A Short Story Is A Love Affair

“You know who people trust too much?” Hermione said as she stared up at the ornate ceiling of Nott Manor, her body collapsing into the sofa as if she was aiming to become one of the cushions.

“Lovegood.” Draco replied. He was lying sideways, his gangly legs all but trailing onto the floor over the armrest. His head was a few inches away from her thigh, and his eyes were closed.

“Yes! People always say they’d trust her with their drink, but I wouldn’t let her anywhere near mine. She’d slip me some potion to help with the wrackspurts.”

“Or the nargles.” He pointed out, and she hummed in agreement. “You’re right, though. She’s a crafty one.” 

“Thank you! Nobody ever believes that she has the capacity for it.” She huffed in satisfaction. “Where have you been all my life?” 

“Preoccupied with bigotry and acts of moderate evil.” He replied flatly. “Geographically speaking, though, I’ve been in your general vicinity for nearly fifteen years now. You should really work on being more perceptive, Granger.”

“Moderate evil is a little strong, don’t you think?” She glanced down at him, even though his eyes were still shut.

“Middling depravity? Lacklustre degeneracy? Abstemious immorality?” He drawled, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Did someone get a thesaurus for Christmas?” 

“You’re in no position to mock. You’re pulling your Malfoy’s-fit-when-he’s-clever face.” He shot back. 

“Your eyes are shut, you have no idea what I look like. I am currently pulling my regular face.” 

“Yes, you are.” He drawled, and she realised she’d lumbered right into that one. 

“Arsehole.” 

“Pulchritudinous savant of my dreams.” He said, looking like the kneazle who got the cream.

“Are you Theo’s best man?” 

Draco hummed. “Yep. I assume you’re Potter’s maid of honour. Oh, will you be giving my speech corrections?” 

“Undoubtedly. You’ll look like a tit otherwise.” 

“Do you want to get married?” He asked, finally deigning to open his eyes and look up at her. 

“In general or to you?” She tilted her head, drowning somewhat in the silver. 

“That’s a redundant question. The latter would entirely depend on the former.” He pointed out.

“It’s never held much appeal, but I could be persuaded of the merits if it was always like this.” 

“If you’ve come to something of a decision, we can’t upstage Theo and Potter. This was their night. We’ll have to pick another one.”

“Several decisions to make, Malfoy.” She mused. “A fork in the road.” 

“Like the tongue of a snake?” He smirked again.

“Yes, I had heard good things about yours. I hope you don’t let me down.”

“I promise to die on the spot if I ever do.”

“Do you want to get married?” She asked. 

“In general or to you?” His grin was wide, some might call it shit-eating.

“The latter, the former, etc etc.” Hermione waved a vague hand.

“In general, I’ve always supposed I’d give in to my mother eventually and allow her to strong-arm me into wedding some milquetoast debutante. She’d be happy, and I’d be happy that she was happy, but my own happiness would be some far off, vague-sounding dream. If I were to marry you, however? Well.” Draco smiled. “How much happiness can a mere mortal man possibly stand?”

“Would you like to find out?” Hermione grinned down at him.