A/N: Two chapters in one day! Here's where the story starts to heat up ;)

My door creaks open slowly; only the smallest sliver of light shines through the otherwise pitch black. Like a shot, I'm out of my bed and pinning the intruder to the wall, wand pointed directly at them. A gasp is cut off by my hand around a throat. Soft, small hands yank at my tense fingers.

"Mal-foy," the intruder croaks, "it's…Her-mi-nee!"

I drop my hand and my wand immediately, falling forward in relief. My hands land on the wall behind her on either side of her head, and my forehead drops against hers. Her breathing is panicked and comes out in soft pants.

"Granger, you can't do that," I whisper. "I could have killed you."

"Sorry," she whispers back. "I didn't think about it." Her breath, minty and clean, is enough to snap me out of the position we're in. I stand up straight and step back, grateful that the dark is covering my warm face. "May I turn a light on? It's weird talking in the dark."

"Go ahead," I say. She whispers a spell and warm light washes over the room. Her eyes widen, and too late, I realize that I am shirtless. I expect her to look away, embarrassed, but instead, she moves toward me with an outstretched hand. "Can't help yourself, huh, Granger?" I ask, my signature smirk firmly in place. It drops when she begins to trace the scars from my run-in with Potter in sixth year.

"These are from Harry?" she asks. Her voice is hushed, upset. Is that upset on my behalf, or from the knowledge that her precious boy was capable of something like that? She places her hands on my waist and turns me around to look at my back. She splays one hand out on my hip and traces the snaking scars around my back with a delicate finger. I cannot disguise the shiver that runs down my body. My eyes flutter shut as she touches me. I never would have expected her to touch me as tenderly as she does now. "I told him that book was evil."

"Hermione Granger calling a book evil? I never thought I'd see the day." I try to joke to hide how vulnerable I feel at this moment, but I can't stop focusing on how soft and gentle her hands are; I wonder if they're always so gentle. Her hand freezes and flattens against the small of my back.

"Say my name again," she demands.

"What?" I ask, entirely thrown off. Her hand tightens on my hip and I'm spun back around to face her. My eyes rove over her face; her eyes are as demanding as her words. They're bright the way that they were last night.

"Say my name again," she repeats; this time, desperation wraps itself around the demand. I take a step closer, though there is little space between us as it is. I tuck a stray curl behind her ear, staring straight into her eyes. My hand rests along her jawline.

"Hermione," I say softly, slowly, surely. She inhales sharply and then her mouth is on mine again. My blood burns under my skin. Her hands are on my cheeks and I dig my fingers into her hips. We break apart only for a moment to breathe and then we are locked again, stumbling backward. I loosen my grip on her to feel behind me for the bed. My hands find the soft comforter, and I pry my lips from hers just long enough to get up onto the bed. I yank her up as well and her mouth is on mine again. She throws a leg over either side of me.

"Muffliato," she whispers. My mouth goes dry. Either I'm about to be on the receiving end of a very nasty discussion, or-

"Fuck," I hiss as she drags her nails down my sides. Her mouth follows, mirroring the path her nails just took. Heat pools in my stomach as I watch her head of curls dipping further and further down. I grab a fistful of them and pull her toward me, gentle so as to not hurt her, but not so gentle that she can misunderstand me. Our tongues meet, dancing around each other as the kisses become more frantic. She sits up to pull her thick woolen sweater off. The t-shirt beneath it lifts with it. She starts to pull it back down, and I stop her hands.

"It's only fair," I say, and I cannot believe how breathless my voice sounds. Rarely am I so out of control of my own breathing and emotions in a situation like this, but here, with Granger-with Hermione-on top of me, I am entirely out of control. She hesitates for only a moment before allowing me to remove her shirt. Goosebumps erupt up and down her arms and torso as the cool morning air hits her skin-her deliciously smooth, satin skin, pale from months of no access to sunlight. My assessment of her is cut short as she closes the space between us.

I imagine sparks erupting at each point of contact; her skin is so warm against my own cold skin. I slip my fingers beneath the thin straps of her bra, twisting the clasp open with an artful flick of my thumb and pointer finger. The material falls away from the center of her back. She yanks the thing from between us and throws it aside, her lips never leaving mine. I groan into her mouth as her chest presses fully into mine. I question less whether this is something either of us wants.

I flip her onto her back and sit up, taking in the sight of a very topless and very breathless Hermione Granger in my bed, her curls fanning out like a halo around her. Her arms are up at the head, and she has the nerve to cock an eyebrow at me and say,

"Can't help yourself, huh, Malfoy?"

"Draco," I assert, lowering myself to nip at her neck. Bite and suck. I move to the other side of her neck. Bite and suck. Lower myself to her collarbones. Bite and suck.

"Draco," she repeats, her voice a ragged whimper. Heat pools in my abdomen again, and I am swollen with need beneath my sweatpants.

There isn't time for romance. We do not whisper sweet nothings to each other as we both strip out of our clothing. We are not soft and tender with one another's bodies. Our frenzied pace starts again as I center myself between the legs that she has allowed to fall open for me. Despite the wild desperation, I pause just before I enter her.

"Are you-?"

She does not allow me to finish the question. Instead, she raises her hips to meet me. A sound unlike anything I've ever heard from her rends from her throat, and it's almost my undoing. I will not last long. It takes us less than a minute to learn each others' rhythms; she rolls her hips into my thrusts and we snap together like perfect puzzle pieces. I'm unraveling already, but as she begins to quake, I realize she is as well. I begin to pull myself out and she grips me tightly in place.
"Contraceptive potion," she gasps. "Stay."

The demand is the final straw. We reach our climax at the same time, and I have never been more grateful for a silencing spell as our breaths turn to shouts. I fall out of her and onto my back beside her. She giggles next to me. Should I be insulted?

"I only came here to ask if you were ready to leave," she says. Oh. No then, not insulted. Her giggles continue to rise, and I laugh despite my desirous exhaustion.

"I'm going to need a minute. Or ten," I say.


We meet at the door. Granger is regretfully clothed, but it doesn't stop the delicious blush from creeping up over the collar of her wooly sweater. Surely this diminutive creature in front of me is not the same as the one who demanded that I remain inside of her as we came.

I grab hold of her arm to Side-Along and the ever-uncomfortable squeezing sensation takes hold of us. It releases after a moment. I stumble forward on the soft ground. Salt air fills my nose as a rough breeze musses my hair. Beside me, Granger's face has been completely taken over by her mane of curls swirling in every direction. She grabs at them and pulls them back with one hand. I try not to focus on the memory of my hand grabbing at those same curls just earlier this morning.

"Come on," she says, "their cottage is this way." She marches past me and I follow, uneasy as we draw closer. Are any of the Manor captives still at the cottage? Granger mentioned Ollivander and a goblin. My mouth goes dry. It's easy enough to forget about my sins when I'm alone in my room, but out in the real world, I'm surrounded by them. I don't belong in this space. I have been playing house with the Golden Trio and avoiding any responsibility or accountability, and for what?

When all is said and done, I'm not a good person. I was fairly willing to take the Dark Mark, when I was stupid and young and uninformed. I have bullied and hurt people. I've hidden behind my father, the biggest bully of them all. I've actively been a part of the meetings to bring the Dark Lord back into power, all while Granger and her buffoons have actively worked to overcome the terror and hate that he stands for. How she's accepted me into their fold, how she's allowed me into her most intimate space, is beyond me. How has she been able to make a spot for me?

"Are you going to stand there feeling sorry for yourself, or are you going to prove yourself?" Granger's voice breaks my reverie. Can she read minds? Is this an undiscovered ability of hers? "It's all over your face, in case you were wondering," she says. She comes over to me. "You get all puckered when you're in your head." She runs her fingers over my brow and forehead, smoothing out the wrinkles. It's too intimate, too vulnerable. She rips her hand away and we put space between us. "Sorry," she mutters. I bark out a laugh. Only an hour ago, I was buried deep inside of her, and now we can't stand to look at each other? She must be thinking the same thing, because a look of embarrassment washes over her before she rights and her face to betray nothing.

"Well, let's go," I say. I start walking, though I have no idea where I'm going. After a moment, the sound of shells and sand crunching under Granger's feet follows me. A short but determined march later, Granger raises her hand and knocks on the weathered wooden door.

"'Oo is it?" a lilting voice demands.

"Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy," Granger answers. I suppress a smirk at my name on her lips. Now is not the time, Draco, I admonish silently.

"What deed I ask you and Ginevra to do when I was marrying Beel?"

"You asked us to keep Fred and George as far away from your makeup bag as possible for fear of them slipping a bruising balm in your eyeshadow tin," Granger replies. She allows a small smile at the memory. It softens her face, usually so stern and concentrated. The door opens wide. I feel my jaw drop open at the sight of the tall, lithe, silvery woman in front of me. How on earth did a Weasley snag a Veela? I have vague memories of most of the boys at Hogwarts panting after her the year Beauxbatons visited. Her and every other gorgeous, foreign girl who stepped out of that carriage.

"Fleur, it's wonderful to see you," Granger greets, kissing her on either cheek.

"And you, 'Ermione," Fleur responds. "Zis is ze Malfoy boy?" she asks, casting a wary eye over me. "And we sink 'e is safe?"

"Madame Weasley," I say, offering a hand. "Thank you for opening your home to me. I know that your husband and I have…unsavory history, and I appreciate the time." I have no real concept of which Weasley is Bill, but it's safe to assume that there is bad blood regardless.

Fleur sniffs at me and turns to walk further into her home. I drop my hand awkwardly at my side. The home is cozy and bright. We enter into the kitchen, where large, wide windows provide a beautiful view of the sea. From here, I can see clumps of sea lavender growing around the home. A large stone hearth is lit, a pot of something simmering over the flames.

"Coffee? Tea?" Fleur asks.

"Coffee, please," we respond at the same time. Is coffee a preference for Granger, or just circumstantial given our early wake up and subsequent activities? Fleur flits around the kitchen, readying two porcelain cups of coffee. A small pitcher of cream and bowl of sugar float to the table before us. Granger and I reach for the cream at the same time, our fingertips grazing one another's. She yanks her hand back as if she's been burned and focuses on the sugar bowl instead. A shaky hand dumps a spoonful of the white crystals into her cup. I hand the cream to her, careful not to touch her. When I look up, Fleur is watching us with a raised eyebrow. She makes a noise between amusement and annoyance and turns on us again.

"Beel shood be 'ere soon," she tells us. "'E is just gazering some materials for Monsieur Ollivander." My hand slips, tipping the sugar container and sending the contents across the tabletop. Granger cleans it up before Fleur can notice.

"Fleur, while we wait, may we go see Mr. Ollivander?" Granger asks.

"Oui," she responds. She hands me a tray. "Make yourself useful, Draco, and bring zis to 'im when you go." I take it numbly. What is Granger hoping to get out of this?

We are shepherded out of the kitchen and up the cramped staircase. Halfway up, I turn to face Granger.

"What are you playing at?" I ask. She blinks.

"What do you mean?" she asks back.

"Making me go see him? What is this, punishment? Did you even bring me here for help, or just to make me sit in my transgressions?"

"You know, Malfoy, not everything is about you all the time," she hisses in a whisper. "Mr. Ollivander has critical information. Yes, our visit to Bill serves more than one purpose, but none of those purposes are to punish you. You and I haven't been friends for long, but I'd like to think that you know me better than that at this point." She sets her jaw. In the shadows of the staircase, I can only make out the angry flint of her eyes and the way she presses her lips together. I relax my stance and sigh.

"You're right, Granger. Apologies for the accusation." I say nothing more, and we continue to the small hallway at the top of the stairs. There is only one closed door, and I make my way to it, knocking awkwardly around the tray in my hands. A feeble voice invites us into the room and the door swings open.

On the bed, draped in heavy blankets, sits Ollivander. His hair is as wild as ever, and I notice with relief that color has returned to his face. His cheeks are not as gaunt as they used to be. He is healthy and safe here.

"Hawthorn, 10 inches, with unicorn hair," he says in his gravelly voice. "Vine wood, 10.75 inches, dragon heartstring. I remember every wand I've ever sold."

"Er, well done," I say. Granger elbows me, as if I've said the wrong thing. What am I supposed to say in response to that?

"Hello, Mr. Ollivander," she greets cautiously. "Would you be willing to talk with us for a few moments?" He motions for us to enter the room. I bring the tray over to him, setting it on his blanketed lap. He examines the clotted cream and jam carefully, and then spreads a generous serving over the scones on the plate.

"Before we start," I say, "I have something I'd like to say." Two sets of eyes focus on me. My palms start to sweat. I have no idea what I'd like to say, and I have about two seconds to figure it out. "I'm sorry for your imprisonment, and for your treatment at the hands of my family and their friends. I'm…relieved to see that you're alive and safe." I try to ignore the fact that Granger's eyes have gone misty. Ollivander narrows in his gaze on me. Instinctually, I throw my Occlumency walls up.

"Yes, I believe you are," he says at last. "What can I do for you, Miss Granger?" I settle myself in a corner of the room, arms crossed tightly across my chest. She sits on a small chair near his bed and pulls out a small notebook and quill.

"Do you know anything about an Elder Wand?"


Our conversation with Ollivander does not last long. He is able to give some information to Granger, and I have to assume that it means something to her because she scribbles notes in her book quickly and wildly. I would have expected her handwriting to be neat and meticulous, but it looks like a bowtruckle stepped in ink and then walked across the paper. She thanks Ollivander breathlessly and shoves the book back into her pocket as she rises. I wave dumbly at him as we leave his room, feeling foolish and entirely lost. Why is she asking about a wand that only exists as a warning tale for naughty children? I do not get a chance to ask her; when we re-enter the kitchen, Bill stands with his arms around Fleur's waist while she stands at the sink, washing dishes. I hand the tray to her tentatively.

"Hi, Bill," Granger greets. Bill separates himself from his wife to return a friendly greeting. His smile falters at the sight of me, but he offers a hand regardless, and I accept it.

"Malfoy," he says. "I've gotta say, this is…unexpected." He peers at Granger curiously. She suddenly seems much younger than 18, sheepish and flustered. Does she have a crush on him? Surely she's not pining after a married man. That certainly doesn't align with what I know about her.

"You're the only one who I think can help in this instance," she says. "I promise we won't take up much time."

We sit at the kitchen table; more cups of coffee appear in front of us. We all sip at them, uncomfortable with the silence and the company. Granger shifts in her seat a few times before grabbing hold of my arm and pushing back my sleeve.

"Mon dieu!" Fleur cries, standing behind Bill. Her face wrinkles in disgust. I don't know if it's disgust with the tattoo, or with the angry infection that warps the ink. Bill eyes it with interest, not an ounce of judgment in his eyes. He looks at it the same way Granger looks at it, like it's a puzzle that needs to be solved. The snake writhes in the mouth of the skull, disappearing in the swollen, blistered skin. A silver bottle appears next to my arm, and a piece of folded parchment.

"Here's my observation tracker, and the potion we've been using to numb some of the effects," Granger says. "Given my observations, there is an ingredient in this potion that is slowing the onset of the infection, but whatever curse has been imbued into this mark is eating away at his arm. He'll lose it if we can't do something."

"You've been tracking my Dark Mark?" I ask. "For how long?"

"Don't worry about it," she says with a blush.

"What is it you're asking me to do, Hermione?" Bill asks. She turns to look at me for the answer. She's giving the power of decision to me. This is one of those decisions of finality-one of the last decisions that will determine whether I can ever return to my parents. It's also the easiest decision I've ever made.

"I want to you help me remove it. I want to fight for your side."