Late March

It rose, ray by ray, unfurled and dappled across them. Yellow-white winter light.

He felt it in his veins, a rush, a rush, a rush anew, and it all began where her hand met his cheek.

It simmered, it steamed but was wholly unlike the anger that bubbled, lined his insides with constant, living, prickling reminder. This was a beat that rumbled, that rolled in his breath, in his bones—a rhythm of you, you, there is more of you.

Forget new worlds...

It readied, like a drumroll, just under his sternum, built, built, built with the constant, beating promise of crescendo. There were sparks in his lungs that flared, unnamed; they trundled up his throat, burst bright on his lips, and he leapt forward, caught her in his arms, her mouth against his, with such spinning, tumbling feeling that she laughed brightly against his lips.

Forget the stars...

"Again," he said, breathless. "Can you play it again? I want to hear more."

"There's loads more," she said, her voice, her smile beaming with the rush of him. "But it's nearly breakfast."

"I can eat later," he said quickly.

"And what of all the people that'll be coming down those stairs soon?" she asked, gesturing to the dormitories behind her. "What about class?"

"I don't give a damn for my classes," he said as he pulled her to him, just as bright, just as sweet.


But, inevitably, he found himself in the Entrance Hall, breakfast eaten and books in hand. She insisted he go to class, and he found her harder and harder to say no to.

"What if we tuck off into the Forbidden Forest," he proposed with his arm around her waist, the whole of him leaning toward her. "I've never seen it during the day."

"You've never looked out your window?" she teased, her brow arched. "It's the only thing you can see from Gryffindor tower."

"You know what I mean," he said. "Think of what we could do—you could explore that Devil's Snare nest further…"

"Don't you dare," she said, smirking at his cheekiness, and he knew from the way she played with his tie that it was taking her a considerable amount of self-restraint. "Tempting me, with Class 5's… If I wasn't on my way to Herbology—"

"It may have worked then?" he asked, grinning.

She laughed, "I'd imagine you already know the answer to that."

She leaned onto her toes, and kissed him—all too briefly for his liking. "As it is… I'll see you at dinner."

He held her closely in gentle protest, but too soon she was out of his arms. As she reached the door, she turned to smile at him once more. The warmth of it settled in his chest and spread upward, outward. He noticed the swing of her skirt, the momentary glimpse of pale thigh; it took root low in his belly and wound up his spine.

With clouded intentions, he managed to find his feet, and they carried him dutifully off to the North Tower. But his mind, stubborn under her influence, wandered from the Entrance Hall to the greenhouses with her, where he imagined the flush of her cheeks in the cold, the flutter of her skirt, her cloak in the wind. His body climbed the ladder into the old Divination classroom, but he was in her dorm room—the brief moments she'd left him this morning to dress in her uniform, the sun pooling over the floor at her feet, her fingers as they raised her grey stockings over the smooth length of her calf, beyond her knee to the curve of her thigh where the soft wool was fixed to her garter.

And higher—as he sat behind his desk at the back of the classroom—to the hollow of muscle at the side of her arse, how she'd slid into his lap in his bed the day before, her hips at his, the birthmark at her navel, how she sighed each time he kissed it, how her back arched, her skin flushed when he bit at her waist, her thigh, how she gripped at his hair, sunk her teeth into his shoulder, how she whispered, murmured endlessly into his ear—Teddy, Teddy, I love you.

At the head of the class Professor Burns began her lecture, and Teddy flipped through the pages of his book, eyes skimming over paintings and statues and friezes, ears picking up an odd word every few phrases. He landed, wholly, on a painting of a girl surrounded entirely in the dark, and thought of his own girl, of that summer, of that afternoon in Diagon Alley when he realized, for the first time, what a natural she was in the dark of them. It emerged viscerally, this memory—the shape of her breast beneath his fingers, how it rose into his palm with each breath, the thunderstrike enormity of her when he realized she had found the great depths of them, grown comfortable, and began to look around. And what she found, what she found—a thread of thought he'd long ago abandoned, long let dwindle into dormancy—and how she ran with it, to the great edge.

The potential of what she found flared into a rush—itched beneath the pads of his fingers, tickled, prickled in the soles of his feet. His wand hand, he found, was fidgeting endlessly on its own accord.

Are there words for you? Can a word contain you, my love? I have tried, I have named you many things, but they all fall short. I am convinced, know now that nothing can—not a word, not your bones, not this castle.

Will we take the passageway to Hogsmeade tonight? We could disappear, slip away into the village for the weekend, the whole week, the Easter holiday, and—

"And what do you think of it, Mr. Lupin?" Professor Burns asked, taking in the particular dishevelment of his hair, the dark rings under his eyes, the wild, satisfied look on his face. One could guess what he was thinking of.

Teddy's eyes widened and her brow raised in question. He glanced quickly at the image projected onto one of the old shawls the batty Divination teacher had left draped about the room.

"Revolutionary," he offered quickly—actually, he couldn't make out the image at all, blurry as his eyes were with lack of sleep.

Professor Burns considered him a moment.

"Quite," she said dryly, and returned her attention to the rest of the class. "While graffiti has long been used as a means of visual protest in the muggle world, this is the first instance in which it is used in ours. Especially unique when considering it comes from a community more typically known for violent means of communication. What can we glean from this progression then? It is not simply one work, there have been three more—once each month since the first, and most well known, was done in December…"

Her words flitted dimly across the surface of his mind, never to be absorbed, as he had fixed on a singular thought—of he and Victoire, out of the castle, the grounds, the village for the whole of the Easter holiday.

He dreamed on the potential of this for nearly an hour—where they'd go (London), what they'd do (everything)—and by the end of class this dream had become such a tempting reality he could think of nothing less.


Later, after classes, long after the sun had gone down he found her among the golden torchlight of the greenhouses—sweat on her brow, some vine or another in her hair, and her eyes fixed on extracting the teeth of a Venemous Tentacula leaf. To her right, she had a number of cauldrons simmering, and at her left lay her beloved Herbology of the Modern Era, open to a page so entirely covered in notes he could hardly make out its original contents.

His mouth split into a wide grin at the sight of her, and he nearly blurted out all that he'd thought of that day.

"I've missed dinner, haven't I?" she asked when he sat down at the other side of her workstation. He'd learned months ago to give her plenty of room when she had her wand in one hand and a scalpel in another.

"Nearly," he admitted, but he'd much rather watch her at work. "There'll be enough to nick on the way back to the common room."

"Straight back to the common room?" she asked, grinning. "What happened to the Forbidden Forest?"

"Can't snog you in there," he said cheekily.

"Not in this weather, at least," she said, glancing up at him briefly—it caught him, this look, riled him, kindled riots, rebellion in him like nothing else could. He felt he may burst (happily) at the uncontainability of her.

"What?" she asked when she noticed how he watched her, and thought, you wonder, my love, why I lead us into the dark, one look at you and I burn brightly.

"We should leave," he said, dazed.

"What?" she asked again, more urgently, as she looked about the greenhouse in alarm. "Why? Is something on fire again?"

"No, no, not the greenhouse," he amended quickly. "For the holiday."

She lowered her scalpel and tilted her head to one side as she eyed him intently. "Where would we go?"

"London," he began. "To—"

The leaf she had been working on took advantage of her distraction and lashed upwards violently, swiping at her hand. But without looking away from him, she raised her wand lackadaisically and the Venomous Tentacula grew docile once again.

"To your house in London," she said quietly.

He nodded, and for the first moment all day, it occurred to him that perhaps she'd say no.

"Dominique and Molly won't be here, they're going on the History of Magic field trip to Stonehenge," she said thoughtfully, though he had yet to catch on to what this had to do with them.

"Fred and James would be easy enough to keep quiet," she continued. "They wouldn't say anything if they thought it'd keep them from getting into the Shrieking Shack…"

She ran her fingers through her hair, and he grew distracted by the way the light played at it, the curve of her neck this movement unveiled.

"We'd have to be careful when we got to King's Cross—there's no reason for any of the family to be there, but you never know who could spot us. Even so, we could apparate directly from the platform," she finished.

His eye traveled from her neck to the rise of her breasts with each breath as she spoke, remembering the day before, how her legs wound around his waist when he trailed kisses over her skin. They landed on the soft sulk of her bottom lip, and he realized she'd finished speaking.

"Is that a yes?" he asked hopefully, attempting to disguise the telling huskiness of his voice.

She smirked at him knowingly. "Of course it is."


They left the greenhouse wrapped in the warmth of their new secret, oblivious to the light snow falling around them. She softened into the touch of him as they walked, his hand at the small of her back, fingers splayed out. She imagined she could feel the pads of his fingertips through her jumper, a solid warm weight against her skin.

Her breath worked faster in her lungs from this simple, familiar touch, knowing it'd hardly be more than a week before they left for London. It lived, this knowledge, just under her skin—a permanent stirring in the nerves across her belly.

She glanced up at him, and for the first time in a month she noticed there was no furrow in his brow.

When they entered the Great Hall he gathered a great armload of food—Cauldron Cakes, crisps, roast beef, and even a Yorkshire Pudding—readying himself for another long night.

They found the common room empty ("Nearly missed curfew," the Fat Lady warned as she swung shut behind them) beyond a few last sixth years who turned in not long after they settled on the overstuffed couch by the fire. Once they were truly alone, she set out her many piles of research over the table before them, just as she had done the night before.

He felt dazed at the center of the collection of relics, his mind reeling to have so many answers within reach.

"What would you like to learn of tonight?" she asked, her voice a calming hum. "His favorite color, the records he earned, his parents?"

Teddy grew still for a moment, his hand skimmed over the nearest pile of parchment. "The book Hermione gave me said his favorite color was bright pink after meeting Mum. How would you know what it was before then?"

She smiled warmly. "The Marauders, as a group, were not shy boys. They signed their crimes plenty. Your father, more often that not, did so in a dark green."

"How—" Teddy stuttered, again knocked backward by the extent of her research, by the thoroughness with which she cared. "Signed their crimes?"

"Do you know the crack in the statue of the Humped Back Witch? Or the three pronged tear in the canvas of Ulrich II on the fourth floor?" she asked. "I'm not entirely sure what they did there, but there is green, red, purple, and bronze in each one. And they certainly got detention for it."

"How do you know whose color was whose?" he asked with mounting wonder.

She grinned. "It's fairly easy with a couple of them. 'Padfoot was here' is written in purple all over a particular girls lavatory known as a spot for snogging."

"On the fifth floor by the East Tower?" he asked.

"Know it, do you?" she teased. "And James Potter, the original, received detention for etching 'Hogsmeade, Evans?' in bronze into the desk he shared with Lily Potter in the Transfiguration classroom."

"And my Dad was green?" he said.

She nodded. "A dark green—have you ever seen a Fiddleweather bird? They live in the Forbidden Forest, it's just the same color as their feathers. From what I can tell, he wasn't especially fond of the color red. It's commonly considered to be a werewolf aggressor. A rather ironic aspect to his sorting."

"Do you think it bothered him?" Teddy wondered with a sudden concern. "With all the red that's in the dormitory?"

"I don't know," she said quietly. "…I would guess that he began to associate it with his friends. While he was at Hogwarts, they mattered to him most of all."

"Does Harry know all this?" Teddy asked.

"Not sure," Victoire replied, considering. "There's a lot I've been meaning to share with him, but I didn't want to tip him off that we may be up to something."

She laid back into the cushions, her head resting against the arm of the couch, her legs in his laps.

"What on earth would we possibly get up to?" he asked, tracing the shape of her knee through the fragile cover of her stocking.

"Couldn't imagine—we follow the rules so carefully, you know," she said, hoping he didn't notice her small stutter, her attention focused on the path of his touch.

"The picture of innocence," he agreed, and the breath hitched in her throat at his smile, how he looked at her.

Should I have been warned about boys like you? Blue hair, a motorbike, a smile that makes me think of your bed.

You look at me like I'm a goddess, and under your gaze I find gold in my veins. You hold me like I'm a hurricane—rhapsodies in your palms and patience in your arms. Only a seraphim could love a storm so sweet.

That's the secret of you, isn't it? You say I dissect, consider all that comes to me, but I'm not considerate. If I am—not like you. I can't reach the name of what you are, but you could upheave the world. It bubbles just under the surface of you, I feel it every time I touch you.

(Little wonder why I can't keep my hands off you.)

But there's an ineffable empathy to you, a kindness that permeates all things, leads you to bridle the riot in you... I don't think you know, realize that you do it. But maybe that's what it is to love you: to know the boundless whole of you—to see the dawning future of you before the rest of the world.

I could find you blind, my love. When I look at you, I find immortal longings in me.

"Do you know how often I think of your last letter, the one you sent when you were in France?" he asked, his fingers trailing the line of her calf. "'…Forget new worlds, forget the starts. There is nothing so wonderful as discovering the great depths of a person.'"

"Do you know how often I think of yours?" she asked after a pause, her voice so low in her throat it betrayed how she thought of it now.

"You do?" he asked, his touch continuing its decent to her ankle, before climbing higher once again.

Her eyes met his and she nodded, her tongue running briefly over her bottom lip.

She reached into her pocket and retrieved a small square of parchment, worn at the edges, clearly folded and unfolded many times over. "I… keep it with me. I couldn't tell you how many times I've read it."

He remembered—a brief glimpse between dreams—seeing her read it that night. "Why?"

"It's the clearest you've ever spoken to me," she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

He looked away briefly, to the hem of her skirt as his hand approached it, a small smile tilting his mouth. "The clearest thoughts I have are of you."

His smile broadened and he looked to her again. "Do you know what I thought of all day?"

"No," she said softly, her eyes slowly settling shut, thinking only of his hand as it moved beneath her skirt.

"Your stocking," he said, his eyes fixed on her, and his fingers followed the line of fabric, ascending to where the wool itself faded into her thigh.

His thumb traced slow circles as it moved over her skin, and her hips raised unconsciously to him.

"The feel of your skin," he continued. Her mind swam in thoughts of him, memories of his bed, and she grew slick as he neared the cleft of her legs. "I could imagine the softness of your stocking… the smooth rise of it over your calf, your knee, your thigh…

"Your fingers, as they fastened your garter," he said, his own fingers unfastening the buckle, following it higher to the band of her knickers. "I imagine nothing more vividly than you."


April

The Hogwarts Express was far emptier than usual, their compartment filled with the sound of rain as it lashed at the windows.

"We could go to the loo," he said breathlessly, only half-joking.

She bit along the curve of his neck, sucking the thin skin between her sharp little teeth, and he groaned, a low rumble she felt vibrate through his torso. "Can't wait until we arrive? Looks like we're nearly there."

"Of course," he said, his hand sliding from her waist to her arse, and gripping her closer to him. "I was suggesting it for your sake."

"Mhmm, my sake," she said, shifting suggestively in his lap until she felt him rise to her.

"Well, when you put it like," he said, and she laughed brightly, her breath tickling his skin.

She was right. Soon the wheels of the train slowed their rhythmic chugging along the tracks and halted with a familiar screech. They dashed out onto the platform the moment the doors released, his jacket held above their heads to keep off of the rain.

"Shit, is that Seamus Finnigan?" he said quietly as they wove through the crowd.

"I dunno," she said, craning to look around the many faces. "Why?"

"He gets a pint with Harry every week," Teddy replied. "There's no one brushing up against you, yeah? You think we're clear in this corner?"

"Only you," she replied, holding onto him tighter, knowing what was coming.

"Good," he said, and the familiar feeling of being compressed from all directions took hold of them both.

The pavement was wet beneath their feet, but it was only a drizzle where they landed.

"Hang on, where are we?" she asked, looking around at the muggle street. She could hardly guess what area of London they were in, but she knew it wasn't his house.

"There's a pub down the road," he said, and, taking her by the waist, began to walk in the direction of it.

"A pub?" she asked, mildly incredulous.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said with a sweet grin.

You're being gentle with me. The thought bloomed instantly in her mind at his words. You always have.

"I could eat later."

At the World Cup, all my fourth year, last summer at the Burrow, even at Christmas.

"Do you know how cross you are when you haven't eaten?" he asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

And in each of those moments I loved you for it.

"I'm sure there's food at your place," she protested.

But I don't want gentle tonight.

She took hold of his jacket between her fingers and pulled him to her, uncaring of the people she startled around them. Her mouth found his quickly, and her lips worked over his greedily, nipping until he parted for her tongue with a groan.

"Alright," he said hungrily into her ear. "Just a quick bite then…. Besides. We're here."

Breathlessly, she looked up to see a battered old wooden sign covered in the faded painting of a lamb with a crown around its neck. "This isn't the Leaky Cauldron."

"I'm hardly going to flaunt that I've stolen you out of Hogwarts," he said, and led her inside.

"Stolen me out of Hogwarts?" she asked as she followed him. "I'm not sure you deserve so much credit."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she flushed at the look in his eye, at the intentions that licked up her spine. "We'll see."

The pub was much larger than it appeared on the outside, but dark, filled with a dim yellow light that filtered from some unknown corner through what seemed a permanent cloud of smoke. The patched wood floor stuck to the soles of her shoes as they moved, and the smell of beer and burnt chips lingered in her nose.

"Do you want to find a table while I order?" he asked her. "Should only take a second."

She nodded and turned from him, disappearing into the smoke. He ordered only two baskets of chips; he loathed being away from her any longer than he had to. The warmth of her lingered at his side, the feeling of her hand beneath his jacket a ghost along his skin. She was achingly lovely, her lips swollen from kissing, her hair wild from the wind.

The bloke behind the bar chuckled at how quickly Teddy took the two baskets, stacking them in his hand, and nearly burning his fingers on the heat of them through the paper.

He felt the nearness of her before he saw her, the distinctly familiar blankening of his mind, a decadent hum in his blood that stirred every nerve, a narrowing of his thoughts to only her.

The flirt, he thought with relish when he found her. She was dancing, of course, had spotted the old music box and turned it to a song that sounded remarkably similar to the Bent-Winged Snitches. The muggles around her were no more affected than they would be the typical movements of a beautiful girl—but she knew that, knew Veela magic didn't work on the non-magical.

Her eyes sparked when she spotted him, and his mind was flushed with the memory of her body slick against his, of the heat the flooded him in her bed—until this picture tumbled forward into the promise of her in his bed tonight and blood surged to the muscle between his legs.

He reached for her finally, and she smiled up at him like a cat.

"You keep this up any longer," he said, his hand at her waist. "And I may have to change our plans for tonight."

"Oh, really?" she teased as he lead her to a small booth in the dark corner. "You've got plans?"

He laughed quietly as he slid into the booth behind her. "I've got plans."

"Didn't seem like it an hour ago," she said, laying her legs over his beneath the table.

But her breath stilled, her nerves jumped, and her skin erupted in goose bumps when he leant in and said, "Oh love, I haven't thought of a single other thing since the moment you said yes."

She bit her lip and grew dazed, entirely focused on him at the thought of it. "Says the bloke who hasn't tried to get me out of this bar."

He drew closer and brought his lips to her ear, the thin skin just beneath, and she sighed breathlessly. "I'm in no rush."

He kissed her gently, and she reached for his hand beneath the table, brought it past the soft curve of her thighs to the crux of her legs where he found her wet through her knickers. He moaned into her mouth, and began to roll the swollen bundle of nerves beneath his thumb once, twice, again, again, again…

"Do you," she began, but her words were swallowed whole high sweet, sigh. "Do you think we could be in no rush in your bed?"

"Oh god, yes," he said against her mouth, and it was only as long as it took for his hand to reach his wand before they were gone.

They landed in a heap in the doorway to his bedroom, but neither paid it any notice—if anything, Victoire found it easier this way to push his jacket to the floor, his shirt over his head, and begin laying kisses over his torso, stopping on her way downward only to suck each nipple into her mouth.

He nearly growled as he reached for her, pawed at her jumper and released the clasp on her bra. He continued lower, to the waistband of her skirt and knickers, pulled them over her legs only to have her kick them away when he reached her ankles. He lifted her, bodily, and brought her into his lap. She groaned at this new contact, felt heat rush her skin, and began to roll her hips into his.

His fingers closed over the pink bud at the crest of her breast, and she gripped at his shoulders, whimpered into his mouth. The Quidditch-made calluses of his other hand sent little ripples through her nerves as it slid lower over her belly, past her hip to the slit of her legs.

"Fuck, Victoire," he whispered at how he found her there—so wet he nearly came undone.

She moaned as he traced length of her with a fleeting touch. "Teddy, please, please."

Sparks burst behind her eyelids as he slipped a finger within her, his thumb poised over her tensed bundle of nerves, and her eyes opened to find him watching her with awe. Oooooh, there was no warning me about boys like you… She felt rooted to him, bound by his mouth at her breast, anchored by this new pressure as he curled his finger against the wall of her internal muscle. There are no boys like you. She shook under his touch, each slip of his thumb over her—oh, what did he call it, what did he call it, your fingers as they find your wet cunt, play and swirl around your—clit and she writhed, fell, could rise only as he did. Only you.

"Only you," she whimpered as his tongue laved at her breast, her legs quaked, hips bucked into his touch, and she wanted only more, "more, more," of him.

He groaned at her words, and the circles he ran around her clit grew tighter, his finger within her moved faster, and his own breath grew quick, heavy. Only you hold my body like scripture to be memorized. That familiar, desperate, delicious ache began to gather in the pit of her belly, prickle up her spine, and her hips moved frenzied, frantic, wild against him. Only you fuck me—He slipped a second finger within her, and she groaned loudly, trembled madly, clawed at his shoulders as he awoke new nerves—fuck me—Her back arched, her breasts drew taught, this feeling, this feeling, this barbarous feeling coiled tight within her, desperate, wanting where her flesh met his, and—

"Teddy," she cried out as it shuddered through her, prickled over her skin, arced in every nerve. Only you fuck me holy.

She collapsed onto him, her forehead falling into the crook of his shoulder, and blissful laughter bubbled up from her belly. He laid kisses over her cheek, her neck, her shoulder.

"Sometimes I think I'll burst from loving you," he whispered quietly, and gathered her up in his arms, carried her the few paces to his bed.

She groaned at the feeling of his hands at her arse, his fingers slippery from her. She wanted him, she wanted him, she wanted him now, and, reaching out for him, she curled her fingers around the hard length of muscle. He was shockingly warm, she could feel the pulse beat through him as her fingers slid over him. He let out a strangled breath at her touch, and pulled her closer, aligned her hips with his.

She moaned loudly when he found the hot, wet cleft of her legs, even louder when he slid his head over her still rippling clit, but nothing compared to how she cried out when he entered her finally, slowly, parted her inch by inch until he was fully hilt.

"Oh, yes," she murmured and ground into him.

He reared back, gasping her name, and she caught the flash of moonlight in his blue hair from the window above his bed.

He waited for many moments, allowing her to get used to him. She felt impossibly full, as if he occupied every spare corner of her. She wriggled her hips in exploration, and a high little sigh slipped from her lips at the way he pulsed within her. With each little movement, she could sense the incredible tension held in his hips, his legs, the desperate need to move, to come, and how he held it in leash for her.

"Stop me at all if it hurts," he said quietly, his eyes dazed. "I promise I'll be gentle with you."

"But I don't want gentle," she protested breathlessly, pouting, raising her hips to him, thrusting up from below. He grunted in surprise, and fell forward onto his elbows, gasping into her ear. "I want you, all of you."

He groaned, and began to move within her—short, shallow thrusts that had her panting, moaning, babbling his name.

"Teddy, Teddy, Teddy…"

She matched his thrusts as much as she could, arching her back, driving herself over him in feral frenzy. She gasped when he tugged at her hair, wound his fingers through it, and brought her mouth to his. It was ravenous, his kiss—impossible girl, it said, I want you, I love you, I desperately do.

He held himself just above her, and she wrapped her legs around him, dug her heels into the muscle of his arse. She hummed happily at the weight of him on her body, each minute tensing of his torso that rippled against her belly. She was surprised at the pressure that mounted again in her already, how she felt flooded with it—every nerve, every inch of skin. His mouth descended to her neck, and his hand to her breast, rolling the soft pink skin between his fingertips until her back arched into him and she moaned at the perfect pain.

She reached down, curious, and shuddered to feel him hard, moving, wrapped in her slick and swollen skin. He caught her hand in his, and brought her thumb to her clit. He played her thumb in quick, taught, circles over her flesh, unrelenting as she bucked into him—limbless, lustful. His thrusts grew quicker, rougher, deeper, and then the feeling finally, finally, burst, snapped, surged up her spine, crashed through her nerves, and thundered in blissful waves over her skin. She screamed, beyond herself, when he drove deep into her once more, her back arching, his arms shaking, his breath shallow, heat spilling from him within her, and he moaned her name into her skin.

She was boneless beneath him, and could gather only the energy it took to root her fingers in his hair, draw his mouth to hers, kiss him, madly, and whisper, "Oh, my Teddy, I do ache with loving you."