Author's Note: Smut and swears alert ahead! :) We're almost done this story - and je m'excuse if I messed up the French. My practical experience in conversation has been limited to being hit on by a mulleted, drunk septuagenarian at a beach bar in St. Martin...

ALSO a reviewer also pointed out a HUGE mistake I made in my earlier chapters. I for some reason put Temple Bar in Belfast. It's not, it's in Dublin. Why I did this, I don't know - I once got extremely hammered at Temple Bar in my uni days, so I haven't any excuse. People of Ireland, please forgive this dumb Canadian. XD

Hermione, satisfied by a languid, gossipy lunch with Harry, returned to the Ministry at half two - quite a bit later than she had rights to. Imelda's head lifted as she walked through the corridor.

"Oh! Miss Granger, you've had a couple of visitors while you were gone. Mr. Malfoy was here. Twice, in fact."

Hermione's eyebrow lifted. She'd just seen Malfoy a few hours earlier. What could he have possibly needed so quickly? Her mid raced with possibilities; after all, their evening had been far more intimate than they'd ever shared before. Not only that, but there was still the fact that he was apparently leaving - without ever mentioning that fact to her.

She felt as uncertain as those first days she'd slept with him, searching the crowds for blonde hair and feeling threads of nervousness each time she sent a note.

And then, she walked into her office, and was greeted with a very strange sight - two vases sitting on her desk. One was plastic, containing a half-dozen wilted bouquets, with a scrap-note paper written in Ron's distinctive handwriting.

Directly next to it sat an enormous glass vase filled with violet-coloured roses in the same hue as her Paris dress. The bouquet dwarfed its neighbour, making it looks starkly pathetic in comparison. A parchment card hung from the edge of the glass vase, its message in delicate calligraphy.

Chère Mademoiselle Granger,

Merci pour ta compagnie et ta conversation.

Fidèlement, D. Malfoy

She stared at it for a long moment. The French wasn't quite right; though she was no native speaker, Hermione had never seen a French letter signed fidèlement. Faithfully, she told herself.

Had Malfoy purposely chosen such loaded wording?

She sighed and rubbed her temples. This had suddenly, inexplicably become far too complicated. Ron obviously wanted her back, and Draco - well, what Draco wanted remained a mystery. The only thing that seemed certain was that he wanted to one-up Ron.

He'd succeeded, even if it left Hermione horribly confused about his intentions.

She scribbled off a note and sent it via owl - Draco, we need to talk. Hermione.

She received no response until quarter to four, when a sharp knock sounded from her door.

"Who is it?" she called out.

"It's Draco," he called back. "You asked me to see you?"

It was, Hermione thought, yet another sign of their intimacy. When he used to arrive at her office, he would announce himself with the coldly impersonal Mister Malfoy. Now, he didn't even hesitate at using their Christian names in public, even if that were considered rather informal in the Wizarding world.

"Come in. It's open."

The door swung open, and when he shut it, he set the wards. His slate coloured eyes lingered first on Ron's bouquet, then his own -eliciting an arrogant smirk on his thin lips - then to Hermione. She felt a flicker of annoyance at his presumption - as if the cost of the gift were what mattered.

"I suppose it's a foolish question to ask if you sent the roses." She sighed. "Your French needs work."

"I don't think it does. I speak it very well," he replied nonchalantly. "Did you like them? A damned sight better than Weasley's, eh?"

"So I was right. This is some sort of pissing match between you two." She pursed her lips. "Do you think I care about how much you spend, Draco?"

"No." He dragged a finger lazily over one of the roses, so it swayed delicately in its vase. "My life would be so much easier if you did."

"So, why... this?" she gestured irritably to the vase. "It must've cost you twenty galleons! And why? To make Ron feel shoddy in comparison?"

"Oh, don't be stupid." He rolled his eyes. "Weaselbee doesn't even know I sent you these, and I figure he never will. But the man's an Auror and a war hero who rakes it in with a dozen licensing deals. Yet he can't even spring more than two galleons and a piece of scrap paper for a bouquet. What sort of gentleman behaves that way to a lady he's courting?"

"I'm not a lady, as you once noted." At his blank expression, she added. "You once said - and I quote - 'close enough'. Remember?"

"Not really. And if I said so, I was just trying to get a rise out of you." He shrugged. "By the way, Mother knows it was you and I on a date at that restaurant last night."

Her heart felt, for a moment, as if it had dropped into her stomach. Her eyes widened, and she could only form a gasp. He'd once told her about pureblood views on their own who slept with Muggles. He would have no marriage prospects, his friends would treat him as a pariah, and his mother would never speak to him again.

So this was why he was here. To end this once and for all.

She hadn't expected it, but she felt crushed that she would never see him again. Her heart felt sore and swollen in her chest; her throat felt thick, and she could not form words. She would never again touch that alabaster skin, never tease him over breakfast, never have a drink with him after work. It was foolish, of course - what did she expect? She'd known the risks going in. Except she'd never considered the possibility that she'd like him, that she'd find him charming, witty, sexy as hell...

It had never really crystallized in her mind that she wanted this to last in some way, shape or form. That she didn't just think of him as a casual shag anymore.

"She gave me an ultimatum, to end this today." He laughed, but it sounded awkward and hollow in her small office.

"And," she forced out the word, and her own voice sounded small and weak and pathetic.

"And what? I'm not twelve, Granger. I'm a twenty year old man." He shrugged. "And I think you're great, so I told her no."

She swallowed. It felt, for a moment, as if she'd been slapped with this strangely nonchalant, yet so incredibly heavy, declaration from Draco. It made no sense, knowing he planned to leave. Still, she felt oddly warm at his declaration - I think you're great.

Her ruminations were interrupted by the feel of his hot palm on her breast. His slim fingers sought out her nipple through the fabric, tweaking it gently, and eliciting a startled, pleasured squeak from her throat.

"Come on, Granger. Surely you liked the flowers, just a bit." He frowned, and pulled her hand to try and get her to stand up from her chair. "You're not actually annoyed that I tried to one-up Weasley, are you? Thank God I didn't send you jewelry, like I originally..."

She cut off his words with a kiss, her mouth silencing his, and his eyes widening in surprise for a moment. He recovered quickly, one hand working at her buttons, the other groping for his wand and shuttering the windows to the office. Hermione only fleetingly noted that anyone could have seen their kiss - her secretaries, her policy analysts - yet she could not really bring herself to care.

"So you liked them, then?" he asked, sliding a hand under her skirt and up her thigh.

He tried to appear nonchalant, but Hermione could see a thread of bright, innocent hope in his eyes, something that a month ago she never would've recognized. It flooded her with affection. Draco wasn't as cold, arrogant and heartless as he let on. And she felt an odd privilege, knowing she had been let past his rude and sarcastic shell.

"They're the most beautiful I've ever gotten," she replied. "Thank you, Draco."

He preened. "I knew they were all right."

She slid her hand down the placket of his pressed pants, sharply groping his package. He let out a startled groan, his eyes widening with surprise. In response, he lowered his head to hers and nipped her bottom lip. They stood like this for a few minutes, her tongue parrying against his, their mouths moving progressively harder against one another. Her hands deftly began to unbutton his dress shirt, revelling in the planes of his hard, marble-pale chest beneath her hands. Growing impatient with how slowly she worked at his buttons, he tore the last few apart, sending two buttons scattering across the room and leaving himself in only his navy dress pants.

His hands hiked up her skirt, yanking down her turquoise thong. She barely noticed as it fluttered to the ground. One of his hands slipped downward, between her thighs, as the other snaked around her waist, pulling her tight against him.

She was already wet, and she felt his fingers move easily between her folds, quickly finding the bead between them and expertly swirling his index finger around it. The sheet of pleasure resonating from his fingers made her moan, and press herself firmly against his hand. He laughed, a deep, arrogant, throaty sound that only fired her pleasure even more.

"You never want this to stop, do you?" he asked.

She moaned as he reached up to flick her nipple, sending a frisson through her, making her weak at the knees. He took advantage of her swooning, and pushed her back onto her desk. His hand never left her pussy, massaging her clit, his finger sliding just enough into her channel to make her want more.

Suddenly, unbidden, came the memory of Percy - saying that Malfoy was going.

"I don't understand," she moaned. "You're leaving, aren't you?"

He seemed to freeze. His brow furrowed, and his amused, affectionate expression turned dark. Hermione felt a flicker of nervousness; but she could not react. During their kissing and caressing, he had maneouvred her onto her desk. He now lay atop her, pinning her against it, and there was no avenue for escape. His body lay over her, one hand at her chest - now pressing her down, rather than teasing her breasts. She could sense his shifted mood, yet strangely, his anger did not frighten her. His darkened eyes and furrowed brow, matched with his finger slid deeply into her most intimate parts, only aroused her further. Tortuously slowly, he slid his finger from inside her, curled his lip and flicked her clit, sending a flare of pained pleasure through her body. She felt a flood of wetness between her legs, and felt utterly, shamefully wanton.

She moaned.

"Pardon me?" his voice was cold. "Do you think you can just order me to go?"

"No," she panted. "I..."

He interrupted her, enunciating each word harshly. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

And, in one swift movement - when had he even released his manhood? - he slammed himself fully into her. Her walls, as they did each time they conjoined, stretched at his girth. A deep, guttural moan ripped from her throat. Slowly, exactingly, he moved his cock out, watching her face with a scornful frown. Without giving her quarter, he had shoved himself inside again.

"Are you trying to use me, Granger?" he asked, scornfully. "Do you think you can just order me to go when you get tired of me?"

"No-ooo," she moaned, her mind feeling thick and drunk with want. "No, Draco, never. I never want this to end."

"Then what." He punctuated his words with staccato thrusts, knocking her backside against the hard, wooden desk and filling her body completely. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"Percy..." she panted, "he said you were leaving."

"I am not going anywhere, Hermione," he hissed. "You're not getting rid of me."

I'm not going anywhere. His words enflamed her more than his expertly applied touches. He wasn't leaving. He wanted to stay here with her - fucking her like a whore against a desk.

"I don't want to," she whimpered. "I don't ever, ever want you to stop fucking me. Please, Draco, please."

At her begging, his measured pace suddenly quickened. His angry expression vanished. His hands, which had been firm and motionless upon her hips, moved to her breasts, her thighs, her neck, smoothing over her skin. Those thin, scornful lips lowered to press kisses to her neck, and then down to catch her breast between his teeth. She felt that familiar fire building in her belly at his rhythm, at his intense gaze, at his wet suckling upon her breast, at his declaration that he wasn't leaving.

His head lowered to her ear. "That's right. You're mine. Not Weasley's. Not Goldstein's. You're only going to fuck me."

Suddenly, she clamped down on him, his walls clenching against the tight member that filled her body. It sent him simultaneously over the edge, and he clung hard to her, flopping down on her sweaty body, sandwiching her against the desk.

"Oh, God, Hermione!" he cried out, and she was certain that her entire staff could hear.

Surprisingly, she didn't really care. Her hands smoothed over his back as he filled her with his warm, wet seed, wave after warm wave. His body melted, flopping warm and sticky onto hers, his head resting gently against her chest as it rose and fell. They lay there a moment, catching their breaths, despite the uncomfortable desk beneath them.

After a moment, he lifted himself up just a few inches, so that his cock was still buried in her.

"I wish we were at your flat." He sighed. "Then we could just have a lie in and some coffee or wine. It's a lot more comfortable, too."

"Well, it's only a five minute walk..." she began, tenderly brushing his hair from his face.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching her door, and Imelda's sharp voice through her office door. "I'm sorry, you'll have to wait, Miss Granger is in a meeting."

"I don't need to wait. Do you know who I am? I'm Ron Weasley! She'll make time to see me!"

Hermione had never been so appreciative of Imelda before. Perhaps the girl wasn't as stupid as she let on.

Malfoy leapt off her, and began zipping his pants; she tried hurriedly to rearrange her skirt.

"I really must protest, Mister Weasley. Miss Granger's working on a very important policy initiative..." Imelda added shrilly.

"Oh my God, he knows my wards, I haven't changed them!" Hermione hissed, panicked. "Closet! Quickly!"

Still shirtless, Malfoy darted into her supply closet. Hermione's doorknob twisted just as Malfoy shut the door behind him. His dress shirt, and her turquoise thong, both lay abandoned on the floor. The door to her office opened.

"Hermione." Ron Weasley grinned from her office doorway. "Finally, I caught you."

More Notes Because I talk too much: I hope you liked it. Now, what do you think will happen next? As always, I really like reviews... HINT HINT it only takes a second, and when you do it, I am WAY more likely to update.