Another exhale bathes him in clove, and this time he doesn’t veil the shudder that wracks his body, the slight sway to his stance, the way he leans into her space. Inexplicably, she allows it, and, if he’s not mistaken, her lips tilt infinitesimally higher. She drops the filter to the ground, having smoked it down to a nub, and grinds it under the heel of her dragonhide boot. She is no longer the polished, prim prefect he knew at Hogwarts. Something about the way her hair dances around her in the deepening shadows calls to him in a way he never knew before.