Edited 10/11/15

9. Fools Rush In

Shall I stay
Would it be a sin
If I can't help falling in love with you

Like a river flows surely to the sea

Darling so it goes

Some things are meant to be

So take my hand, and take my whole life too

'Cause I can't help falling in love with you

[Can't Help Falling In Love, Ingrid Michaelson]

Tomorrow it was indeed, better.

Draco kissed Hermione slow and thoroughly, his mouth hot and moving with unhurried, lazy pleasure against hers while she made little mewing sounds, and clutched at his arms. She was pulling him even closer, like she was trying to drag him into her, glue them together, and his cock pressed hard into her thigh. She was soft and warm, her curves squashed against him; both of them naked under the sheet, and it felt like coming home.

She was safe haven, she was something Draco could lose himself in; the feel of her warm, firm thigh pressing against his cock, the way she squeaked when he grazed his knuckles over her nipple, the shiver that ran through her when he pulled away from their kiss and laved her throat at the place where her pulse thrummed against the creamy pale skin. His own throat still ached and burnt, but he ignored the pain in favour of the pleasure, the gentle, slow sinking into each other.

Third time's a charm, Draco thought and smirked as he latched his mouth over Hermione's nipple and sucked hard enough that her back arched up and her hands fluttered at his head, a panting moan dragged out of her. His name was on her lips, whimpered and gasped as she wound her fingers in his hair, and thrust her breast up against his mouth, and hearing her say Draco like that made him feel hot all over with something he couldn't quite identify. His hand stroked along her flank as he flicked his tongue teasingly over her left nipple and made her whimper his name again.

He was glowing inside, hot and glowing and Hermione was home, and his, and it was all so damn stupid because Draco was fully fucking aware that he was going to lose her in the end, but right now that only made him want to drown himself in her while he still could. And Merlin, he knew that it would hurt so much when the time came; if it ever did, he told himself, thinking of how close he had been to bleeding out just days ago. His mouth stilled on her nipple, his fingers paused balanced delicately on the inside of her thigh, millimetres from her pussy.

This is stupid, he thought, with a hint of helpless regret, because it was too late now. He couldn't end things again, not now; there was no bloody way - he was lost. And then Hermione bucked under him and whinged his name pleadingly, and with the movement Draco's fingers slipped off her thigh and onto that warm, wet flesh between her legs, and he forgot about everything but her.

It still wasn't the rose petals, romantic music, huge bed, and slow stripping off of silky lingerie that Draco had wanted to give Hermione, but it was slow and luxurious, and neither of them was drunk or furious or crying. So that had to count for something. He lost himself in Hermione, making every moment count; cock so hard it was throbbing, and he felt desperate to bury it in her, but he was determined to make this good for her. Make it last. Make it fucking perfect.

Her breasts were warm and soft and firm all at the same time, and he cupped each one in his hand in turn, rubbing his thumb over her nipples, dropping whispering kisses on them, and she writhed under him and whined for more. His mouth latched over a nipple as his hand trailed back down over the smoothness of her stomach, down to the vee of soft fuzz at the junction of her thighs, and down between them, to the soft, wet folds of her pussy. Draco pinched her clit lightly, and Hermione's fingers dug into his skin and left trailing scratches down his back as she bucked up into him.

She was eager and greedy, and her pussy seized around his fingers as he pushed them into her, two of them, curling and thrusting, and Merlin she was tight and so fucking hot, and if Draco wasn't careful he was going to be finished before he even got started. Draco's breath was shallow and ragged, matching hers, and he was still faintly dizzy from blood loss, and his tongue rasped over one nipple and made Hermione twitch and moan his name. His name, and it was perfect.

She was flushed and her eyes were slitted on him, lips parted as she whimpered through them, hips arching up as he thrust his fingers, and Draco felt like he was going to explode, watching her. Watching her soak up every touch, every curl of his fingers, every sucking kiss he laid on her hot skin, each one bringing his mouth closer and closer to where he knew she wanted it. Merlin, he wanted to fuck her. Hermione was trembling, breath jerking in sharply, as Draco brought his mouth to her clit and blew on it softly, darted his tongue out and lapped feather light over the small nub.

"Oh god Draco..." Hermione's fingers scraped over his scalp, fisted in his hair almost painfully, her thighs bracketed his head, muscles quivering with desperate want. Draco smirked. He slithered his tongue slow and light over her clit, and she shivered all over, and a strangled moan broke from her lips as she pushed her hips up. His tongue danced down, sliding over wet folds teasingly, and his cock was rock hard against the mattress as she mewled; Hermione Granger flushed and debauched on the bed, begging him for more. Shit, Draco loved this more than anything else: seeing Hermione lose all composure, frantic with need and greedy want. Wanting him, wanting what he could do to her.

"Please," she begged breathlessly, pushing her hips up again, clamping her thighs around Draco's head, forgetful of his wounded state, and he didn't remind her. He didn't want to ruin the moment; he was enjoying it too fucking much.

"Please, Draco, I - I want your - I want to..." She was wriggling under him, pout shaping her mouth, eyes screwed tightly shut. Draco relented, and swept his tongue up to her clit and swirled firmly over it, and her pussy clenched again like magic, her hands tugged sharply at his hair. Hermione tasted sweet and tangy on his tongue, and he closed his lips over her clit and sucked hard, made her squeak and him grin.

When Hermione came, she came hard around Draco's fingers; her back arched and arms outflung, hands dragging at the sheets. She came with Draco's mouth on her clit, and his name on her lips, followed by a gasping, "Fuck. Oh Merlin, oh my goddd..." Her thighs nearly cracked his bloody skull open, and her back arched up off the bed, a long, shuddering moan dragged out of her as her pussy seized and clamped around his fingers, and Merlin, Draco wished it was his dick inside her. He smirked up at Hermione as she opened her eyes and blinked at him dazedly, and then ducked his head and lapped at her clit one last time, licked his lips theatrically. She blushed and covered her eyes with one hand, grinning herself, her breasts going up and down in an incredibly mesmerising fashion as she laughed silently.

Draco's jaw ached and his throat hurt like shit, and Hermione stifled her giggles and grabbed at his arms, pulling him up her body. He scrambled willingly, her skin soft and warm on his, and then her flushed face was just beneath his, and she was kissing him thoroughly, tongue delving eager into Draco's mouth and he wondered if she could taste herself. The thought made both his chest and his balls squeeze tight with arousal for a moment. And then Draco made a mumbling moaning sound as Hermione took hold of his hand and sucked his fingers slowly clean, tongue wrapping and gliding around each digit, and his cock twitched against her thigh. Fuck, that was so hot. Draco's teeth indented his lip, and he looked into her eyes; all glazed and dazed and satisfied, and glowing on him, and he kissed her softly.

She made a little murmuring sound and her fingers twisted up through his hair, slid down over his shoulders and scraped down his arms, over his back. Her legs were splayed and they came up, one at a time, wrapping round his hips. And then his dick was nestled against the sopping slick wetness of her pussy, and their eyes were still glued together, and Hermione said, "Please," in a little whisper, and Draco pushed into her gladly. She clung to him, fingers hard on his shoulders, and her pussy was wet and hot as he sank in, and Merlin, he bit his lip hard, concentrating, trying not to come then and there. That would be entirely too humiliating.

But he didn't, and it was only when Hermione came for the second time with her pussy twitching deliciously around his dick that Draco finally came, with a gasping, stifled groan, his head sinking to her breast as his hips thrust hard into her, burying himself deep inside her as a shudder of release ran through him. It was a spark of raw pleasure and ecstasy that grew and grew, and convulsed and exploded into something that ripped through him and wrung him out, leaving him gasping and so fucking sated. It was completion and bliss, and her hands were on his cheeks and his hair and his shoulders, and her legs were locked around his hips, tying them together.

And fuck it was like home and perfection, and Hermione, because that was what she was to him, and everything washed away but her. He was anchored to her, tied to her, and she was the only person in the world that Draco would do absolutely anything for. It hit him like a brick to the face. Shit, he loved her and he couldn't stop; he wouldn't stop. It would be like trying to force himself to cut off his other hand. And yet it wouldn't last. Sooner or later, it would all come to an end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. That hurt. That hurt like nothing else.

In that maelstrom wash of blinding bliss and sudden, jolting truth, Draco saw Azkaban, dark and bleak on the insides of his eyelids. And he wanted to run away. For the briefest period of time, as he went limp on Hermione, face buried in her breast, cock still deep inside her, Draco wanted to take Hermione and run. Damn the war, damn the Order, damn his fucking family, and doing the right thing. Forget it all; go away, somewhere far, far away. Brazil, or New Zealand, or South Africa. Away from war and death and trials, and years in prison without her stretching out in front of him like a fucking prophecy. Except Hermione was a noble bloody Gryffindor, and Draco would follow her anywhere - even if she led him into Azkaban and slammed the door on him herself.

"I love you," he gasped, voice filled with desperation, eyes sharp and hard on her face and burning with it, and she looked at him with puzzled-happy brown eyes, not understanding the urgency, the grinding hurt in his voice. And she never would understand, never would know exactly what she had cost him, and Draco didn't want her to know. With her hand soft on his cheek, she smiled blissfully.

"I love you too." There was a hint of a question there in her voice as she caught the way he looked at her, the way he spoke, but he left it unanswered and Hermione didn't ask; for once, she seemed content to let secrets lie and leave her curiosity unsated. Although the good fucking he'd given her probably had more to do with her disinterest than any decision to respect Draco's privacy; she was languorous and heavy-eyed, much as he was, and they didn't talk at all for a long, languid time.

Draco tried not to think; enjoying the way Hermione curled into him like a comma, left arm and leg draping limply over him, her hair fallen over her face, the ends of it tickling his chest and shoulder. He floated in the afterglow, the moments of peace allotted to them - before long they'd be back at Godric's Hollow and these few precious moments would be gone. But everything was right with the world, for a while at least, and Draco would take what he could get. When Hermione finally spoke and broke the silence her voice was muffled against his chest, her breath a hot whisper on his skin, and he was drifting peacefully in half-sleep.

"Hmm?" Draco asked drowsily, trying to blink himself into wakefulness.

"I said; I'm not looking forward to going back to Godric's."

"Mm. Me neither. Getting my throat slit is worth the privacy it's afforded us," Draco agreed, fingers trailing up and down Hermione's spine, thinking of his dank cellar shared with the Bulgarians, and always being interrupted by Potter, the nosey little fucker. It was far more pleasant here, in this little Healer's room, far removed from everything that always pressed inexorably in on them. Here, the war, his father, his mother - none of it had to exist, if they just didn't think about it.

"No. It's most certainly not," Hermione snapped vehemently, and then sighed. "I'm not looking forward to explaining...us to the Order. The cat is most definitely out of the bag now, and I don't want to have to deal with all the...disapproval," she clarified into his chest, and Draco snorted and regretted it, when it created a little flame of pain that flared to brief life in his wound.

"Well, weeping over my body while you proclaimed your love for me was rather damning evidence, I imagine," he said dryly, sliding his fingers through Hermione's hair and dragging it gently away from her face. Hermione made a grumpy noise and Draco smirked. Guess what I know, that you don't, he thought smugly, and proceeded to tell her, still smirking to himself.

"But I don't think you need to expect having to make lengthy explanations - everybody but the Weas - Weasley, has known for weeks."

"What?" came an indignant shriek, and Draco winced at the assault on his ears. Hermione shoved herself upright, eyes as wild as her hair, voice turning dangerously low and calm. "What do you mean, they've known for weeks?"

"We apparently weren't as discreet as we thought we were. Your Gryffindor blundering must be infecting me; I am a disgrace to the Slytherin name. You know, if I had been sneaking around with another Slytherin, no one would ever have suspected a thing," Draco said, a smile playing about his lips as he leaned comfortably back on his pillows and drank Hermione in. This was when she was at her most gorgeous, he decided; when she was all angrily flushed cheeks and furiously sparking eyes, dark brows drawn together, radiating an air of utterly indignant affront.

Like a cat that had been dumped in a bathtub, Draco thought and grinned at her suddenly and grabbed her arm, yanking her down to him inelegantly and silencing her vocal indignation with a hard kiss. Hermione shoved at him at first, all bristling annoyance, and then gave up on her irritation with a little moan that shivered down his spine as she melted into him, kissing him back with a thoroughness that left Draco hard and aching for more. And then she jerked away and thumped him gently on the arm.

"Don't do that, you git!"

"Do what?" he asked, fluttering his eyelashes at her with faux-innocence as he wiped his damp lips with his thumb, and settled back on the pillows with a slightly frustrated sigh.

"Distract me," Hermione huffed, sitting up cross-legged with her knees jabbing into his thigh and side respectively. She dragged the blankets up over her lap and scowled at him.

"You let yourself be distracted," Draco pointed out amusedly; and now she was letting herself be distracted by an argument about being distracted. She glared at him harder, eyebrows all scrunched, a deep crease slashing between them.

"So, you knew that everybody knew, and you just...decided not to tell me that very important fact? Why, exactly?"

Draco shifted uncomfortably. "We, ah, weren't exactly...speaking...at the time, Hermione. Or at least...them knowing didn't seem particularly relevant, because there wasn't anything to know..."

"Oh." She looked down at her hands, nibbling on her lip and looking small and forlorn.

"Hermione." Draco wished he hadn't said anything, now, and had just left her to worry. It wasn't easy to think of the mess they had made. That he had made, mostly, if he was honest.

"Mm," she acknowledged quietly, still staring at her hands, all twined together in her lap. She brought one up to her mouth, chewed nervously on her thumbnail, still avoiding his eyes.

"Hermione..." Draco repeated, reaching out and tugging her hand from her mouth, tucking it inside his and squeezing gently. She took a deep breath and looked up at him, managed a smile.

"Sorry. I know."

"You shouldn't be apologising, Hermione. It was me. My stupid fucking fault; all of it. I'm - I'm sorry."

"Oh. Yes, no, that was definitely your fault," she said decidedly, and her smile this time was genuine and seasoned with amusement at Draco's humph of offence. She twisted her hand around in his and locked their fingers together. "So. They all knew, hm?"

"Except Weasley, apparently. Well, almost certainly, seeing as he didn't attempt to murder me in my sleep."

"Attempt?"

"Yes. There's no way a Weasley would be able to best a Malfoy, Hermione. At least, not that Weasley, not even halfway competent as he is now." He scowled, thinking of his father; an unwelcome thought intruding on the moment. "And not this particular Malfoy."

"Hah! You called him halfway competent! Coming from you, that's a practically a compliment. And I'm telling him!"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, wouldn't I?" she asked wickedly, eyes sparkling as she taunted him, and Draco growled under his breath and pulled Hermione down to him, struggled playfully with her for a moment before he flipped her onto her back - he suspected that she let him, because his strength hadn't exactly come back yet, and Hermione was no lightweight; she could hold her own. But that didn't matter, because however it happened, she was lying beneath him and he was triumphant on top.

"And what are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to finger you until you're about to come - and then I'm going to stop," Draco said crudely, caught up in Hermione's gleeful mood. Her mouth made and 'o', and she pinked, chest heaving with a sharp breath. "I'll leave you right on the brink. And if you don't agree to never tell, I'll do it again, and again, and again. And eventually you'll be so desperate for me to let you come, you'll do anything to come, let alone something as minor as promising to never tell Weasley I called him halfway competent. And then - and then, I'll make you come so fucking hard you'll forget your own name."

"Oh," Hermione breathed shakily, eyes wide and round on his face, and Draco smirked, feeling flickers of the old arrogant little sod he used to be - except without the bonus bigotry - as Hermione wriggled with breathless, hopeful anticipation under him.

"You'll remember my name, of course; you'll be screaming it."

"I love you."

Hermione smiled to herself at the earnestness in Draco's voice, and snuggled a little closer back against him, the little spoon to his angular, bony one. He was still too thin, after all that time spent skipping meals and replacing them with alcohol. Maybe it was time to start him on something other than broth now, but the damage to his throat really had been extensive; more than he realised, she thought. And even though it was nearly healed, Sylvan thought it was best to be cautious. So broth it had been, much to Draco's chagrin. She blinked and cleared her sleepy head, realising that Draco was waiting quietly for her to respond, breathing slow and warm into her hair. His arm had grown stiff around her, and Hermione wondered at how he could be insecure after everything that had happened. He should know that she loved him.

But she said it quietly anyway. "I love you too. You know that."

"I like hearing it," he said, and squashed her against him with his arm, kissing her head and sighing softly, the sound positively overflowing with contentment.

"Losing your edge, Draco? I thought you were mister cold and distant self-control?" Hermione teased, remembering how he had been at school, which felt like so long, long ago now. The way Draco had looked back then; all perfectly coiffed hair and hard, arrogant features set above his too-pointed chin, which somehow didn't seem so pointy anymore. Except for when he jabbed her with it, which he was doing now; head tucked down beside hers, so that said pointed chin dug into Hermione's shoulder.

"Only when showing my feelings will end up with me getting ridiculed by my peers, or, alternatively, murdered by the Dark...you-know-who. I have nothing against showing feelings when they're appropriate; as you should well know."

"You're just a big cuddly teddy bear, aren't you?"

"I mostly certainly am not."

"You are so. You melt into a puddle of goo every single time I say it. I love you." Hermione smiled as he let out another happy little sigh and tried to cuddle her even closer, mostly just succeeding in squashing the breath out of her. "See? You're a teddy bear - that likes to crush your lovers," she gasped, and Draco loosened his grip apologising, and Hermione got all wrapped up in thoughts of just how adorable he was when he did that. There was nothing quite so unbelievable and deeping satisfying as Draco Malfoy apologising to her.

"I'll have you know, that I am dark and dangerous, and radiate an aura of irresistible mystery," he said very seriously, and then growled in her ear, unusually playful tonight. Except it ended up not being so playful after all, because it tickled and the sound of it rather unexpectedly made thrills of desire run down Hermione's spine and her muscles tighten with anticipation. Her breath shivered out of her in a barely audible, completely wanton, whimper.

"Oh, you like that do you?" Draco asked archly, and Hermione didn't have to see; she could hear he was smirking, and a flicker of annoyance ran through her as she blushed embarrassedly. And then it all dissipated when he growled again, fingers playing up and down her side, pleasantly distracting. It was a low, rolling sound that melted Hermione's bones, and then his tongue swept teasingly over the shell of her ear and she jolted and let out another whimper despite herself.

"Maybe..." she allowed faintly as Draco nibbled at her ear lobe, hot breath whispering maddeningly on her skin, and teeth and tongue sending little sparks of electricity right through her. Oh, but she did like it. And if he growled like that again, Hermione was going to melt into a puddle of goo herself. And of course, Draco did it again and this time she moaned shamelessly, and shifted away from him, rolling onto her back and letting her thighs fall apart. She could see him clearly in the glow of the half-moon; hair shining pale and bright in a silvery beam of it, eyes glinting like a mirror of the moonlight, that kissable mouth shaped into a smug smirk.

"Bears growl, you know," she said with mischievous pointedness, as they both arranged themselves so that Draco's hand was free to explore her; his missing hand didn't impact on their intimacy enormously, but it did require a few workarounds. He laughed quietly at her as his hand swept slowly up the inside of her naked leg, from calf to thigh.

"Do bears also fuck you 'til you scream? Because if that's the case, I may have a problem with that," he said, and then dipped his mouth to her ear, an edge to his voice as he whispered teasingly rough, like he was testing whether she liked it or not. "I don't like to share, Hermione."

Draco's hand dipped between her thighs as he spoke, and his fingers slid along her exquisitely sensitive, slick folds, finding her clit and twirling idly over it. The words and his touch sent a bolt of lightning heat straight to Hermione's core, and she shut her eyes and hummed with anticipation, her hands drifting to her breasts, fingers bumping over her nipples, pinching them lightly and sending little tingles through her.

"I'm not at all interested in dalliances with the genus ursus, so the only bear that's done that is you, Draco," she murmured, mind only half on her words as his migrating fingers slid inside her, moving rhythmically in and out and making her thighs tremble and her womb clench, her body arch up into his hand.

"I'm not a damn bear! Bears are...lumbering and graceless and foolish. And I am not any of those things," Draco protested, fingers slipping out of her and resting on her thigh, slick and damp with the evidence of her arousal.

Hermione sighed irritably at the interruption to what she had hoped was going to be a descent into the quiet, shuddering intimacy that was middle-of-the-night sex. She opened her eyes, letting her hands drop from her breasts, gazing up at Draco and feeling love that welled up like a fount inside her. He was propped on one elbow beside her, looking down at her with a little crease between his eyes as he frowned thoughtfully, the only sign that he was desperately aroused the raging hard on jabbing into Hermione's leg. His fingers damply traced the inside of her thigh, tantalisingly close to where she wanted him to be.

"I'm...if I was any sort of bloody animal, then I would be a snake, being Slytherin and all. Or possibly a dragon. What with the name." And then Draco raised an eyebrow, gave her breasts a pointed look, and added: "And I didn't say stop."

"Look what I've got," Hermione announced, producing a large square box from her trunk with a flourish. Draco groaned, but he was smiling despite himself. He'd been doing that so often in the past few days - smiling, that was - that he'd accused Hermione of deviously slipping a potion in his food. Which incidentally was still restricted to a steady diet of fucking broth. Broth for breakfast, broth for lunch, broth for dinner... Draco was surprised it wasn't leaking out his bloody ears. Hermione and Sylvan insisted it was healthsome and necessary, and Draco insisted that it was barely palatable muck, and that furthermore he was not an infant, and could manage to chew perfectly well, thank you very fucking much. They had given him identical condescending looks, and Hermione had patted him on the hand.

Merlin, she was so fucking irritating sometimes.

It was nice.

Like how things were before Draco fucked it all up, only better.

Hermione waved the box in Draco's face to grab his attention and he jolted back with a few choice words, and instinctively snatched it from her before she accidentally clocked him in the face. "Scrabble," he said with distaste. "Of course. You remembered the bloody Scrabble. You didn't bring a drop of booze, but you did remember this."

Hermione smiled at him, the expression ridiculously infectious and playful.

"Of course. And," she added blithely. "Alcohol is not good for you, and you've been drinking entirely too much, so..." She let it trail off, but she didn't have to finish her sentence. Draco knew what she was going to say. ...Best to leave it. We don't want you getting addicted, now, do we? And damnit, she was right; he already was half-addicted, if such a thing was possible. Every-so-often the gnawing need for a drink would spring to life in the back of his brain, and he had to beat it into submission, mostly with the entirely pleasant technique of screwing Hermione silly as often as his still-weak body would let him.

"So let me get this straight - while I was over here, quite possibly dying, you were back at Godric's Hollow, fussing with boring Muggle board games? Nice to know you have your priorities straight." It was meant to be a light-hearted jab; well, maybe a little prompted by his annoyance at the way she had shut down his mention of a drink like that, but... Draco felt a rush of guilt as Hermione's smile fell away and her eyes filled with tears.

"No, actually," she said in brittle tones, snatching the stupid damned game back from Draco's hand. "Actually, when I went back to Godric's, I was falling apart, convinced you were dead already, and, and..." She sniffled and wiped at her cheeks and Draco felt like the most enormous prat in existence. He stepped toward her, hand held out, but she retreated as he advanced, still babbling tearfully.

"And it was bad enough I'd made an utter fool of myself at Ballater, so I went down to the cellar and sobbed my eyes out on your bed." She drew shaky breath. "It smelt like you. You and me. And...and firewhiskey. It stunk of that. And I sat on your bed and hugged your stupid pillow and cried my eyes out. And then I saw the Scrabble just sitting there, and I thought that you couldn't be dead, you couldn't, and even - even if you were, I had to be...to be there. I -"

Hermione was in floods of tears now, gasping the words out between snotty, wracking sobs, and Draco decisively lunged forward and hooked his maimed arm around her waist before she could retreat. She was stiff and shivering as he drew her against him.

"I wanted to be there, even if you were already dead, to, to - oh, I don't know! Say goodbye, I - I suppose. And I took the bloody game because the last thing you'd used it for was to spell out my name, and I thought...I don't know what I thought. I don't think I was really thinking at all."

Draco put his hand to the back of Hermione's head, and tucked her face against his chest, kissed the top of her head gently. She was still sobbing, and he winced inwardly, still feeling like a total arsehole for triggering this meltdown.

"Stop crying," he ordered, trying to be brisk and matter-of-fact, and hopefully snap her out of this. "Stop crying, Hermione. I'm not bloody dead, I'm perfectly fine - despite that completely unpalatable shit you call broth that you and the damned Healer are determined to poison me with. Or drown me in."

Hermione snorted a half-laugh, half-sob into Draco's chest, and he wrinkled his nose in mild disgust as he felt slimy dampness on his skin where her face was buried. "And I am not a handkerchief."

She huffed a shaky laugh and pulled away a little, wiping her nose on her sleeve and sniffing hard. "Sorry."

The hard square of the Scrabble box was digging into his side, and Draco tried to wipe at Hermione's cheeks with his thumb, carefully avoiding the snotty bits, and gave up. "You need a hanky."

She nodded, sniffing and leaning against him again, her arms wrapping around his waist pleasantly; the game now jabbing his spine most unpleasantly.

"Do you want to play, then?" he asked, resting his chin on her head, and thinking about how odd this was. Years and years of bitter hatred lay behind them, and not so long ago, relatively speaking, Draco would have been overjoyed to make Hermione cry like this. And now he was willingly offering himself up like a lamb to the slaughter to play this silly damned boring Muggle game, so that Hermione could soundly beat him at it and be happy. She nodded again, hugging him tightly, and wetly kissing his chest.

Neither of them made any move to set up the game though; Hermione's arms stayed tight around him, and Draco's chin rested still on her head, and he breathed in the scent of her shampoo as he stared at the wall, and didn't see it.

Instead he saw the years, stretching out behind them and ahead of them, and felt a pang of pain.

He was better, and not just in terms of his wound having almost totally healed, the last lingering traces of Dark magic nearly gone; but Draco was better. Hermione had spent nearly every minute of the last four days glued to Draco's side, and he was more like his old self than he had been since - since he'd first turned up on the doorstep with Remus and his mother, resentful, cowed and desperate.

It felt like a lifetime ago that she had nearly fainted at the sight of him, a panic attack gripping her, sitting at the dining room table with Mrs Weasley pressing firewhiskey on her while she stared at Draco's blond head and tried not to shatter into little pieces on the dining room floor. And now here they were; improbably together and in a little private sea of happiness that lapped and frothed at Hermione, and made little bubbles of bliss in her chest.

Sunlight shone in through the windows and washed over her exposed skin, and Hermione smiled happily, eyes shut, the sun making a warm red glow behind her eyelids. Her book was open spine up on her stomach; reading about advanced potions research techniques placed a very distant second to sunbathing lazily on Draco's bed next to him. Something trailed firm and ticklish down the sole of her left foot and Hermione mumbled an unintelligible protest, jerked her foot in reflex.

"Don't," she grumped and flung her arm over her eyes, scowling. And then it was quiet, drowsy sun-warmth and soft bed, and Draco's side pressed firm against her. She smiled, drifting happy and contented. The two of them together in the sun, with nothing to worry about, and nothing to do, except whatever they wanted. For a little while, just a little while. And it was so wonderfully perfect. And then something tickled the sole of her foot again, and something else nudged the side of her head. Hermione frowned, grumbling some more and wrapped her hand around Draco's ankle, pushing his foot away from her face, jerked her foot away from his tickling hand.

"I feel that top and tailing was a bad decision, on my part. Slytherins can't be trusted," she said lazily, still smiling, and snuffling out a laugh as Draco seized her foot in his hand, and lacking the needed other hand to tickle it, licked it instead. Or she assumed that was what he had done, because soft, startlingly wet heat rasped over her sensitive instep and provoked a giggle from her. Hermione tried half-heartedly to tug her foot away, but the sun had penetrated into her muscles and bones and made them heavy and languid.

"Don't do that!" she protested, craning her head up to squint against the sun at Draco, catching a glimpse of hair that was nearly white in the sun, and grey eyes that were light and clear with amusement, pointed features softened with peaceful relaxation. She flopped back with an oomph and snorted again as the rasping, wet warmth moved over her foot and enclosed her big toe, sucked hard. It tickled and tingled, the sensation shooting straight up her leg and into her spine, and Hermione shook with huffing laughter, foot jerking slightly in an instinctive attempt to escape the strange sensations.

"You don't know where my feet have been!" she tried through her quiet, shaking laughter, and the sucking paused, cold air hit her toe as Draco removed his mouth, her foot still held fast in his hand.

"I do, in point of fact. And these are the cleanest, pinkest toes I've ever had the pleasure of sucking on," he answered, a spark of teasing mischief in his voice, and Hermione's smile spread until it was a grin that nearly split her face, laughter subsiding. It was true that her feet were clean enough to eat a meal off, if Draco so desired; she'd had a shower a little over an hour ago. Her hair, fanned out over the bed, was proof of that - not having bothered with a drying spell, it was damp still, drying crumpled and curling in the sun. Hermione looked back down the bed at Draco, who was twiddling with her digits with a look of amused absorption.

"Suck on a lot of toes, Draco?"

"A veritable buffet of toes. Oh, so many toes...Slytherins, Ravenclaws, even the odd Hufflepuff one - so when I say these are the prettiest toes I've ever sucked upon, I speak from vast experience."

"No Gryffindor toes?" Hermione queried, cheeks beginning to hurt from her ridiculous grin, and Draco bit her big toe lightly, shook his head with her toe still clamped in his mouth like a dog, and then delicately released it.

"Not a one, until now. Feel special, Hermione?"

"Oh, exceedingly." Hermione's hand was still wrapped around Draco's bony ankle, and she stroked it light and teasing, finding satisfaction in the way he jerked, the startled noise he made. Two could play at this game, and Hermione knew Draco was just as ticklish as she was.

"You haven't stopped smiling ever since you put that book down," Draco observed, and Hermione struggled so she was propped up on her elbows.

"Mm, I haven't, have I?" she replied, deliberately not answering his implied question, just to irritate him. But Draco was lazing on his stack of pillows without a trace of annoyance, fingers playing over her toes as though they were piano keys. He looked younger, relaxed and lazy and boyish with it, which had the unfortunate effect of making his Dark Mark stand out all the more every time he moved his arm and flashed Hermione a glimpse of it. It looked so dreadfully wrong on Draco's skin on this beautiful day with the sun streaming in the windows, with his grey eyes happy, and her limbs all lazy and heart lub-dubbing with contented steadiness.

If Hermione didn't look at it, just looked at Draco's face, with those dark-lashed eyes and that full mouth perfectly designed for an array of smirks, she could almost pretend that the Mark wasn't there. That this was a different time, a different place - a world in which Voldemort had never come back, and they were still together, but without the negative history and the scars and the...Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and her smile wavered for a brief moment.

"Why?"

It took Hermione a second to realise what Draco was asking about, and then her smile steadied and she shrugged, crawling slowly up the bed and flopping down beside him. She curled onto her side, fingers dancing up from his stomach to his sternum.

"Because it's a good day," she said simply, and a shadow passed over Draco's clear grey eyes, and then he was smiling back at her as if that shadow had never been there.

"It is," he agreed, just as simply.

"It's like -" Hermione hesitated, not wanting to risk breaking the spell they seemed to be under, but now the thought of what this moment could be - except it couldn't - was rattling in her head, wanting to get out, and if she couldn't share her thoughts with Draco, then... "It's like the war was all just a bad dream, that none of it was real - that this, us, is what's really real."

Hermione shook her head; that didn't sound right at all. It sounded so stupid and all wrong somehow when she tried to explain aloud what she was thinking, and she said so. But Draco just shifted to face her, and kissed her full on the mouth, an aching tenderness in the way his lips pressed on hers.

"We are real. This is real." Draco had barely drawn back from her mouth, so that his lips brushed against hers as he spoke, her nose nuzzled alongside his, and Hermione stared into his eyes, drowning herself in what she read in them.

"And the war," Draco continued, hesitantly, and then paused, drew breath. His eyes were unnaturally bright and somehow pleading, and Hermione instinctively brought her hand up to cradle the curve of his cheek, the faintest sandpaper of stubble whispering against her palm.

"The war?" Hermione prompted Draco softly, as she looked into his eyes and felt her heart inexplicably swell and ache in her chest as he asked in a small voice,

"We can pretend, for a little while...can't we?" There was a quiet urgency threading beneath Draco's low words, and Hermione's thumb brushed over the jut of his cheekbone, her mouth pressing firmly to his. Warm and real, and something inside her floated free, taking her with it; pretending. Draco stilled for a moment when her lips met his, and then he gave a little sigh and parted his lips to her, his arm - the maimed arm - drawing her nearer.

And for a moment, with Draco's lips moving against her lips so softly and so warm, and his tongue hot and wet, skimming over hers and sending delicious heat trickling into her core... For a moment, Hermione could pretend that it was another time, another place, and that Draco's hand pressed into her back as they kissed, fingertips clutching and pulling her closer to him.

He had spent one day in delirium, one unwell but contented, another one mostly well and very happy, and the next two in total bliss. Today, if the trend had continued, Draco should have achieved nirvana, or ascended to heaven itself, but instead he found himself feeling restless. It was ridiculous. He had spent the past six days being doted on hand and foot, fucked silly, and generally luxuriating in a state of happiness that was more perfect than anything he had felt in a very, very long time; he should never want to leave this place. And a part of him didn't want to ever leave.

But as much as they had pretended so well, while playing Scrabble, and shagging, and lazing around together, well - the war was still out there, waiting for them. Draco couldn't just forget about it, as much as he wanted to. It wasn't going to go away, just because they ignored it.

And Pansy was off at Godric's or wherever, and Draco supposed she'd had her abortion, and now she would be all alone feeling miserable in a houseful of people who didn't like her in the least, to put it mildly. She was his friend, and when she had teased Draco about being completely selfish she had been wrong; he worried about her. Especially today; all of a sudden, Draco didn't know why, but he couldn't get her off his mind. He knew all too well what it was like to be thrown on someone's mercy, alone and disliked, and unlike him, Pansy didn't have to go through it alone. He could be there for her if he wanted to be, and he had been a right git to just leave her to the Order's tender bloody mercies for six whole days.

Draco shifted as he realised his toes were going dead and resettled Hermione, who was nestled between his thighs; her back against this chest, her legs bracketed by his, and that horridly dry potions book open on her lap. He'd read over her shoulder for a while, and it had nearly put him to sleep. She was nodding off herself; every so often her head would thud back against his chest, and then she would jolt upright again and turn a page, even though Draco knew full well she wasn't really reading it. It was like she had to appear productive all the time; shades of the old swot lingering in her, despite the war. It was rather adorable, actually. He didn't blame her for nodding off - it was lovely here, with the window ajar and a breeze coming through, the sun soaking into them both. It was weather made for lying around and dozing the hours away.

It was rather strange, being here still though. It had been nearly a week, and Draco had been perfectly bloody fine for the last four days and in no need of being at a special Healers. Why the hell were they still here? If he'd had any reason to be, Draco would have been suspicious. But he didn't have any reason to be, did he? His hand slid up and down Hermione's bare arm, and goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch, and she hummed happily, head resting back on his chest, fitting nicely beneath his chin. He suspected that she had finagled the extra days out of Potter or Lupin, so that the two of them could have a chance to sort things out between them.

Draco didn't know if they had really sorted things out or not; they were lost in each other, wrapped up in each other, and everything between them was right and easy and perfect...except they hadn't spoken of the future once. It was the troll in the room that they were both intent on ignoring, pretending it wasn't there. They were living in the moment, which was fine and good by him, except it didn't really solve anything. Not that they had any other options; this was not a problem they could solve, just a situation they had to bear no matter how much it would hurt. That was the price they had chosen to pay.

Draco sighed and Hermione twisted her head around awkwardly, kissed his shoulder and wiggled against him, like a human comfort blanket draped over his chest, her body heat seeping through his shirt and warming his skin. Neither of them said a word. Over the past six days there had been too many sighs, and too-long pauses, half-spoken sentences that the speaker thought better of. For the most part, they were ignored, not addressed except by a kiss designed to distract, or perhaps a faux-bright change in topic - it was safer that way. Draco curled one of her hands up in his, her fingers warm and strong in his, and he could feel the weight of reality begin to creep back onto his shoulders as thoughts of Pansy stripped away the fragile barriers he and Hermione had built up between them and the world.

"When do we have to go back to Godric's?"

"Harry fire-called me this morning, before you woke up. He said we have to be back tomorrow; the Order is going to start planning the mission to get the Muggle things we need in order to raid Gringotts," Hermione said quietly, as if she'd been expecting him to ask; expecting and half dreading.

"Do you know how Pansy is?"

There was an infinitesimal pause, and then she shook her head. "I don't know. I didn't ask. I'm - sorry. But I'm sure if there was something wrong, Harry would've told me."

"She's my friend, Hermione, not anything...else."

"Your ex-girlfriend," Hermione corrected without rancour, but with something else, something dangerous skimming beneath the surface. Draco bit his lip and held Hermione closer, pressing his cheek to the side of her head and getting hair in his mouth.

"Pansy and I...we were convenient. Expected. Good friends, in as much as a Malfoy could be allowed the intimacy of a 'friend'. I'm fond of Pansy, and I care about her, but I never loved her. Not like..." He smiled. "Not like how I love you; irritating, know-it-all, nosey Muggleborn that you are."

"Arrogant, snobbish, inbred git."

"Boring, goody-good teacher's pet."

"Hah, teacher's pet! My god, Draco. Pot, meet kettle."

"What? I was not."

"Oh, so Snape just gave you good marks out of the kindness of his greasy, black, heart?"

Draco frowned, conceding, "Point," and just knew that Hermione was grinning insufferably as she made a satisfied sound and settled back against him. Merlin, she was heavy. He didn't tell her that though; Draco was not stupid, and he rather enjoyed not being shrieked at.

"So, we're going back tomorrow?" he said instead, and Hermione nodded.

"Back to the real world," she said heavily, and heaved a sigh, her fingers stroking lightly over his palm.

Draco felt the descending weight of reality settle fully down onto his shoulders, and suddenly it seemed just slightly more difficult to breath. The day seemed duller, and he felt suddenly, inexplicably, tired.

"Yeah," he said wearily, closing his eyes and burying his face in Hermione's hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. "Back to the real world."

"Thank you, Sylvan." Hermione smiled at the man, her small trunk floating by her side as she stood in the light streaming through the kitchen door. Draco stood still and silent, leaning against the wall by the door, examining his nails as she said goodbye to the Healer. He had already said a brusque thank you, and shook the man's hand, and suffered through Sylvan's warnings about keeping up with the scar liniment applications, and being careful not to strain his voice and all that other rot.

"You're very welcome, Miss Granger. Just doing my job. I'm only glad I could repair the damage to Mr Malfoy's throat," Sylvan said cheerfully.

"Still..." Hermione prevaricated, being ever so polite and Draco set his jaw. If they were going to leave, they should just bloody well do it, not dither about and drag things out. He scowled at his roughly clipped nails, half-dreading going back to Godric's, but at the same time looking forward to seeing Pansy, and not wanting to stay in limbo here any longer. Draco felt like the epitome of the old adage of being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"It's nice to be appreciated," Sylvan said in that happy, ridiculously serene tone he seemed to always use - no matter how much Draco had sworn at him when he was still delirious - and Draco lost patience. He shoved himself off from the wall and stalked outside, ignoring Hermione's clutch at his shirtsleeve as he brushed past her.

Draco didn't want to fucking well go back to Godric's and the fucking war. He didn't want to. He walked faster. Get it over with. It was the waiting that was the worst. The insufferable bloody limbo. It grated on him, rubbing him raw. He hadn't expected that.

Hermione caught up with him halfway across the lawn, making for the portkey on the edge of the safehouse wards. She was out-of-breath and flushed with annoyance, and he glanced briefly back at her approach. She frowned at him as she jogged towards him, trunk bobbing at her side as though, it too, was running instead of floating three feet off the ground.

"Wait up!" Hermione called breathlessly as Draco reached the tarnished teapot portkey sitting on a crumbling stone wall, and he stopped in his tracks, back and shoulders rigid, not turning around to look at her. This felt like the end of everything. It was a stupid damn feeling, and yet he couldn't shake it. It felt like their bubble had popped, and it was all going to fall apart now reality had encroached unavoidably. Hermione's fingers closed around his arm, and then she was in front of him, worried firewhiskey coloured eyes searching over his face. Draco swallowed and cleared his throat, eyes darting away from her pink cheeks and dark windswept hair, fixing his gaze on the grass.

"You're afraid! Aren't you?" she demanded, and Draco flattened his mouth and shrugged. He wasn't afraid. Just...nervous. He didn't know what kind of reception he was going to get back at Godric's, now that everything was laid fully out in the open, and he didn't know how he and Hermione were going to manage their relationship with the war and everything else going on. Still didn't know how to face the future, if it ever arrived for him.

"Nothing's going to change from how it was here. Well, nothing important at least. Everyone knows that we're together, so there's no reason to hide our relationship anymore. We'll go back, and everything will be just like it was here. It'll be fine, Draco. Honestly."

She sounded so fucking hopeful, so bloody optimistic and Draco couldn't help but lift his eyes from the grass to her. Hermione's eyes were bright, when they weren't obscured behind the occasional banner of hair fluttering across her face in the wind. Her hand was firm around his arm, and her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. She stepped closer to him, so their bodies were pressed together, and her breasts were crushed softly against him, her face tipped up to his, and Merlin, she looked so pretty.

"Is it ever that easy?" Draco asked, unable to keep a hint of bitterness out of his voice, and Hermione's mouth quirked into a lopsided smile, her hand reaching up to lie flat against his cheek.

"I don't want easy. I want you. Draco, you are ridiculous; you know that, stupid boy." And with those rather blunt words, Hermione kissed him, soft and wet and earnest, her fingers sliding up the planes of his face into his hair, and holding his mouth to hers; as if he'd ever want to pull it away. It was a kiss meant to reassure, not arouse, their mouths moving together with the easiness of familiarity, and Draco smiled into their kiss at the thought, his arm slipping around Hermione as she reached out and touched the handle of the tarnished old teapot.