"What do you want from me?" she had once asked him, and she remembered exactly how the question had come about; the tone of her voice, the expression of her face, the feel of the satin sheets beneath her as she voiced the words wonderingly, as if they didn't matter at all. His lips softly caressing the skin between her breasts, her breathing rising and falling in gentle torrents.

He had met her gaze with even, striking grey eyes that reminded her of smog hanging low over lonely streets on a winter morning; a dense grey capable of shrouding all colour. He had said, simply, "Everything."

She glanced up at him now before looking back down at the menu presented before her–expensively textured white paper with lovely black cursive writing on it, describing tonight's specials at this chic, decadent restaurant he had chosen for dinner. He was dressed simply, but it wouldn't have taken an expert eye to note that his black pinstriped trousers were tailored. His white-blond hair swept away from his face, falling gently over the collar of his white shirt, an elbow resting casually on the table, he looked right at home here.

There were three forks here and Draco had previously told her once, indulgently, "Use whichever one you like." She knew he loved her; she'd stopped wondering if it was enough, because she knew by now that it was. She was truly happier than she had ever been in her life. Her own love for him was more than enough–it was almost all-consuming.

It was just sometimes, in moments like these, that she wondered if being happy meant losing something, in some way. If happiness was a failure in its own right. If, in tumult and sadness and struggle, her existence had more value, in her own eyes.

A couple of days ago, she saw a pigeon in the middle of the street, pecking on little sesame seeds from the road. She had walked past it, and noted in surprise that it didn't fly away. Not even when she drew closer to it, snapping her heels smartly on the pavement. The pigeon was pecking on little sesame seeds on the road–at the moment, it felt no need to fly.

A waiter in a handsome black suit approached their table, and something in her stomach plummeted. The words on the menu spoke of dishes she'd never heard of her in life–most of it was in French. She looked at up him to find his eyes already trained on hers.

She glanced up at the waiter's patient face and said quickly, "Go ahead and order for me Draco, you know what I like…"

She watched him speak deftly, his diction perfect as he pronounced certain French words, often conferring with her about whether or not she liked mustard sauce with her meat, or if she wanted tiger prawns or shrimp, and she responded wearily–it didn't feel very necessary to care at the moment. He knew better about these things anyway.