The sun hadn’t even reached its proper height when you realised Neville was still kissing you. It started soft, just the kind of lazy affection you’d expect after a night like the one you shared—but soon enough his hands were in your hair, at your waist, his mouth tracing the edge of your jaw as though he couldn’t possibly get enough.

“Merlin, Nev,” you murmured, half-laughing as he pulled you closer against the wall by the sitting-room door. “We only just—”

“I know,” he breathed against your skin, far too pleased with himself, “but I can’t help it. You’re—” He didn’t even finish the thought before stealing another kiss, greedy with it, as though every second apart might undo him.

And that was precisely the moment Augusta Longbottom walked in.

The kettle clattered onto the tray she was carrying, her sharp eyes narrowing, her mouth drawing into something perilously close to a smirk.

Neville froze like he’d been hexed, lips still dangerously near yours, colour flooding up his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Really, Neville,” Augusta said, her voice dry as brandy. “Couldn’t even wait until after breakfast?”

“Gran!” he blurted, stepping back so fast he nearly tripped over the rug, one hand still clinging to yours as though he couldn’t bear to let go entirely.

Augusta arched a brow, gaze flicking between the two of you with all the weight of generations behind it. Then she set the tray down, folded her arms, and delivered the line like a spell aimed straight for him:

“No great-grandchildren. Not yet.”

Neville made a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a protest, while you bit down hard on your lip to keep from laughing.

His grandmother only sniffed, turning on her heel. “Tea will be ready when you two decide to behave like civilised people.”

When she was gone, Neville dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Brilliant. Just brilliant,” before daring to look at you again. His ears were still red, but his eyes were sparkling. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

But of course—you did.