“I’ve admired you for years since the end of the war—your tenacity, your drive to bring change everywhere it’s needed, your unwillingness to settle for pat answers about convention and tradition,” Draco said in a rush, as if the words were being driven out of him, “and I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off of you ever since we were assigned as partners during the investigation on goblin labor laws; you’re brilliant and brave and beautiful, and truth be told, I thought you were pretty at the Yule Ball in fourth year, but I never told anyone, and I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this now, but I can’t stop—I–I can’t stop; I can’t bloody stop,” he said, his eyes wide and frantic with an edge of panic in his voice.

Hiding a smile, Hermione said, “Someone must have laced your drink with veritaserum while you weren’t looking,” and she stifled a laugh as the color drained from Draco’s face, and he clapped a hand over his mouth and groaned, turning away from her.

“It’s Blaise, I know it, the bastard; I’ll hex him into the next year for this,” he said, his voice muffled by his hand, but Hermione smiled and hooked her hand through his arm to turn him back toward her, tugging his hand from his mouth as she said, “Before you do, you should probably let him know that he’s done you a favor,” and as Draco stared at her, bewildered, Hermione stepped forward and pulled his face to hers.