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Draco was not a dramatic man.
He was sensible. Level-headed. He was rarely bothered by anything, and if he did happen to be bothered by something, such as, say, his girlfriend of three years holding an enormous bouquet of flowers that he, her boyfriend of three years, had not sent her—
He was certain no one thought he might overreact.
But the moment he walked into the Ministry and saw Hermione, flustered and blushing and holding said bouquet—
Well, Draco may have had one or two things to say about it, yes.
Hermione was his. Had been for years. Entirely, unequivocally his. His morning and evening, his first and last thought. She was the gravitational centre of his universe. The reason that, when they shared a bed, he woke up ten minutes early, just to stare at her and remind himself that she was really his.
For Merlin’s sake, even his mother thought she was wonderful.
Draco already knew that one day, he’d make Hermione his wife. He’d ask. Soon. But that moment had to be absolutely perfect. Three years of planning thus far, with probably another to go. It would be perfect. It had to be perfect for her.
So, it was obvious to anyone that they were very fucking serious.
And yet—
Some other man was sending her flowers.
He growled under his breath.
He sidled up to Hermione, trying very hard to keep his cool as she looked up at him with the prettiest, most unbridled joy he'd ever seen in those breathtaking eyes.
“Hi, my love,” she cooed, her eyebrow quirking as if playing into some big, funny joke. “It appears I have a secret admirer?”
She rose up to kiss him, brushing her lips against his cheek. He stilled, momentarily forgetting that he knew how to breathe, let alone that he’d stormed over here in a jealous strop.
But as soon as the kiss ended, he snatched the card from the flowers and glared at it.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
I think a grand gesture is long overdue.
“They’re not from me.” He scowled.
Hermione’s face twisted with confusion. “They’re not?”
“No?” he scoffed, knowing he sounded very petty. “You think I’d send—something so—so—”
Draco cast his eyes over the florals, running through the lessons he’d had with M. Chauvin, trying to zero in on whatever glaringly obvious flaw in the arrangement’s language that he could find.
Edelweiss. Devotion. Boldness. That made sense. Gladiolus layered thick through the centre for ardour untempered by patience. Shit. Surprisingly creative. Ivy wove cleanly through the stems.
Remain, endure, persist.
It sent a message louder and clearer than even he himself could’ve sent.
I know what I want, and I’m not fucking around.
The choices were unimpeachable.
“So…what, my love?” Hermione asked.
Draco scowled again.
He did not like this.
Not one fucking bit.
Thursday, Draco sat at his desk, trying to put Wednesday's flowers out of his mind.
It was St. Valentine’s day that weekend, and he needed to be at his best for it. He was whisking Hermione away to Austria so she could spend the day squealing at having the Admont Abbey library all to herself, while he sat there and made sure none of the monks cast even a single, celibate glance in her direction.
His eyes rose to his girlfriend across the room, and he smiled as she hurried through her edits on her new legislative proposal.
Until another bouquet arrived.
The room fell silent as it floated purposefully through the air, settling itself on Hermione’s desk.
She looked up. She noticed.
And she blushed.
Draco’s chair scraped loudly, his footsteps loud and angry as steam poured from his ears.
Hermione’s mouth was already open, about to ask the question, but one look at his face made it rather obvious that no—
These weren’t from him, either.
The arrangement was another stunner. Irises exploded brightly through the centre. A declaration. Baby’s breath, pristine and infuriatingly elegant. Everlasting love.
And the fucking card—
Roses are red, chocolates are brown,
Your boyfriend’s a fool for not locking you down.
Draco read it once. Twice. A third time, then a fourth. Halfway through the fifth time, he checked once more for a sender.
He would’ve read it a sixth time, but the card had somehow found itself torn into two dozen pieces and set unceremoniously on fire.
“Who is it?” Draco asked Hermione. “I'll end him.”
Her mouth fell open. “You think I know who’s sending me flowers?”
Draco growled again.
Friday. They were due to leave that evening. Hermione didn’t even know, which was part of the plan. A surprise for her. Because he loved her. More than anything in the entire world, he loved Hermione Granger.
Draco knew that he shouldn’t have let this get under his skin. Hermione was so loyal. So devoted. To her work, her friends, of course, but especially to him. His own possession paled in comparison to the power of her love. To the ferocity of her love.
It wasn’t her fault that she was caught in the middle of botanical fucking warfare.
And, in the midst of that thought... another bouquet arrived.
But this time, it was on his desk.
Snapdragon. Deception. Nasturtiums. Conquest.
Yellow Roses.
Jealousy.
Draco picked up the card.
Roses are red, leaves bend and unfurl,
You’re a dramatic blonde twat.
And I’m stealing your girl.
His grip tightened so hard that the card crumpled instantly, magic sparking as it sharpened in his fingertips. His vision went white, then—
It went blood-fucking-red.
Stealing.
His.
Someone thought they could take her—
No.
They wouldn’t.
No they absolutely fucking would not.
Draco rose to his feet.
He exploded, tearing the flowers to shreds of petal ribbons, breath heaving as he glared at the remnants.
Hermione stared, clearly worried, but Draco didn’t stop to speak to her.
No.
He stormed out.
He didn’t take the lift. He didn’t apparate—that would’ve required allocating a single thought to something other than his mission. Draco stormed to the Floos. Burst straight through the grate at the Manor, jaw locked so hard it ached.
He stormed again. Up to his office.
Desk.
Top drawer.
Yanked the velvet box out.
Turned on his heel, and stormed back downstairs.
And, as luck would have it—
He had a visitor.
Hermione stumbled out of the Floo after him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.
“Draco?” she asked. “Are you alright?”
Draco growled in response. He crossed the room in two strides.
Caught her by the waist. Pushed her up against the wall.
Kissed her.
It was hard and passionate and possessive and angry, but in the moment he didn’t fucking care. She knew he was desperately jealous and she loved him anyway.
The moan she let out against his mouth wasn’t even a startled one.
He broke away just long enough to flip the box in his hand open.
Took the ring out.
Grabbed her hand.
Shoved it on.
Kissed her again.
This time, Hermione squeaked against his mouth.
He broke their kiss, staring pointedly at her.
“I’ve had this since our third fucking date."
And then, he dragged her through the Manor to his mother’s sitting room.
The door slammed as Draco pushed it open, but Narcissa didn’t jump, simply glanced up at them as she sipped from a teacup.
“Mother. Hermione and I are getting married,” he announced.
Hermione choked.
“Oh?” Narcissa’s eyebrow made the tiniest movement. “Is that so?”
Draco paused.
It was only then he looked down.
And noticed three cups of tea.
He frowned, glancing up at his mother with a questioning expression, before realising with horror—
There was only one person on earth who could’ve sent arrangements that flawless.
Narcissa smiled sweetly at him, lifting her chin proudly as she read his expression without needing to ask. Then, she turned to Hermione.
“Do you like it, dear?”
Draco frowned. He turned to Hermione, perplexed. His eyes widened as hers narrowed. She smirked at Narcissa.
“You were right. Third date.”
The two women grinned at each other. “He did come home so very giddy, dear.”
Draco’s jaw dropped.
Hermione draped her arms around his shoulders. Pulled him close, fingers trailing his hair.
“Roses are red, ivy grows on a trellis—”
She smirked at him.
“We knew all you needed was to get a bit jealous.”