Hermione was where she always was on a Friday afternoon, or really, any afternoon. She settled herself in her favorite section of the library, Ancient Runes, and tried in vain to search through the most helpful of resource books, though it didn't answer any of her real questions about the subject. She suspected if those answers were in the Hogwarts library, they were hidden in the Restricted Section. She had a bigger suspicion there was no way she could convince Professor McGonagall to give her permission for open access to the locked section.
"Granger," a familiar, normally disinterested voice said in a whispered tone. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, barely, at Malfoy as she lifted her gaze from the book in her hands to the blonde wizard. He'd settled into the chair across from her.
"What do you want?" Just quiet enough not to draw Madam Pince's attention, a well practiced skill for Hermione.
"I saw you struggling with the library's pickings, so I thought I'd offer help," he told her. She sighed, and closed the book in her hands. "I have books straight from the Malfoy library, for every one of my NEWTs. And a few for Ancient Runes."
"There's no way you could have just stumbled upon me. You can't see the Ancient Runes section from the entrance," she noted. "And why would Draco Malfoy want to help someone currently beating him in the class ranking?"
"I've let go of my hopes for the top spot. Riddle's too good," he reminded her. She, however, didn't need to be reminded of her constant struggle to keep the top spot the past year, as the honor traded on and off between herself and the transfer student.
"That didn't answer either of my questions. Why help me?" she frowned at him intently. "And don't say because you feel like it. Sirius once told me that Malfoys don't get out of bed in the morning without at least three good reason." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that mirrored something Harry might do.
"Fine. It's impossible to get anywhere in politics these days without obvious half blood and muggle born sympathies," he admitted, completely forgetting to regulate his volume. It earned him a glare and a shush from Madam Pince. Hermione ignored it.
"But I'd get access to the books, right? No real strings?" she asked, maintaining the same volume she had despite her growing excitement.
"They're technically Malfoy heirlooms, so I can't let you take them back to Gryffindor Tower," he told her.
"What about after graduation?"
"I don't think-"
"It's a shame, Minister. Malfoy is just too set in the old ways," Hermione said in a saccharine tone.
"Fine. Deal," he agreed. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're ruthless, Granger."
"Oh Draco, if anyone's going to believe we're friends, you must call me Hermione."
Hermione almost started to regret her decision when they finally reached the Slytherin common room. She'd stepped through the entrance as Draco held the door that had appeared when he said the password, and Hermione was definitely not used to seeing Draco the Gentleman. She froze when she realized nearly every seventh year Slytherin was gathered on the expensive looking leather couches. Riddle, it seemed, was the one holding court. The panic didn't really set in until she heard Draco shut the door behind her.
"Were you lying about the books?" she asked, frowning and looking back at Draco. She even started to reach into her bag for her wand. Draco merely waved her over towards an empty chair settled between a table stacked with books and a chair where Riddle sat.
The books, it seemed, were too big of a draw and they kept Hermione from bolting for the door. It was her Gryffindor courage that let her take the seat settled between pleasure and torture.
"Want a glass?" The blonde girl, Greengrass, er, Daphne, asked from the couch, gesturing to a bottle of wine on the table. "It came from our vineyards in France. All elf made, of course."
Hermione opened her mouth to admonish the use of slave labor but thought better of picking a fight in a den of snakes.
"That would be lovely," she settled on.
Hermione settled against Tom, in the crook where his shoulder met his neck, as her hand rested on his chest, her fingers started to trace circles in his light patch of chest hair.
"Gods, that was fantastic," she drawled. She closed her eyes to focus on the left over bliss. He smirked and snaked his arm around her shoulders.
"I'm that good?" He teased. "Better than your jocks?"
"I mean, I've never-" she stuttered. "You were my first." His smirk drifted into a proud smile. She'd only ever been his. His witch. "I meant that magic," she continued. "That was dark magic?"
"Sort of. It's old magic, which has mostly been labeled dark," he explained. "This kind of magic can't be controlled easily or even really taught. Magic, especially at first, was for survival, protecting, procreating." She sat up suddenly to look him in the eyes.
"You did not just get me pregnant." It was all he could do not to laugh at her serious expression. That sort of outburst would get him nowhere.
"No, it's about intent, mostly. And the potion you take every month is a tad bit more nuanced than what we just did," he told her. He'd tell her he was sterile later. She settled back against him.
"Does Dark magic all feel that good?" She asked, as though she was trying with difficulty to keep a casual tone.
"For the caster? Absolutely. It usually feels less good for the recipient, or the source of power, in some cases. This, however," he reached down with his empty hand and she gasped when he pushed two fingers into her, "gets better and better as you learn how to use your raw magic." A blush spread across her face, and her hands stopped tracing circles.
"Tom, I'm a mess," she protested as he continued to play with her.
"Oh no, I'm terrified of a mess I created," he hissed, and pulled her tighter to him. Her protests turned to cries of his name, and dissolved into an inability to do more than moan against his skin.
"Come for me, Hermione," he ordered, and nearly immediately, she stiffened for a few moments and then completely relaxed. Several minutes went by, and he feared she'd fallen asleep from night's activities.
"You're going to make me an addict, Tom," she finally said. He withdrew his fingers from her, and muttered a cleaning spell for both her and himself.
"What if I want you to be?" He said. "For me?"
"I can't lose focus on my NEWTs," she declared, still cuddled against him. "I'm not going to let you have the top spot."
"You wouldn't be the witch I'm interested if you did either of those things. And I think let is a strong word. I'm going to win anyways."
She responded with a tired and unintelligible noise.
"Is that a yes?"
When she didn't reply, he conceded she likely fell asleep. That was okay for now. Of course, he had a plan for the morning. Slytherin girls prefer games and layers of meaning, while Hufflepuffs like a slow seduction and Ravenclaws need banter and witty exchanges. None of that would work for a Gryffindor, though. They responded best to grand, romantic displays. His witch liked them, even if she didn't like public ones. She would be his witch, even if she wasn't, quite yet.