It took him a few moments to realize that she was laughing, and he couldn't help the quirk of his lips as she did. He'd loved her laugh since he'd first heard it ringing like a bell across the commons in fifth year. That same night he'd first realized how beautiful the play of light on hair was. Now, when she looked over at him and spoke, he felt the distance, that uncrossable distance, for a moment, collapse.

As she touched him, he couldn't help the tug on his heart and, without question, without qualm, he did as she asked; he took liberty, though, his arm sliding about her waist as he took her with him.

That her mum might, very possibly, come in, didn't matter to him. They were adults, he and Charlotte. They may have loads to learn yet in life, but they were adults. And, for the moment, he wanted to pretend. Pretend he'd never married, pretend he'd never broken her heart. Mostly, pretend he wasn't what he was.

Crossing his hands under the back of his head, he stared up at the ceiling aware of the proximity of Charlotte so close to him in a bed where he'd had come to know her many times. It was as surreal a moment as he could recall.

Kicking off his shoes, the thunk as each hit the floor muffled, he took a deep breath.

"I was sure, when your mum asked me to come over, that you wouldn't be here. I thought," he turned his head far enough to look at her, "you were with Leathan."