It's a poem
They lie tangled in sheets, legs intertwined, hands stroking marks on skin. Some had from birth, many scars from war, and many, many others chosen and inked as witnesses.
Pale digits trace a line of text over her collarbone, following shortly with a fluttering kiss.
The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
“What does it mean?”
“It’s the opening line to a poem, the first of four parts.”
It’s not a full answer, but he doesn’t need one. Questions abound between and around the two of them—their pairing can’t help but provoke the act of asking.
Hermione Granger. Draco Malfoy. Muggle born. Pure blood. Witch. Wizard. Her. Him.
They respond each time in unison, a follow through of an unspoken conversation that affirms that he is hers and she is his.