I don't quite know how it's come to this, my breath sending steam rising into the air as I exhale shakily against the juncture of hip and thigh. I stretch my tongue slowly, tentatively, toward his skin. What looks like his skin, but covered in this bizarre fabric, this sheen of radiant ice just a shade more blue than his own aristocratically pale legs. Though in this moment, Draco's legs are not what hold my attention. I can see him, every inch, filling, hardening, rising toward me. It's as though his body is responding to my unspoken desires. Perhaps it is. Perhaps we are connected, intrinsically linked, he and I. Two sides of the same sickle. Sickles, knuts, galleons. I'd give all of it, every coin in my vault, just for one moment inside his. One feel, one taste, one glorious, tight, hot thrust into that private dungeon, to which now I am sure, now I know, he has never given out the password. And I want it. Merlin, do I want it. Time is standing still as I stretch my tongue toward this entrancing fabric covering - and yet, uncovering - every achingly beautiful bit of him. I slide a fingertip beneath the icy cool hem and feel his warmth, his heat. As my mouth finally makes contact, his pulse is fast and hard against my cheek, and I hear him whispering, acquiescing, begging above me: Yes. Yes, Potter, yes. It is only then that I realize I have been speaking this aloud to him.

Here, in the Room of Requirement, where this inner chamber has sprung up from nowhere. Here, with the entire DA just outside, waiting to learn what has happened between their fearless leader and the chief of the squad aimed at taking them down. This is no struggle between us... but it promises to be one hell of an inquisition.