She'd become a little more used to him.   The nights they spent together had, like fingernails peeling paint off an old board, scraped away at her Veela gloss and each morning when he held her wrist she seemed less dazzled.   She might still look at him as if he were the sun to her flower, but he had become a common thing. He'd become expected.  He rose every day, still miraculous but also ordinary.