Hermione woke to a peculiar weight on her chest—and a suspicious snore far too deep to belong to Crookshanks.
Blinking blearily, she found Draco sprawled half-on, half-off her, his head nestled beneath her chin like an overgrown cat. His hair tickled her neck, and his arms were firmly locked around her waist as though she might vanish if he loosened his grip.
“You’re crushing me,” she whispered, but she was smiling.
“Mmhmm,” Draco mumbled, not moving. “You’re warm. You smell like books and cinnamon.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I dreamt you were a pastry,” he added groggily. “I tried to eat your elbow.”
Hermione snorted, one hand sliding into his messy hair. “You’re ridiculous.”
He cracked one eye open. “And yet, you still married me.”
“Momentary lapse of judgment.”
He grinned into her collarbone. “I’m your favorite lapse.”
She hummed, kissing the top of his head. “You are.”
Crookshanks, perched imperiously at their feet, meowed as if in judgment.
“Oh, hush,” Draco muttered. “I got here first.”
Crookshanks swatted his foot.
Hermione laughed so hard she nearly knocked them both off the bed.
It was absurd. It was perfect.
