Marlene’s arm was draped across the back of the couch, fingertips absently brushing the fraying seam of the cushion, though all her focus was pulled toward the weight in her lap—the familiar, maddening warmth of you.

She had offered so casually, like it was nothing, like her heart didn’t crawl up her throat every time your thigh shifted over hers or your head lolled closer against her shoulder. She laughed when you laughed, but it came out hoarse. Tired. A little late. Like her brain had paused to remember how to be normal.

Outside the window, the storm that had started earlier was smudging itself across the sky, a wild wind pressing against the glass as though trying to get in. Inside, the glow of the hearth painted everyone gold. Someone—probably James—had kicked off his shoes too close to the fire. Lily was asleep already, legs flung across Remus’s lap. Sirius was mumbling along to the Muggle song, eyes closed, lips forming lyrics that meant nothing to Marlene right now.

Because you were in her lap. And you weren’t squirming to get up.

Gods, your hair smelled like something citrusy and too-close, and her hands, traitorous things, had settled on your waist like they belonged there. She hadn’t even realized when they moved. You were relaxed—one hand draped loosely over her knee, thumb brushing the frayed seam of her jeans. That same thread she’d been toying with. That tiny bit of accidental intimacy.

She could scream. She didn’t, of course. Instead, she swallowed. And then again.

“You warm enough?” she murmured, low, gravelly. The question came out like smoke—half concern, half excuse just to speak to you without her voice cracking under the weight of everything unsaid.

You nodded against her, didn’t move. Her heart punched the inside of her chest. She tilted her head, letting her cheek rest lightly against your hair, closing her eyes like maybe she could freeze this moment—this illusion—in time.

She could pretend, just for now. Pretend that the heat under her hands was hers to hold. That the way your fingers squeezed lightly at her knee meant something. That you could maybe hear her pulse through the fabric of her shirt, and it wouldn’t scare you off.

Marlene exhaled. Soft. Shaky. She didn’t speak again. Not for a long time. Didn’t trust what her mouth would do. But her thumb, still resting at your waist, moved in the smallest of circles—just once—like her body was tired of pretending. Like it was begging for something it knew it could never have.

She prayed you wouldn’t notice.
She prayed you would.