Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing. And many thanks to the lovely beta miconic.
So they're sitting on the floor under the wide open window, him leaning against the bed in his pyjama bottoms, legs stretched out on either side of her, her sitting cross-legged with her back to him. He has a wide-toothed comb between his teeth and two mismatched hair-bands around his left wrist. Her hair parts in the middle, the tangles smoothed out and tumbled over each shoulder. He sets the jar of hair solution on the floor and begins to braid.
"Harry, I think we need another bookcase."
The comb drops.
"And where do you suggest we put it? And for the record, we don't need another bookcase, you do."
"Fine. I need another bookcase. So if I find a place to put it, can we get one?"
Their cramped flat is already the much commented-upon abode of several bookcases, all bought secondhand and utterly mismatched. Hermione insists she'd rather spend on books than their means of storage. One of the bookcases is from a wizard from Aberdeen who sold his ancestral home and all its contents from the seventeenth century to go live a life of solitude in the Andes. Another looks like it once belonged to an Andy Warhol exhibition, hand-painted with a series of ads for canned rice-pudding. Two were bought at the annual clearing-out at the ministry and the last one was a housewarming gift from Fred and George. Harry secretly treasures this one, Hermione detests it: its shelves groan and swear under their breath in suspiciously familiar voices every time she goes near it. Two of the bookcases are crammed in the living room, one in their bedroom, one in the guest room and the other in the pantry, which means that every room in the flat except the laundry and dining area has a bookcase in it. In addition, a corner of their bedroom has also been taken over by a pile of dusty tomes.
Harry thinks he has an extremely valid point.
"Sure. When you find a place to put it." He runs a firm index finger down the perfect parting at the back of her head for emphasis.
Hermione swats one bare foot.
"Ouch! That hurt."
"And here I was thinking you'd do just about anything for me," she sighs.
"I would. But anything by definition refers to things pertaining to the life-and-death category."
He bends at the waist to avoid an elbow backed into his sternum.
"Ohhhh. So you'd die for me or kill for me but wouldn't bat an eyelid if I had to sleep with a pile of books on my side of the bed because I had nowhere to put them?"
"Absolutely. Unless of course it interfered with my sleeping arrangements, and certain other...tasks."
She pulls his foot into her lap and begins to tickle.
Laughing, Harry lets go of her partially braided hair and digs his fingers in her waist. She yelps and dissolves into giggles, head thrown back.
Their neighbourhood grows noisy at this time of the night, when the pub at the end of the street starts spilling out its patrons. The noises of vehicles notch up a little, and voices lilt and dissolve in varied states of inebriation. But apart from that it's usually quiet here, and their bedroom window looks on a children's park. A row of tall jacaranda trees, unusually robust for a non-native, tropical plant in the British climate, line the park fence, their mauve blossoms white under the street-lights.
Harry returns his hands to her hair, undoes the loosened braid and loops it back firmly. Tug, twist, release, his touch is firm but caressing, and having recovered from her fit of giggling, she fights to keep her eyes open.
This is their nightly ritual, the day falling out around them, tangles smoothed out, knots eased through, until it's just them. The clean parting and the perfect entwinement.
But it wasn't always like this: It took much practice, for him to wear out his exasperation at her obstinate tangles; for her to resist the urge to pull out of his grasp and sit still without nagging while he swore his way into a relatively painless routine of twisting and looping. Quite some time passed before the period between the tortuous, convoluted coils and the two glossy plaits began to lessen.
Black band twisted over one braid, his hands swap sides on her scalp.
Hermione fishes for a topic to help stay awake.
"We saw Billy's baby son today. His wife brought him over during lunch."
His hands break their rhythm; she barely notices.
"Soooo cute. Gurgling and burbling away in his mummy's arms, in a tiny blue suit."
He clears his throat.
"How old is he again?"
"Thirteen months. He has a little tuft of hair on the top of his sweet little head, just like Billy -not the sweet little part of course- and he's got lovely grey eyes like Sora's."
He twists the blue hair-band on and tosses both braids over each shoulder. His fingertips move to the exposed skin on the back of her neck.
"Finished?"
"Hmmm."
She wriggles herself backwards and he reaches around her waist to pull her in between his legs. Her head against his shoulder, her lips lazy on the side of his neck. Her left instep rubs his right ankle. He bends his head and nuzzles her cheek, arms tightening around her.
Her brow furrows. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing"
"No, something is. What is it?"
"Just thinking about work, the assignment tomorrow-"
"Mmhhmm."
"-And this weekend we'll have dinner with the Weasleys but I don't know if we can get back on time-"
"Hmmm."
"-And I promised Ron I'll take him to a Muggle mall so he can at least say he's been to one to keep Lee happy, considering she's made all that effort to get to know the wizarding world-"
"That'll be fun."
"-And I'm wondering whether you and I are ever going to have babies together."
A car with its stereo blaring zooms past the house. The wind picks it up and spars with the curtain at their window. She's now wide awake. He's silent.
She clears her throat. "Say that again, Harry", she whispers, not moving.
"Are we going to have babies together someday, Hermione?"
She turns in his arms. The lights are off in their room and in the indirect glow from the street-light, his eyes are dark.
"Harry, are you, are you trying-"
Wind, soft light, warm skin, silence. A sigh.
"To propose to you? Guess I am." He untangles her from him, and she moves to sit cross-legged, facing him.
"Hermione, you know-"
Swallow, wide eyes, fingers drumming on knee.
"You know I'm not given to grand and swanky gestures when it comes to, to anything. And neither are you."
He runs his finger down the exposed strip of skin between the open buttons of her nightshirt, stopping just above the swell of her breasts.
"It's been on my mind for a long time, and Ron's been telling me I'm such a coward to not get on with it but I, I just didn't know how to." He runs a hand through his hair.
"None of the scenarios seemed right for us. I thought about doing the whole candlelit dinner thing at some flashy restaurant with an unpronounceable name and then getting down on my knees and…"
He breaks off with a wry laugh and throws up his hands. Her fingers ache to touch his bent head, alight in the shifting glare from the lights outside. "Anyway, none of it seemed... us." He raises his head to look at her. His hands find her knees and grip them.
"This is us. We do all the boring, mundane things together, we do lots of nothings together without getting sick of each other, we spend all the inconsequential minutes together, have done it for years and years and still wish there'll be more."His eyes falter momentarily and lift again, probing. "At least I do."
She touches the corner of his mouth with a finger, trying not to break into sobs. A drunken brawl erupts out in the street.
"I do too, Harry, I do. But..."
"But what?"
"You forget that we also fight big, hairy evil together too. That's hardly inconsequential."
He grins.
"Yeah, you're right. But even I know about the level of romance in proposing to the love of my life in the midst of a hairy battle or a deadly surveillance mission. Unless you think it's romantic in some twisted way," he chuckles as she swats his arm.
"Get to the point, will you Potter? I have plans for tonight."
"Oh, do you? And do they involve a certain tall, dark-haired hunk who can make you swoon with a look?"
"They do actually. So you're gonna have to clear out soon."
"Hey!"
The brawl outside flares and droops half-heartedly, beer cans scuttling on the curb. The scent of jasmine from their neighbour's backyard drifts in on the arm of a puff of warm wind.
His face becomes serious again.
"So, will you?"
"Will I what, Harry?
His fingers tighten on her knees, pressing into hollows and grooves. She puts her own on his forearms, rubbing with her palms.
"Have babies with me. Will you marry me, Hermione?"
She sniffles and propels herself forward into him, mumbling wetly into his warm, bare shoulder.
"Of course, of course, of course..."
He pulls her into his lap, his tears and smile tangling in her hair.
Warm skin, warm and sweet.
Afterwards she pulls back to look at him. "How long have you had that up your sleeve?"
"A while. I was waiting for the right moment. And the nerve. And for the butterflies to clear out."
"So..."
"So what?"
"Well aren't you going to do the proper thing and kiss me?"
When his mouth covers hers she thinks that if the ground splits open and swallows them both now it wouldn't matter, this would be enough.
They draw back. His fingers run lightly down her arms.
"But we now have lots to talk about, don't we? Lots of scary things like wedding dates and guest lists and rings and a house to live in once we-"
"Yeah, but you're Harry Potter. Aren't you supposed to be brave or something?"
"Yeah, and you should know, you're Hermione Granger."
Their street is quiet now, and she thinks she can almost hear the jacaranda trees rustling across the road. She dives her nose into the hollow of his collarbone, where the smell of his skin, more warmth than a definable smell, that she can feel and taste at the back of her throat all at the same time, is concentrated. One hand plays with his hair. Then she suddenly lifts her head.
"Harry, our kids are going to have such awful hair!"
Harry grins, then his face grows serious as he traces her face, her lips and nose and brow, slowly towards her hairline where a few tendrils, too short to be imprisoned in her plaits have formed an uneven halo.
"I think I can live with that," he whispers.