Upstairs, in the smallest bedroom, the air was cooler. Still. Peaceful.

Harry Potter was lying on his back, one arm draped loosely over the waist of the girl tucked against his side. Her hair was splayed across his thin pillow, her breathing slow and even. His glasses were askew on his face, his scar half-hidden by a stray lock of black hair. He looked, for once, unworried. Asleep.

The girl’s hand rested lightly on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. A soft, content smile lingered on her lips, even in sleep.

The floorboards in the hallway creaked.

Petunia huffed. She stomped up the stairs, her slippers slapping against the carpet. She threw open the door to Harry’s room without knocking—she never did.

And stopped dead.

Harry was sound asleep. That was not unusual. But curled up beside him, her head resting in the crook of his neck, her fingers intertwined with his, was a girl. A girl with skin like porcelain, lashes dark against her cheeks, and lips slightly parted in dreamless sleep.

She was beautiful. The sort of beautiful that made Petunia forget, for one dizzying second, why she was angry.