He'd started the whole petnames thing, of course, but that had been a matter of keeping distance. 'Darling', 'dear', 'sweetheart', 'love', things he'd called his marks, ways of trying to ignore who they were as people and substituting only a grim string of circumstantial similarities.

All fools doomed because they stopped, they listened, they let him draw them in.

Something he'll never have to do again, never.

When Hermione says those things, it's the exact opposite. It's her way of sinking past the superficial, and the meaning shifts. The words have weight, now, layered over him as he tips his head back to allow her to do as she pleases. Slowly, the blood drains away, the metallic tang swallowed by the scent of the soaps and oils nearby.

"...I want you to appreciate that I'm entirely capable of doing this myself, you know."