Work Text:
Lists are important. That is one of the only things they’ve agreed upon about this venture. Hermione has her list. Draco has his. And now, rolled up in the pocket he’s patted ten times in the last two minutes, is the third list. It’s the list—the one that holds the amalgamation of compromises and a few hours of additional research on various breeds of kneazles.
He’s mentally ticking off the boxes again, thinking about how to tell the shopkeep that if the cat is orange, it can’t be too orange. The idea of having a pet wandering the halls with a particular shade of red hair reminiscent of a Weasley makes him shudder. He’s about to discount the idea of an orange cat altogether, considering how it would look in various lights, when he stops in the doorway.
It’s not that Draco is unfamiliar with The Magical Menagerie. Back when he was in school most of his friends had familiars of some kind and he remembers this same store being quite cramped. Granted, he vaguely remembers something in The Prophet about new management but the store has certainly changed. He knew that, like most stores in Diagon Alley after the war, it had undergone severe renovations. But sneaking a glance at the renovations through the swinging doorway from Fortescue’s patio directly across the street and standing in there now, taking in the impressive new expansion charm widening the walls into the cavernous kennel he sees before him were two very, very different things.
For all of his research into types of familiars, all of the hours spent looking into the efficacy of various anti-shedding charms, all of the carefully curated lines on the list he’d thought was absolutely perfect up until this very second, Draco hadn’t once thought to do a stitch of research on the shop itself.
The first thing Draco notices is the sheer quantity of animals. The entire right side of the shop houses nothing but kneazles. There are so many kneazles he almost turns around and abandons the entire mission. Grey, black, orange, white, striped, and everything in between. Picking just one will be an impossible feat but they absolutely cannot have—
“Can I help you?”
Draco blinks once, twice, then clears his throat. “I’m looking for a kneazle.”
“Oh, well then, you’ve certainly come to the right place.” The witch reminds him a bit of Hermione’s pale blond friend; she has the same glaze to her eyes and kind tilt to her lips when she smiles. He’s wondering if there’s any relation when she makes some strange noise that sounds like a cross between a cowl and purr. It’s strange and unnatural and he wants to leave right then and there and abandon this stupid, stupid plan and his now-inadequate list when she waves him over. She looks a bit crazed but Draco’s feet move him forward instead of turning around like he probably should.
“I have a list.” He sounds a bit terse but it’s the best he can do with the impending swarm of fur he already knows will stick to literally every piece of cloth on his body and likely thread itself through his hair.
His hand is in his pocket and he’s pulling it out when the strange witch stops him with the light press of her hand and an oddly ethereal laugh. “Familiars choose their owners, not the other way around.”
It sounds rather ominous, but in for a knut, in for a galleon he supposes, and Hermione’s happiness is worth every last one.
The list is still in his pocket, and other than the animal in his arms being a kneazle, he didn’t even check a single box. He only has a second to let that worry sink in before she rushes to the living room at the sound of the Floo.
Apparently she doesn’t mind that their lists have been forgotten. Her eyes are wide, shining and bright, as she reaches for the little ball of fluff. “Can I name her?”
Draco nods. “Of course.” The little furball she’s holding is purring so loudly he thinks he can actually feel it from a foot away. She hasn’t put the thing down since he walked in the door.
Hermione looks up for the first time in the last five minutes. “Cassie.” It’s not an option, but a fact. He knows that tone and there’s no arguing with her about anything when she sounds so sure. "Short for Cassiopeia."
Draco's heart does that ridiculous thing where it hammers so hard he can hear it in his eardrums and he has to clear his throat before he can speak. "Cassie it is." Not his most eloquent but Hermione does have a way of reducing his speech to its simplest form.
"Because…" She pauses and strokes the purring kneazle's stomach.
"I know." And it happens again. Two tiny words that say so much more.
"You could put her down, you know?"
Draco arches a brow. "Fair's fair. You held her for a long time earlier. If she's to be ours, I should have equal rights."
"But she'll need to learn her way around soon enough." Hermione pouts and it's so distracting he almost forgets how this plan is supposed to end.
Almost, but not quite.
This is it. The culmination of his lists and plans have all led to this singular moment in time.
He channels a sense of flippancy he most certainly does not feel and meets her eyes. "About that." She furrows her brow. "All of her things are still packed and I've had them delivered to a different flat."
"A different flat?" She looks confused, defeated, clearly not registering his offer. For being so brilliant, sometimes the simplest things seem to escape her.
"Yes. A new flat." When recognition doesn't appear to dawn behind her big brown eyes, he presses on. "One I hoped might have enough room for the three of us."
It seems to happen in slow motion: her furrowed brows lift and lift until they're sitting near her hairline just as her lips part and she lets out a small gasp. If he wasn't so bloody nervous he might even laugh but he can hardly breathe until she says something so he waits.
"Are you—are you asking me to move in with you?"
"Well, I'd hoped that much was obvious, Grang—"
Her lips crash into his with such force that his back hits the couch, and he's smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. It's not their best kiss, wide smiles and clumsy pecks, but it's definitely one he won't soon forget.
"And it's us, by the way," he says as he pulls back, leaning his forehead against hers and peering down to the sleepy little kneazle in his arms. "I'm asking you to move in with us.”