EXIT

34. LIGHT GREY

34. LIGHT GREY

"Did you mean it?"

It's Granger's voice that makes me tear my eyes away from the London rooftops and slowly turn around. Apparently, I was so lost in thought that I didn't hear the lift or her approaching footsteps.

Wow, meanwhile, I feel way too safe up here.

"Still such a mystery," I say, shaking my head with a sigh. "When are you going to stop talking to me in riddles?"

At my words, Granger's brow furrows in confusion. No wonder, because until now I haven't told her what I've been calling her in my mind all these months. But contrary to expectations, she doesn't probe into the matter. Admittedly, she handles her curiosity much better than I do. Or her priorities lie simply elsewhere.

"Did you mean what you said," she repeats, slowly crossing her arms, "last weekend. In the briefing room."

Oh. Ah. So that's what this is about.

I frown and consider her attentively. For Granger to follow me onto the roof of St Mungo's two days before we leave for the Manor just to ask me this specific question can only mean that she has grave doubts about my sincerity. She's probably been mulling it over all week, which, to be honest, is quite a surprise.

After she lunged at me in the corridor to kiss me almost unconscious, I slept with her more gently and slowly than ever before. Since then I've spent every night in her sleeping quarters. I've held her in my arms and worshiped every inch of her skin with my fingertips, reveling in this new privilege that was so unexpectedly bestowed on me. And yet she doesn't believe me? Once again, I wonder what's going on in her pretty head.

"By the by, I named the room 'command centre'," I reply casually, without answering her question. "Appropriate, isn't it?"

The remark doesn't even make her smile. Fuck, so she's serious.

"What you said was kind—" she begins, clearing her throat.

Kind? Well, there's a pretty thin line between kind and shite.

"—but you didn't have to do it just to defend me. I suppose you got the impression that, once again, nobody gives a fuck about me. But what happened with Greyback and Scabior doesn't matter in the current situation. Ron is right. I know exactly what I'm getting myself into. Plus, I understand your real motives. It's legitimate that you want to come to the Manor with us because your mother is there. She's the only family you have left, you said so yourself, so—"

I interrupt her whacky monologue with a fervent snort.

"Wait a moment. You think I only said all that to teach Potter and Weasley a lesson?" I ask, irritated. Kind choice of words this time, indeed. "Tsk, you can't be serious, Granger. Do I strike you as someone who would say something like that if he didn't mean it? In front of people, some of whom I can't even stand?"

And again I have to watch as Granger corks up her feelings. I find that it's beginning to try my patience. If that's how she felt when I occluded myself before her very eyes a few weeks ago, then I can relate to her desperation at the time. It's fucking frustrating.

"You don't have to do this," she repeats stubbornly. Her shoulders are tense and her eyes suddenly avoid mine. "Your mother is sufficient reason and I would be the last one not to understand that you—"

"All right, that's enough," I say, before taking a big step toward her and holding my index finger in her face like she's a petulant child and I'm a disappointed father who has to lecture her.

It doesn't even feel weird anymore. I guess I've had enough experience setting Granger straight over the past few months.

I can't help but think of that one winter night on the roof when Ginny claimed that Granger needed the rebukes. I'm beginning to think she was bloody right about that.