Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Hey guys! So, I had a seriously love/hate relationship with this chapter as I wrote it, and revised it, but hopefully it will have been worth the wait. A massive THANK YOU to olivieblakefor beta'ing this chapter and being all around amazing. Definitely go check out her stories, "Marked" and "Clean," if you haven't already.

To olivieblake, mthoene, mega700201, daniiibabiii, beaflower114, Shellmar, Chester99, DragonxEyes, Fairygirl34, Amilasse, viola1701e, helenkelley2013, Athena Dragonseeker21, and marthapreston4: Thank you all so much for the love and support. I value all reviews from the super long ones to the super short ones! I'm really happy that you guys are enjoying the story, and the dynamic between Draco and Hermione. Hopefully, this chapter won't disappoint. On that note,

WARNING—SEXUAL EXPLICITNESS AHEAD. Just a heads up for anyone who doesn't want to read that sort of thing. This story has officially been moved into the "M" rating.

To all who've favorite'd, followed, or read silently, I adore you and thank you for taking the time to read. Hope everyone enjoys!

/I couldn't leave if I wanted to cause something keeps pulling me back to you

From the very first time we loved, from the very first time we touched

The stroke of your fingers, the scent of you lingers,

My mind running wild with thoughts of your smile

Oh, you gotta give me some, or you could give it all

But it's never enough/

-Powerful, Major Lazor ft. Ellie Goulding

Chapter 6 – To Twirl, Fumble, and Fall

Hermione's hands were clammy and hot and cold and gods, did she want to leave. She didn't know how to play the dutiful wife; she didn't want to learn, either. But here she was, attending Blaise Zabini's wedding to Tilly Chambers—a sixth year Ravenclaw.

She could definitely see the appeal; Tilly was a beauty by any standard with her long and flowing mahogany hair, and dark blue eyes. She had a figure that was gentle and tempting; Hermione hated her. Hermione hated how Draco appreciated her figure, and her smile.

"You shouldn't scowl at a wedding," Draco admonished her. He looked at her with those grey eyes that she still hadn't become accustomed to after a week of marriage. Those eyes pierced and moved her. She thought she might explode if she didn't escape him soon.

Honeymoons weren't what she expected them to be. He loved her hard some nights, and other nights, he didn't make love to her at all. Oh, he always crashed into her like she was his beloved enemy, if there were such a thing, but…being the servant of the Dark Lord came between them often. Test upon test that neither knew if they were passing or failing.

"You shouldn't take a muggle-born to a Death Eater convention," Hermione replied acerbically.

"And here I thought this was the wedding of my best mate," Draco raised an aristocratic eyebrow. Hermione wanted to simply walk away, glare and never look back, but his eyes darkened, and she felt that familiar heat that grounded her like a moth to a flame.

Or a wife to a husband.

"Well, at least there are some respectable people here," Hermione sighed. She'd take consolation where she could get it. She had yet to meet Voldemort, but she knew the time was approaching, and it was making her anxious. She dreamt in blood and heartbreak over it.

"What people?" Draco smiled sarcastically. Hermione couldn't help but point out people who vocally championed the Light—people like Gesepe Ganish, Carol Wentworth, and Brian Pembrook.

She pointed them out sweetly, with a raised eyebrow mocking him as if to say "oh, you thought there were no good people left in the world, did you?"

Draco replied silently, with a smile as sweet to combat her own, and his own raised eyebrow which clearly taunted her as if saying, "oh, you thought there were people that couldn't be bought, huh?"

Her smile faded and a heavy scowl took her place. The names Wentworth and Pembrook were some of the strongest in support of Harry and the Order. To know that those names were simply playing both sides, one in the public and the other behind closed doors so as to be on the right side of this war regardless of who wins disgusted her. It also made her want to growl in frustration.

Instead, Hermione turned towards the couple approaching and planted another fake smile upon her face. Her arm rested on Draco's with a false comfort that didn't fool him for a moment.

She'd have to warn Remus and the Order somehow.

Draco knew, just like he knew he'd have to warn his father that Ganish, as a possible resource, had been burned.

And Hermione knew that he'd have to tell the Death Eaters, too.

Neither of them blinked at the realization that they were just as hypocritical as the Pembrook and Wentworth families; everyone just wanted themselves and theirs to get out of this war alive.

Truth. Even when it hurt.

Draco's arm was heavy at her waist as she twirled in his arms. It was nice and nerve-wracking because she wanted to be closer and as far as possible.

She hadn't said a word directly to him since their little revelation earlier. Blaise's wedding reception was still in full swing, and they both knew that they have to air this out or else it would be a very long night.

Hermione, ever the bearer of reason, decided to break the silence.

"The Pembrook's are supposed to be good people." She didn't know what she meant to say with those words—only that it mattered. "They're supposed to be one of the good guys."

"Maybe there are no good guys."

It was supposed to be comforting. It was supposed to be more than what it was, but Hermione could care less about anything except that there should be good guys. This spark inside of her, so firm in the ways of right and wrong, good and evil, told her that there should be.

"I'm one of the good guys," she said, slightly smugly. She knew that things were never that simple, but she wished that they would be. Hermione wished upon the stars that she could say those words with more conviction then she felt.

Draco didn't bother to refute her claim. He stared at her, hard. His eyes penetrated her, and she wanted to cry.

"I'm good," she repeated, but the tears didn't stop forming in her eyes. "I'm good."

Draco pulled her in closer. He hated her for thinking that she was better than him, but he also pitied her. He pitied the fact that the idea of falling short, of being human, could break her so easily.

He wanted to comfort her, give her a second to regroup and accept herself (which is a process to be done over and over again), but they were in the middle of a party and Draco's pureblood ways wouldn't let him show too much emotion in public. Not now. Not when they were surrounded by supporters of the Dark Lord.

"Don't you dare fucking cry, Granger," Draco glared at her. It wasn't just an admonishment. It was a plea to be strong, stronger than she is right now.

"I'm not crying," she glared right back. "I'm worried that with your horrible dancing you'll step on my shoes."

It was a sorry excuse but it was enough. Damn it, he wants her, and yet he had never despised her so much. I'm good. Yea, she might be, but that didn't make him bad. That didn't make him less than, and where the hell does she get off?

His grip on her tightened uncomfortably, and it no longer mattered that they were in public. It didn't matter that Blaise was only a few couples away from approaching them. They can't let this fester. Not this. Not with who they are, and who they'll always be.

"The world isn't black and white, Granger," Draco tried to whisper, but he couldn't stop the way his fingers pressed into her painfully. Yea, let her feel that pain.

He wanted to crush her beneath the weight of all of his fears, but that wasn't who he's been for a while now. Not since Dumbledore fell from that tower. Not since his father handed him over to Bellatrix for training.

"Don't even try that, Malfoy," Hermione shot back. They bounced off of each other's resentment and anger. They do the same thing when he's inside of her, too. It was strange, and yet this dance was a hell of a lot more comfortable than when they tried to play nice. "You and I both know that it's a piss poor excuse for not doing the right thing."

"And what's right? Who decides that, huh? Spare me your moral high ground," he growled and went to release her, but Hermione's nails dug into his shoulder and hand. She'll never let go. It was too late for that. It was too late the moment his lips had claimed hers hungrily.

"There's a right and wrong, whether or not we like it," she whispered harshly.

Lights danced above their heads, and the humid air made their skin clammy. Hermione licked her lips. Draco groaned in reaction, remembering how moist and hot those lips were upon him. Making him shiver. Making him quiver in anticipation. Making him want her with abandon. Her eyes, ablaze with indignation, reminded him of everything and the nothing there was before they had acknowledged their desire. Their need. Their desperate and distorted want.

"Is there anything right about you and me?" he asked, just to prove a point and piss her off more. It was the only way they worked and the only aspect of them that he could truly handle. Blaise was one person away, and they needed to get this, all of it, under control. They needed to be united, because Blaise was his best friend, but he was also his biggest enemy in so many ways because of it.

Hermione didn't have an answer. She wasn't even sure if they were having the same conversation. But she wasn't willing to stay quiet and meek in front of him.

She was also past lying to herself. Not anymore. Not since their wedding day.

"Some things don't fit in the category of right or wrong."

"Because there's a grey."

"No," she shook her head, and let herself invade his space so much so that it was practically indecent. Their lips barely brushed against each other, and their noses bumped so good. She was heady with the feeling of having him so close, and not close enough. She hates him so bad, too. "There isn't a grey when it comes to this. We're just—we…relationships are complicated. All of them. there's no such thing as a right relationship."

"I don't even know what we're arguing about," Draco sighed, and let himself give in. He gives in to the heat, and the blood raging to feel her. His forehead fell to her shoulder, and his lips pressed against her neck.

"I don't know either," Hermione whispered softly. It was the truth, and its claws dug into them fiercely. The truth is always ugly for them, and never easy. "But it matters, okay? It matters, Malfoy, that you don't believe in a right and wrong."

"Why?"

"Because it's who I am. It's…it might be all I am."

Yea, he can see that. He can see that's how she sees herself, but he knows the girl who loves to see him bleed, and he knows that's not all she is.

He knows and believes enough for the both of them. As Blaise approached them, Draco wished he hated her more. He wished he hadn't learned what it felt like to feel her succumb so fully to his fury and passion. To match him in opening scars.

He wished, but it was wrong. It was wrong because as he gazed into her chocolate eyes, he saw himself. He saw himself, the lights of the wedding, and all the wishes and hopes inside of them both.

He saw it all, and it danced a waltz of right and wrong—so right in its wrongness.

"We're up," he stepped back from her slightly as Blaise advanced.

"We're always up," she looked away, tired of the game that never seemed to end. The game of living right under the Dark Lord's reign. The threat of meeting Voldemort constantly looming over her.

"Is that defeat in your voice I hear, Granger?" Draco smirked infuriatingly. "And here I thought that Gryffindors were immune to such feelings."

He smirked, even though he should soothe her. His eyes sparkled with the wonders of the universe even though he knows he has yet to see the gods.

He feels everything because there's something special and harrowing about causing Hermione Granger pain. It's practically addictive.

Almost.

None so much as the feel of her in his arms…and for that, he can only hate her more…as he relished the feeling, acceptance rolling through his veins.

He'll never tell her, though.

Frankly, her pain and passion were the only things that grounded him anymore.

Draco congratulated Blaise at least three times before Hermione's glare worked his nerves enough that he gave in and apparated them out of the festivities.

Once in the comfort of their so not comfortable hotel room, they both looked at each other awkwardly. They both knew that Draco needed to go report to his father and the Dark Lord. They both knew that Hermione was itching to go tell the Order what she'd found out.

But neither of them moved.

In this moment of immobility and silence, they were connected by the beating of their hearts.

"We start school in a few days," Draco turned around, walked towards the bar, and poured himself two fingers of brandy. "Are you ready for that?"

"It's school," Hermione responded with a sneer. Let him doubt that the sun shined, let him doubt her passion for him, but never doubt Hermione Granger's ability to be prepared for school.

"School with a new Headmaster," he walked towards the window, and overlooked the city, with its bright lights and brighter sounds—the sounds of life. "School with the Carrows teaching."

Hermione hadn't even considered a new Headmaster. It would always be Dumbledore's position for her. Hogwarts would always be safe, to her. But that wasn't really the case anymore. Not anymore. Not since Draco let Death Eaters into the school; a rush of fire and hate so miraculous spun through her.

"This is your fault," she gritted her teeth. "This is your fault."

"Yea." He faced her like a warrior. He was burning inside, furious that it was like they were perpetually turning in circles. It was like he couldn't escape battles—battles in the Death Eater ranks, and battles at home, whatever home this may be. He resented it, her, dearly. "I did do this. This is my fault, but what about you? Huh? Where were you? Playing mother to Saint Potter, instead of being involved—so you don't get to judge."

He was right. He knew he was. She knew it too. She knew it and it did nothing to quell her fire.

"I may not have been in the thick of it last year," Hermione stepped into his space. Let him see the hate in her eyes. Let him burn like she burns. "I may not have played any real part last year, but you chose to do this."

"I chose to protect my family and what's mine," he growled, dropping his glass carelessly, and moved to grasp her forearms so hard that they'd surely bruise. Gods, he was so furious, but it was better this way. It was better than that stale moment of awkward innocence. It was better than being connected in their futility to truly change who they are.

Accept, conquer, not change—that was all that was needed for Occlumency. She wished it wasn't. She wished that more was needed. If only so that they didn't drown in the hatred that always seemed to flame.

"I'm yours, aren't I?" Hermione lifted her hands and dug them into the nape of his neck. Please, please. Here they go—passion mixed with animosity so easily for them.

"Fuck, yes," Draco breathed her in. He can't stop hurting her, and damn it if he really wanted to. She felt too good when he was hurting her. She was too righteous when he wasn't hurting her. "You're mine, Granger. You're mine."

"Then don't make me go back there," she said, and only once the words were out of her mouth, she realized that this had been what was hurtling inside of her. That storm in her ribcage was fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of a Hogwarts that wasn't safe. "Don't make me go back there, Malfoy."

His lips crashed into hers, and claimed her astoundingly, wholly. Her own fingers gripped at him as her insides twisted and turned. Please, please.

But his hands tore at her soul as they moved over her back and up through her hair. She wanted him, and she hated herself for letting herself want him. Yes, she was past denying it, but she doubted she would ever get to the point that she was okay with it.

That wasn't who they are. That wasn't who they'll probably ever be.

Draco pivoted and slammed her body against the floor-to-ceiling glass window. It didn't shatter, and frankly, she could have cared less.

If they would have fallen, she would have died with his lips on her neck, and his fingers diving into her, and yes, yes, yes.

There'd never been a better feeling than this. She was sure of it.

Her moans bounced off the walls, crashing into Draco so deliciously. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Please, please, please, don't stop.

It's their circle, but Draco wasn't so easily distracted.

"You're stronger than that, Granger," he dove his fingers deeper, and deeper. He was a machine of lust, and calculations.

Had she ever hated before this moment? She doubted it, but yes, yes, yes. More. Please. Don't stop. It was too much, and not enough, and she was thrashing against him, and pulling him closer. Nails digging into every inch of exposed skin she could latch onto. Draco hissed in her ears, in pain and pleasure, and god, yes. "You're stronger than that."

"Don't—make me—go—" her words, stuttered, came out in gasps and pants, and she just can't deal with so many emotions at the same time.

Draco allowed himself a moment to revel in the power of causing her pleasure. He let himself feel everything that he'd lost to Voldemort. One moment Hermione was writhing beneath him, pinned to the window, and the next she was slapping him and ripping off his shirt, and what the fuck?

She slapped him again, desire and resentment coiling in her eyes. Fuck, he loved it. He loved how ferocious she was. And he remembered the first time she slapped him in Third Year; he had desired her then, too.

This was a battle of wills, stronger than they've ever played at. Because she didn't want to go to Hogwarts, and he'd never let her stay away. They were stronger than that. If only she could see what he saw.

Yea, they were like lions and snakes, even as Draco magically removed both of their clothes. Even as he dove into the depths of her, they were like lions and snakes.

He slithered and hissed, while she scratched and roared.

More.

Harder.

Deeper.

Don't stop.

Never.

Yes, yes, yes.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

They were reaching for a moment in time that didn't exist yet. They were reaching for something indescribably, and yet, within it all, Hermione moaned, "say you're mine."

Yes, yes, yes. Just like that, just like that.

"I'm yours," Draco whispered hoarsely. She said it because she was his. She knew she was his. And he was hers. He was hers, and he'll never belong to anyone else as long as she lives.

She wanted him to feel the chains around them, like she felt them. Because, oh, she felt them. She felt acutely.

They were frantic, pushing and shoving onto and into each other. You like that? You like that?

Yes, yes, just like that.

Amidst the passionate and fevered words that fell from parted lips, Draco groaned, "say you love me."

He didn't stop moving within her, and she didn't stop feeling their connectedness.

"I don't," she gasped. It was too much. It was too much. Yet, it was just right, wasn't it? She'd wanted to claim him as hers, despite her disgust and abhorrence. Maybe this was how he claimed her, too.

"Say it anyway," he whispered gravelly.

More, more, more.

He never stopped his steady rhythm, and somehow, unbidden, he had latched onto a desperate part of her that wanted to love someone. That part of her had always been turned towards Harry, since he was so easy to love, but right now, in the throes of passion and fuck, fuck, fuck, and deeper, and harder, Draco was easy to love too.

"I love you," she whispered, but it wasn't enough. Draco claimed her harder, and faster, too much, too much.

Yes, yes, yes. Just like that, just like that.

"I love you," she repeated again and again as though he were tearing the words out of her. Maybe he was. Maybe it was everything they both needed.

Her body began to twitch and Draco's began to shudder.

"I'm yours," he repeated, humbled in the oddest way. Maybe just the prospect of her love did that to him. The idea that one day she could mean it.

"I love you," she mewled as she felt his lips resting under her ear.

Perhaps, perhaps she would one day. Maybe she would love him like he didn't deserve and she didn't want to. They had everything before them, they had nothing before them.

"You're going to Hogwarts because you're stronger than the memory of ghosts and the inspired fear of a few sadistic Death Eaters," he lifted his head enough to bore his steady gaze into hers.

Perhaps one day she'll love him like that, but not today.

She shoved him away, and went to the bathroom to cry her heart out. But as she stared at herself in the mirror, the tears wouldn't come. She stared at her mussed hair and swollen lips, and willed herself to cry. But no matter how hard she bid the tears to come, they wouldn't.

She realized with a heavy heart that Draco Malfoy made her stronger—stronger than she had ever been while innocently loving Harry, who was so easy to love.

Meanwhile, Draco, in his nakedness, picked up his forgotten brandy glass off the floor, and poured himself another drink. His paleness, covered in sweat, glistened in the moonlight; he looked ethereal. He let the shadows take him in their embrace, and smiled wickedly in disbelief and self-deprecation as he turned back towards the window and the city, because there had been a twinge of truth when she had cried out her love for him. There had been a twinge of truth behind her words, and he had completely surrendered to being hers.

He shook his head and swallowed a large gulp of the liquid courage.

Truth, even when it was so damn weird.

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