"You don’t have to say it, Draco," Hermione interrupted. Her hands slithered up and down his upper arms, cotton rough and his skin hot through it. "It’s only words." And words were almost everything to Hermione. She devoured them on the page. Words were knowledge, and power, and truth. She wanted so badly to hear Draco say he loved her without that crushing I think in there, but... "I know how you feel. You show me it every minute I spend with you. You don’t have to say it, and you don’t have to define it as love if you’re not, um, comfortable with that. That’s not what’s important. What we have is what we have, no matter what you say or don’t say." And saying that was one of the hardest things Hermione had ever done. She meant the words, but she hated saying them. No matter how true what she had just stumbled out was, Hermione still wanted to hear him say I love you. But she wasn’t going to pressure Draco into it.