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“What’s your favourite spell?” Draco asks out of nowhere one afternoon, when she’s curled up in his study reading a novel.
“Love,” Hermione answers absent-mindedly, her thoughts still with Elizabeth Bennet.
“That’s not a spell,” Draco scoffs.
Hermione puts the book down in her lap. “Isn’t it?” She raises an eyebrow at him, an almost perfect replication of the way he so often looks at her. “It protected Harry all those years. It brought us together. It can change Death Eaters into husbands and bookish know-it-alls into wives.”
Draco’s watching her, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. “Well, when you put it like that,” he mutters.
Hermione’s warming to the argument. “It’s charming and transfiguring and-“
Draco waves her off. “I get the point.” His lips are curled up in a faint smile. Not silencing her because he doesn’t want to hear, but because he already knows all the arguments she’ll make.
Hermione huffs, faux-offended. “What’s yours, anyway?”
Draco comes out from behind the desk and drops to the side of the armchair, staring up at her with a reverent expression. “You.”
“I-“ Hermione opens her mouth and closes it again. “Well, alright.” She runs her fingers through his hair, tousling it with her fingers. “Because I’m charming, right?”
“Enchanting.” Draco leans up and kisses her cheek. “Wouldn’t trade you for the world.”
“See?” Hermione grins at him. “It’s love.”