. . . . . . . . . .

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.

Harry's there, in a secluded corner of the bookstore, holding a copy of Hermione's book.

(alone)

Pansy's there, walking down an aisle straight towards him, her eyes locked on his, her pace steady.

(alone)

They don't say anything. They don't want to.

Hermione's book falls to the floor, forgotten. Pansy's wide-brimmed hat hides Harry's face and his lips crash down on hers.

She tastes like sin, like salvation, like all the hopes and dreams he lost in the war.

She tastes like home.

. . . . . . . . . .