"I don't think a Marchioness really has to beg for anything, but we can at least ask politely." Something warm settles in her chest and her eyes flick here and there, taking him in and watching him. Sometimes she thinks he really is just like the young boy that she still loved, even now, but then he shifts; he is still that boy, of course, that man, just grown up and far more damaged from the world itself.

He speaks, though, and Hermione hesitates, careful before she shakes her head.

"You say that like it's a trial for me," she replies, pushing his tea over and nudging at the small pot of honey. "I get to be with my best friend. It's not exactly torture."