I know, I know. This took way too long. I'm so sorry. The next few chapters are in the make, so you can expect the next wait to be much shorter than the last.

To respond to Amykay19: You're completely right, and I'm sorry for the confusion. I did post a chapter 7 some months ago and then deleted it an odd few hours later because I felt I wanted to put more storyline in between. The chapter will come back up again, just a few chapters down the line.
To respond to Guest: They slept together two weeks ago, but have been ogling each other in the 10-ish years between Hogwarts/his trial and the events of now. I was trying to convey there has been a distinct and brimming attraction over the years, but I plan to get more into that in chapters later down the line. I will look it over and see if I can make it more clear in the first few chapters. Thank you for pointing this out to me.
To respond to all: Thank you for kind comments, you guys are the best.

Without further ado: Enjoy.

HPOV

Early sunlight flooded her eyes, casting the room in gentle hues of red, orange and gold. Seeing how it was the end of June, it couldn't be much later than 5.30 am, which suited Hermione just fine. She didn't quite feel like going to work yet. Not if it meant leaving these heavenly sheets behind.

As her brain slowly caught up with her surroundings, Hermione rolled over to find the spot behind her empty and cold, though with the sound of a shower running in the background she couldn't say she was all that surprised. The crisp, clean Egyptian cotton still smelled of him though, hinting on the divine tones of sandalwood, musk, citrus, and something else altogether––something ultimately him––yet no less divine.

With a sleepy groan, Hermione allowed herself to bury her face deep into his pillow; inhaling even more of that earthy heady smell as she stifled a sound that ranged somewhere between a giddy giggle and nervous squeak.

This had not supposed to happen like this.
She had not meant to stay over.

Hell, she'd made it a specific rule not to.

And yes, she was entirely aware of just how lame that sounded––Bookworm Granger living her life by the books once again––and it was lame. She was. But you see, rules were there for a reason and especially those she made up herself were the ones she vigorously followed. They were put in place to protect her; there to be listened to. They would grant her a sense of stability when Draco inevitably would move on to the next witch. At least when she wouldn't sleep in his bed now, she wouldn't miss it so when she no longer could.

She wasn't great with change, you see.

And yet, despite the risks of attachment and heartache bound to follow, Hermione couldn't find it in her to mind right now; not sticking to her own rules. Quite the opposite in fact. She'd lived her life risk-free for so long, she'd even forgotten what it even felt like. How exhilarating and stimulating risks could be. How invigorated and fortified they could make her feel… and damn it all to hell if Draco Malfoy hadn't made her feel just that.

Alive.

Another strange sound escaped her throat as the bizarreness of the situation fully dawned on her. She was in his house– his bedroom– in the very bed of Draco freaking Malfoy himself. Yes, that's right: 'Draco Malfoy'––the household name; the elusive elitist she didn't know the slightest thing about. Too far a cry from the boy she'd gone to Hogwarts with.

All she knew of him was that boy. The terror he'd been in a faraway past– and even then her knowledge of him had been decidedly biased, incomplete and flawed. Back then, she'd been as unwilling to get to know him as he'd been in getting to know her. Disregarding him had been easy. Reducing him to nothing but a spoiled brat even more so. Not a person, but an adversary. Not a boy, but a bully. The childhood nemesis she was destined to hate.

After all, Malfoy had slighted Ron, and Harry in turn Malfoy: The beginning of a tension the three of them had yet to overcome. For Hermione befriending the boys had meant instant animosity to Malfoy as well. It's just what children did; forming cliques and backing up their friends with no to little minds of their own. Besides, Malfoy had gone to great lengths to ensure she knew of his distaste for her, and––as the second childish folly––it stood to reason that those who did not like or respect you, could not possibly be liked or respected in return. And so, just like that, Malfoy had been deemed unworthy of her time, effort and understanding. No second glance spared.

Until he started to change, that is.

Slowly but surely, Malfoy ceased being the 'git' (or 'ferret', as Ron preferred to call him) they always made him out to be. The blond wizard retreated more and more into himself; ignoring others in the hallways, even when they jabbed and tried to provoke him into disputes and arguments. The bullying stopped, as did the sneers and the name-calling––at least the ones coming from Malfoy––and yet his nasty reputation remained. All of her friends too unwilling to acknowledge the obvious changes he'd gone through.

As if people weren't capable of change.

"Oh, people are, 'Mione. Ferrets just aren't." The boys would argue whenever she called them out on their out-dated animosity. It was then Hermione had first strayed from the opinions of her two most beloved friends. While the boys obsessed over the possibility of Malfoy being a Death Eater or not, Hermione merely embraced the newfound silence she found in his presence. Most days he simply ignored her, while others he seemed too tired to even notice her at all; no need for pretence. All in all, it was an improvement of his former treatment of her and for that she had been grateful. But with that gratitude also came compassion and –dare she say– worry.

With each passing day he'd become visibly thinner, paler and weaker. His eyes sunk deep, his dim skin bleak, and the more his health decreased the more Hermione found herself peeved by the endless obsession her friends seemed to have over a person so visibly distraught. Couldn't they tell he was drowning– burdened by expectations far too heavy for his teenage shoulders? Didn't they realize it hardly mattered what was or wasn't tattooed on his arm? Someone as distressed as Malfoy could hardly be rejoicing in the fact if it was indeed there. Could they really blame him for making impossible choices that weren't even his to make? Not with the climate he grew up in. Not with his parents –the very people who should've protected him from all evil– inviting a monster to live in their home; subjecting their son to its vile influence. Disobeying Voldemort would've meant his family would suffer for it. Obeying him meant his classmates would. Had the roles been reversed, and Hermione put in his shoes, she honestly couldn't say how she would've acted.

Quite possibly the same.

And yes, Malfoy had been a first-class terror in his early childhood; there was no arguing that. She was not trying to acquit his mean streak or the fact he'd been a spoiled and condescending brat. He really had been awful. He had acted all high-handed and arrogant and treated others like the filth underneath his shoes… but could they honestly say they had acted any differently towards him? Had they not insulted him as much as he had them?

Sure, Malfoy was decidedly more equipped to hit them where it hurt. He was in the possession of an extraordinary perceptiveness; spotting other peoples' Achilles heels from miles away. Then there was the fact he was well-educated, articulate and quick-witted; the combination of his large vocabulary, social and academic intelligence and sharp tongue an absolute force to be reckoned with. All in all, when it came to insults he'd been both ruthlessly undefeatable as well as undefeatably ruthless, but that didn't take away from the fact Hermione and her friends had at the very least tried to achieve the same.

Yes, looking back on it, it was not so much Malfoy's demeaner itself, but rather his tendency of being victorious that had him set apart from their own behaviour. Ron and Harry had never stood a chance intellectually and she herself had lacked in the fluency of insult as well as self-esteem.

So yes, Malfoy had cut them where it hurt, but that didn't mean she and her boys had been any more noble in their intent. How often had they not ridiculed him for supposedly buying his way into the Slytherin Quidditch team? And had not Harry refused to give his want back after he'd won it 'fairly' in a duel? Not to mention the sectumsempra Harry had hit him with. It didn't matter Harry hadn't known what a deadly dark curse it was at the time; none of them could claim Malfoy had done them more wrong than Harry had him.

Also, Malfoy was through and through Slytherin. Just because he wasn't prone to show his emotions as openly as she and her fellow Gryffindors did, didn't mean he didn't have them. Perhaps their insults cut Malfoy just as deeply as his insults had them. How were they to tell when the Slytherin kept his feelings so firmly under lock and key? Hell, scrap the Slytherin excuse. Malfoy had been raised in an environment where showing weakness could prove fatal– either for him or the people he loved. So yes, if any student at Hogwarts had been equipped to hide his true intentions and emotions, regardless of their House, it would've been the very godson of Severus Snape himself.

So no. Hermione could honestly say she hadn't the slightest clue who Draco Malfoy was. Not the boy he once been, and certainly not the man he was now. But she wanted to. She'd found herself wondering for quite some time, even before they started sleeping together, though the sex certainly hadn't helped ceasing her intrigue with him.

So, who was Draco Malfoy?

She had no answer –for past nor present– though she'd watched carefully how he portrayed himself in public. A stony-faced and solemn persona. Stiff but in control. Charming when lucrative, but always out of reach. Sparking admiration through easy speech and light-hearted jokes when put on a stage, but demanding respect through thoughtful silence when out of the spotlight; only allowing others the smallest of insights to his meaningful thoughts.

It kept people guessing; alert. Like dogs trailing after their master who only kept feeding them half-empty bones. Never quite enough to be satisfied, but enough to stay alive; hungry for more. People wanted to know his opinions; yearned for his evaluation, because people tended to put great value in that which was most difficult to obtain… and to her immense dissatisfaction, Hermione had to admit she wasn't an exception to that rule. Not a witch above the arbitrary judging standards of a frivolous society, but part of it. Strongly so.

His opinion should mean as much to her as the next bloke's did. Between Draco Malfoy and Neville, for example, or even Harry and Ron, she should put most value in the boys she considered friends… but she didn't, and maybe never had.

It was small things, really.

Like back in Hogwarts whenever she'd lost track of time while studying in the library and entered the Great Hall after dinner had already started. She would try and access how tasty the meal was going to be by glancing at the Slytherin table rather than the Gryffindor. Ron would gobble away poison if given the chance, Harry wasn't exactly picky either after a lifetime of scraps or no food at all at the Dursley's, and Neville was always testing out some new plant-friendly diet, picking at his food with reasons unrelated to the quality of it. But Malfoy… Malfoy and his personal adherents would tell her exactly how much she was going to enjoy that day's meal.

Same applied to books. Harry and Ron had already trouble reading what was instructed of them for assignments. Neville had a particular theme of books he enjoyed, but rarely branched out of it. But whenever she caught Malfoy in the library with a book, it was always a surprise what it was he was reading, and after she realized they read quite a few of the same books on accident, she started to look to him for inspiration as well. Not always, but some days– and she had yet to see him with a book she hadn't enjoyed herself.

It was just… like herself –and unlike any of her friends– Malfoy had always had high standards for himself, and if not for her supposedly inferior blood-status –and the clashing ideologies that came with their disparate upbringings– she could've easily imagined them becoming friends– or at the very least friendly acquaintances. Retrospectively, their tastes had never been too far off, and neither of them shied away from a healthy debate or people with conflicting opinions to their own. No, it had purely been their contradictory worldviews that had made their differences irreconcilable. But that was something he'd altered over the past decade, hadn't he?

Was she the first muggleborn he'd slept with?

The question popping up in her head was as unexpected as it was disconcerting, because the answer of it shouldn't matter in the first place. But it felt significant somehow. She didn't think he had ever dated a muggleborn or even half-blood before (none the papers got wind off anyway) but that didn't mean he hadn't at least shagged another muggleborn witch. His opinions on blood purity had obviously changed, so if she was the first; why wait all this time to tip his reformed toe into the pool, so to speak, and if she wasn't the first; who had he deemed desirable enough to make him want to break his pureblood-streak?

No.

No.

Stop it, Hermione.

She couldn't get jealous of some hypothetical muggleborn.
Scrap that, she couldn't get jealous period.

With an annoyed huff at her own overthinking brain, Hermione finally forced herself to roll out of bed, trailing her fingers over the rich materials of his furniture as she strolled through his room, on her way to the bathroom. She carefully studied her surroundings, hoping for some insights to the man that was Draco Malfoy, though for a personal bedroom (or chamber, as would be more befitting the grandeur of this room) it vehemently lacked in personal details. Though every item was quite possibly more expensive than her monthly rent tripled, it might as well be a hotel room with how little character put into the place. In fact, if not for the obvious masculine colour palette, she would've seriously doubted it wasn't.

On the other hand, the room reflected him just perfectly– or at the very least the mystery he surrounded himself with. The space was as pristine as the man himself. Not a hair out of place and all inklings to his identity carefully stashed away; hidden from view. It seemed that even in his own home he retained his private nature, though for who he was hiding it, she didn't know.

The many lovers he took here?
Or worse, himself?

A rueful grimace tore at her lips, not liking either option, but Hermione quickly shook herself of the newfound melancholia as she glanced back at the dishevelled sheets she'd left behind. A more genuine smile was quick to blossom at the sight of it; the messiness of the unmade bed such a stark contrast to the rest of the room, and though she didn't doubt he would prefer his bed to be as neat and tidy as the rest of it, she couldn't bring herself to do it for him. She rather liked the unkept look of it and the way it fell so completely out of sync with his otherwise immaculate room. Serving as evidence of her stay here. A beckon one could not help but want to fall back into.

Another time, maybe.

Her honey-brown orbs fell onto a chair next, or rather what was on the seating of it: a perfectly folded, neatly piled stack of clothes . Her clothes, to be exact. The ones she had been wearing last night and was sure she'd left scattered on the floor of his study. He must've retrieved them for her when he got up this morning– which was sweet and thoughtful, yet troubling all the same.

After all, Draco was a calculating man. Everything he did served a purpose, a goal. So what did it mean he had gotten her clothes for her? Had he simply wanted to be thoughtful, like the well-mannered pureblood he was raised to be? Having had the forethought of giving her the choice of leaving if she so pleased? Or had he done it because he rather had her slip out of his home silently; spared from witnessing her walk of shame as he showered, and they could both go on about their separate lives?

Now, Hermione wasn't generally known for her feeble-mindedness. Logically she knew the conversation of last night indicated he wanted to keep seeing her for at least a little while longer than just another one off –why else bother with rules?– but other than that, her name might as well be Jon Snow.

She knew nothing.

While he had been tenacious in attaining her rules, she had no idea if he had any of his own to add to the list. And if he did, she doubted he'd divulge them to her anytime soon. Not unless he felt there was something to gain with sharing the information. Everything was always quid pro quo with him.

It was his Slytherin nature, after all.

Him retrieving her clothes for her also troubled her on another –more practical– level. It meant he'd probably read her list of rules as well, and it bothered her she hadn't been there to see his initial reaction to it; filling in the gaps and explaining where necessary. Or perhaps just to make excuses for it, or apologize for her messy handwriting she was sure had been far too scratchy considering– well, the other things going on at the time.

She hated being blindsided like this.
Preferred her own sense of control.

And yet, the entire pull to him revolved around the idea of him taking it.

He was the one who took the lead.
He was the one in charge.

There was no point denying it.

So far, their sparse few interactions had established exactly one pattern between them. One. He guided, and she followed. That was it, simple as day. She didn't have to think or play guessing games with him. One look from him, and she knew what to do. One word from him, and she knew her purpose.

Lay down, sit up, keep still, open up.

"Put your hands on the balustrade, Granger."
"Close your eyes and focus on the feeling."
"Speak up, kitten. Tell me what you want."
"That's it, baby. That's a good girl."

She, control-freak Hermione Granger, had no control when it came to Draco Malfoy, and she was loving it. For the first time in her life, she felt control would be safe in the hands of another. For the first time in her life, she gave it away for free.

And she revelled in it; loved how small he made her feel– not because of some twisted sense of inferiority on her part, but because she felt protected and safe whenever he was there. It was strange. On the one hand he could turn her into a fumbling mess of nerves, and she easily cowered under his stern gazes, but then on the other hand, it felt as if nothing bad could ever happen to her as long as he was near. Because he wouldn't let it. He'd told her so herself.

"Stop worrying, Granger. It'll be fine. You'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."
"Shh, don't worry. I took care of it."
"They're locked and charmed. Nobody will even notice them."

He was careful. He was competent. He was deliberate.
He was fastidious, proficient and intentional.

He was the kind of man influential enough to make others bend to his will. He was the social shark, high and mighty at the top of the food-chain. Sharp, present, meticulous. Seemingly at ease as he glided through the water, but ready for the kill at any given moment.

He was the worst thing that could happen to her– or anyone else for that matter. His bad opinion was the start of your own funeral. Angering him like digging your own grave. But as long as she'd comply with his wishes, listened to his demands, she would fall under his protection, and there could be nowhere safer than being right under his wing.

Was it weird she wanted that?

Should she consider herself weak for being okay with looking up at him for guidance? Then again… she'd always been that way, hadn't she? She'd always been the teacher's pet; ready to please those she looked up at. She just didn't know where exactly along the line he had become someone she looked up against. Someone she respected. When had it started? Or had it always been there?

Was she damaged? Desperate for the good opinion of a man who had made her feel so small and insignificant during her teenage years? Was this a phase she needed to overcome? An act of rebellion or an impossible goal she'd set herself but would never reach?

Was she being self-destructive?

Her head was spinning far too fast for so early a morning, and even though Hermione was fully aware she was over-analysing things again, she couldn't seem to stop. She had trouble with it in general –controlling her own mind– but apparently even more so when it came to a certain confounding wizard.

His commands were like a siren; impossible to ignore and drawing her to depths she wasn't sure she would survive.

But she'd decided on this. That night on the balcony she made a choice; the choice of jumping in head first, because she'd been stupid, careless and wanting. She didn't regret it, had enjoyed the tastes of sin so far, and now craved for more still.

But that didn't mean she'd suddenly forgotten what a terrible idea it was; letting herself close to him; looking up at him for guidance; leaning onto him for support. She would crash and burn soon enough. She knew she would– so why stay? Why put herself at risk like the idiot she was? Why couldn't she be like a normal person? Just count her blessings and leave it at that.

The soreness between her legs betrayed his presence there mere hours ago. The humming in her bones happy with her good night's rest in his bed. It could be enough. For any emotionally normal person it should be enough. But of course, she was hardly that when it came to emotions.

Her desperate and clingy mind always desiring more.

More sex, more caresses, more praises, more sins.
More time, more cuddles, more orders, more him.

With all her heart, Hermione wished she could blame the sex-induced hormones for it; raging through her body and making her feel possessive and attached where she had no right to be. She wasn't a fool. She harboured no hopes of a future with him; no chance of it turning into a relationship or even a passing fling. Nothing outside the 'just sex' he'd told her it was. Casual. Fun.

Surely she could do fun.

Maybe?

Okay, most definitely not.

Hermione Granger was known for many things, but fun had never been one of them– in her younger years Ron had been all too eager to remind her of that. Just as well. Maybe it was less about fun and more about the unresolved issues between childhood rivals anyway. That would make sense, wouldn't it?

Yes, she could do unresolved issues.

It almost sounded like a healthy process of growth when she put it like that. Something she could get into, and come out of at the other end reformed… better.

Like an equation.

Issue + solution = end of issue
Sexual tension through childhood rivalry + a few good shags = end of sexual tension.

She would just have to let it run its course, and their paths would separate when the time was there. No heartbreak necessary. They were just two consenting adults participating in the act of sex. Maybe they were damaged or fucked up for wanting it to be each other, but they would grow out of it. Eventually. Inevitably.

Except the equation she'd sketched wasn't all as simple as that, was it? Not if you calculated in the intense and overwhelming feelings of an attachment nutter without emotional filter. Not if you calculated in the art of casual sex and moving on as done by the bachelor of the year with his pick from many many witches. And not if you calculated in the fact that this was already so much more than 'just a good shag' for her.

And just imagine what a top-notch mathematical problem it would turn into if the press would ever get wind of it? Wizarding Britain would disrupt into chaos, not to mention the protests it would stir amongst their friends. His family– and oh gods. Why was she even thinking about this?

See?

This.

This entire internal debate was precisely why she enjoyed being with Draco so. He was commanding and straight-forward. No fuss, all business. Steady, guiding, reassuring. With him she was prone to worry less, because even when he wasn't ordering her about, the sheer confidence wafting off of that man was enough to make her want to follow his lead. Surely a man exuding such confidence –such sagacity– knew what he was doing. He must know. His ego couldn't afford to be wrong.

So yes, she craved his presence. His confidence. His competence.

And yet, as her hand rested on the –very elegant– door handle she hesitated once again. She wanted to get in. More than anything she wanted to join him in that shower, but what if he didn't want her to? How was she to tell? He had always been the one to take the lead, and although Hermione was a little embarrassed to admit it, she felt- well, a little lost without him to guide her now.

What if this understanding between them, was only possible in the darkness of night, and the light of dawn was to them what twelve o'clock was to Cinderella? What if that was the reason for her clothes on the chair? The last thing she wanted was to come across too clingy or desperate– I mean she was, but there was no need for him to know that, now was there? She could hide it, couldn't she? She could get dressed, leave a thank-you note and get on with her day.

But she really didn't want to do that.

Besides, running out of here expecting the worst-case scenario didn't sit well with her either. She was a Gryffindor for Merlin's sake. She was supposed to be brave. No, she wouldn't back down just like that. It would be like disgracing her entire House.

Blast it all, she was going in.

Next chapter: lots of smut.
Please comment if you find the time- even if you hate it. Hypes me up and makes me write.