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Butterflies fluttered around the bushes, but they were nothing compared to the swarm in Draco’s stomach. Today was the day. The day he would finally verbalise what he’d been repeating inside his head the past two months straight.
Three words. Eight letters.
Why were they so bloody hard to say?
For Founders’ fucking sake, Draco had been so desperate to make this day perfect he’d even asked Potter for advice on where to go. Somewhere they hadn’t been together yet. A place that would henceforth signify a new milestone in their relationship, the next chapter in a novel still in its beginning.
Because Draco damn well planned on spending forever with this witch.
Hermione strolled down the flower lined path, stopping at each one to smell their spring fragrance. Draco would rather join his father in Azkaban than admit to Potter that his suggestion of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Kew turned out to be brilliant, but curse it all, the afternoon couldn’t be going better. Idyllic nature surrounded them, not a distraction in sight. Ten minutes had passed since Draco cast a Diversion Charm. If Hermione noticed their lack of fellow garden admirers, she had yet to scold him for his blatant use of magic around Muggle tourists. Good. Draco wanted nothing to ruin this moment.
As she stopped in front of a wall of tall flowers heavy in bloom, Draco couldn’t help but remember the first time he’d guided her through the Manor’s gardens. Four years after the final battle and millions of Galleons in renovations later, Narcissa Malfoy had deemed it time to reenter formal society with a charity fundraiser benefiting orphans of the war. An evening jointly hosted by the now-revered woman who saved Precious Potter’s life and the other remaining Black sister.
Even so, Draco hadn’t expected Hermione Granger to attend.
All night, Draco watched her. With each passing hour, he grew more impressed. It was as if she had something to prove. A personal test to see how long she could stand a mere hallway from the sight of her torture. And while no one else seemed to notice, Draco saw through the cracks in her facade. Bravery did not mean she was unaffected.
Draco didn’t know what motivated him, what caused him to weave through the crowd and interrupt her conversation. To forget his other hostly duties. But that one action changed his entire life trajectory.
“Pardon us, but I must speak with Miss Granger outside.”
She’d been confused. Never before had they conversed as just the two of them. And most certainly not in any form of civility. Yet Hermione followed him onto the veranda where he led her on a stroll through the gardens. Away from the noise. Away from the wartime memories that still haunted them both.
They never made it back to the party.
“Draco, come look at these!”
The past gave way to the present. A present Draco wouldn’t trade for all the Galleons in the Malfoy vault.
She slipped a hand into his with effortless, practised ease as she reached for the flowers with the other.
“Look what happens when you pinch them.”
She stared at the flower in pure delight. Hair pulled back, skin glowing under the sun. She could likely tell him a hundred facts about the plant supposedly called a ‘snapdragon,” but Draco only had eyes for her.
I love you.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
The words were on the tip of his tongue when she dragged his hand towards the split bloom.
“You try.” She positioned him into place but a sharp gasp stopped him before his fingers ever touched the petals. “Draco, your skin!”
His heart stalled as her hand clasped around his forearm. The Dark Mark was little more than a faded scar, yet it never stopped the guilt from building like floodwater. To think he had ever thought her beneath him when she was now the best thing in his life.
Yet that wasn’t what had pulled her attention.
Little pink dots scattered the skin exposed by his rolled sleeves. In his fixated thoughts, no other sensations had registered—not even the burning itch.
Draco cursed beneath his breath. Not now you stupid pale, sensitive skin.
The itch could wait. Had to wait. Right now, Draco had much more important things to do.
He pulled the fabric past his elbow and buttoned the cuff around his wrist.
“I’m fine. Just a minor irritation.”
“You most certainly are not.”
Draco huffed. “Contrary to what you might think, I know my body better than you.”
“You’re having an allergic reaction!”
“I said it’s—”
“Take off your sunglasses.”
That was the only downside of dating such a brilliant witch. She always knew how to win an argument.
Draco slowly withdrew his shades, knowing perfectly well the blotchy eyes Hermione would discover underneath. This was what he got for forgetting that Muggle gardens wouldn’t have the same Anti-Allergy Charms his mother routinely cast around the Manor grounds.
Their afternoon quickly dissolved after that, as did any chance to say those three little words. Hermione dragged him to the Muggle pharmacist and filled his system with something called Benadryl. By the time they reached his flat, drowsiness had taken control as Hermione made sure he was settled in bed.
“I’m sorry,” he said through heavy eyelids and fog-clouded thoughts. “I wanted today to be perfect.”
“You apologised months ago for the only thing you ever needed to.” She pressed a kiss to his temple. “And today was perfect. All it required was you.”
The lights vanished and Draco was left alone in his bed, mind already swimming with his next plan to tell her.
~*~*~
Diagon Alley was busy. It always was on a Friday night. But tonight was different. Or at least, it was for Draco.
Their hands were tight inside each other’s grip as they stood in the waiting area for the hostess to return. Throughout the restaurant, Draco spotted several eyes landing on him and Hermione: some discreet, others not. The press had been abuzz when Draco and Hermione had first begun publicly dating just over six months ago. Accusations that he was Death Eater scum who had no business with Potter’s right-hand witch. Exposés that detailed all his wrongdoings. Claims that no matter how much he tried to repent, it would never be enough.
But as his therapist had taught him, it didn’t matter what other people thought. It mattered what Draco thought. What his partner thought. And Draco loved Hermione. Would give up his magic if that was what it required to be with her. To prove how deep his affections ran.
With any luck, she’d tell him tonight that she loved him too.
“Your room is ready.”
Hermione tilted her head to him as the hostess led them past the crowd of tables. “Room?”
“Padma insisted when I Floo’d for our reservation.”
That was…somewhat true. Masala Magic, the first Indian restaurant on Diagon, had only opened a few days ago. Securing a reservation had been difficult, even with Hermione’s status and Draco’s money, but Padma had squealed in delight when Draco divulged the purpose of the meal, happy to accommodate his request for a private space.
He let Hermione step ahead of him and Draco marvelled at how beautiful she looked. The pistachio dress was one of his favourites with the way it draped her frame in all the right places. Draco always loved her in green. Even if it wasn’t emerald like his house colours had been, it was reminiscent enough that the proud and possessive tug inside his chest wanted the world to know that he was dating Hermione Granger. That somehow, despite all his flaws, she continually chose to be with him.
When their waiter arrived, Draco ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc before examining the unfamiliar menu. He’d never had Indian food, but Hermione had once said she enjoyed the cuisine. How different could it be from everything else?
They exchanged stories about the day: grievances about how the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was once again not putting Creatures first, updates on how Draco’s latest Potion experiments were going. All the while, Draco couldn’t stop thinking about what he really wanted to say.
I love you. Known I am in love with you since you dragged me to Weasley’s birthday party turned Gryffindor drinking fest. Have probably been in love with you since the very first night you slept over and I had no qualms about you laying claim to the Prophet crossword puzzle. Want to be in love with you for the rest of my life.
Sweat glazed his palms and Draco had to lower his hand farther down the stem of the glass. If there was anything worse than being too nervous to say “I love you,” it was being too nervous to say “I love you” and having to drink warm white wine.
“Do you remember on our first date how you ordered every single item on the menu just so we’d be able to try them all?” Hermione asked.
The tension in his shoulders immediately slackened, lightened by the memory. “It was tapas. They’re small plates so you can have everything.”
“We didn’t even end up eating half of it!”
“Only because we were talking the entire time.”
It had taken Draco two months after the fundraiser to actually ask Hermione out. Two months visiting Diagon every Saturday and Sunday, just hoping on the off chance she’d be there. They were all casual encounters. A passing in the aisles at Flourish and Blotts. Subtle smiles of acknowledgement outside of Gringotts. An actual exchange of words inside of Rosa Lee Teabag. It was only after she’d gotten her order—coffee, not tea—that Draco asked if she wanted to get dinner sometime.
It didn’t have to be a date. He hadn’t been sure if it would be.
But then they talked well into the evening, cosy at their table until the waitress came to tell them the restaurant was closing.
Now, there was no one else Draco would rather have on the opposite side of the table from him.
He took her hands into his.
“Hermione”—his heart snagged at the mere utterance of her name—“there’s actually something I wanted to tell you tonight.”
Her eyes dazzled in the surrounding candlelight, and all Draco wanted was for her to never stop looking at him like that.
Curse the waiter who then decided at that moment to arrive with their food.
“Malai Kofta for the witch, and Lamb Vindaloo for the wizard.”
Draco withdrew his hand as the food was placed between them. He had been so close. So bloody close. What was the point of having a private room if the waiter was going to interrupt the most important moment?
The waiter didn’t stay long, but it didn’t matter. The momentum had stalled. He’d just have to endure his meal in agonising anticipation as he waited until after dinner to tell her. That was more romantic anyway, right? The climactic ending before he dropped his Galleons on the table and Apparated them directly back to his place where he could tear that pistachio green dress from her body.
As Draco shifted attention to his meal, he felt Hermione’s eyes on him, waiting to complete his thought, but it didn’t come. He spooned rice onto his plate and poured the Lamb Vindaloo on top, hoping she would let it drop for the time being.
But of course, it was never going to be that easy.
“What did you want to tell me?”
He needed a moment to think. To come up with something else.
He took a bite of the Vindaloo, chewing the food as he chewed over his words. A swallow. A teary eyed blink. And then his whole mouth felt like it had been hit with an Incendio.
Draco reached for his wine and began chugging, but that only seemed to make the heat more intense. Water. He needed water. But not even ice cold liquid could douse his flaming taste buds.
Hermione’s eyes blew wide. “Are you alright?”
Draco couldn’t get out words, only a fanning of his face.
“Fan? Hot? Oh gods…. Draco, is this your first time having Indian?”
A nod.
“Then why in Merlin’s name did you get the same spice level as me!”
Because he was a damn fool, apparently.
“Sorry,” he managed, but Hermione paid it little mind.
She placed her napkin on the table. “You stay here. I’ll go find the waiter and get you some milk.”
Alone in the room, Draco dropped his head on the table and banged it against the surface. After that embarrassment, there was no way he could tell her tonight.
~*~*~
Simple. Draco was going to keep it simple.
It was an annual tradition she used to do with her parents, but with them choosing to stay in Australia after their memories were recovered, Draco considered himself honoured to have been invited—even if he had no idea what the Oscars were. On her coffee table sat six slim boxes containing silver disks Hermione called “DVDs.”
“These are all the films that were nominated for Best Picture.” Hermione held out the boxes for Draco to explore. “Each year, the Academy picks five films for each category including Best Actor and Best Actress. Those are the people who play each of the characters.”
Draco flipped through the covers. “Then why are there six boxes here?”
“Well, you can’t watch The Two Towers without having seen The Fellowship of the Ring!”
Those titles meant absolutely nothing to Draco, but if the mere mention of them made Hermione light up like that, then he was ready to spend all day on her sofa: cuddling, eating popcorn, and trying to understand what the big deal was about these moving Muggle creations.
At no point did anyone bother to tell Draco that Muggle films were extremely long—especially those Lord of the Rings ones. Apparently, he had to watch the extended editions. And while those films were, admittedly, very entertaining, they were halfway through some musical about women in Chicago and much more murder than expected when his eyelids started to droop. They were only on their fourth movie and Draco didn’t know how he was going to make it through two more.
Even worse, he still hadn’t had the opportunity to say those pesky words that taunted him more and more with every passing second.
This wasn’t what Draco imagined when picturing this day. He’d expected it to be much more like the first time he’d visited Hermione’s flat. The first time he’d visited a Muggle flat.
It was only a few weeks into officially dating, and long before anyone outside of their close group of friends knew they were together. They’d spent the day perusing the London markets before making their way back to her place. Draco had always known Muggles lived differently from wizards; that much he’d been taught since birth. Prejudice aside, it was inherently true that without magic, Muggles led a different lifestyle. Draco just hadn’t expected to see so many unknown contraptions.
“And what does that do?” he had asked, pointing to the large silver rectangle with nothing but black in the centre of its frame.
Hermione grabbed a smaller black device off the coffee table. “It’s a television. It’s like wizard photographs with moving pictures, but people use it to make up stories like a visual version of a novel. Come sit. I’ll show you.”
She pressed a button and the television illuminated with colour. With each new press, the television flickered to an entirely new image until she stopped on a film with some man pretending to be William Shakespeare supposedly falling in love. But the film hardly mattered. No more than twenty minutes had passed before Hermione was straddling Draco, making out with him on her sofa while the film played in the background.
Very different from today.
Now, each time Draco’s eyelids slipped even a fraction, Hermione’s commentary woke him up again. If not about the plot, then about the art direction, the costumes, the directing. Evidently, she had just as much to say about films as she did about books.
And Draco tried to listen. He truly and sincerely did. But Merlin, it was difficult when he had stayed up until two the night before, tossing in bed while slumber evaded him. After two failed attempts, he really expected the third time to be his promised charm.
So much for wishful thinking.
And so much for trying to stay awake.
“Draco? Draco…”
He rattled back to consciousness, head settled in Hermione’s lap with his legs dangling off the end of the sofa. At what point had he fallen asleep? Last he recalled, six women had been singing in a jail cell. Now, the credits were rolling for what looked like an entirely different film.
“You missed all of The Pianist, but honestly, that’s probably for the best.”
Remorse trickled through his veins and spread through him like poison. This was her tradition with her parents and he had spoiled it.
“Hermione, I’m sor—”
“No, no apologising,” she said before placing a short kiss on his lips. “You made it through all of Lord of the Rings which is more than I expected. That alone was six hours. But, as punishment, I will be dragging you to the cinema to see Return of the King when it comes out in December. Deal?”
Any lingering guilt promptly evaporated. Hermione was making plans for them in December. Months away from now.
It wasn’t “I love you,” but that, for now, was enough.
~*~*~
The class was her idea, but that didn’t mean Draco couldn’t use it to his advantage.
A couple’s baking class: no magic, just what they could create with ordinary kitchen utensils.
And when the class was finished, he was going to tell her he loved her. Period. Done. It was happening today.
“Will you help me with the apron?”
Hermione lifted her hair, making it easier for Draco to adjust the strap behind her neck. Once in place, Draco kissed her on the soft skin behind her ear. “You aren’t going to let me look like a fool during this, are you?”
Hermione giggled as he continued to press kisses down her neck, public affection be damned.
“I’ll do anything that requires Muggle appliances, I promise.”
The class was simple enough. The instructor guided them through three different recipes: sticky toffee pudding, victoria sponge cake, and scones. Most of the ingredients were pre-measured with clear directions. The only appliance they had to handle themselves was the automatic mixing bowl which Hermione swiftly claimed control over.
Draco breathed a sigh of relief. Surely nothing would go wrong this time. Finally, finally, he’d have the perfect opportunity to tell this witch the words that were seconds away from bursting out of him like steam from a tea kettle.
Confidence eased Draco’s nerves, turning the turbulent waves in his stomach to gentle lulls. And with his comfort, joviality arose.
Each time Hermione turned on the mixer, Draco poked her side, making her squirm and laugh over the whirl of the appliance. When the instructor called for them to stir in the next ingredient, Draco would shuffle around the pre-measured ingredients, trusting Hermione’s flawless memory to never lose sight of the one she really wanted. And with the leftover dough, Draco balled it into a thumb-sized Snitch before wandlessly Charming its dough wings to flutter. It didn’t last a single second in the air before Hermione crushed it onto the counter and shot Draco a falsely annoyed look.
That look never failed to make Draco grin. Not now, and not in the similar situation where he’d last seen it. On his most recent birthday, Draco had concluded his Potion research and decided to head home early—much to Hermione’s dismay.
“You aren’t supposed to be here for another hour!”
White powder covered his counters like snow in early June. Flour streaked her hair, dirty pans stacked inside the sink, unbaked batter rested within a cake pan.
Merlin, he had never wanted her so bad in his entire life.
Draco dropped his work belongings at the door. “Come here, you beautiful, gorgeous witch.”
Hermione squealed as he picked her up and wrapped her legs around his torso. “But Draco, your cake.”
“Forget the cake,” he said, a smirk growing wide when he deposited Hermione on the kitchen island. “I’m in the mood for a different dessert.”
Draco slid his hands up her thighs and dragged her knickers off from under her dress. Hermione gasped, made all the sweeter when his tongue found her wet, hot folds. Twin grips clasped into his hair as she ground into him.
“Oh, yes, Draco. Right there. Right— Oh, gods.”
He sucked her clit and her breaths grew ragged, telling Draco to keep going. Just like that. More.
There was no sweeter taste than Hermione’s release coating his tongue.
It was by far the best birthday he’d had in years.
When the cooking class concluded, Draco and Hermione took their baked goods to the nearby park where Draco had previously scoped out a bench with a view of the Thames. With the sun starting to set, this was the perfect location.
Draco broke off a piece of a scone, giving Hermione the honours of first bite.
She wrapped her lips around his fingers, taking the scone into her mouth. He relished the soft warmth, never tiring of the divine and sinful things she could do with those lips. But as soon as Hermione started to chew, she immediately reached for a napkin and spat it out.
Her face twisted in distaste. “I’m afraid we may have switched the sugar and salt.”
Gods dammit. Draco’s stupid little shuffling game.
“Sorry, I—”
“We made these together. Not just you,” Hermione said before he could get any more of an apology out. She pushed aside the scones in favour of the sticky toffee puddings. “Besides, we still have other treats to enjoy.”
Draco contemplated saying it then. At this point, would there ever be a perfect time? But she deserved more than just something he said in passing.
Hermione Granger deserved the world. And Draco Malfoy was going to give her that.
~*~*~
Draco stared at his reflection. He didn’t wear suits often, not anymore, but tonight was one occasion that necessitated his (and her) favourite blue suit.
How had one year passed since they first started dating?
All the emotions from the past year had built up to this moment. A milestone, in all honesty, Draco hadn’t originally expected to reach.
In the Manor gardens and on their first date, they had played it safe with conversation topics. Draco learned about how she completed her education at Hogwarts before working at the Australian Ministry for two years, while Hermione learned that Draco had gone to Paris to complete his Potions Mastery. The return to England had been fresh for both of them. And with it had come the opportunity to start afresh with each other, too.
But none of that erased the past. All the evil in which Draco had partaken. The irreparable damage he had done. To the wizarding world. To her.
Draco knew he’d needed to apologise before he could even entertain the idea of turning this into something greater. And one summer night, he ventured into the Muggle world for their third date, stomach in now far too familiar knots in anticipation of the words aching to be said. Far different words from the ones he clutched onto now, but no less important. In many ways, they had been more important.
“It shouldn’t have taken until now for me to say this, though I fear it took me this long to be able to work through the feelings that brought me to this point. For years, I didn’t think I deserved good things. That a life away from friends and family, devoted to solitary studies, was what I deserved for the pain I had inflicted on others. But a Mastery couldn’t fill the black hole that threatened to swollen me with each waking breath. If it wasn’t for my mother insisting I come home and see a therapist like she had done, I’m not sure what would have become of me.
“I naively believed that if I removed myself from everyone’s lives, they could move on. Forget I existed and the suffering I caused. But those people deserved my apology, you more than anyone.”
“Draco—”
“Please don’t interrupt me. If you do, I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to finish. I’m so sorry, Hermione. From the first time I called you nasty, unforgivable names out of juvenile pettiness to ever believing any validity to that disgusting word. I don’t know how I could ever prove to you how much I regret every cruel action, every sour thought, but if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.”
A year later, he was still trying. And somehow, miraculously, Hermione continued to choose him day after day.
Three hundred and sixty five days in a row.
Draco landed at the closest Apparition point and walked the rest of the way to Hermione’s flat. She buzzed him in the main entrance and his heart nearly stalled when she opened her door.
“Is it too much?”
The thin straps of her pink, floral dress peeked out from behind her curly hair, giving way to the deep neckline that left little to Draco’s imagination or memory. Forget dinner. Draco was tempted to pull her back into the flat and shag her right here, right now.
But sensibility overpowered hormones.
“It’s perfect.”
You’re perfect.
He grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. Mouths sealed tight, tongues an insistent caress, but that’s all Draco could afford for now. Anything more and they wouldn’t make it to dinner.
Forcing himself away, Draco assessed Hermione with a smile. “Happy anniversary, love.”
Four letters. Half of the way there. But still the other half to go.
The blush streaking across her cheeks matched the colour of her dress. “Happy anniversary,” she said, lips pressed together as if she, too, had not been ready for the kiss to end. “Now are you finally going to tell me where we’re going?”
He took her hand into his. “That, my love, is still a surprise.”
Love, love, love.
Now that he had uttered that word once, Draco couldn’t resist saying it again. Would say it again, along with those two other critical pieces, as soon as they sat down at the restaurant.
They walked hand in hand down the pavement, Hermione asking a dozen questions as they neared closer.
“Can you at least give me a hint?”
“I’ll answer yes or no,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t cease until he gave her something.
“Is it in Diagon?”
“No.”
“Muggle?”
“Yes.”
“Somewhere we’ve been before?”
“No to that too.”
Draco hadn’t wanted any help selecting the spot for tonight. No input from Potter, no connection from friends, no lazy night at home, no organisation by Hermione. Tonight was special, in more ways than one. So when he overheard someone at the Apothecary hype about the popular American cuisine, Draco knew he had to take Hermione.
But when they rounded the corner, the restaurant was not what he expected. In fact, calling such an establishment a restaurant felt like a gross misnomer.
A large, red sign stretched across the top of the storefront, ending in the cartoon depiction of a young girl with equally red pigtail braids. One look at this “Wendy’s” eatery and Draco promptly knew this place would not serve the fine, quality burgers the stranger in the Apothecary had promised. Gone was Draco’s vision of white tablecloths and candlelight. A romantic setting to celebrate their relationship. A chance to show her how much he loved her before he actually said it.
Complaining about it, though, solved nothing. And now Draco’s plan for their anniversary was ruined.
Or maybe not.
Hermione’s burst into lighthearted laughter, accompanied by a vibrant smile that erased all of Draco’s concerns.
“Please tell me you thought Wendy’s was the name of some woman who decided to open her own restaurant!”
Embarrassment pricked his cheeks. “I politely decline to answer.”
Her tinkling sniggers lit up the evening, an assurance that the night was not entirely lost. Surely there were other restaurants in this neighbourhood.
Draco reclaimed her hand with his. “I’m sorry I wasted your time taking you here, but now we can—”
“You do that a lot.”
He blinked in confusion. “Do what?”
“Apologise for things that aren’t necessary.”
Hermione twined their fingers together as she looked up at him with a wide, earnest gaze. There was no sign of judgement or annoyance. Just his girlfriend sharing an observation. A concern.
For all the times he wanted to say “I love you,” Draco had never noticed how often he said “sorry” instead. A tightness clenched inside his chest. “I just need you to know that I never want to hurt you again.”
“I do know that.” Hermione squeezed her grip. “But I don’t want you burdening yourself with this constant need to apologise for minor things. What you did in the past…I know you’d take it back if you could. After you apologised for your role in the war, I never doubted your intentions. You don’t need to spend the rest of your life apologising, especially when there’s no harm done. I don’t need anything fancy for our anniversary. I just need you.”
Draco stared at her, not sure how to react. This woman, this brilliant witch, sometimes knew him better than he knew himself. She was right. They didn’t need anything fancy. So why was Draco putting so much pressure on himself to say something he could have said months ago?
“Hermione, I—”
Her lips pressed against his, stealing the words from his mouth before Draco had the chance to say them.
“Come on,” she said, leading Draco towards the Wendy’s as soon as she pulled away from the kiss. “It’s only right you now have to experience fast food. We can even take it home with us.”
Draco would never know how he got so lucky. And whenever he did finally tell Hermione how he felt, Draco would make sure he reminded her every single hour.
~*~*~
The next morning, Draco woke before her. He placed a short kiss to her forehead before peeling himself from her embrace and slipping into her kitchen. He set the kettle to boil then began preparing Hermione’s drink. It had taken him many failed attempts, but Draco had eventually mastered her Muggle coffee maker. Now, it was just another step in his morning routine.
When the morning Prophet arrived, Draco sipped on his tea as he completed the Sunday crossword puzzle. After all, turnabout's fair play.
Hermione sauntered into the kitchen half past nine, impressively late for the normally early riser. But Draco couldn’t blame her. Once they’d finished stuffing their faces with greasy burgers and flimsy fries, Draco had ended their anniversary with Hermione crying out in repeated pleasure as she reached climax three separate times.
One for each still unsaid word.
“Morning,” Draco greeted, grinning at the way her hair was even wilder than usual after last night’s activities. He handed Hermione her coffee. “Careful, I put a Heat Charm on it, so it’s still hot.”
“Always such the considerate boyfriend.” She took the warm mug into her hands and dipped down to kiss his cheek. “I love you so much.”
She blew past him like a summer breeze, but Draco felt like he had just been struck by a hurricane.
Surely she hadn’t just…
But when Draco whipped around, Hermione was already staring back, a playful smirk teasing the edges of her lips. It burst into a full smile when realisation struck Draco in full force. He rose from his seat and Hermione immediately set down the mug with a giggle then skittered away from him.
“Come back here, witch!” He chased Hermione through the kitchen and back into the bedroom where he pinned her down to the mattress. “You did not just say it first.”
Crimson bloomed across her cheeks. “Someone had to be the Gryffindor in this relationship and finally say it!”
“I’ve been trying to say it for weeks!”
“‘Trying’ being the operative word.”
Draco squeezed his grip around her wrists tighter and Hermione let out a squeal.
“Merlin, you’re insufferable. But more than anything on this planet, I love you,” Draco said before slamming his lips to hers. “I love you today. I love you tomorrow. I love you always.”
They didn’t leave the bed for the remainder of the day. And when Draco made her come this time, he did so between repeated choruses of three little words comprised of eight simple letters.
It may not have been the way Draco originally pictured confessing his love, but in the end, all that mattered was that Hermione knew how much he cared for her—and she for him.
But when he one day proposed, Draco was going to make sure it was something Hermione never forgot.