Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love

“How do you feel about thievery?”“In favour,” said Draco. “You don’t even know what we’re stealing.”
“What is it?”“What if it were – theoretically, of course – a precious relic of critical religious significance?”
“...When are we going?”“Have you got any plans for the Solstice?” asked Granger. “Thievery of a religious artefact with a surprisingly naughty Healer,” said Draco. “You?”

He kissed her, softly, under the downpour, softly, against her split lip, softly, amongst tears and rain and blood.

And besides, in this cottage, with Granger the Human Anemone and her orange toilet brush of a familiar, his hair still easily won best-in-show.

Granger said, “Beautiful,” and Draco said, “Yes,” but they were not talking about the same thing.

Draco did that thing he’d grown to like doing, of giving her answers that actually referred to her. “Gorgeous,” said Draco.

He was drunk on endorphins and too much good booze and too little good sense. Her lips were parted. She was looking at him like she could kiss him. It was – impossible. It couldn’t happen.

Happiness was her, alive, her tear-filled eyes spilling over, her heartbeat thudding against his chest.

“I’m the luckiest idiot who ever walked this earth,” said Draco, holding her face, pressing his forehead against hers.