Castles Built on Sand

Castles Built on Sand

He kissed her gently as if she was made of glass or gossamer. Deep down in his heart he feared that every moment she might vanish, that he would wake in his bed with nothing but air in his arms. It had happened too often in the past months; he didn't dare to trust his own eyes, his own senses, which told him she was very real. Warm and soft, her hands explored his naked back, slipping under the hem of his shorts whilst her tongue was in his mouth, dancing, teasing, and challenging him for more.

One push and they were in the water. Her trousers got wet, so she took them off, peeling the soaked fabric off her long, slender legs. She was naked before he realised she intended to take him here, now, on his beach, in the spindrift, but of course he didn't mind. On the contrary, making love in broad daylight under the open sky, not caring if anyone saw them, not thinking of possible consequences like upset neighbours or curious passers-by, was one of his most secret fantasies. Living out this fantasy with her of all women made him hard fast, and he picked her up and laid her on the sand where waves washed over them. "I didn't dare to hope you would come back," he whispered hoarsely, his left hand brushing over her skin up to her breasts.

"Then you are stupid," she replied and arched her back into his touch. "I told you I've fallen in love with you. I just needed a while to figure out how to get back here without raising suspicion." Her mouth on his neck, her hands on his arse, their legs entwined. Waves washed over them, sand was everywhere; and she tasted of salt and seaweed of perfume and orange juice when he kissed her. His erection was pressed against her belly, and for a tiny moment he had to smile, thinking of the fact that, some ten years back, no one would have ever dared to call him stupid.

But then, some ten years back he had been a different man. Darker despite his paleness, more bitter and nearly broken from the horrible life he had lived. "I apologise," he replied and parted her legs; an easy task because she very clearly wanted him. She pressed the whole length of her body against his, shivering under his touch as well as from the cool water. Her legs went round his waist, and gods, had it felt that good last time to enter her, to push inside her, to feel her warm, wet, welcoming tightness around him?

The sun burned down on them whilst they made love on his beach, his shorts drowned in the ocean and her clothes shed all over the place. They didn't care that they were loud, that he rasped her name when he came, or that she yelled out her lust and her climax. Maybe someone saw them, maybe not. Possibly they were heard, but so what? This was his house, his part of the beach, and she was his as well, at least for now, for the moment, and nothing counted but the desire in her brown eyes, uncovered by sunglasses, and the smile that told him she was really, really happy to see him.

****************

Afterwards, they lay in the spindrift, allowed the waves to wash them clean, and just held each other tight. Some seagulls observed them; one had landed on his boat and eyed them suspiciously. But the two humans didn't look as if they would jump up any moment, so the seagull picked at the shells and stayed for another little while.

Her wet, sandy hair stuck to her shoulders and her small, wonderful breasts. "You look like a mermaid," he said. "Did you say you have one week? And what bargain were you talking about? Why the business clothes, and how are Rose and Hugo?" He couldn't restrain himself from asking all the questions that jumped to his mind.

Her hand cupped his cheek, and she just looked at him, her head resting on his left arm. His right leg pinned her down; teasingly, her free hand danced over the small of his back. "You didn't really listen to me earlier on," she accused him. "But I guess I didn't really make much sense, either. I will explain everything, I promise. Yes, I have one week. Officially, I am here to persuade you to part with a bottle of your wine – from the stories I've been telling, everyone believes that you are a hard nut to break when it comes down to parting with your wine. Once you've signed the contract, you will make a fortune by the way. As I am George's partner and responsible for the wine, we will be able to see each other more or less regularly and – Carlos? I'm starving! Can we go inside and have something to eat?"

"Hmmm," he rumbled. "I guess I will have some fish. Mermaid, by the looks of it. Best enjoyed raw." His teeth nibbled at her earlobe, and then he trailed kisses down to her throat. His cock twitched at the combined sensations of water, sand, and skin.

Laughing, she pushed him over and got on top of him. Water dripped from her hair into his face, and it was impossible not to think of the first time they had made love in his bed. Not to think of her riding him.

"And a winegrower for dessert," she teased and moved her hips in a most sensuous, wanton way. "But if we don't go inside right now, I fear we won't make it to dinner for at least another hour."

"True." He had to agree. "But maybe we could have a shower before I start cooking?" That she was sitting on him with spread legs didn't help his growing erection at all, so he pulled her down, kissed her and rolled into deeper water with her a moment later. A wave washed over their faces. Coughing and laughing, they gasped for air, the sexual tension turning into a game, into the simple joy of playing with each other, chasing each other, trying to duck the other under water. Only when the sun went down, when it became chilly, they gave up and finally went inside, still naked and definitely very hungry. Each step left heaps of sand on the floor, and they decided not to shower together. They were sensible and just washed sand and salt off separately – or at least, that was the plan until she squeezed shower gel into her hands and began massaging it onto her breasts.

"Too delicious to be resisted," he stated and joined her.

Dinner was about two hours late.

***********

Finally, they sat at his table, opposite each other, and both not really concentrating on the meal he had provided. Cooking had been surprisingly hard, he had discovered, because whenever he turned, she was there, watching him. Whenever his back was to her, he could feel her eyes roaming over his body, and it tickled, sort of, heated his skin, and caused him to add too much pepper to the tomatoes. She wore nothing but one of his shirts, which barely covered her thighs. Her hair was carelessly braided into a ponytail, there was not a bit of make-up left on her face, and she looked like sixteen, not twenty-eight. Every now and then, she took some cheese from the plate in front of her and nibbled at it.

He loved every moment, especially because she didn't stop talking. She brought him up to date with gossip and facts, told him about marriages and children that had been born since the day he had vanished, who had perished, and who was the talk of the town. She told him about Harry and Ginny, of course, and that the boy's second son was named after him and Albus. This made him shiver for a moment – thinking about the old man he had been forced to kill and remembering the boy who had won against all odds the final duel with the Dark Lord.

"I didn't want to upset you," she said gently. "I thought you would like to know that your name was cleared, that most people honour what you did. Not the Death Eaters, of course, but everyone you taught. Even Draco admits that you were... marvellous."

He grunted disdainfully, grateful that she had made him smile again. "Now that's what I dream of in sleepless nights: Malfoy thinking of me with tears in his eyes."

Chuckling, she changed the subject. "Now, about your wine. I need one more bottle. Is that possible?"

"Of course." Chopping onions whilst she watched was quite a difficult task. "You can have a whole crate. Do you really want a contract with me? What for?"

Laughing, she got up, wrapped her arms round his waist, and kissed his upper arm. "Your wine is famous in the wizarding world," she said. "Everyone who drinks it sort of becomes addicted. George had once tasted a sip, and when I offered him a glass a little while back, he nearly had a heart attack. Lucius Malfoy is willing to pay more for a bottle of your wine than he would pay for a new broom. A crate would make George famous. It's implausible to give him the Grail after only one meeting with the ancient winegrower, though. I will need to bargain with you again – for each single bottle. Like this, George will get rich, you will have a large and regular income, and I have the freedom to see you whenever possible."

"And therefore, you invented a ninety-year old Muggle, wrote a letter, let everyone believe you were on a business trip and Apparated to the Island." Dry words; only affection and the way he looked at her made it clear that he very, very much appreciated her actions.

One last nuzzle, one last kiss, and she sat down again. "I just wanted a job; George offered me more. I wanted to see you again. I found a way to make it possible. I am here, Carlos, and I can stay for a week. After this week, I'll have to go back, but if you like I can arrange regular visits."

Carefully, he put the knife onto the counter. "Leaving your husband is not an option, I understand?" he asked, voice carefully controlled so none of his hopes and fears shone through too obviously.

She only shook her head. "Not before both Rose and Hugo are at Hogwarts. He would try to get them out of my reach completely – Molly would, anyway – and I can't risk not seeing them on a daily basis whilst they are so young. But as soon as they are out of the house, living and learning at Hogwarts, I will leave Ron, no matter whether you'll still want to see me by then."

He served dinner and sat down opposite her. Candles burned, and outside the ocean rumbled its lullaby. For a long moment, he took in her posture – shoulders hunched as if she was cold, frowning, fists balled – and had to smile without really wanting to. "I think the prospect that you will leave Mr Weasley eventually will have to do for the moment," he said lightly. "You definitely have to do what is in Rose and Hugo's best interest. They can't grow up without you."

Pulling her plate closer, she took the fork and stabbed at a piece of chicken. "You know our world. The children stay with the one with a magical background, no matter who actually raises them. Ron is a Quidditch hero – everyone loves him, the newspaper paints him as the perfect father, and his parents as honoured war heroes. Moreover, Ron is so filthily rich that each judge would consider him the better option. Molly would argue that Rose and Hugo must grow up in a wizarding family, not with a single, Muggle-born mother. Ron would get sole custody, I'm certain of it. I would see my children twice a year for a weekend if things went really wrong. I don't want to risk it."

A small, nearly invisible smile quirked his lips. "If I had I children, I would do the same. You will get your contract. You are welcome in my house whenever you can steal some time; and yes, I am very certain I will still want to see you in eight years. Didn't I tell you that I have fallen in love with you?"

Sometimes, it was surprisingly easy to say something important. Even when it was between two bites of chicken curry.

She choked on her sip of water, began to cough and wheeze, and he had to get up to slap her back. Tears were running down her face, but her eyes were sparkling. When she was finally able to speak again, she just said, "I knew it! I knew you loved me; and when I talked to my mum about you, I remembered how you looked at me, late at night. You could have said so! I would have written the first letter from the plane!"

Time to tidy up the table. Even after all those years and his experience with women, it was not easy for him to talk about feelings. "I have told you now," he managed after several minutes. "And I will tell you again. Don't ask me how it happened, but I fell in love with you. Waiting for you today, the past week since I got your owl was a living nightmare. Imagining not seeing you again is equally impossible. I will take what I get as long as I see you every now and then."

The moon was up and shone through the kitchen windows. The sand glittered in millions of silvery lights, and he wondered if he would ever be able to look at her without wanting to kiss her.

He hoped not.

Carefully, she folded the wet cloth and put it on the counter. Slowly, she said, "I love you, Severus. I know who you are. I know who you have been, and I still love you. That I can't be with you the way we both want grieves me, and I don't want you to think you are... well... a holiday affair. Just a fling. You are more. It happened fast; I think of you constantly, and if you want – if you like, I would love to give this a chance. A real one. Please?"

"Don't call me by that name." He knew he pleaded, but the name brought memories he had buried many long years ago and didn't want to revive.

"Carlos. Please?"

She looked so damn lost and so beautiful and, yes, he had feared in the darkest hours of the night that she was just using him to bring some adventure back into her boring life. "Loving me won't be easy," he said calmly. "Nor being with me. No one must find out that I am alive. I cannot go back to London or to Hogwarts. I don't want to be part of the wizarding world anymore. You would have to meet a ghost, a rumour. You will always need an excuse to come here. I do love you. I do want you. The rest is up to you."

"Good," she said with a sigh of joy. "I can deal with the rest. Now – can we go to bed? Or do you need something else tidied up?"

"Not at the moment." With a swift movement, he picked her up and carried her into his bedroom, stunned that she, of all the people in the world, was in his arms.

**************

Admittedly, one week was a damn short time to be with someone you love and who would go back to her husband and children so very soon. Equally awful was the fact that he couldn't stop himself from thinking about her life away from him. He wondered if she still slept with Ron Weasley, and if she did whether she enjoyed it. He pondered if she would begin to love her life again, now that she had changed her view on some things. If she loved her life – would she decide to come back to him for a second time? Would she consider it wise to risk her marriage for a man who had been officially dead for a decade?

But then he woke in the middle of the night and found her cradled in his arms, one leg thrown over his hip, one hand shoved under his neck. She held him tightly at night and occasionally murmured his name in her sleep – his new name, not his real one. It made him smile, hearing a name he had chosen out of sheer need to be called by something no one would recognise. He had read it on a poster, which had advertised, 'Carlos, the Marvellous Torero', and back then, the choice had brought a smile to his face.

He had come to this island nearly nine years ago: lost, forlorn and seeking a home more than safety, more than money, more than friends. He had looked for a place to stay, a place to hide from the world and his past. By then, he had managed to get his strength back and had decided he wanted to live.

And she – against all odds, she had decided that she wanted to be with him, at least partly.

Therefore, in the middle of the night, when he couldn't sleep but didn't want to wake her up, he decided that he would believe her and trust her. He had learned to trust in the past years. He had managed to find not only a home but friends as well, people who liked him, people who welcomed him into their homes. Not only Conchita, although she was the most important one. Others as well, and yes, he would trust Tessa to come back again.

"Carlos," she mumbled in his ear, and he felt a cool, overwhelming shiver run down his spine. Her lips brushed his earlobe, and her free hand slipped across his chest. It was as if she was trying to reassure herself that he was still where he had been when she'd fallen asleep – next to her, in her arms.

"I'm here," he whispered into the darkness of her hair. "Sleep on, love."

******************

They didn't do much but eat, sleep, swim, and make love. A lot of the latter, he had to admit, and not that much of the former. Sometimes, they skipped breakfast for an extra hour in bed, or lunch, or even both.

Making love to her was... different. Wonderful, marvellous, and more intense than lovemaking had ever been for him. During his time as a spy and teacher at Hogwarts, there hadn't been women in his life. The occasional shag with a nameless and faceless whore and once or twice an interlude with a female Death Eater. That had been all. He hadn't had the time for sex during those years, and he had considered it a waste of time anyway.

When he had come to the island, he had found the house in the mountains and a way to earn his living. He had realised that he cared for the vines around his house, and the next logical step had been to find out how to actually make wine out of the sweet grapes that grew in abundance up and down the hills.

After the wine, the tourists had entered his life, and he had loved being with every one of them. Obviously, not lacking experience, he had expected lovemaking with Tessa to be no different.

How wrong he had been.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, smiling at him. The grapefruit she had been about to eat lay forgotten on the kitchen counter. "There is that look in your eyes – you always look at me like that when you are about to grab me and drag me into your bedroom. Let me tell you that I need to eat something first. And you promised to take the boat and catch a lobster."

He grinned. "Did I now?" he asked. "Actually, I was thinking about prawns and oysters. I always get carried away thinking about prawns and oysters." Leaning over, he placed a light kiss on her exposed neck and was delighted to see that she blushed. She still wasn't used to his attention. It was clear she hadn't been the centre of a man's life for many years, and he loved to make her blush.

Suddenly, she turned and embraced him. "I have to leave tomorrow." Her words were barely audible as she spoke them with her mouth close to his neck. "I don't want to, but I have to. Can we talk about the future?"

Despite her height, she was as light as a feather, and he lifted her onto the counter without effort. Immediately, she wrapped her legs round his hips. The moment of asking her if she would come back had come, and he found he dreaded her answer.

"We can talk about whatever you like," he said as casually as possible. "Prawns. Oysters. The bedroom. Or the future. What would you like to happen in the future?"

Silence was the reply whilst she looked at him intently as if trying to read his thoughts. Finally, she said, "I want to come back in two months. Before Christmas. I will bring Hugo and Rose – if you don't mind, that is – because I can't force Ron to look after them too often. He doesn't care what I do as long as his Quidditch career doesn't get endangered. So... would you... do you think...?"

"Yes," he said simply.

*********************

She did come back in November – with her children, and for a full fortnight. Ron hadn't even asked where she was going, only too happy that she was not asking him to baby-sit again. Molly, believing she had booked a hotel in the Caribbean, pursed her lips as expected and said something like, "Decadence, to go on holiday twice a year," but Hermione ignored her.

George was thrilled. He was the only one who knew she was going on a business trip, trying to purchase not only one but two bottles of the precious wine. "And if you have to shag the old sod, don't come back with at least one bottle and the promise that you'll get more next year!" he said encouragingly, and Hermione nearly choked on her biscuit at his careless words.

"I'll try my best," she finally managed. "Do you think I should offer him one of my children if he demands that as his price?"

George grinned maliciously. "You know the answer to that, partner. We need this bottle. I have already promised it to the Minister's nephew. Come back without it, and I end up in Azkaban. And you can always have another child."

Hermione snorted and hit him hard across the head with a newspaper. "Hardly, idiot. Not with Ron sleeping in the guestroom the few times he's home."

That shut up George – at least for a moment. "Just bring the bottle back, and I won't tell my mum that you are taking her grandchildren into the care of an ancient Muggle monster."

"That's blackmail," Hermione replied, leaving to pack her suitcase and tell her children that this time they would take a Portkey.

The two weeks in November turned out to be more beautiful than she would have ever expected. The weather was nasty, the wind cold, and the rain constant. The vines, nothing more than dry branches against a grey sky, looked dead and definitely incapable of ever growing leaves again.

Maria grumbled at her sight, and Pedro pressed a glass of hot whiskey into her hand the moment Carlos opened the door to his house in the mountains. "Ola," the old man said. Hugo and Rose stared at him with wide eyes, both giggling nervously. Then Rose saw the huge dog lying on the kitchen floor, Hugo detected a book on a table and biscuits next to them, and both children disappeared in different directions.

"That was easy," Hermione said, surprised. "I would have thought they'd need at least a few hours to feel at home."

Carlos took her bag out of her hand. He didn't touch her, and only looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. "This is a welcoming house," he said quietly. "It took me a while to realise it, but eventually I figured out that living in the dungeons, surrounded by stone walls several feet thick, away from other people and doing nothing but planning the death of the Dark Lord, crippled my soul. This house was a ruin when I found it; much like myself, actually. I repaired it with my own hands and Pedro's help. I made it my home. Now it is yours, too, and although the children can't know about it, it is theirs as well. They feel it. They know they are welcome here."

One quick look; Hermione saw that Hugo was eagerly trying to read the huge volume, and Rose was busy stroking the dog. Hermione's hand – briefly – touched his. "Show me the bedrooms, Carlos."

"Let's go upstairs. There's a big bedroom for the three of you. Come along. Maria will look after the children. If you aren't careful, Pedro will take them outside to help him clean out the chicken coop."

The staircase was creaky, and from the upper floor it was easy to look downstairs over the handrail – it was not a big, but an open house, and they both had a quick check if either child still was where it had been only a moment ago. When that was confirmed, Carlos opened a high, wooden door, revealing a room with one window, looking out onto the east. The morning sun would wake them. If it shone, that was. Two beds – a big one and a smaller one – were inside, clearly made by the hand of a very skilled carpenter. The walls where white, and in a corner stood a wardrobe. More than enough space for Rose and Hugo. It was quiet up here and warm. "It's beautiful," she said.

Silently, Carlos closed the door behind them and sneaked his arms around her waist. "A week ago, the chicken lived in here. But I thought you'd rather come to the mountains than staying in the hut at the beach, so I threw them out and made this room habitable. They were quite annoyed with me. So was Maria, as she has to go outside now to gather the eggs."

"I'll do it as long as we're here," she replied with a snigger. "And next week, you can bring the chicken back up. I bet they will be grateful for beds." His hands, seeping warmth even through her layers of clothes, made it hard to think. "Can I see your room, too, Carlos?"

Faintly, she could hear Rose talking to Maria. The little girl chatted merrily in English, the old woman answered equally merrily in Spanish. When she stepped out into the hall, Hermione could see her son still sitting in the chair, carefully turning one page after the other.

Carlos took her hand and led her across the hall to a smaller room. This one was packed with books – no Muggle books, for a change – and the bed was covered by a big, colourful plaid. A desk stood in the corner, nearly breaking under the mass of parchment, quills, and inkbottles. "My room. And yours, too." There was no question in his words.

With a smile, she brushed across the plaid. "I love this. Like the rainbow, it contains all colours. No favourites. Not just red and gold or green and silver."

Slowly, he bent and kissed her neck, brushing her hair out of the way before doing so. "Do you think the children will sleep early tonight?"

"If you feed them properly, if you play with them for at least two hours, and if you allow them to ride the donkey," she answered, turned, and folded her hands behind his neck. "You do have a donkey, don't you?"

"I do. A donkey, two horses, a cow, several chicken and geese, a couple of sheep, a dog that is too big and cats that are too cheeky. Hugo and Rose will be busy. And very tired at night, believe me."

She pecked a kiss onto his lips. A small, nearly innocent kiss, but it made butterflies beat their wings in her stomach. This tall, dark man, this stranger, made her feel like a teenager freshly in love, and she cherished every second she was near him. "Carlos," she whispered. "Tell me you are happy that we are here."

He looked at her for a very long moment. "I don't want you anywhere else, Tessa," he replied. Gently, he kissed her, and she couldn't help that the grip of her arms became stronger with every breath she took. She hugged him so hard she feared she would break his ribs; she kissed his face and his neck, his lips, the short stubbles near his temple. "Love you," she whispered.

"Love you, too," he whispered back, and then they shot apart because Rose was calling for her mum, and they had to go downstairs, listening to stories about dogs and chicken and donkeys, and Hugo wanted to know what there would be for dinner, and Tessa just felt as if she had finally come home.

****************************

When the two weeks were over, they left, and in February, Hermione went to Switzerland, searching for a very old painting with the title "Touch the Dark". George hadn't been able to find it despite quite a lot of effort he'd put into the search. "It's an erotic picture, Hermione. All arms and legs and mouths and it's said whoever looks at it will get hard immediately. Draco Malfoy is willing to pay more for it than you'd ever believe."

"Heard about it," Hermione nodded. Hugo and Rose were in school, and she was just about to compose an advert for her house in the Daily Prophet. She wanted to sell it – it was too big, it was far too close to The Burrow, and as Ron hadn't objected, she wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible. "Homoerotic, twenty times twenty-five inches, about two hundred and fifty years old. Didn't know Draco's gay."

George chuckled. "As gay as they come. The picture means a lot to him. But Angelina will go nuts if I disappear again – last time, I was gone for a full three months. Please, Hermione. Have mercy on me. Find the damn thing."

"What about Rose and Hugo?" she asked, adding the words, 'charming' and 'spacious' to her advert. "Ron is in Madrid. My parents are on a cruise. And Molly..."

"Mum would go nuts, too," George interrupted her dryly. "She'll ramble all day long that only a bad mother leaves her children alone for longer than three seconds. Let them stay with us, babe. Angelina will be thrilled to have them – it will do my son a world of good, playing with your little monsters."

Hermione looked at him. He sat in her kitchen, and in half an hour, he would open the shop. It was Monday morning, packing wouldn't take her long, finding the picture would not be as hard as George thought, and maybe, she could steal half a day to visit Carlos.

The prospect made her blush, and quickly, she got up and washed out her cup. "Deal," she said over her shoulder. "I'll try my best. There's a shabby little shop in Latvia I visited once or twice when I was younger. They might know where to find it."

George beamed. "Why I am not surprised? I bet you'll have the painting in less than a day, spending the rest of the week in a nice hotel, enjoying the children-free time."

"Damn you, Weasley," she replied lightly. "You just know me too well."

*********************

Finding the painting took her three days, and when she had it stored safely in her bag, she didn't even bother to send an owl but Apparated directly to Carlos's island. Finding him, though, wasn't as easy as she had thought, and eventually, she went out to the vineyard, yelling his name until he came running towards her, hugging her, lifting her up, and kissing her until she couldn't breathe anymore.

Two days in February, just two short days. She arrived Wednesday evening and had to leave Friday afternoon. "Come back soon," Carlos said, holding her close. "Promise me to come back as soon as you can."

"In April," she whispered hoarsely, trying not to cry. I promise, I'll come back in April."

In April, she came back for a weekend, and she managed five days in early June. Each night, she fell asleep in Carlos's arms, happy and sad at the same time. Happy, of course, because she was here; sad, because she knew she couldn't stay.

******************

Selling the house was easy, and the children loved the new place she'd found. Even Ron didn't grumble any longer as he had realised that his wife was less snappy and smiled more often since they had moved.

"I like it when you smile, Mummy," Rose said one morning, drinking her orange juice. "You smile a lot since we live here."

"I like it here," Hermione said and thought, She's bright, my little girl. "Less time wasted on cleaning up things."

Hugo giggled. "Can we have a donkey, Mummy? Like the one Carlos has?"

The kitchen was empty when he asked that – his father wasn't home, as usual. "The donkey wouldn't like it here, hon," Hermione replied gently. "We'll visit the donkey in the summer holidays. That all right for you?"

Hugo nodded. For some reason, neither child ever mentioned Carlos when anyone could hear them – not in front of their grandparents, not in front of George, not in front of their friends. It seemed as if they knew that the existence of Carlos was a secret that mustn't be revealed, although Hermione had never told them not to talk about him.

In the summer, Hermione spent three weeks on the island with Hugo and Rose, who were thrilled to see Carlos. They stayed in the hut at the beach, and Carlos took the children and their mum sailing and fishing and taught them how to dive. Rose helped him clean the boat; Hugo learned how to cook. In autumn, when they came to the mountains again, he showed them his vines and the cellar with the barrels, and he even bought a second donkey so both of them could go for rides up the hills.

When the children were around, they kept their love a secret. Never a kiss when they could be seen, never even a shared glance or a secret smile. Every morning, she sneaked back from his room into Rose's and Hugo's room, pretending she had slept there all night. She didn't like it, nor did Carlos, but this was how it worked for the time being.

*******************

"One and a half years ago, I found you," Carlos said one morning whilst lying in bed with her, and she was delighted to see nothing but happiness in his face about this fact.

"Do I assume correctly you won't search for a tourist next summer?" she asked, running her fingers from his collarbone down to the belly button. She couldn't help a small tremble creeping into her voice.

Gently, he kissed her. "No tourists, Tessa. Never again. You know that."

Yes, she knew it. She could see it in his eyes, she felt it in his touch and heard it in his voice. Leaving him broke her heart every time; coming back to him mended it as surely.

Her parents, whom she visited on a regular basis, saw the difference in her. "You are happy," her mother said as she hugged her one morning in spring. "Your children are happy, too. It is such an obvious change I can't believe I and your dad are the only ones seeing it."

Hermione cast her a smile. "George might get suspicious soon. He knows me well; we are not just partners, we are friends."

"Let him get suspicious. You might consider telling him the truth, though, love. If you really plan to get divorced once Rose and Hugo are at Hogwarts, you'll need someone you can trust anyway. Or do you plan to give up your partnership with George once you don't need him as an excuse anymore to disappear every now and then?"

"Mum!"

Her mother laughed. "I thought not. And no, we don't mind taking Rose and Hugo in for a couple of days. Go and kiss your Carlos, dear. Kiss him and hold him and be glad you've found him."

So, she did. She kissed Carlos, hugged him and told him she loved him. Seven weeks each year she did so and at the few additional weekends she could steal away from home. "I'll move to the island as soon as I can," she assured him two years after they'd met. "I'll divorce Ron, and then I will vanish. Naturally, George will know how to contact me as I will stay partners with him – someone has to sell your wine after all, and if I refused to do it, he would turn over every stone on earth to find you. Can't risk that."

"Of course not. He would get a heart-attack, seeing me," Carlos agreed. "On the other hand, one Weasley less in the world. Not that dreadful a prospect." He chuckled dryly.

Laughing, she threw a roll at him. "Hugo and Rose can come here during the summer hols. I'll hunt down the potions and books for George, but for most of the year, there will be you and me and no one else."

"Pedro and Maria," he corrected her. "I can't fire them. They are in their seventies, and Conchita would fry me over a small fire if I told them to find another employer."

"Wouldn't want that," she assured him with a grin. "A fight with Conchita – huh! Will we visit her tonight?"

"She'll come and get us if we don't turn up voluntarily."

******************************

They talked, planned, hoped, and wished, and maybe everything would have turned out just as expected if fate hadn't had other plans. Right before her April trip, nearly three years after they had met and only half a day before she would have left to see him again after two long months at home in a too cold, too lonely country, she deduced that there was a reason for her morning sickness, a reason for her extremely sensitive nose, for her back-ache and her disgust at the sight of food.

Pregnant. She was bloody pregnant!

A/N: The wonderful banner was made for my by beweasley2. Thanks, dear, I absolutely love it!