This is wrong, utterly and completely wrong. I should despise him, loathe him with all of my being; he is nothing but a slug to be crushed underfoot, but . . . but every time our eyes meet, our hands brush, our lips touch, all is forgotten. I shouldn't be feeling this, doing this. What I do repulses me yet, inexplicably, attracts me, all at the same time. A fatal attraction.

Bored with interminable Quidditch prattle, I would sometimes find myself studying him during meals. Just for aesthetic purposes, I told myself. He was, after all, a fine specimen of a man with the way his hair fell just so into those startling gray eyes, the way his lips – those beautiful lips – would purse in annoyance or form words . . . words that I wish he would serenade me with. Time passed and my usually meticulous notes gave way to tiny, loving doodles as I dreamed of a moment in an abandoned classroom or broom closet. All the things we'd do together. . . .

Looking back, I'm not really sure who started it. It could have been him, he who needed a distraction from his life – surrounded by wealth and prestige, but never really shown affection – or I, tired of dealing with guys who were either:

A.) Taken

B.) Arrogant pricks, or

C.) So very thickheaded that it took them four years to realize that yes, I was a girl.

I can still remember the first time we acted civilly toward each other. Funny, it feels as if it were a lifetime ago, yet I recollect if as if it were yesterday. I remember that I was walking toward the library to look up some information for my Transfiguration essay ("Explain the advantages and disadvantages of Self-Transfiguration") when I heard the sound of crying coming from the girls' bathroom. Assuming it was Moaning Myrtle – and having no inclination to deal with the angst-ridden girl – I made to go on my way when I heard something. It was a male voice.

His voice.

I meant to leave, really I did, but some part of me – the part corrupted by Harry and Ron, no doubt – led me to take the doorknob in my hand and push it open. There he was, leaning over the sink, hair disheveled, face as pale as any vampire's. I gasped softly, but it was enough for him to notice my reflection in the mirror. Drawing his wand from the pocket of his robes, he turned to face me, sneering in disgust – whether for himself or for my dirty-blooded status, I wasn't sure.

"Get out of here while you still can, Mudblood!" he shouted.

I said nothing, did not move from my spot.

"I'm warning you, I'll curse you! Go on, get the fuck out!" Yet, despite the cruel, caustic words, his voice shook.

There was nothing I could say or do. At any other time I would have retaliated – the incident from our third year rose in my mind – but now . . . he just looked so young, so . . . lost. He needed help. So, summoning my Gryffindor bravery, I stood silent and allowed him to scream himself hoarse.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the wand lowered, yet his eyes – looking as panicked as a wild animal's – didn't leave my face.

"What do you want?" He spoke softly, but his words traveled around the room, echoing off the cold, stone walls. Dimly, I noticed Myrtle peeking timidly from a toilet stall.

Once again, I said nothing. Then, without giving him a chance to respond, I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around him while his own hung limply at his sides. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, that we stood there in the out-of-order bathroom, but I didn't care and, slowly, I felt his own arms wrap hesitantly around my own slim waist.

"Promise you won't tell," he whispered into my ear. And, with one last squeeze, he detached himself from me, almost automatically brushing his hands over his pristine robes. Don't worry, Mudblood isn't contagious.

Blushing lightly, I grabbed my schoolbag and slung it over one shoulder.

"Promise." Smiling in what I hoped was a comforting fashion, I left. Over the next few days, there were no overt changes – he didn't kiss me in the middle of the Great Hall or present me with a bouquet of flowers – but we were just polite enough so as to acknowledge what he had shared, but also not to raise suspicion.

Within a week, he had invited me to study with him – I believe his excuse was help on his Charms essay – and soon I was avoiding Harry and Ron, burying myself behind piles of frightening-looking books waiting for him, just waiting. . . .

Now, if this had been a normal year, Harry and Ron would have been suspicious long before now – being two of the top on Voldemort's hit-list, it was hard not to be – but with Harry's crush on Ginny and Ron and his beloved "Lav-Lav" I was barely missed. And, surprisingly, I was happy that way. Then, one day, everything changed.

We had been walking the grounds for a few hours, free of homework for once, and had lost track of time, I suppose. We lay now, watching the first stars come out, our backs against the big oak tree.

"That's Draco," he explained, a smile lighting his pale face – made paler still by the moonlight – as he pointed toward the constellation.

"Huh, I never thought I'd see that one." My eyes widened as I watched the dark night sky.

"Yeah," he agreed, "it's really rare this time of year."

"It's beautiful," I said softly.

"What?" He turned toward me so quickly I was sure he'd get whiplash; however, I didn't look at him, keeping my gaze fixed on the constellation. Yes, stare at the pretty stars, the pretty stars, not the pretty man.

"Draco . . . it's beautiful," I repeated.

"I guess." Yet, still, I could feel his gray eyes fixed on me. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck and I desperately wanted to reach up, swipe it away. But no . . . I couldn't show him I was nervous. Please look away, please.

Absentmindedly, I drummed my fingers against the ground. That's right, just act casual, Hermione. Don't let him know he's getting to you.

Still, he stared.

"Well. . . ." I gulped audibly, still refusing to meet his gaze. "It's getting late. I think I'd better. . . ." I didn't finish the sentence – I couldn't – as his lips clamped onto mine, hands entwining in my brown curls.

"Dra-" I tried to speak over his lips, but he slipped his tongue into my mouth, silencing me. I gasped, feeling about ready to faint with pleasure. . . .

And the next thing I knew I was blinking slowly awake, stark naked in the Room of Requirement, Draco's arms surrounding me protectively. And, well, the rest is history. Every night, while Harry and Ron were struggling over papers or possible love affairs, I would leave, running as fast as I could toward the Room of Requirement where Draco would be waiting, a smile playing around his lips at the thought of what was to come.

Yes, of course it was fun, but we had an unspoken agreement. There would be no strings attached, no romance. This was purely sex.

Yes, just sex.

I broke the rule. The one rule. I fell for him. Hard. I could imagine nothing but waking up next to him every morning for years to come, going on a first date – a real first date – assimilating him into my daily lifestyle. Who knew, maybe Harry and Ron would even become friends with him. Or at least . . . acquaintances. Acquaintances who tolerate each other. . . .

But, no. Every time a smile would light my face at these thoughts, I would wipe it off. This couldn't happen – it was the rule. I was never one to break rules so, feeling it was safer for both of us, I tried to back out. It would be so easy; just make an excuse for one night, then another. . . . Soon, I would forget him altogether. But I couldn't, I wouldn't. He would wonder why and see it written, as plain on my face as Harry's scar, proof of what I truly wanted. I would be nothing but a clingy girl, as bad as Pansy. So I hid it.

However, I couldn't hide it forever. One night, our eyes met, his own full of lust, mine . . . well, he saw what they were full of. His gray orbs widened and, before he could react, I had scrambled out of bed, reaching for my clothes, pulling them on inside-out. Flinging on my black Hogwarts robe to hide my dishevelment, I fled for the door.

"Granger! Granger, wait!" he called after me. I couldn't stand this. Sex was better than nothing, wasn't it. Tons of girls would give their right hand to be in my position. But, no, it just hadn't been good enough for me, prim-and-proper Hermione Granger, and now . . . now, I would be rejected. I may be a Gryffindor, but there was no way I could handle this.

Skidding to a halt in front of the Fat Lady, I collapsed against the wall, swiping tears from my eyes. The portrait guardian studied me worriedly, eyes wide.

"Granger." A soft voice issued behind me. My head snapped up to face a pair of piercing gray eyes – his eyes – looking down at me. My feet tried to move, to get away and go . . . anywhere but here, but he grabbed my wrist, pushing me up against the wall. Behind me, I vaguely heard the Fat Lady gasp, obviously scandalized.

Draco ignored her. "Granger, look at me," he ordered. His words were like ice. I refused; I knew exactly what I'd hear, anyway. We can't do this . . . this can't go on . . . you know I don't think of you that way. . . . Why couldn't he just leave?

Suddenly, I felt my chin being forced up. I struggled only half-heartedly as my brown eyes met his own molten silver orbs, filled with warmth and kindness and. . . . Merlin, this can't be.

I gasped.

"Hermione," he whispered, his face mere inches from mine. My heart was beating a tattoo against my chest. Despite our weeks of intimacy he had never called me Hermione before. Just Granger; even when I called him Draco, he barely registered it. I had felt I was nothing more to him than a source of pleasure, not even important enough to refer to by first name. Just the friend of Potter and the Weasley, nothing more. But now. . . .

Our lips met as I closed the gap between us. There was no force, no groping or tearing-off of buttons; it was just sweet and gentle. It was our first real kiss in a sense.

Finally, we broke apart, panting yet smiling all the same. I knew this relationship had to go somewhere. What we had just shared, it was more, much more, than just sex and couldn't be as easily forgotten. Yes, Harry and Ron would be mad – furious, even – but they would come around; I knew I wouldn't give Draco up for anything. After all, if Ron could have his Lav-Lav, I could certainly have my Drakey. . . .

I snorted at the name. Drakey? Where the hell did that come from?

"What?" Draco was watching me, a fond smile playing around his lips.

I laughed. "Oh, nothing important." I couldn't imagine Draco was too much into pet names. His smile widened as he reached down and, gently, tucked a stray piece of hair behind my right ear. I shivered and, for a moment, it felt as if a bolt of electricity had surged through the both of us; the hair stood up on the back of my neck and I barely suppressed a shiver.

So this was what love felt like.

REVIEW!! I want to thank my Beta and friend, Lizzy Lovegood,for helping me with the title and for helping me out with this. SO, to those that are reading this, I beg of you, look I'm literally on my knees, REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!