'd listened, too, in a way that men rarely did, in Padma's experience. Men tended to pretend to listen, when what they really did was wait for you to finish so that it was their turn to speak again. But Charlie – he had listened, truly, intent on every word.

"I bet that was a bit more than you'd bargained for, when you asked." Her mouth quirked up uncertainly. She felt naked now, having bared her feelings like that, and she exhaled in a huff and braced her hand on the floor to push herself up. "Finished my drink," she pointed out. "So this is my cue to leave, right?"

An arm stretched out and curled around her back, gentle, warm, strong, and her brave expression fell and she caught her balance against his chest, stuttering in breath and in movement. "Figure you didn't tell me all of that just to leave?" Charlie asked, his voice gruff. "I mean, you can, if you want to. But there's a hug for you if you stay, and some wisdom you can take or leave."

"Yeah?" She smiled, stunned by the offer, her heart racing somewhere a bit too close to her throat to feel comfortable. "A tough, big dragon-keeper offering hugs?"

"Hey! Dragon-keepers give the best hugs. Just ask Ginny. I give the best hugs of all of us."

Padma gave a choked little laugh at the jokingly bragging tone, yielding to his gentle pull on her and going into his arms. She kneeled in front of him, still a bit stiff and cautious, her own arms going tentatively around his waist. He felt so strong, his back solid and firm under her hands. "Maybe she says that to all of her brothers."

"Wouldn't put it past her. She's damned crafty, that girl." His arms wrapped around her in turn, warm and sure. Her cheek rested against his cheek. There was an uncomplicated comfort in it, a lack of demands that felt strange layered on top of her awareness of him as a man that simmered right underneath it. She could feel his heart beating against her own, and both of their hearts felt like they hurried a bit more than normal.

"Now, for the wisdom," he muttered into her hair. "That part about you being 'hard' for holding out on him. Pardon me for being blunt, but that's utter rubbish. The only thing I hear is you being too bloody hard on yourself. You weren't holding out on him to be spiteful, were you? You were seventeen, living in a hell, and you were probably scared and not sure what you wanted. And if you felt that guilty afterwards about refusing him, then I can't help but think that the bloke had put the pressure on way too much."

Padma listened in silence. "You think so?" she asked. It was strange to try to see that angle on it. She'd been so close up to Michael's pain, his fear. The guilt had seemed to wrap around her like a cloak, heavy, well-fitting, when she was looking for reasons to an enemy she couldn't reason with.

"Yep, I do. Now, that's only my opinion, but maybe you're taking the 'sharp-tongued, hard-to-please' role too much to heart, love. It doesn't have to mean that you're a heartless shrew."

She sighed, uncertain what to say, so she remained quiet, only lowering her head to rest her cheek on his shoulder, relaxing at last. His hand was gentle, rising to smooth down over her hair, just once, and it brushed her bare shoulder where the robe had slid down. The fire was crackling beside them, and she felt very warm and a little tired and spent from saying all that she had, but strange and restless right under that.

He felt good. This felt good. And she was alarmed, but not at all as much as she perhaps should be.

"The ... thing. About virginity turning you off. Is that, you know, an absolute?"

Under her hands, his muscles bunched and tensed, shifting as he drew back a bit to meet her gaze. "Didn't say it was a turn-off," he said shortly. "Just that it wasn't practical. And yes, fairly absolute. Mostly it hasn't been an issue."

She was certain her cheeks had flushed dark under his gaze. "Oh. All right. Just checking. Even if the virgin also had a practical approach to it?"

His teeth sank into his lower lip and his eyes narrowed. "You've just told me that your first time is a big deal to you," he said, cutting right through her attempt at generalities. "At least I think that's what it amounted to."

"I... I guess it still is. In a way. Mostly I think I'd want it to be... good. And not cheap, as though I could have been anyone and he wouldn't even notice. It can be a big deal and still not a one-way ticket to forever, can't it? I mean... theoretically."

His mouth quirked up at that, but he still shook his head. "Screw theoretically. You're on the rebound, clearly. And easy to hurt. I don't want to be the guy who does it."

"But you wouldn't, would you? Hurt me?"

"Not on purpose, no. But I have a Portkey to Romania on New Year's Day. I'm not sticking around, love, that's how it is. And a long-distance affair is nothing for me."

Padma glared at him, frustration bubbling up in her. "Who says it's something for me? Are you so sure you're such a catch that I couldn't let you go, really? That's bloody confident, I must say!"

Eyes widening in surprise, he laughed. "No, of course not – damn. You're something else, aren't you? Although I am bloody confident that I'm quite a catch in the sack, as it so happens. I damn well think I'd be able to make you really badly want a repeat."

"Yeah? Looks to me like you're all hot air," she said defiantly, her heart pounding because he hadn't once let go of her gaze.

"Yeah?" he muttered, too, exhaling so harshly that it told her he had been holding his breath, and it filled her with a second's giddy, half-scared triumph right before he wrapped his arms more securely around her waist and yanked her up and closer to straddle his thighs. His arm at the small of her back tugged her flush against him, and he quickly peeled the night-robe down her arms before he grabbed her again. His other hand cupped her head and angled her firmly for him as he pressed his lips to hers.

Everything in her felt liquid all of a sudden, unstable and hot and rushing to her skin. She'd kissed Michael plenty of times and had dated a couple of boys before him, but she'd never been kissed like this, with such an easy, yet heated demand in it. Charlie kissed like a man, not a boy, generous and sure of himself, his thumb rubbing hypnotically at the nape of her neck as his tongue stroked smooth and wet into her mouth. His lips were both chapped and soft and he tasted of whisky, of smoke and heat, and it made her let out a moan into the kiss, clasping her arms hard around him.

Something long and firm pressed against her belly, and her stomach did a dizzy flip that felt almost sick with arousal and nerves as she realised it was his erection poking at her inside his boxers, that he must have been hard even before he'd pulled her up onto his lap. With a small noise in her throat, she pushed closer, still kissing him back, eyes fallen shut. She could feel in every fibre of her being how easy it would be to lose herself in this, and she bunched her fingers into his t-shirt at his back, tugging it up, whimpering wantonly when he swore into her mouth and then pulled back a fraction and helped get the shirt off, over his head. And his body made her mouth fall open with sheer greed for a moment: the muscles moving as he moved, the myriad of freckles over his skin, the red hair growing from the centre of his chest and in a hypnotic trail down the centre of his stomach, disappearing under his boxers. The tattoo, even, the beautiful red-gold-black winged dragon twisting and moving down his flank, was almost an afterthought in her admiration, compared to the splendour that was him.

His gaze was heavy and oblique with lust, but softened as he studied her face and then moved in for another kiss. "It's not... all or nothing," he murmured between nips at her lower lip, while one hand slid down from her hair and over her shoulder, calloused fingertips touching her collarbone and then trailing downward. "We can just get more... friendly. Don't have to actually shag you to make this be good."

It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Padma gave an unsteady smile, and then she bit her lip, her head falling forward as she moaned, because his hand was cupping her breast outside the top, squeezing and kneading gently, and when he pinched the hardening peak of her nipple between his thumb and forefinger it felt so good she couldn't keep still, wriggling and squirming in his lap. "Yes," she whispered hotly. Breathless, she touched the swirling lines of the dragon's wings on his flank, dragging her fingers down along his ribs, to his hip, to where the design disappeared under the edge of his boxers. Her hand was painted, too, and it was strange to see the elaborate borders and patterns of the mehndi against the bold sweeping design of his tattoo.

Charlie had dropped his gaze to watch, his mouth going slack with lust, and she slipped her fingertips just inside, touching silky, hot skin that fought free of the edge of the boxers at once and touched her palm with wetness. He swore again, hoarsely, his hand dropping from her breast and wrapping around her wrist, leading her hand away.

"Fucking Christ," he said gruffly. His thumb rubbed over her wrist, down inside her palm, tracing the henna pattern with sensual curiosity. "You wrap those pretty painted fingers round my cock, love, and I'll spill all over your hand in five seconds. I don't think that's what you were hoping for, yeah?" His eyes seemed to burn into hers, both frustrated and amused as he raised his gaze again.

It was the crudest thing anyone had ever said to her, and she was shocked by how it turned her on. She made a small noise, tugging her hand free of his wrist, and leaned both hands on his shoulders, pushing him backwards. She'd hardly have been able to budge him, had he resisted, but he complied, grinning at her as he leaned back onto the floor on one elbow and caught her against his chest. Bracing her hands on the floor on either side of his head, she kissed him hungrily, her legs spread wide over his thighs as she squirmed down on his erection and felt his tongue thrust in unhurried strokes inside her mouth. His hands slid up under her tank top, and his fingers found her nipples again and toyed with them, pinching and rolling until it almost hurt, they felt that sensitive. But it was such a good hurt and the sensation rocketed down between her legs, making her so slick, so warm, it felt like her knickers and shorts were soaked through.

"I have to say," he nearly growled, tugging at her lower lip with his teeth before releasing it with a slow lick, "you don't feel hard to please at all." He twisted her nipples a bit harder, tugging carefully, and she felt him grin as she gasped and bucked against him.

"Please," she panted. "I want ... oh Merlin, I want you inside me." The words coming out of her mouth astounded her. She had engaged in some pretty heavy necking with Michael, but she'd never felt remotely like this. Like she would beg and cry if something didn't fill this aching hunger inside, like she was going crazy with wanting it. Maybe Charlie was right then, and she hadn't been ready for it. Not like she was now, when nothing mattered, not her lukewarm moral objections that had pretty much been just vague parents-induced guilt anyway, nor how surprising all of this really was, nothing except the urgent need to make Charlie understand that he had to fuck her. "Please."

He let his head fall back, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them, staring up at the ceiling while some very inventive curses spilled from his lips. Suddenly he pushed himself up, coiled smooth as a snake around her and pushed her on her back, and the tables were turned at once, his hands on either side of her head as he straddled her on all fours, his gaze heavy and narrow as he regarded her. "Are you sure? Because just a few minutes ago you were about to cry and feeling pretty raw by the sight of it, and fuck it, I want this, I'm human! But I don't want to have you come to your senses and the blame will be all on my plate for taking advantage when you were feeling low."

Padma felt a stab of annoyed frustration that he'd make her jump through that hoop again and she didn't want to stop, didn't want to stop and think. But his voice and his expression were sober enough to make her catch up to herself somewhat, breathing in slowly, and letting out her breath in a shaky exhalation. She licked her lips, still half in a daze, looking up at him. And it humbled her a bit, as his perceptiveness and his honest concern sank in. Looking out for his own arse was part of it, she was sure. But he didn't want to hurt her either.

"I was really wrong about the thing I said, about brawn and brains," she said, her voice coming out rather small. "I'm so sorry about that. You're actually very intelligent."

He just stared at her. Then he burst out laughing. "Is this the Ravenclaw version of dirty talk?"

It was not the reaction she'd expected. She'd given him the ultimate compliment, hadn't she? Her eyes widened and she tried to look offended, but his deep, warm laughter was infectious after all the need and want and heavy breathing, and after a moment she was grinning, pressing her lips together to hold back against the giggles. "Maybe," she said primly. "Are you saying it doesn't turn you on?"

"Oh no, it does turn me on," he avowed with a rueful smile as the laughter died down. "Turning me off is a bigger problem at the moment."

He was so gorgeous, looking down at her with his red locks in charming disarray, with a smile on his lips and with laughter and heat softening the serious question in his eyes. Padma raised a hand, touching his jaw with her fingertips. "I'm sure," she said quietly. "I just want you because... because I want you. Not to get rid of something, or to prove anything to myself, or to trap you into anything with misplaced romantic notions." She swallowed, arching up to him again in a pleading question without words, her arms lifting above her head in an unconscious display of her body. "I just want this. With you."

"Shit," Charlie said hoarsely, watching her. He had the look of a man going down for the third time, without hope. "All right, no rule without exceptions, right?" Again, his gaze narrowed and now it made him look a bit dangerous. "But if we're doing this we're doing it properly." He took the edge of the top between his fingers and dragged it up, making her raise her head so he could get it off her completely, easing it along her arms and over her hands. Breathing out in something like awe, he lowered his head to her breasts and gave both her nipples a slow lick before suckling one into his mouth.

Padma sobbed. It felt so incredible, sweet and almost sore and overwhelmingly arousing. The place between her legs throbbed, swollen and needy, wanting attention, too. When his fingers clenched on the edge of her shorts and knickers and started pushing them down, she braced her feet and raised her bum eagerly to help, losing her breath as his large palms skimmed over her bottom and down her thighs. Her hands darted to the back of his head, pressing his mouth to her breast so he wouldn't stop, while she kicked off the shorts and knickers herself in a bunched-up heap at her feet. He moved his head to her other breast and closed his mouth on that too, working his tongue and his lips hard around her nipple, and she nearly screamed with her need, raising her hips and attempting to spread her legs wider, but his knees on either side of her thighs kept her trapped.

He was breathing hard when he raised his head. His gaze caught hers in a moment's intense query, like he was checking with her, and then his attention fell to where she was trying so hard to open for him, to invite his attention, and he groaned, deep in his throat.

"Oh, yes, love. You want this?" He placed a large hand low on her belly, pressing down gently and rubbing. "My hand on you? My mouth? My cock inside you?"

This time she really did scream, throwing her head back and choking the sound down on a hiccupy sob as he moved his hand lower, skimming over the slick cleft between her folds. Without even pausing he took his wand with his free hand, bracing upright on his knees, and cast a sound-muffling charm on the room and a ward on the door. The wand clattered to the floor, and the sound cleared her mind if only for a second. "The, the fireplace," she whimpered. "Someone might Floo in."

"They won't," he reassured her. "Everyone uses the large fireplace in the hall. No one is coming." He grinned at her, and started to rub two fingertips firmly, gently down over her clitoris in slow, sure circles. "Except you, love, very soon."

She'd have told him it was a horrible pun, but she was thrashing and trying to speak through choked little whimpers, and all she managed to say was how good, so good, and oh, Charlie, and please, and he still wouldn't let her open her thighs, driving her insane with the building tension.

He released her nipple with a soft kiss to the tip, and took his fingers away and moved over her, further down her body, her calves between his knees now, and she froze, trembling with tension as it dawned on her what he might have in mind. Whimpering, she drew up her knees, trying to get out of the trapped position, and he finally relented, shifting so that he was kneeling between her legs. And as he placed his hands on her inner thighs and pushed her open, as he lowered his head, as Padma pushed up on her elbows and stared in absolute disbelief, he gave her such a smile, such a wicked, blue-eyed grin, a red-haired devil full of mischievous good will. And then that beautiful grinning face sank between her thighs, and he inhaled deeply and groaned and ran the flat of his tongue through her wetness in a long, firm lick that she could see as she felt it.

She fell back with a dazed cry, her hands clutching at his shoulders, fingernails digging in. Her stomach muscles clenched and her thighs seized up, trembling, and his mouth was so soft, so soft in the soft places between her legs. But what he was doing to her wasn't soft at all, his tongue pushing and probing and exploring firmly, and when he closed his mouth on her clitoris she screamed and begged as he sucked in long, relentless pulls, feeling like some small hapless thing being shaken by the mouth of a cat, just as certainly caught and suspended on one unyielding point. And then something pushed between her legs, his fingers, big and blunt, opening her and pressing inside, and she clenched on the thick pressure and shook and shook on the edge, finally jerking with hoarse, broken sobs of relief as the tension gave and shimmered away in wave after wave of pleasure.

"Fucking gorgeous," Charlie growled as she sank back in a swoon, finally making contact with earth again in a wonderful gentle landing. "Merlin's balls, love, you're a wildcat, aren't you? That was so fucking hot." She blinked, and saw him move up her body again with hunger and excitement in his gaze, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand.

"I felt like a mouse," she got out, panting, too light-headed to consider her admission.

He grinned. "No chance. Never saw a mouse as passionate as that." He touched her cheek, and kissed her deeply, tangling his tongue with hers and letting her taste herself, which was very strange and strangely exciting. She'd of course often licked off her fingers after bringing herself off, but it was very different to have her own smell and taste coming at her from him that way.

"Still think you can let me go without regrets when we're done?" he asked her, laughter in his eyes as he drew back.

"Smugness is unbecoming," she said, managing a disdainful snort, although she thought he was mostly teasing. And, well, he had a point. A point she didn't intend to consider closely right now. Her hand at his hip slid down, over his hard stomach to touch the impressive bulge tenting his boxers. "You're crazy if you think I'll reconsider after that."

"Good." He rolled over on his side, watching and half-closing his eyes with a heavy sigh as her hand cupped his length outside the thin cotton, kneading. She'd done as much with Michael, if not much more than that, and she didn't feel too out of her depth yet. She tugged down the edge of the boxers and let his erection spring free, thick and solid on a nest of coarse, dark red curls. The fading throb between her legs started up again, hard and curious, as she imagined what it would be like to take him inside her, feel him slide in and out of her body.

"Five seconds?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at him as she curled her fingers around him and gave him a light stroke down to the base.

"Possibly less than that if you're going to be cheeky about it." With a soft groan, he thrust up into her hand, gliding smoothly through her palm. He didn't seem too worried, though. His hand cupped hers, guiding her motions and the firmness of her touch, and then started caressing up and down her arm from the back of her hand to her elbow as she stroked him, tracing her mehndi patterns with obvious fascination. "Holy hell," he murmured, clenching his jaw and watching as his breath picked up and grew harsher. "That's so good, baby. You're so pretty. Even your fingers are gorgeous. Christ." She felt his erection thicken in her hand on a slow swelling pulse, and on a rough exhalation, he squeezed his fingers around hers and took them away.

Padma watched as he sat up and pushed down the boxers, easing them over his knees and to the floor. He took his wand, and pointed the tip first at her lower belly and then his own, using a charm she hadn't heard before but realised must be some sort of contraceptive spell, different than the one she'd learned that was only to be used on women. It seemed that Charlie liked making twice as sure.

He moved over her again and she realised this was it, her heart thumping and her stomach churning. Breathless, she licked her lips. "Put on the kilt," she blurted.

She'd managed to shock him, she saw, which made her feel at once triumphant and embarrassed. "You like my mehndi," she said defensively before he could say anything. "I like the kilt. It's only fair."

There was frustration in his eyes, but at the same time his mouth was twitching, amusement winning over his impatience as he gave a rather dirty-sounding chuckle. "Little girl, you're going to be the death of me. The kilt, you say? I reckon – fuck–" he got up on his feet, his erection bobbing –"that that would be all right. As long as that's the bloody end of it." He gave his length a deliberate stroke from tip to base as he reached for the blue-and-green tartan draped over the chair, and yanked it on with rough, economic movements. Fastening the garment at only one side of the waist, he let it hang rakishly askew, draped low on his hips and tented in a most blatant manner.

"Happy?" He moved over her in something that could only be described as a prowl, and Padma gave a hurried nod, blushing as he hitched up the edge of the kilt and let her see. "Turns you on, does it?"

She swallowed, her throat going dry. His erection... his cock, jutting out under the coarse, checked wool was just as exciting as she'd thought it would be. "Yes," she whispered fervently.

"Reckon it's worth it then. Now you hold this damn thing away from my cock so I can bloody see what I'm doing, all right?" he groused, but he was grinning at her, and she nodded again, hurrying to comply, hitching the edge of the kilt up and holding it pinned with her hand on his waist.

He lowered himself over her, kissing her. She responded eagerly, albeit nervous now as she parted her thighs wider for him. She wanted this, ached for it, but was apprehensive about the pain that was sure to come. But Charlie didn't make any moves to push inside her just yet; instead he cupped her mound with his hand and flicked the pad of his thumb over the slick nub between her folds. Just his fingers slid inside, one and then two, and then, when she moaned and pushed down on them, a third finger that was too much, sore and stinging as a barrier tore, and she whined into his mouth.

"I know," he murmured, his thumb sliding in steady circles over her small nub as he thrust his fingers in and out of her slowly, gently. "Sorry, sweetheart. Got more control this way, though, so the first and worst of it won't hurt so bad. You may not believe it, but as sensitive as pricks are, their fine motor skills are actually shite."

She had to laugh, a nervous burst of giggles despite the pressing, insistent sting of his fingers twisting and thrusting inside her, and felt his chuckle in response against her mouth. "When you laugh I feel it around my fingers," he murmured. "Awesome, isn't it?"

Padma nodded, managed to relax at last and opened her eyes that had been squeezed shut against the discomfort. "'s not so bad now," she whispered.

"Yeah? Better?" He kissed her gently.

She nodded, sliding her tongue inside his mouth and opening her legs wider, drawing up her knees a bit. "I want you," she whispered. "Want you to fuck me. Now."

He inhaled sharply. "Well, you know how to ask so a man can't refuse you." He withdrew his fingers from her, and kissed her harder, and she felt the silky skin of his erection brushing her thigh and then only blunt, thick pressure as he positioned himself and started pushing up inside her.

She was so wet, more than ready for him, and she hadn't expected it to be such hard work to get him inside her. Her body, unaccustomed and tense, protested the invasion. But he took his time, his lips parted and his eyes heavy-lidded as he rocked back and forth, making progress with each stroke. And it still stung and hurt her some, but the overwhelming fullness, the solid feeling of him inside actually took her attention away from the soreness. It was good, just beneath the hurt. Better than good, it had the foretaste of something brilliant, something hot and wild about to burst out of control.

His jaw was clenched, but he smiled as he caught her gaze, his own gaze bright and lazy. "Hold tight, Padma. I'm about to take you for a ride." And he pulled all the way out and thrust back in firmly, swallowing up her moan of surprise with another kiss as he thrust again, starting a strong, unhurried rhythm. She was still holding the kilt away from him, hand clutched at his hip, but she lost focus on that now, reeling in the sensations and not quite able to remember why the kilt had been so important. It scratched over her belly as he bore down on her again and again and made his way inside her, made her moan and gasp and scramble with her hands over his back, her arms clutching tight around him.

"Feels good," she whispered, flushed as she met his gaze and saw the hard, intense enjoyment in it. The look of purpose on his face was intoxicating.

"Mmm. Not too sore?"

"No." She shook her head, looking up at him. "Not too bad. It's brilliant."

"I agree," he said, and that warm grin of his lit up his face again. "Really... fucking... brilliant." He punctuated the words with his thrusts, and braced on one arm beside her, easing the hand of the other under her knee and pushing her thigh up to spread her wider open, which let him thrust in deeper, harder. She closed her eyes against the intense sensation and relaxed into it for a bit, letting him jolt her, rock her, harder and faster, until a different kind of tension took over and she began seizing up again. Whimpering, she met him eagerly and arched the small of her back to catch pressure where she wanted it as all of her muscles seemed to prickle and focus intently.

"'s my girl," he muttered hoarsely, sliding his arm under her and encouraging the arch of her back. His breath came harsh and shaky now, his body slick with sweat where it slid against hers. He felt bigger inside her, but she wasn't sure if that was because of the pulses she could feel going through him or because she was tightening around him, starting to tremble, her movements hitching as she felt another climax building, almost within reach. Her chest was pressed up to him the way he held her, and he leaned down and licked at her nipple, sucking it into his mouth and groaning around the sensitive flesh as he suckled her in time with his rough, driving thrusts. It was all she needed. Suddenly she was awash in pleasure, her body stretching taut as she gasped with it, contracting and releasing again and again on his hard length inside her, and through the haze of her own ecstasy she heard him curse and cry out. His hands gripped her hips as he slammed inside her a few last times and then held there, shaking hard, his hips jerking against hers.

Padma came to herself slowly, in an almost unreal daze of well-being, which was strange considering that she felt thoroughly pummelled inside and out. He was lying heavily atop her, catching his breath in heaving pants, and she appreciated the warm, unapologetic weight, the solidity of him, of Charlie.

A bit later he rolled off her, to his side, and brought her with him. He might be a 'love them and leave them' sort, she thought with a smirk, but he seemed to like a cuddle after sex, all the same. If he wasn't just indulging her, that was, but he was very welcome to it, if so.

"No comment?" he asked after a minute, stroking her back as he looked down into her face.

She grinned, stretching along his body, lazy and content as a cat by a fireplace. "What, I'm expected to leave a review?"

A friendly smack to her bum made her yelp and giggle. "In fact, yes," Charlie said, grinning back at her, "you're supposed to tell me now that I've ruined you for other blokes and no one's going to be able to live up to that."

"I refuse to believe that's true," she said, poking her tongue out at him. "It would be thoroughly depressing if it were. Perhaps I've spoiled you for other girls, since you're so eager for my verdict."

A strange expression went over his face and she hit his chest with her fist. "That was a joke. You really need to let down your shoulders a notch," she said, gleefully quoting his own words back at him.

"If I relaxed any more I'd be dead," he protested with a chuckle. He gathered her to his strong frame, dropping soft, teasing kisses to her shoulder. "You are very cheerful, I must say."

"Aren't you?" she countered, smiling as she snuggled closer, slid a leg in between both of his and felt the heavy material of the kilt drape over them both.

"Oh, absolutely. Especially at the thought of sneaking you away from the wedding feast tomorrow and shagging you against the nearest, most convenient wall." He took her hand, pressed the next kiss into her painted palm and then closed her fingers over it, as though it were a gift. "Actually, there could be a wedding night in this for you, as well, if you're not averse."

"I thought you always left in the morning?" she said smugly.

"Not until the day after tomorrow morning," he pointed out. "Have you never heard the poem, 'To the virgins, to make much of time'?"

Padma smiled, flopping back on the rug and looking dreamily up at the flicker of firelight and shadows in the ceiling. "I'm not a virgin anymore, Charlie Weasley," she declared. "But I do take your point."

***

"Catching your breath?" Parvati asked. She was smiling as she sank down on the chair next to Padma, carefully draping the pallu of her sari so that it wouldn't be wrinkled or sweep the floor. The heavy varmala garland that Oliver had put on her during the wedding ceremony, a thick band of white orchids, looked as warm as a wool scarf draped around her neck. But Parvati looked cool, fresh as a flower herself, her makeup that Lavender had carefully applied still flawless many hours on.

"Needed to. It's got to be thirty degrees in this room." Padma fanned herself with her hand, which did nothing to cool the flush on her face. An hour of dancing and close to seventy people gathered in the Woods' admittedly large reception hall was enough to make her feel like she was about to melt out of her skin.

"You're dancing a lot with a certain Weasley tonight," Parvati said, picking a glass of champagne from the tray of a waiter walking up to her.

"You mean Ron? He said Hermione had told him to dance with me to make up for the way he'd acted at the Yule Ball. Poor boy is completely whipped. And has got two left feet. At least he was nice about it this time."

Parvati giggled. "I did not mean Ron, and you know it. What happened between you and Charlie between yesterday morning and tonight?"

"None of your beeswax, little sister," Padma replied, smirking as she repeated her words to Parvati from the morning before. Her gaze softened and she touched the dark red, gold-threaded silk sash of Parvati's wedding sari across the table. "Lioness of Gryffindor. You look breath-taking tonight. I may have mentioned it before, but it bears saying twice."

"Thank you." Parvati's hand closed around Padma's in a gesture encompassing a lifetime of intimacy: giggles, confidences, quarrels and reconciliations. "You scrub up pretty well yourself, my lovely Ravenclaw eagle."

Padma dropped her gaze to her indigo- and bronze-coloured lehnga choli. She'd chosen to wear her house colours in response to Parvati wearing hers, and the similarity in the difference made her smile now. They were rather different for twins, but perhaps not so much as the house codes suggested. Among other things, they both seemed to have a healthy appreciation for Scottish landscape, libraries, and men in kilts. "But of course. As you told me recently, I'm as gorgeous as you. Albeit in a stern school teacher way."

"You don't look like a stern school teacher today. Charlie can't keep his eyes off you." She grinned past Padma's shoulder and waved. "He's looking at you now."

"Oh hush." Padma flushed with pleasure, and it cost her some effort not to turn her head around.

"Someone else is, too. Uh-oh, Michael is coming this way. Do you want me to stay put?"

Padma grimaced, her stomach giving a queasy flip at the thought. "Er, no. I can't really think of anything to say to him, but awkward silences are easier with no one listening in."

"Don't keep him too long, or Lavender's going to be scowling all evening," Parvati said as she gathered her sash and her skirt and got up from the chair.

"I doubt he'll stay long." Padma looked up as Michael joined them, greeting Parvati with a nod and a smile.

"Hullo, Padma," he said, sitting down in the chair Parvati had vacated and turning to her with a sheepish sort of smile. "You look great today. Fantastic."

"Tone it down," she said. "I can feel Lavender's hackles rising from across the room. You've no idea about that girl's intuitive skills, do you?"

"And you're still expert at shooting down an honest compliment," Michael replied with a laugh, shaking his head.

"I just – I..." She sighed, and shook her head, too. "What do you want, Michael?"

"Want to know if you're doing all right," he said, studying her, his voice soft. "You looked like you'd rather be on the other end of the globe from me all of yesterday, so I worried."

His words stung her with pride, and she straightened herself in the chair, eyes cool on him. "I don't want you to worry about me."

"Well, you seem more relaxed tonight. Did you and Lav talk?"

"Not about you," Padma said tartly. She thought Michael meant well, though, and she gave another, less impatient sigh, meeting his gaze straight on. "It's good that you two are happy together, Michael. But I don't want to talk about her with you. I don't want to talk about any of it. I tried to talk and talk with you for a year, and it didn't do either of us any good. I just want a chance to move on."

"I appreciate it, you know. You sticking with me through all of that. I know it wasn't easy."

"Yeah, right." Temper flared in her. "I know it, too. And I don't want a pat on the head. I stuck with you because you'd been my friend long before you became my boyfriend. Maybe we can still be friends. But you've been kind of a shit to me, and these things take time."

Someone was approaching them. She saw it from the corner of her eyes, and turned, just as Charlie strode up and stopped in front of her.

"Another dance?" His red locks were starting to get unruly from the heat in the room and the dancing, the kilt fit him perfectly, and the black jacket accentuated his build in a rather mouth-watering way. He shot an icy blue look at Michael that had about the same message as if he had peed a circle around her. It made laughter bubble up in her, and she smiled up at him.

"I'd love to. It was nice talking to you, Michael." She got up, and Charlie at once swung her out on the floor, leading her in a quick, buoyant waltz. He was, as he'd admitted earlier during the evening, not a very advanced dancer, but as opposed to his younger brother, he did have one left and one right foot. "Turn down the testosterone a notch," she said with a giggle as he twirled her. "You're not among dragons now, Charlie."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a lamb, really," he said, grinning at her. "He didn't bother you, did he?"

"Of course not. It was a perfectly civilised conversation."

"Yeah? He's an idiot to be civilised around you. You deserve nothing less than primitive passion." He waltzed her in circles around the floor. "Fifteen minutes to midnight and fireworks. Still sore after last night, love?"

The murmured question, and its possible implications, made her blush hotly. "Er, yes."

He nodded, and there was a flash of something in the midst of the warm solicitude of his gaze, a male satisfaction at having made his mark, that made her weak in the knees at the same time that it riled her up. The annoyance melted away, though, as he drew her closer and swung her around, out through a door, leading them into a narrow side corridor. "Shame." He nuzzled against her ear, a thoroughly dirty smile in his voice. "Bet I could make it worth it, though."

Her throat dry, she nodded. "You're on."

Minutes later, she had him inside her, pressed up against the wall by his body in a vacant room on the second floor, and it was more than worth it, pleasure coiling and spinning through her body as he pinned her to the wall with the sharp, snapping thrusts of his hips, the kilt bunched up between their bellies. "Managed to bribe Percy into sharing George's room tonight," he said, out of breath between kisses. "We have a bed and a room to ourselves for tonight if you want it. It didn't come cheap."

"Why, look at you ... going to such lengths," she got out, looking at him under half-lidded eyes and smirking. The smirk melted away, though, as his hand inched between them, rubbing her slowly. "When... when can we–"

"Right after this." He fucked her harder, rubbed quicker, relentless, giving a shaky, breathless laugh as she shuddered around him and cried, straining. "Right after the fireworks... oh fuck, fuck yes, sweetheart–"

There was a loud, crackling boom from out in the grounds, and outside the dark window, the sky suddenly lit up with a thousand raining, shooting, brightly coloured stars. "Happy ... New .... Year," Padma moaned, clenching hard around him as she came, closing her eyes, fireworks blazing both inside and out.

***

Spring came early in London. The second week of February, and Honking Daffodils were already blooming in Padma's window boxes, waking her up with a trumpet concerto every morning. She sat up with sleepy, mumbled curses, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

Then she realised that it wasn't the Honking Daffodils this time. It was, in fact, still dark, and it was her doorbell ringing that had woken her up. She glanced at her watch. Seven o'clock, on a Sunday? On her only day off without lectures or hospital shifts in the whole week? What the hell?

Disgruntlement gave way to alarm, and she stumbled out of bed and hurried to open the door, worrying about different relatives and friends in turn.

But it wasn't at all anyone she'd expected.

He leaned on the wall beside the door, eyeing her askance with a disarming grin. "Morning, love. Didn't wake you, did I? It was nine o'clock in Brasov; I didn't think."

She just stared, gaping for a second, starting to blush as he studied her in her short cotton nightgown.

"What are you doing here so early – what are you doing here?" she asked finally, bewildered, trying to ignore the way her heart had picked up speed, seeming to race way, way ahead of her.

"Taking my chances?" There was something in his voice that made her look at him sharply, something that wasn't quite as confident and laidback as that easy stance and that cocky grin. "I'm having my first days off since the New Year, and I thought I'd take the opportunity to visit the family, check up on a few friends, and..." He pushed off the wall, leaning his arm on the door jamb as his words trailed off.

"And me?" Reluctantly, she smiled. "Is this what the Americans would call a 'booty call', Charlie Weasley?"

"Hell if I know," he said gruffly, a rather appealing flush rising in his cheeks. "I haven't been able to get you out of my mind. Are you going to let me inside?"

There was an irony in it, a poetic justice even, that didn't escape her, but her grin was on the gentle side. "Horrible puns again?"

It took a second before he caught on, and then his eyes narrowed in a flash of heat and amusement. "You've got a dirty mind for a virgin – for a recent virgin," he amended. "But yes, I wouldn't mind being let inside." He gave her a crooked grin. "Please?"

She stepped aside and let him in. He brought with him a smell of fresh air and early morning, and a bouquet of bright tulips that he conjured from behind his back. He seemed out of place, perhaps, in her neat little book-filled flat, with his rugged masculinity. But not like he couldn't ever fit in. Padma felt a warning pipe up inside. It would be so easy to fall for Charlie, it would be as easy as closing her eyes and jumping in, but he was still settled in Romania, and she was just as settled in London, and long-distance affairs, even if Charlie had changed his mind, weren't uncomplicated things, she was sure.

She accepted the flowers, looking up at him uncertainly. "Thanks, Charlie. They're... they're lovely."

"Tulips are all right, yeah? I'm shite at this whole thing," he admitted, almost cheerfully, a recklessness creeping into his smile. "Don't look so worried, love, all right? You never caught on, I think. I had my eyes on you the whole time. But damn if I expected you to turn my head to this extent."

Her eyes widened. "Caught on?"

"I told you, didn't I? Up at the Woods' place, everyone uses the big Floo in the hall. You never wondered why I'd decided to use the one in the library? I saw you slip in there, barefoot in your robe. And I could honestly not have cared less if that kilt didn't show my arse off to its best effect, but it was an excuse. I'd heard you say to your sister that your sex life wasn't happening, and I had hopes that you might be ... open to seduction."

Heat rushed up in her face. "I guess you were right about that," she said, dazed, tossing the tulips carelessly on the table.

"Fuck if I was. I'd no idea you'd know how to repair a kilt, or that you'd make me break my own rules, or that you'd need a hug and be so bloody cute and snarky and make me want–" He almost growled. "More."

She let out her breath uncertainly, stunned in the face of this confession. "What exactly does 'more' mean?"

"I've no bloody idea. I've never gone down this route. I'd likely make a perfectly horrible boyfriend, but I wouldn't go around cheating on you. And I'm really bloody randy whenever I make it back to England after weeks at the dragon reserve. So that could speak in my favour." He was talking fast, his hand in his hair making a thorough mess of it.

Padma burst out laughing. "You really are shite at this, aren't you?"

"Yes," Charlie admitted in frustration. "But you haven't thrown me out yet. So what will it be?"

She took a deep breath, eyeing him carefully. His stance was braced, those clear blue eyes were wary, yet fixed on her with a hopeful appeal, and she felt something warm and happy bubbling up inside. A sense of perspective, perhaps. Something she remembered from that night with him, something that didn't have to have the future so safely mapped out, something that had been able to relish the exhilaration of the moment and a step into the unknown.

"Come to bed, Charlie," she said, grinning at him as she took his hand and tugged him to her. "It is much too early to be up yet."

-end-