⫶⫶⫶ ᴇ ᴅ ᴇ ʟ y ɴ ⫶⫶⫶
― Edelyn Aurélia Black learned
from a young age that h e r o e s
aren't always the ones who win.
They're the ones who fight. And
so, Edelyn fights, until the green
lying dormant beh...
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IT IS LATE IN THE EVENING when Ron and Edelyn finally return from the Burrow. The flat is quiet, lights turned off, and Ron, exhausted from the day, quickly retires to the larger of the two bedrooms where Hermione is already fast asleep. Harry, meanwhile, is in the room across the hall and is changing into his pyjamas — an old t-shirt and boxers — when Edelyn enters.
"Hey," he says, poking his arms through the sleeves. "How did it—?" But he cuts himself short as she steps towards him and wraps her arms around him, burying her face into his chest and squeezing her eyes shut. He blinks in surprise, noticing how tightly she is holding onto him, body moulding into his, before returning the hug; Edelyn feels as if she is being enveloped in a blanket of warmth, and it is precisely what she needs.
"Lyn?" His voice breaks the silence. "Are you — are you okay?" he asks, brow knitted in concern.
She shakes her head and is quiet for a moment before mumbling, "I hate that they look so alike."
Harry brushes his thumb against her upper arm in understanding and rests his cheek against her temple. After a long while, he looks down at her and offers, "Do you want me to make some tea or anything?"
She pulls away and rubs her face. "No, it's alright." She glances at the clock: it's a quarter to midnight. "I think I'll just take a shower and go to bed. It's going to be a long day tomorrow."
Harry nods and presses a kiss to her forehead.
He is listening to a broadcast of the news when she returns from the bathroom. Her hair drapes in damp curls over her shoulders, appearing a shade darker, and the canary yellow and black shirt she wears, which falls loosely over her petite figure, only just covers her upper thighs. Harry feels the air in the room go thin, and realizing that he is staring, he quickly looks away, busying himself with turning off the radio.
She slides into bed beside him, pulling the covers up to her hips and crossing her legs before adjusting her pillow behind her back. She leans against it, staring at the Quidditch poster, which hangs off the opposite wall, and fidgets with the sheets.
"Harry?"
He places the radio back down on the nightstand. "Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something? And you have to promise to tell the truth?"
He tilts his head curiously at her. "Yeah, of course."
She drops her gaze down to her fingers. "Does it — um — bother you that we don't — or I guess, haven't — had — um — s...s-sex?" She can feel the heat rise in her cheeks and doesn't dare look up.
Harry's mouth forms an 'o'.
"Er..." He rubs the back of his neck. "It...Erm...Well, it doesn't necessarily b-bother me, but — uh—" He stumbles over his words. "I mean, I'd — I'd obviously want to — if you — er — wanted to..." He scratches his head, unsure of how to answer without sounding like an insensitive prick. Of course, he wants to have sex with her. After all, he is an eighteen-year-old boy with raging hormones, bodily desires that are sometimes so strong it hurts, and an imagination that he can't quite control. And it really doesn't help matters that Edelyn is utterly intoxicating, her strawberry shampoo like a cloud of sweet bliss hovering over a beautiful landscape he desperately wants to explore.
