Hermione smiled softly. They were lying on their sides in his bed still, with their faces turned to one another, their bodies mostly naked under the duvet and their fingers entwined. They had spent in this bed perhaps for twelve hours and they lay in this exact position for at least tow of them. Hermione had scrutinized his facial features until she was sure she would recognize him only from a single look; her fingers had explored practically every inch of his upper body save for the back until she was sure she could recall it even when blind. She touched the frown on his face, kissed the corners of his lips with attentive care, caressed the scar that marred his face until he closed his eyes with vulnerability, brushed over the skin of his muscular arms, carefully avoiding the Dark Mark. He, in turn, analyzed her body with equal meticulousness: kissing every freckle on her body (there were a lot), squeezed and pressed her flesh, staking the claim he stated to have on her the first time they had sex. His favorite parts were still her hair (no matter what he did, he always seemed to have one hand entangled in it) and her breasts (which he gave his exclusive attention to frequently and which were, satisfyingly, Hermione’s most sensitive area). Mostly, when they didn’t have sex, he stared deeply into her eyes with that ferocious possessiveness which she found herself enthralled by. His eyes were deep, intense, and claiming, and Hermione was consecutively unable to look away from him.