The Only One That Matters
by The Eighth Weasley
Hermione stared at Draco, hardly believing what he'd just said.
"What?" she asked. It was always a good idea to check your sources.
"I said," he said, with a hint of why-aren't-you-listening-to-me-Granger, "will you marry me?"
"You've got to be joking," said Hermione.
"Why?"
"Why?" Hermione spluttered. "Shall I just list the first hundred reasons?"
Draco's face didn't quite cave, but it did the closest thing to it she could recognize: his eyes grew cold and distant, his mouth straightened, his cheeks paled, his chin tilted up just a tad, and his breath hitched.
"Not that I don't love you," she said, taking a hand and patting it reassuringly, wondering how to salvage this, "but it's just... impractical!"
"Why?" he asked sulkily, spitting the word out like cracker crumbs.
"First off, we're in the middle of a war-"
"So?"
"We're stuck in a trench with light from only our wands, Voldemort--"
Draco wibbled.
"Voldemort," she repeated, "is out there determined to kill both of us, plus Harry and anyone who gets in the way--"
"So?"
"And... well, I'm just not ready."
There was a very long silence. Hermione could hear one of the makeshift pipes dripping overhead, the dank rock face shining with dribbles. Someone laughed in a corridor beside theirs--Tonks?--and the sound was forced, hollow, like the very tunnels they stood in.
"So, is that a no?" Draco asked, suddenly sounding very young and insecure.
Hermione's heart felt like it was breaking in two. Draco never cried, never, and here he was, standing in front of her, his eyes shining and glittery, blinking fast, swallowing, his lower lip trembling. She reached for him, wanting to hug him, wanting to reassure, but he turned his head and tensed his body. Hermione fell back, arms limp at her sides.
"It's--it's not a no, Draco," she said, "it's an 'Ask me again later.'"
Some color returned to Draco's cheeks. "Bloody hell," he muttered, and she saw that when he turned away, he brought a hand up to his face. A moment later he turned back, and his eyes were clear. "I waste a week getting up the courage, even ask Potter if it's okay--hell, I even had to ask Ron, because otherwise he'd've jinxed me faster than Moody--"
"You went to Ron?" Oh, dear.
"Yes." He sounded distinctly petulant now. "I went to bloody Ron Weasley and asked his bloody permission to marry you."
"You went to Ron?" she repeated.
"Yes! How many times do I have to say it, Granger?"
"Oh, Draco," Hermione wailed, throwing herself forward into his arms.
He caught her, his arms automatically entwining around her back and catching in her hair. "Oh, Hermione," he said softly.
"You went to Ron!" she wailed into his robes--they needed a cleaning, she noticed. "You went to Ron, and Harry, and asked their permission! That's so sweet!" she sobbed. "I didn't know--I didn't think you cared about- about them--"
"They're your friends."
Draco spoke softly and uncomfortably, and Hermione raised her head to look him in the eyes. She'd never seen him so unguarded, and it was that, above all else, that made a difference.
"Yes," she said finally, and she looked into his eyes as she spoke.
"Yes?" he whispered.
"Yes," she said, her mouth cracking into a wide smile.
"Yes!" he shouted, and, picking her up, whirled her around once, then twice, and kissed her on the way down. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you make it tough for a guy."
Hermione couldn't think of anything to say to this, so she just kissed him again.
When he pulled back, he was smiling again, this time mischievously. "I'm going to do this properly," he said, almost to himself, and then cast around on the ground, looking for something. He dove into a corner and came up with a piece of ragged string that looked like it had been on the floor for at least a week, and possibly had belonged to one of Mundungus' less reputable collections.
Draco got down on his knees, took Hermione's hand in his, and held the string up in his other hand.
"Hermione Granger, will you marry me?" he asked.
Hermione wanted to split in two with happiness. If she'd been Apparating, she would've splinched herself. "Yes," she squeaked.
Draco solemnly wound the string around her fingers.
Even though he gave her a proper ring on their wedding day, Hermione always looked at that bit of string, sitting just underneath the jewels and the gold, and knew it to be the only one that mattered.
--fin--