"You ought not be here, you know."
He looked up at her, his eyes scanning her figure, illuminated by the moonlight that poured in from the table. Her hair was pulled back into a braid, he noticed with a grin, just the way he liked it. She only wore it like that at night, for bed, and he liked to think he was the only one that ever got to see her like that. (He was probably right.)
"Are you saying you want me to go?" she asked softly.
His instinctive reaction was to reach for her, to grab her and stop her. "Of course not," he said, restraining himself. "You know I want you to stay."
She grinned, the pearliness of her teeth reflecting in the darkness. She slowly began to climb into the bed, tucking herself into him. They fit together perfectly, always had. She let her body mold to him as he softly stroked her arm. His lips found her ear, kissing it lightly.
"I just don't want you to get in trouble," he murmured.
Hermione sighed softly as she turned to face him. Her hand stroked his pale face, barely tracing where his silver hair met his skin. "You worry too much, Draco."
He smiled, this time kissing her directly—and passionately—on the mouth. "Only for you," he whispered. "Only for you."
It began in their third year, just after she punched him in the face. That's when the feelings first formulated. There was something about the way she held no qualms against it; it was perhaps one of the most unladylike things he had ever seen a girl do, and that was exhilarating to him. It was just so unlike all the silly Slytherin girls his mummy liked to pair him up with in the summers. No offense to Pansy Parkinson, but there was only so many tea tastings Draco could stand before he wanted to punch someone himself.
He tried to suppress the inconvenient feelings, he really did. Every time his heart skipped in her presence, he snarled another insult at her. If he felt that jealous burning sensation in the pit of his stomach when Potter or Weasley got to touch her or hug her, he tried to mask it with hatred for her poor choice in companions. He truly hoped that if he kept telling himself, and others, that she really was an ugly little Mudblood, he might be able to tricking himself into believing it.
It didn't work.
On the bright side, though, he knew she would never reciprocate these idiotic feelings. She had been in love with Weasley since he and Potter "saved" her from the bumbling troll; everybody knew that.
Everybody, that is, except Hermione herself.
Hermione had always seen schoolgirl crushes as daft things, silly little love stories that girls who didn't care about being top of the class busied themselves with. While she still held on to the idea of eventually falling completely in love—in real love, that was—she never imagined that it would happen before she left Hogwarts. After all, she was not Lavender Brown.
And she was definitely not supposed to have fallen for Draco Malfoy. He was her best friends' sworn enemy, and until that damned Yule Ball, he had been hers, too. Sometimes, she wondered what would have happened if she hadn't gone barreling into him after she fled the ball, crying. Or if Ron had run after her, after all. Maybe she wouldn't have ended up in his arms, and yet she had. She could hardly say she regretted it, but sometimes, she couldn't help but wonder.
Draco always told her she looked beautiful, even that night of the ball. She had really been a horrendous, sloppy mess, and she knew it, but he was kind enough not to point it out. Oh, he had called her a stupid Mudblood right after she ran into him, but that was only to be expected. He changed the second he saw the tears staining her face.
"You're crying," he had said, rather bluntly.
It had caught her by surprise, so for a moment, she could really just look at him. "Yeah."
He reached up. Instinctively, she flinched, causing Draco to hesitate. "I'm not going to hurt you," he finally said. "I just…" He didn't finish speaking, but instead gently wiped a tear from her cheek.
His touch sent shocks through her. She couldn't suppress her gasp. "Malfoy… I—"
"You can call me Draco, you know." There was something strange in his voice, something funny.
Hermione studied him. He didn't move, simply stood there in front of her, his grey eyes looking at her so deeply, it shook her.
The moment it clicked, she gasped again. "But how long…?"
"You pack a mighty punch, Granger," he mumbled. His normally translucent cheeks flushed the brightest of reds.
Before she could stop herself, she reached for his hand. "You can call me Hermione."
"I miss you when you're gone, you know," Draco whispered to her now. They were still simply lying there, holding one another. They never did much more, but they didn't need to. The intimacy of forbidden nighttime visits was strong enough. Neither of them wanted more; it was an unspoken truth that they were both too afraid to press their luck, in many ways.
Hermione smiled again, briefly pressing her lips to his. "I could hide here forever, I suppose," she said. "Just leave me in your bed all day. No one would know I was here, except you."
"I quite like the sound of that," Draco told her.
"Just think," she whispered. "You could spend all day, knowing I was just here, waiting for you, in your bed."
"You are positively wicked, Hermione Granger," Draco purred. "Are you sure you don't belong in Slytherin?"
"I'm only wicked for you, Draco Malfoy," she murmured back. "Only for you."