2.

Hermione never really dreamed in whimsical fantasy, always just memories distorted by brain chemistry. Draco featured in her memories, mostly the bad ones – the sad ones; but she ached at the visions of him that came to visit her in her dreams.

They were a possibility that could never be explored, at least not with their existence entrenched in war and a culture so unkind to their union.

She learned to leave him in the past, to keep her thoughts of him in her dreams where reality couldn't tarnish their brief memories of each other. The ones where they weren't constantly hurting one another, as few and far between as those moments were.

But Hermione couldn't deny that she thought of him when she shouldn't; wishing his being into place beside her to give her that look and smirk and speak words so familiar to her that she could already hear them in her head. His ghost keeping her company through the tribulations that Harry and Ron had all but abandoned her to.

Draco hadn't died in the war but, upon reading his testimony under Veritaserum, she wished that he had – if only to spare him the trauma – if only to save him from the consequences that would follow thereafter, despite being as much of a victim to the war as the rest of them. In a way, it had worked.

He hadn't come to her when all was said and done, but what did she expect?

In Hogwarts, all they had was a strange attraction fueled by nothing more than hormones and a self-hatred that burned them both. They were awful to each other even when they were together in secret – it was good to keep that on the surface; that they were never meant to be together, that they hated one another; that no one would ever approve of them – in Hogwarts, within his family, during the war, probably ever.

When the war ended and they were both still alive, any flicker of hope borne of naivety was extinguished. The Prophet and the Ministry were looking for a scapegoat and Draco Malfoy fit the bill perfectly. Even if she had tried, just to voice a thought of support out loud, everything she fought for would be stripped from her.

Hermione was the only Muggle-born on the council that worked with the Ministry to re-stabilize the country, and everyone else around that table wanted nothing more than to throw her back to the wolves they set her to fight against in the first place.

He seemed to understand.

Not once did her name leave his lips, not once did he try and reach out to her and Hermione felt like she had to mourn him all over again.

When she had first heard of the benefactor, she squashed the bit of hope that warmed her heart – ignoring that incessant voice in her head that wished it was him behind it all. But he had chosen to forget her, and move on, just as she had chosen to do for him because it's for the best, it's for the best, it's for the best –

They died and buried each other the morning after he had killed Dumbledore after all.

It was easier to be apart; easier to be on opposite sides of the war, to hate each other, to try and kill one another if –

This - last night - wouldn't change anything, was the bittersweet thought that echoed in her head.

Hermione was roused into consciousness by soothing fingers running over her forehead; smoothing out the furrow in her brow before trailing playfully down her nose and resting against her lips. They lingered there for only a moment, dragging her bottom lip playfully as they slipped underneath her chin. The pressure ebbed into a feather-light touch as it danced down her neck, caressing that sensitive spot just below her ear, making her sigh.

She could almost feel him smirk in amusement as he thumbed that patch of skin, urging her to adjust herself on his pillows and bare her neck to him.

He delicately followed the contours of her chest, circling his index and middle fingers around her tightening nipple. He rolled it with his thumb before placing his hand completely under her breast and squeezing. She sighed again.

She gasped at the delicious feeling of his warm tongue against her as his busy digits continued their exploration of her skin. Reaching the apex of her legs, they continued to caress and explore. His attentions had her in such a relaxed mood, Hermione felt as if she could stay in that single position forever.

Draco had been reliving the paths he had discovered last night, using teasing touches and playful fingers to map out the places that had given him the most reaction. Every jerk, every unbridled moan, every sigh was catalogued as he rewarded each with an open-mouthed kiss and a devilish flick of his tongue.

Her eyes shot open then as she focused on his hooded eyes, he whispered almost reverently, "Perfect."

Those skillful fingers now slipped inside her and he moaned at the way her moist heat enveloped them as if welcoming him home.

Her inner walls tightened around his digits, embracing him with words she couldn't say as she found herself paralyzed to nothing else but the feel of him inside her.

He quickly advanced from one finger to two, before adding an ambitious third. Hermione jerked and moaned, her breathing becoming more erratic as his thrusts increased. Her voice followed brokenly, her legs widening to permit him entrance, begging him to.

The weight of his erection had her squirming beneath him.

"What is it you want? Open your eyes. You're hiding from me," he teased.

"Not...hiding, indulging," Hermione gasped as she felt him move at her entrance, testing whether he was as welcome as his fingers were. She mewled as he shallowly slipped in and out. "Merlin! Draco! Please...please…"

"Open your eyes, Granger. I want to see your eyes when you ask."

Gritting her teeth to withdraw her moan, Hermione obliged and was surprised to find that Draco had donned his mask once more. He was kneeling before her, bracing his weight on his hands just beneath her outstretched arms.

His lips were set in his trademark smirk. His eyes were hidden, however, as she reached up to cup his face. She threaded her fingers through his pale hair, searching for the clasp to remove the mask. Whatever game he wanted to play was of no interest to her.

With the mask successfully loosened, she tugged it off his face and paused.

Draco seemed uncomfortable without it, and the hands he was using to brace himself tightened to fists beside her. Hermione only had eyes for his face, however. She gazed at the hand-sculpted perfection of every line and furrow in his darkened expression, from his patrician nose to the jut of his chin, across the defined cheekbones and jawline that seemed cut from the finest crystal.

Caressing every line and angle, she drank in the strange sadness and hesitation that lingered in his storm-grey eyes. Even if Draco had been fully clothed, with glamors aplenty to hide both his face and the cursed tattoo at his forearm, she would have known that look.

She wanted to search that mixture of dark and light that flickered across his face and eyes, bottle it up, and drink it in until she was drunk off of it. Drawing him closer until their lips brushed, her eyes staring intently into his, she murmured, "You; I want you."

Their bodies clicked into place and he fit so perfectly in her that she could have cried. Every curve and limb followed suit as if they were, suddenly, a whole person. They shifted and it seemed for an instant that the whole world did too.

With every gasp and groan to follow, two lost souls chased an intimacy that could not be contained in a single moment.

Draco may have looked like he needed to be saved but he, in turn, was also saving her in, perhaps, the only way she wanted to be saved and, in the end, wasn't that all she had ever wanted?

.

"As good as you look in my shirt, I sincerely hope you're planning to put on more than that," he drawled.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, pausing for only a second to admire how beautifully he was framed as he leaned back against the black headboard, white pillows scattered around him.

The blanket was thrown over his waist for modesty's sake, but there was little decency to be had for his bare chest and abdomen. There should be temples and shrines built for them.

In the morning light, his pale skin looked golden and his shock of white hair seemed dusted in sunshine.

"Jealous that it looks better on me than you?" she quipped, buttoning it up.

"Jealous that someone else could see that cute bare arse of yours, other than me, once you walk out." She noted with a slight flush that, yes; her arse did stick out from under his shirt. "Are you used to it?" he asked then.

"Used to what? Sleeping around?" There was always that dread implication she had to shake off; hilarious really since she'd only ever slept with three other people her whole life. No one ever asked it of Harry when he went off for a few months to "find himself" once Voldemort was good and gone. Even the once vivacious Ginny, waited by the window for him every day for months like the heroine of some trite romance novel, her future already tied to his with their exchange of, "I'll come back for you" and "I'll wait for you."

Ginny could have had the world at her feet. She didn't need to sit around waiting with her heart thumping in her hand. But she also didn't have a stake to claim, and neither did Harry. They could wait and wander and lose themselves as much as they liked. Hermione didn't have that luxury, she reminded herself, brushing aside the resentment.

Draco watched her still, unaware of the double standards and expectation tightening her fists, loosening only a smidge when he corrected, "Leaving. Are you used to it?"

Hermione felt the sudden panic rising within nonetheless, a sharp defense already on her tongue on instinct beside the one urging her to flee like a bat out of hell.

Strangely, she felt the urge to properly look at Draco and explain why she felt leaving was necessary. Why she had become accustomed to it for her own sanity – being left alone to pick up the pieces, to wrestle her demons with no safety net to rely on, and then expected to slip that phony smile on her face and be everything the Ministry and Magical Britain at large expected her to be: The Second Wizarding War's most recognizable war heroine; the brilliant, unmatched Hermione Granger, the most famous Muggle-born token, continuing to fight for their place in the world.

It was almost laughable; the thought of purging herself to a boy that had done his part in vilifying her, to the man that had fought on the other side for her kind's destruction; as if one night of desire could possibly erase their turbulent history, let alone her own hang-ups.

The Universe would revolt and, for that thought alone, she allowed herself the indulgence of the truth, "I had to."

Still, he watched her, and though she thought he would question her further, he asked instead, "You're going to work?"

With a nod and a slight smile she observed, "I don't suppose a rich benefactor like yourself would have similar problems."

Sighing dramatically, Draco cupped his hands behind his head and leaned back. "Well, someone has to make sure the money is going to the right place."

"Ah," she mused, resisting the urge to go back to the bed, bite his bulging biceps, and pay homage to the rosy nipples that pebbled at his chest. "Not up for leaving it to the hands of the Ministry?"

"Not even if you ran it," he jibed.

"You were doing such a good job of not hurting my feelings," Hermione lamented with a snicker.

As she turned to gather up her dress and mask from the evening before, there was a pop! The sound of a tray being left on the bedside table followed by another pop!

"Don't tell me," she groaned, "house elves?"

"I'm reformed, not brand new," he retorted, though that smirk of his lingered even as he took a sip of the tea that was brought in. "I pay them, though, in case you had any question about your libido being morally compromised."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Aren't you going to offer me breakfast?"

"I would, Granger. But you seem in such a rush, I wouldn't want to impede in your escape."

"Even Gryffindors know when to run away from dangerous things."

"It's fortunate that I seem to be your brand of danger, then."

She snorted over the tingle of want beginning to curl at her spine. "Still as cocky as ever, aren't we?"

He shrugged, nonplussed. "Tell me I'm wrong; and that I've somehow managed to deceive you into my bed. Though, bear in mind, I'll be extremely disappointed."

"And I'd hate to disappoint you," she teased, slipping on her heels; happy she could leave with her outer robes covering up last night's outfit. "Fortunately, I won't be. I knew exactly what I was doing when I climbed into bed with you. Or rather, let you throw me onto it."

"Did you?" Draco challenged as she approached the bed once more, popping a pomegranate seed from the little bowl of fruit on the tray as she leaned towards him on her hand, situated tauntingly just beside his naked thigh.

"Of course; I'm clever, don't you know?" she murmured just inches from his lips.

Any retort Draco had died as she closed the distance between them. The tea he had just drunk was slightly bitter in his mouth but the taste was quickly replaced by the pomegranate juice on her tongue. His hand moved forward to cup her head and hold her still as he searched for more of the rich flavor in the warm cavern of her mouth.

The kiss lasted for some time; enough to have them both breathing heavily as they parted, their foreheads pressed against one another.

"What happened to running away from danger?" he whispered.

"Like you said, you might just be my kind of brand," she mused, eyes bright, even as she admitted, "Also; I do take pleasure in disappointing people about their expectation of me so I may not actually be as clever as you think I am."

"No," he snorted. "You're brilliant, and you're terribly beautiful when you are." His lips quirked at the corners and his brow rose in challenge as he continued, "So you'll snog me but you won't have breakfast?"

"You weren't offering breakfast if I recall," she retorted, "Besides, I have to go to work."

"I would have left you to eat," Draco informed.

"Like you left me to sleep?"

"You weren't sleeping," he reminded.

"Yet, here I am, three orgasms before six."

He smirked. "You're welcome."

.

It was so tempting to spend more time in Draco's arms, being caressed and teased by those talented fingers while she still had the chance. She didn't expect their rendezvous to be anything more than a one-night stand after all. But, reprieve or not, Hermione was still needed and she was determined that the day be productive as possible.

She may be the Ministry's puppet, but she did still have some good to do in their world.

By lunchtime she had researched three separate laws the Minister was anxious to enact, her argument against the proposal for a Werewolf Registration was almost complete, and she was currently swamped in anti-creature rhetoric.

The only stand she could ever allow merit into the contrary was from Newt Scamander who wanted a Werewolf Registration purely to ensure all werewolves received adequate financial and medical assistance. Hermione acknowledged that her opponents would work with that angle but knew they would never deliver such promises. The Registration Act was nothing more than a target list for anti-werewolf groups. "Smoke and mirrors," she muttered to herself. "Just like that bloody Obliviate project; those bigoted idiots."

Despite that, Hermione's morning glow continued to shimmer brightly; her body ached deliciously from last night (and this morning's) romp, and she felt far more alert after Draco had laboriously worked to switch her brain off for a few hours – she outright chuckled at the thought of enticing him into her bed – there were upsides to being properly serviced, as Neville had predicted.

Unfortunately, all Draco's hard work was threatening to be unraveled when Ron walked into her office.

"You're proposing," she stated.

His smile dimmed. "I…"

"You're proposing," she continued, "after you cheated on me."

"That was two months ago," he reminded begrudgingly.

Her response was a blank look. Ron, instantly taking on the role of long-suffering victim, sighed loudly. "Come on, Mione…"

Her arched eyebrow could have put McGonagall's legendary look to shame. "'Come on', that's what you're going to say?" He opened his mouth wordlessly, and she charged on, "You cheated on me with the resident gossip which, by the way, you didn't have the balls to stay with after the fact. What the fuck, Ron?"

"You were upset that I cheated and now you're upset that I didn't stay with her?"

"Ron, we were together for seven years. Seven. If you really had to cheat, you could have at least cheated on me with someone you actually wanted instead of whoever was willing to fill your baser urges!"

His face reddened. "I wouldn't have had to if you -"

"What," she interjected sharply. "Go on, say it! If I didn't work so hard; if I didn't take my job so seriously; if I put your needs before my ambition?"

"I was your boyfriend!"

"Now you're my ex."

He looked like he was going to explode and Hermione took some satisfaction in the hard clench of his jaw. But with mechanical slowness, a smile crept to his lips. "It doesn't matter what I was to you then, but you'll be begging me to be your husband soon enough."

"Ronald," she began. "What part of our conversation indicated that I want to marry you?"

"None of it," he allowed. "But you know about the new law, I'm sure."

Her eyes narrowed and, when she didn't deign to respond, Ron elaborated, "It states muggleborns must marry purebloods and you don't break rules." He practically leered at her.

Setting a professor on fire, illegally brewing Polyjuice, visiting the Restricted Section of the library (often), using a Time-Turner outside of its allocated use, aiding in the escape of a fugitive...and that was just the first three years of my education, she thought, suppressing the roll of her eyes. Where did anyone get the idea that a rule could stop her when it simply gave her the parameters to work around them?

"That's not what the law means." Honestly. It was like talking to a child. "It makes special allowances for pure-blood and Muggle-born marriages; it's seen as bridging the gap between the two factions of wizarding society that caused the rift that led to the last two wars."

Which was all well and good, in Hermione's opinion, most Muggle-borns had little left in the wizarding world and a large majority of pure-bloods had everything taken from them at the war's conclusion. If they wanted an easy way out of poverty they could get married and, for the sake of the next generation, face the prejudice and make amends. The fact that the law wasn't a requirement only made the option more enticing and, according to Blaise Zabini – one of the engineers behind it – it was projected as having a higher chance of success since wizards and witches would be making the choice of their own free will.

Ron insisted, "You need those allowances."

"Do I? Or do you?" Hermione retorted. "I'm never at home anyway; I barely have things as it is; what reason would I need the marital allowances for?"

"Mione, Mione, Mione," he tutted as she scowled at the nickname – something he knew and took pleasure in as he lectured, "Do you really think I know you so poorly as to think the money would attract you?"

"Considering that's the only thing included in the law," she replied, rolling her eyes once more. It was certainly the only thing Ron cared about.

His family didn't need the money: Charlie was still in Romania taking care of dragons, Bill was recently promoted at Gringotts, Percy was at the Ministry in a different department, George was running the shop which had fast become a favorite, and Ginny was playing for the Holyhead Hurricanes. Ron, on the hand, had yet to find his 'passion' besides milking the Golden Trio bit whenever he could.

"I'm talking about the political clout." When she only narrowed her eyes, her attention on him as he liked it, he continued with his theatrics. "I think everyone knows just how you've been killing yourself trying to change the world," he said with acidic glee, "you ever wonder why you fight so hard with so little to show for it? Pure-bloods aren't just pure-bloods because of blood status, it's because they've got connections and ties with each other; everyone knows everyone. It's like an exclusive club, and the only way in is to either be born in it or marry into it. Wouldn't you like to actually change the world instead of just trying to?"

He had a point, she begrudgingly allowed but she knew better than to let the bitterness of how well he knew her cloud her judgment. Ron had always excelled at pushing her buttons to get a rise out of her as evidenced by his smile of triumph at the flicker of emotion that flashed across her face.

Hermione couldn't have that.

She murmured gently, deceptively kind, "And what makes you think you're the only pure-blood I can choose from?" The bit of victory he had over her shriveled up his smile. "Did you think Cormac was a joke? I really did sleep with him and he's still trying for a repeat performance. But I've been meaning to see Viktor; he's coming over to play a friendly against your beloved Cannons. Then again, if that doesn't work out, I'm sure you know how Neville and I get on..." She let the words hang dangerously between them.

At his ashen complexion, she smiled, just to remind him that she had teeth too and she was willing to use them.