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Cupid is a Weasley by Camlyn Taieralir [Reviews - 43]


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I wake as Crookshanks pounces on my bed and look at the time. 6:15; my sweet half-Kneazle let me sleep late. I rub my eyes and swing out of bed, illuminating the lamp and nudging Ginny. I fumble on the closet door for my bathrobe, tying it around my waist and effectively hiding my tank top and panties from view. I yawn. Where are my slippers? On they go and off I trudge, stumbling on my way out and colliding with a twin – the one who’s not married, George, my brain reminds me – just outside the door.

“M-morning," he mumbles. I return the greeting, but it is interrupted by a colossal yawn as I tie back the bushy mane around my head. Mrs. Weasley is smiling brightly, wide awake and laying out cereals. I give a half grin in response to her “good morning” and make my way to the seat where she has lain my bowl, noticing abstractly she has seated Severus next to me – again. Molly – as she insists I call her, now that we’re “all grown up” – is trying desperately to be secret about her aspiration to be Cupid, but she has set me and Severus up one time too many, and we are beginning to see through her well-intentioned acts. I, personally, think it’s hilarious, but Severus only gives a cold sneer when he realizes we are stuck together and shutters himself behind those dark eyes. I begin on my cereal sleepily, wondering groggily if and when he’ll show up.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear; the surly bat walks down the stairs and into the kitchen, today’s sneer influenced by the prospect of term beginning, working alongside me – again; this is my second year teaching – and perhaps the exhaustion that comes with the onset of student residence at Hogwarts, paying no attention to me as he sticks a spoon into his hot porridge and raisins. My smile comes easier now, though my eyes are still bleary behind newly-acquired glasses. I mumble a good morning. He snorts into his bowl, something I take as a response. Molly leaves.

I realize now that his silence is companionable, rather than hostile, a change made only when Molly exits the kitchen. I tuck in my elbow as I drink the remaining milk from my bowl so as not to smack him in the face; he grunts his appreciation. I rise, slipping my bowl in the sink – where it begins to wash itself – and pass behind his chair on my way upstairs. Yesterday, I squeezed his shoulder. Today I peck the top of his head. He does nothing as I let my hand trail the back of his chair, but grabs it as soon as it loses contact with the wood. He tugs. I whirl. The look in his eyes is masked as irritation, but I’ve known him too long for it to fool me. It’s really longing and affection, and it only mildly surprises me. I move forward, my anticipation no doubt violently visible on my bookish features.

Harry breaks the moment by coming down the stairs as he gushes about yesterday’s Wasp win. I am surprised he can even be on a broomstick again, much less focus on the game at hand; it personally reminds me far too much of Ron. Severus releases my hand before Harry can see. I push past the scarless Boy-Who-Sought-The-Bloody-Snitch and go back upstairs to my room, passing Ginny – in her relentless pursuit of said Seeker, no doubt. I close the door and have to take a calming breath before I shimmy into a pair of jeans and drop my bathrobe. I examine myself in the mirror, noticing the dark freckle just above my left breast and the fragile way my collarbone reflects the grey light coming through the window. You would never know I fought on the front line, I think, and a shiver runs through me as I remember those who fell, their losses a hurt that never ceases to ache. I hear a gentle knock at my door and I call out a choked “enter” as I pull the tie from my hair and reach for the brush. I can see him in the mirror, and so I smile grimly as I wage an effigy war on a particularly difficult tangle. I try not to stiffen as he moves up behind me and removes the brush from my fingers, taking the task of the tangle from Hell on himself. His smell permeates my hair and seeps into my nostrils; I inhale the spice and aloof sweetness surreptitiously, closing my eyes to better identify the scents he exudes and concentrate on how gentle his hands are in the waves of my hair. When I open my eyes, he is frowning at the brush, and repeats the same stroke over and over until the brush passes through the spot, tangle eradicated. A smile breaks onto his face and I am astounded at the change it evokes. The once hawk-like nose is now pleasantly aquiline, and the dark eyes glitter with life, rather than malice or irritation.

I meet his eyes. He frowns. The eyes shutter themselves again, but I touch the hand resting on my shoulder, maintaining the contact he half-heartedly longs to break. His eyes are afire with something I’ve never seen before, and I turn to better examine it.

In the blink of an eye, the brush has clattered to the floor and his hand is warm on my waist, with another moving from my cheek to the nape of my neck. And his lips are moving closer and closer, and my breath hitches and he takes that opportunity to capture my long-dormant lips and – oh god. Coherent thought stops in the wake of the kiss, my neurons exploding like the bloody proverbial fireworks everyone is always going on about. The kiss deepens seemingly of its own accord, and I am suddenly desperate for him – for all of him. My hands tangle in the soft down of his hair, and I can feel nothing but his heart beating next to mine and the ravaging feel of lips on lips.

We break together, and his eyes flit over me, his breaths fast and shallow. It’s as if he’s memorizing my face, and the scrutiny is disconcerting. My hands travel down to rest against his chest, and we are briefly the picture of parting lovers until I lift my lips to his again in a gentle, feather-light touch. He can feel my lips curve into a smile, I’m sure, and he returns the sensation with a smile of his own. There’s something inherently right about us, and despite our obstinacy, we know it now.

“Well,” he says quietly, all trace of derision gone, replaced only by a hoarse desperation – and it sends a sizzling rush through my spine, that I am the cause of this loss of barriers – “I guess Molly was right.”

Oh, yes, she was.


Cupid is a Weasley by Camlyn Taieralir [Reviews - 43]


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