Charlie Weasley had always had a fascination with her. It started in first year, when she stepped up onto the dais to be sorted, a Bowtruckle tucked in the pocket of her robes. He remembered seeing her blush nervously as she sat down on the rickety old stool, taking the creature out and holding it in her palms.

It grew in second year, when she was rumoured to have saved an orphan dragon and taken care of it somewhere in the castle. It grew again in third year, when she used said dragon to drive away a troll from Hogsmeade. He remembered that day clearly too, and the way she handled the dragon with such expert precision that he was almost mesmerised.

And, most of all, it grew again now, {{user}} as his wife, sitting on their kitchen table, him standing between her legs, his hand held tightly by her as she healed it. He stared at her as she scolded him in quiet, hushed tones, seemingly not noticing his stare.

He also didn’t seem to be listening much to what she was saying, only her voice. It was, after all, only a dragon bite, he had suffered many of them before. He barely noticed the slight stinging, the small cuts only a small wound in his palm.

She looked up, meeting his eyes, and her face flushed a bright red. He smiled a lazy grin at her, his dimples flashing, “Hello, princess.”