Work Text:
THE LIST
CONS
Completely incapable of minding his own business
Interrupts constantly
Annoyingly competitive about everything
Argues for sport/ just to aggravate people
Mean when vulnerable
Big Ego
Can’t for the life of him pronounce the word Pringles
Stuffy pureblood family who hate me
Sore loser
Thinks my friends are idiots
PROS
Tall
Actually competent under pressure — not competent, very good
Very Sexy/ visually appealing
Has nice hands
Funny. Genuinely, annoyingly funny
Surprisingly thoughtful
Never patronising about work, even when he disagrees
The only person in this office who has a backbone
Brave - has saved my life multiple times
Honest/ keeps his word
Actually listens to my opinions and appears to care
Makes me happy
The Auror office existed in a permanent state of barely-contained chaos and today was no exception. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee, dusty parchment, and old books, all of which were heightened by the dampness from cloaks hung to dry and the slow drip of rainwater onto the tiled floor.
Memos swooped and flapped overhead like disorientated bats, colliding with doors, desks and the occasional head. Desks were crammed into uneven rows, the aisles between them barely wide enough for two Aurors to pass without colliding. Each pair of desks had developed its own ecosystem—coffee cups, quills, evidence bags, all buried under precarious stacks of case files, and the occasional sleeping Auror.
In the far corner, Robards' voice boomed across the department. "Thomas! For fuck's sake, that's the third time this week!"
Draco glanced up just in time to see Dean Thomas collide with Robards, sending a tray of coffees airborne in a spectacular arc. Hot liquid splattered across two nearby desks. Someone swore loudly. Dean stammered an apology, wand already out, vanishing the mess with the harried efficiency of a man who'd done this before.
He passed a suspiciously neat pair of desks, levitating Susan’s Vanilla Bean Frappuccino and Neville’s double espresso onto their otherwise immaculate surfaces. Neville gave him a wordless salute of thanks as he downed the drink in one and threw himself back into his notes.
Draco turned sharply left, narrowly avoiding a trainee levitating a wobbling tower of document boxes, and arrived at the desk he shared with his partner.
He set down the remaining coffees, shrugged out of his cloak, and shook off the rain still clinging to it. It landed in a heap over the back of his chair. A half-hearted drying charm followed.
Across from him, Hermione Granger was bent over a stack of yellow parchment, quill moving in quick, precise strokes.
"Disgusting out there," Draco muttered, nudging one cup toward her. "One triple-shot cappuccino for the witch with absolutely no respect for her nervous system."
She didn't look up. Just reached out blindly, and the cup flew into her hand.
“Thanks Malfoy.” She signed the parchment she was writing on and carefully placed it atop of the growing stack to her left.
Draco looked at his own pile of parchment with a dejected sigh. His completely pile was half the height of Granger’s stack. He had a long way to go before he’d finish. Thanks to another spectacular decision from Potter to make an incredibly dramatic and totally unnecessary act of heroism on their latest raid Draco was destined to fill out every form and report known to wizard kind to ensure all protocols and necessary steps had been taken —which of course they hadn’t.
The sharp anger he felt towards Potter had dulled in the forty eight hours since into his standard background irritation. He pulled the next form toward him and began scribbling.
Across from him, Granger had just finished her stack—because of course she had—and levitated the lot off to Robards' desk. Now she was working on something else, face screwed up in that concentrated way that meant she was struggling with something particularly tricky.
"Did you know Potter was going to jump through the window?" Draco didn't look up from his form, quill scratching across the parchment. "Before he did it, I mean. Did he warn you? Give you some heroic hand signal? Wink meaningfully? Whisper a codeword?”
Granger's quill paused. "That's not how it happened."
"It sodding well was."
"It wasn't. Harry signalled to me before he moved. You were too busy being accosted to notice."
Draco's head snapped up. “Accosted? I’ve never been accosted in my life—”
“You,” She pointed the quill at him. “Were moments —seconds— away from taking an Adva to the face.”
"And yet, here I sit. Whole. Unmurdered. Writing my fifth incident report because Saint Potter couldn't resist making a dramatic exit.” He jabbed his quill at the parchment in front of her. "You've written that the wards collapsed at 20:47. They didn't. It was 20:52. I checked in the pensieve myself.”
"I also checked the pensieve, Draco, and—"
“You're lying. Let me see what you wrote."
“I’m not lying.”
“Then let me see.”
“No keep your grubby little hands to yourself!”
“Grubby?! How dare you. I’ve never had grubby hands a day in my life!”
He reached across the desk, fingers closing around the edge of her parchment.
“Draco.” Her tone was a warning. "Don't—"
He’d never been good at following orders.
He tugged.
She lunged across the desk but he was quicker.
Her eyes went wide with a horror so visceral, so immediate, that Draco's hand froze mid-pull. His stomach dropped. Merlin, what had she written? Something unflattering about him? Something bad?
Granger lunged forward, snatching at the parchment. "Give it back—"
But he'd already yanked it toward him, and when he glanced down he found it wasn't an incident report at all.
It was a scrap of parchment—rough-edged, like it had been torn from something larger—covered in Granger's tight, slanted scrawl. At the top, underlined twice: PROS & CONS.
"Granger," he said slowly. "What is this?"
She'd gone bright red, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish drowning in air.
Draco scanned the list, reading aloud before he could stop himself.
"Pros: Tall. Funny—" He paused, eyebrows rising. “Nice hands?"
"Draco—"
"Cons: Completely incapable of minding his own business." He looked up, confused.
Granger made another desperate grab for the parchment. He held it just out of reach.
"What is this? Is this about Potter?" His face twisted in disgust. "Please tell me this isn't about Potter."
"No! For fuck's sake, give it back, Draco—"
Her eyes darted around the office, panicked. No one was paying attention. Robards was still bellowing at someone about procedure. An Auror two desks over was trying to coax a rogue memo out from under a filing cabinet.
Draco stared at the list again, reading the rest in silence.
Then it dawned on him.
This wasn't about the case. This wasn't even about Potter, thank Merlin.
This was a pros and cons list about a romantic interest.
Granger—Hermione Granger—had a crush. And she was trying to work out whether the poor bastard was worth the effort.
“Malfoy!” She hissed again arm outstretched, her face was tight with frustration, her eye twitched wildly. “Give me that now.”
Draco didn’t acknowledge her just stared down at the list for several long moments skimming the lines then looked calculatingly around the office. Eyes narrowed.
One poor bastard in this room was the unknowing subject of Granger’s total inability to make a decision without making a bloody spreadsheet about it first.
“You can’t give an Auror a puzzle Granger, and expect him not to solve it.” He smirked as his gaze swept across the sea of desks.
Dean Thomas was still mopping up coffee with an apologetic expression. Neville was neck-deep in his notes, double espresso already drained. Robards was gesticulating wildly at a trainee who looked close to tears. None of them seemed to fit.
"It's someone outside the office," Draco said aloud, still holding the parchment at arm's length. "Who is it? Someone from another department? That bloke from Magical Creatures?”
“No, Merlin, just—“
"Wait." His eyes snapped back to the list. Stuffy pureblood family who hate me. He felt something cold and sharp twist in his chest. "It's not Zabini, is it? Because I need to tell you right now, that would be—"
"It's not Blaise!" Granger snapped, face now approaching the colour of a tomato. "It's not—just give it back!"
He scanned the room again. Weasley was face-first against his desk, snoring softly. It couldn't be him—she'd been there before, and he was married now anyway. Potter's disaster of a desk sat empty. He was probably off somewhere getting the bollocking of his life from Dawlish and yet another lecture on protocol.
Draco's eyes travelled toward the back of the bullpen where Theodore Nott lounged against a meeting room doorframe, looking bored. Not him either. Draco knew he wasn't Granger's type, and she certainly wasn't his—not judging by the way he and Neville had been exchanging looks at the last office Christmas party.
Her eyes flicked past his shoulder. Draco spun in his chair.
Robards stood on the other side of the room now, barking orders at someone about the state of their desk. Beside him, Ernie MacMillan stood at attention, clutching a clipboard like his life depended on it. Ernie was well-dressed, hadsome enough and had that annoyingly earnest Hufflepuff politeness that some people found charming.
Draco's lip curled.
"MacMillan?" he said, incredulous. "Please tell me it's not MacMillan."
Granger had stopped lunging for the parchment. She'd gone very still, hands planted on the desk, staring at him with an expression caught somewhere between mortification and murder.
"I will hex you," she said quietly. "I will hex you so thoroughly they'll be finding bits of you in the Thames for weeks."
"That's not a denial."
She said nothing, but if looks could kill, he'd have been dead on the tiled floor.
He scoffed.
So it was Ernie. Ernie fucking MacMillan with his sharp tailored suits and his perfectly coiffed hair and his relentless enthusiasm for departmental policy updates.
"Granger, you can't be serious."
"Give me the list, Draco."
Granger's face was now a shade of red he didn't know existed outside of the Gryffindor common room décor.
"No, no, Granger." Draco leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "I'm a good partner. I'll help you figure this out."
"I don't need your help—"
"Clearly you do. You've resorted to making little love lists." He tapped the parchment.
Granger made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl.
"Right." Draco straightened, all mock-professionalism now. “Starting from the top.”
He glanced down at the list.
“Malfoy!”
For some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, he was irritated by the whole affair. Out of all the men in the DMLE, Granger liked Ernie fucking MacMillan? The one bloke who never entered the field? Who was a glorified note-taker for Robards? Who'd never seen real combat in his life?
“Draco. Please if you—”
“Cons. Interrupts constantly.” He scoffed, “Well that's rich coming from you, you never let me finish a sentence.”
She gave him a look that said she couldn't believe he was serious.
“Annoyingly competitive about everything.” Draco leaned back in his chair, “MacMillan? Competitive? I suppose he did nearly cry when I beat him at limbo at the Christmas party.”
"You are ridiculous." Granger growled.
Draco ignored her. He was enjoying this now.
"Thinks my friends are idiots." He glanced up with a smirk. "Well, Granger, I hate to break it to you, but I'm with Ernie on this one. Potty and Weasel are idiots."
Her mouth had become a thin, pursed line.
"Next. Stuffy pureblood family who hate me." Draco's smirk faltered slightly. "Well, yes, I imagine the MacMillans aren't thrilled about—" He paused, frowning. "Wait, why do they hate you? Have you actually met his family?"
"Give me the list, Draco."
"That's not an answer." His eyes narrowed. "When did you meet them?”
"I haven't met his—" She caught herself, jaw clenching. "Stop trying to distract me."
"I'm not distracting, I'm clarifying." He looked back at the parchment. "Argues for sport, slash, just to aggravate people." He glanced up. "He argues with you?"
"Constantly."
"About what?"
"Everything." Her voice was tight with frustration. "Case methodology. Evidence filing. Whether the tea in the break room is steeped properly. He'll argue just to—" She stopped abruptly.
Draco's eyebrows rose. "Just to what?"
"Nothing."
He turned his attention back to the list, but something uncomfortable was settling in his chest.
"Big ego." A sharp laugh escaped him. "Right, well, I don't know what you expect from a MacMillan. They're all—"
"You have no room to talk about egos, Draco."
His head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I do not have a big ego—"
"You spent twenty minutes last week explaining to the entire office why your tracking spell was superior to regulation protocol."
"Because it was—"
"You literally cannot accept being wrong about anything."
"I'm not wrong about things!" The words came out sharper than he intended. "And I'm certainly not—" He stopped, jaw working. "This isn't about me."
"Isn't it?"
"No. It's about your terrible taste in men." He jabbed a finger at the parchment. "Completely incapable of minding his own business. Well, that's what makes someone a good partner, Granger. Paying attention. Noticing things. Making sure you don't do something stupid like—like date Ernie fucking MacMillan."
She stared at him. “Why is it any of your business who I date?” The challenge in her voice made him tense.
"Because—" He stopped, jaw working. "Because we're partners. And partners look out for each other. That's—it's basic professional courtesy."
"Professional courtesy."
"Yes."
"Right." Her eyes narrowed. "And you stealing my personal notes and reading them aloud in the middle of the office, that's professional courtesy too?"
"Sore loser." Draco glanced up briefly. "Well, I'd be a sore loser too if I was that bad at limbo."
Granger actually laughed at that. Short and surprised, but genuine.
It made his stomach flip.
He looked back down at the list quickly, something shifting in his chest. The mockery felt different now. Smaller. Less amusing than it had been a moment ago.
"Mean when vulnerable." He frowned at the words. "I literally have no idea what that means, so I'm choosing to ignore it." His eyes moved to the next line. "Can't pronounce Pring-lays for the life of him. What an idiot."
He looked up, triumphant, and gestured to the tube of Pringles sitting on the side of his desk—the same one Granger had brought him last week.
"Well, I can pronounce Pring-lays perfectly, Granger. You just need to accept that some purebloods will never be educated in Muggle culture."
She opened her mouth to speak.
"And don't say it's ignorance," he cut her off, "it's not, Granger. It's just that Muggles have so many stupid names for things and it's impossible to keep up."
She stared at him.
The office noise seemed very loud suddenly. A memo flapped past. Someone laughed at a desk behind them.
Draco's eyes dropped back to the Pringles tube. The purple canister with its mustachioed logo. The one that had been sitting on his desk for three days now because he'd been too lazy to throw it away.
His good mood evaporated.
Granger bought Pringles for other people.
For MacMillan.
He'd thought—he'd actually thought—it was just their thing. Her bringing him a new flavor every month, him reviewing each one with increasing specificity until she'd started taking notes. Last month it had been paprika.
This month she'd brought him a limited edition smoky BBQ flavour that had knocked sour cream and onion clean off second place on his ever-changing ranked list. He'd spent fifteen minutes explaining why the seasoning ratio was superior while she'd sat there, chin in hand, looking amused.
He'd thought she was amused because she cared.
Not because she was doing the same thing with MacMillan. With someone else. With someone she was making lists about.
His jaw clenched.
"Pros," he said, voice coming out rougher than intended.
Granger's eyes widened slightly. "Draco—"
"Actually competent under pressure—" He noted the crossed-out words with something sharp twisting in his gut. "Sorry, very good under pressure."
He looked up, meeting her eyes. "That's high praise coming from you, Granger. You don't call anyone very good at anything."
She said nothing. Just watched him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
His gaze dropped back to the list.
"Very sexy, slash, visually appealing."
Something hot and ugly coiled in his chest. He forced himself to keep reading, even though every instinct told him to stop. He couldn’t look at her.
"Has nice hands."
His own hands tightened on the parchment.
Nice hands. She'd been staring at MacMillan's hands. Thinking about them. Writing about them on secret lists she kept folded in her—
“That’s what does it for you is it?” The word came out before he could stop it.
"What?"
“A nice pair of hands?!” He looked up, holding her gaze. Her face was drawn with concern.
“Malfoy—"
"Funny. Genuinely, annoyingly funny." He read the words flatly, but his mind was racing.
MacMillan wasn't funny. MacMillan had the sense of humour of a Flobberworm.
I'm funny, he thought, then immediately hated himself for thinking it.
“Draco give me the fucking list back!”
“No, shan’t. I’m trying to help you see that MacMillan is clearly not—" He gestured vaguely at the list, something hot and uncomfortable burning in his chest. "He's not good enough for you."
The words landed heavy in the space between them.
Granger's expression shifted. Something flickered across her face—confusion, maybe, or realisation—before she schooled it back into irritation.
"Not good enough," she repeated slowly.
"Yes." He forced himself to hold her gaze. "Exactly."
He forced his eyes back down to the list in his hands.
“Maybe—maybe—I can suspend disbelief and say that fine, maybe he has nice hands.” Draco looked up from the parchment. “But by no definition of the word is that man tall.”
Granger’s expression was fixed now as she stared somewhere past him, presumably at the object of her affection. His irritation flared.
“But then I suppose everyone’s tall when you’re that minuscule.”
She didn’t rise to the bait. Didn’t even blink.
Draco followed her gaze over his shoulder. MacMillan was still standing beside Robards, nodding earnestly at something, clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield.
Average height. Unimaginative suit. Thoroughly, devastatingly normal.
Draco turned back to the list, frowning.
“Surprisingly thoughtful,” he read aloud, quieter now.
The mockery had drained out of his voice without him meaning it to. He was reading properly now, actually reading, and something about the words was making his chest feel tight.
“The only person in this office who has a backbone.”
His gaze slid sideways. Caught on Potter’s empty desk. Then Weasley’s, where Ron was face-down, drooling slightly onto a half-finished report.
The only person in this office who has a backbone.
Not Potter. Not Weasley. Not any of the other Aurors who’d been perfectly content to let Robards implement that asinine new filing system last month without a single word of protest.
Draco had argued about it for twenty minutes. In front of the entire department. Until Robards had finally, grudgingly, agreed to reconsider.
Granger had watched the whole thing from her desk, arms folded, expression unreadable.
His chest was unbearably tight again.
“Never patronising about work, even when he disagrees.”
The words blurred slightly. He blinked, refocusing.
MacMillan didn’t disagree. MacMillan agreed. With everyone. About everything. That was his defining characteristic.
Draco disagreed constantly. He and Granger argued about cases, about methodology, about the proper way to file evidence and whether her tracking charms were overcomplicated and whether his were reckless—
He frowned down at her small cramped handwriting, the meaning in each line. The pieces weren’t fitting. They hadn’t been fitting for several lines now, and the disconnect was growing harder to ignore.
His eyes moved to the next line before he could stop himself.
“Brave. Has saved my life multiple times.”
The world seemed to tilt slightly.
MacMillan had never saved Granger’s life.
MacMillan had never even been in a situation where Granger’s life needed saving. The man worked behind a desk. He filed reports. He organised evidence Robards meetings. He didn’t go into the field.
Draco had saved Granger’s life.
Three times in the past year alone.
Once in the spring when she'd nearly been stung by a Manticore. Again in August when she'd gotten herself trapped in a cursed wardrobe—he still tormented her endlessly about that one. And just forty-eight hours ago when he'd stepped in front of her to block a killing curse—thankfully the caster didn't have time to finish before Susan Bones clubbed him over the head with a troll-foot umbrella stand. Creative.
She’d not said anything for a long time after. Then had asked if he was alright in that quiet way, the one that made his chest do something complicated.
He stared at the word brave until it stopped looking like a word at all. Then taking a deep breath that felt like it might be his last, he read the next line.
“Honest. Keeps his word.”
His throat tightened, he fought to swallow.
“Actually listens to my opinions and appears to care.”
The parchment crinkled slightly in his grip.
“Makes me…happy.”
Draco’s brain had gone very still. Very quiet.
All the noise of the office—Robards shouting, memos flapping, the constant hum of conversation—faded into white noise.
He looked up slowly.
Granger was watching him. Face pale. Expression caught somewhere between terror and an expression he’d never seen before. They were the only two people in the world.
She swallowed hard. “Draco—”
“It’s—” His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat, frowned. “It’s not about MacMillan.”
It wasn’t a question.
She closed her eyes briefly, like she was praying for the floor to swallow her whole.
“You need to learn how to say Pringles properly. It’s driving me mad.”
The words hung between them.
Draco’s brain stuttered. Stopped entirely. Then restarted with a lurch. Because it couldn’t be about him he—
“But—” He looked at the list. At the word Pringles staring back at him in accusation. “But it’s Pring-lays. They’re French. You said they were French.”
Granger’s expression shifted from mortification to irritated exasperation so quickly it would’ve been impressive under different circumstances.
“I have literally never once said they were French.”
“You did. When you first brought them, you said—”
“I said they were crisps, Draco. Crisps. They’re American.”
“They can’t be American, the name is clearly—”
“It’s not French!” She looked like she wanted to strangle him.
"I haven't been saying it wrong, I've been pronouncing it correctly based on the linguistic origins of—"
"It doesn't have linguistic origins, it's a made-up word!"
"All words are made-up words, Granger, that's how language works—"
"Oh my god." She pressed her hands to her face. "This is literally on the list. Right here. 'Argues for sport, slash, just to aggravate people.' You're doing it right now."
"I am not arguing for sport." His voice had gone sharp. Defensive. "I'm arguing because I'm right."
"You're not right! You've never been right about this! Pringles are American crisps that come in a tube and you've been calling them Pring-lays like some sort of—of—"
"Some sort of what?"
"Some sort of posh twat who can't admit when he's wrong!"
Draco's jaw clenched. "I admit when I'm wrong."
"You absolutely do not."
"I—" He faltered. Glared at her.
She glared back. "You know what? Add that to the cons. 'Never admits he's wrong.'"
His eyes traveled back up the list. All of it. Every line. Every careful observation. Every frustration and every—
"You think my family hate you."
It came out flat, depressed.
Granger went redder. "Well, history has rather proven that one, Draco."
"My father's dead." The words were sharper than he'd intended. He forced himself to soften his tone. "And my mother doesn't hate you. She's desperate to get you to one of her society luncheons. You just always refuse her.”
"I—what?"
"She's been pushing me to—" He stopped abruptly.
"To what?"
He just stared at her.
Because how could he possibly tell her that his mother had been subjected to months of him talking about Granger? About her sub-par tracking charms and her terrible cramps handwriting and the way she bought him crisps and made his chest feel strange. About how she took her coffee and how she'd looked when she'd bent double laughing at his joke about Robards last week. About how her nearly dying three separate times that year and how each time had taken years off his life.
His mother knew everything. Every overshared, enthusiastic detail.
And she'd been giving him that look about it for months now.
"To what, Draco?" Granger pressed, leaning forward slightly.
"Nothing." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Just—she doesn't hate you. That's all."
Draco's eyes dropped back to the list. They snagged on lines he'd skimmed past before, too defensive to really see them.
Very sexy/visually appealing.
Has nice hands.
Funny. Genuinely, annoyingly funny.
Surprisingly thoughtful.
Something in his chest cracked open. He had to clear his throat twice before he could speak.
When he looked up, she was watching him with an expression that made his breath catch. Her eyes were bright. Too bright. Like she might cry.
The desk between them felt massive suddenly. A canyon. She was right there—close enough to touch if he just reached across—but she felt a thousand miles away.
"You really feel this way?" His voice came out quieter than he'd meant it to. Almost fragile.
She took a slow breath in. Held it. Then gave the smallest nod he'd ever seen.
Just once. Barely there.
A memo swooped down between them with the aggression of a diving hawk, smacking Draco directly in the forehead before fluttering to the desk.
He jerked back, the moment shattering like glass.
"Fuck—"
The memo unfolded itself primly, as if it hadn't just assaulted him. Draco grabbed it, smoothing out the creases with more force than necessary.
Malfoy - my office. Now. Bring the raid reports.
Robards
He crumpled it in his fist.
"You should go." Her voice was steady, but her hands were fidgeting with a quill on her desk. "Robards gets worse if you make him wait."
"Fuck Robards."
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"I said fuck Robards." He was still holding the list. Still staring at her. "He can wait."
"Draco—"
"Why did you make the list?" He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. "What are you not sure about?"
She stood too, uncertain. Bit her lip. Her hands twisted together in front of her.
"I didn't want to ruin it," she said finally, the words coming out in a rush. "What we have. This—" She gestured vaguely between them. "Our partnership. Our friendship. I didn't want to ruin it by wanting more and I—"
"MALFOY!" Robards' voice boomed across the office. "I SAID NOW, NOT WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE IT—"
"I'M HAVING A CONVERSATION!" Draco screamed back, not taking his eyes off Granger.
The entire office went silent.
Completely, utterly silent.
Every head turned. Every conversation stopped. Even the memos seemed to pause mid-flight.
Robards stood frozen halfway across the bullpen, mouth still open, expression caught somewhere between fury and absolute shock.
Draco didn't look at him. Didn't look at anyone else.
Just her.
"Finish what you were saying," he said quietly.
Granger's eyes were wide. Her face had gone red—from embarrassment or emotion, he couldn't tell. Maybe both.
"I—" She swallowed hard. "If you break my heart, Draco, I'm not sure I could get over it."
"So I made the list," she continued, voice shaking slightly. "To try and figure out if you were worth the risk. If this—whatever this is—was worth potentially losing everything we already have."
"And?" His voice came out rough. "What did you decide?"
"I haven't finished writing it."
She walked around the desk—so close now he could smell her shampoo, something citrus and clean—and took the parchment from his hands.
He was desperate to reach out. To touch her. To close the final few inches between them. But it felt like crossing a line he wasn't sure she'd be okay with. So he stood there, frozen, hands at his sides.
He watched her write one final line at the bottom of the cons list. Watched her hand shake slightly as she did it.
Then she straightened and held the parchment out to him.
He took it.
His eyes went straight to the new line, written in her familiar scrawl beneath Thinks my friends are idiots
I love him.
His brain left the building entirely.
He stared at the words. At the three words that didn't belong under cons. That couldn't possibly belong under cons. That made no sense whatsoever being listed as a negative thing—
"That's a con?" His voice came out hoarse.
"Yes." Her eyes were bright with tears. "Because it means I can't be objective anymore. Can't protect myself. Can't—" Her breath hitched. "It's terrifying, Draco."
He let the parchment fall from his hands.
It fluttered to the floor between them, forgotten.
"Okay." He took a breath. "You are the smartest person I know. Possibly the smartest person in this entire building. Possibly the smartest person in Britain."
She blinked at him.
"But that," he pointed at the fallen parchment, "is the dumbest thing you've ever said."
"Draco please listen—"
Her breath hitched.
“No, you listen for once, Hermione." He said her name with emphasis. "You're not supposed to logic your way through loving someone. You can't make a pros and cons list about it and expect that to tell you what to do. Because love isn't—it's not reasonable."
"Draco—" she sobbed.
"I'm not finished." He squeezed her hand. "You want to know why I saved your life three times? It's not because we're partners. It's not even because we're friends. It's because the thought of a world without you in it is so unbearable I can't—I literally cannot function when you're in danger. My brain just goes 'protect Hermione' and everything else stops mattering."
She was properly crying now.
"So yes," he continued, "I'm terrified too. I'm terrified you'll wake up one day and realise you could do so much better. That you'll get tired of arguing with me. That my mother will say something awful at one of those ghastly society luncheons and you'll see sense and leave. I'm terrified of all of it."
He stepped closer. Close enough that there was barely any space between them.
"I'm absolutely terrified," he said quietly. "But I'm done being afraid. I'm done pretending this isn't the most important thing in my life. I've been a lot of things, Hermione. A Death Eater. A prisoner. A fuck-up. But I'm not a coward. Not anymore. Not about this."
She was staring at him like she'd never seen him before.
She gripped her quill tightly, knuckles white. Looked up at him. Then down at the parchment lying on the desk between them.
"But I need you to know," he said quietly, "if you cross it out, I'll know what it means. You'll be choosing this. Choosing us. And I won't let you take it back when it gets hard. When I'm being impossible or when we have our first proper row or when my mother does something mortifying at a dinner party." His voice softened. "I'll hold you to it, Hermione. So if you're not sure—if you need more time—"
"MALFOY!" Robards bellowed from across the office. "STOP HAVING YOUR EMOTIONAL CRISIS AND GET TO MY OFFICE!"
"FUCK OFF, ROBARDS!" Draco shouted back without looking away from her.
The office went dead silent.
"Well?" he asked. His heart was hammering in his ribcage, adrenaline coursing through his body. Everything felt tight. Alive.
She chewed her lip. Stared at the parchment for one long, agonising moment.
Then she leant down and, with one firm stroke, crossed out the last line under cons.
He stared at it. At the single black line through I love him.
Then looked down at her.
She was already looking up at him, eyes bright, terrified, determined.
He kissed her.
She made a small surprised noise against his mouth before her hands fisted in his robes and she kissed him back like she'd been thinking about it just as long as he had.
Somewhere in the background, the office exploded into chaos.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Hermione was clinging to him, laughing through tears.
"You're going to get fired," she said.
"I love you too." He smiled softly, brushing a curl back from her face, and kissed her again.