The last week had been wonderful. They’d spent every moment they could together, either at her apartment or his room above the shop. They talked about their favourite foods and books. He was surprisingly well-read; especially given he’d only started reading muggle literature a few years ago. It had been warm and comfortable and easy. Admittedly they’d both shied away from more controversial subjects like the war and his parents, but Hermione was finding it increasingly comfortable to imagine more with him. The thought scared her.