Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
A/N: Prepare for an overdose of fluff. Because that's what you're getting; don't like, don't read. And the pairing is, as always, Harry/Draco.
he loves me
A voice coming from behind the bushes—the faint sound of flowers, or some kind of plant, being picked from their stems—and was that Harry talking?
"He loves me." A pause; the faint, faint, sound of a flower petal ripping. "Oops—he loves me not." Another pause. "He loves me."
"…Harry?" Hermione asked, standing in front of her friend and looking utterly bewildered.
"What are you doing?" she asked, though she had a pretty good idea already.
"Oh, picking flowers," he said vaguely. "If you're going to stay, sit beside me. Don't want anyone to catch you or anything."
"Right," she said. "Right," she said again, as if to make sure. She sat next to Harry.
He began to pick flowers again, taking off their petals one at a time. "He loves me." A pause. "He loves me not." Another pause. "He loves me."
After ten flowers (and all resulting suspiciously with 'he loves me'), Hermione saw that Harry had had his wand out. For picking. Flowers. A wand. She began looking at the flowers that circled him, waiting to be picked, and counted their petals.
And each one. Each one, had an odd number of petals. Odd, which in Harry-talk meant he loves me.
Hermione smiled to herself and left before Harry would catch her snooping, thinking, the lovesick fool; Draco could've told him the same thing, and without all the flower-killing too. Laughing, she joined Ron, not daring to tell him what it was that she found so funny.
.finis
