"I stand by my belief that all aurors are trouble," he teased. "Maybe not law-breaking trouble, but you've got to have a sense of recklessness to spend three years in the training program and then go into the field." February Lynch was a silly girl - but he couldn't get her out of his head or his heart.

He knew if he saw one of his friends so lovesick over a woman, he'd try to knock some good sense into them with a swift slap to the back of the head - and he still likely would, even with his feelings towards February - but he couldn't the logical, rational part of his brain when she was around. Was that love? Or was it lust? Her presence was often accompanied by a tightness in his trousers and an overwhelming feeling of desire that pointed to the latter, but even if it was, it was the closest thing he'd ever felt to love. The case for true love was the times he'd chased her down for forgiveness, or the jealousy he felt when she spoke of other gentleman.

And that was enough for him to accept it as such.

He took her hint and rolled over onto the mattress and quickly resumed their position. He laid an arm across her waist, rested his head against her bosom, and let out a hum of approval.

"Goodnight, Febby," he murmured, "I love you."

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