HeyJude19

To be in love meant to be a slave to an ideal, surrendering one’s rational mind to an alluring concept that could potentially border on obsession. Draco had long given up sycophantic devotion to ideals of any kind.

To love meant a choice. One he’d not made before Hermione. She ought to know that for Draco, loving her was a conscious decision, deliberately made.

Not in love. He loved. He loved her

“Now what?”

“To bed please.”

“All the way up the stairs?”

“Are you saying I’m too heavy?”

“No you tiny daft thing, I’m just rather impatient to fuck my wife.”