Draco stared at the back of Hermione’s head as he followed her up the cellar steps and smiled to himself. He felt fucking incredible. She’d said that she loved him. She had said it in front of Potter. Draco didn’t even care that Potter hadn’t been justifiably hexed or otherwise injured – Hermione loved him, and she had told him so. It was the strangest feeling in the world. But Draco liked it, even if the sheer amount of happiness he was feeling made him worry that something terrible was going to happen just to balance things back out. The universe didn’t seem to like seeing Draco happy, if the last few years of his life were any indication. But Hermione loved him, and that was good, and he told himself he should stop questioning things, and being such a fucking pessimist. But it was ingrained in his nature. Draco couldn’t just enjoy the moment; he was always analysing the past, assessing the present, plotting for the future.