Hermione stepped out of the fireplace and almost ran into Draco, who was facing the Floo and staring into the flames. He stepped back quickly, almost tripping over a large, ornate emerald green and gray rug in the process.

"I… I was coming back. I thought something was wrong," he said, as he righted himself and dusted off his shirt front.

"No, I… I just needed a minute."

He stepped out of the way, allowing her to walk fully out of the fireplace and into the expansive entrance hall. She took a look around, realizing that she'd been expecting to step out of the fireplace into the drawing room, the room where she was certain she was going to die under the sharp blade of Bellatrix's dagger. Instead, they'd walked into a much more welcoming looking space.

Outside of the emerald green of the rug and the matching patterns on the curtains, the rest of the colors were very subdued. Most of the room was covered in varying shades of gray and beige, from the walls to the settee and couch that sat in the middle of the room. The room was lit by two candelabras on either side of the fireplace, and the light they gave off mixed with the light of the fire, giving the room a soft amber glow.

Hermione wondered for a moment who was here to keep the candles burning before her mind wandered elsewhere. Hanging over the mantle was a painting that spanned the entire length of the fireplace and reached all the way to the ceiling. The impressionist style was reminiscent of the Monet paintings hanging throughout the Willows. This one showed an oceanfront, with small boats paddling along the water and the outline of a city sky illuminated by the setting sun.

"Is this Monet?" Hermione asked, not turning toward Draco.

"Yes, my mother is a fan of his work. She has quite a bit hanging throughout the Manor."

"We acquired all of this artwork from one of our major donors… from a single family's vault." Susan's words played over in Hermione's mind, and pieces began to fall into place.

"Was it your family that donated the artwork to The Willows then?" She turned to face him, pulling her attention from the painting and realizing that Draco had changed considerably since they stepped out of Alys's office and into his childhood home.

His clothes were the same, as were his features. His eyes were the same gray and his hair the same blonde, but the confident man she'd grown to know over the past few weeks was gone. In his place stood a man who was clearly anxious and uncomfortable.

His stance, though normally nonchalant, was always upright and composed, but here, surrounded by all the remnants of the past few years, he leaned slightly to one side and his shoulders seemed to curl in around him. His arms were crossed, which was definitely not how he typically stood, and despite his normal propensity toward eye-contact, even to the point of intensity, he was looking around, as if waiting for someone to jump from the shadows.

"Yes." He'd hesitated for a moment, his gaze traveling toward the wall behind her rather than her face.

She walked toward him, she started to put her hands on his elbows but stopped, worried that he wouldn't want to be touched, not here. Instead, she spoke his name, drawing his attention to her face. "Are you okay?" She searched his eyes for his normal shields, but there were none.

A slight sweat had broken across his brow. He shrugged and took a few steps toward the door. "I'm fine."

"Draco."

His back was to her, but she could see when he dropped his head. She heard him taking a few deep breaths before turning back to her, his eyes closed. When he opened them, they were voids, empty and unfeeling. "I'm fine."

She couldn't blame him. Hadn't she needed to do the same before even being able to step into the Floo. She wasn't going to push him. She'd do whatever it was he needed to do in order to get through this.

"Okay. Where do you want to start?"

He gave the room a onceover and said, "This is as good a place as any."

Before she even began to think of a spell to begin, Draco aimed Luna's wand at the settee in the middle of the room and silently set it on fire. She gasped and spun around, momentarily blinded by the radiance of the blaze. Pretty quickly, the flames bounced to the couch and then the curtains, and the room was entirely engulfed in flame. The heat in the room intensified, and just as she began to wonder if she'd need to stop the flames before they burned the whole house down, she heard Draco say, "Aquamenti," from behind her and watched as they were all extinguished. The carpet and shell of the furniture was now charred black and soaking wet.

He stood beside her and let out a shaky breath. "Perhaps that one wasn't the best choice."

She turned her wand toward the bust on one side of the far doors and said, "Reducto!" All at once the porcelain figure burst in a spray of fine dust.

He turned his wand on the bust opposite hers and said, "Bombarda Maxima," causing the opposite bust to explode into large shards that shot across the room.

He turned to give her a smirk, and she said, "Show off."

He stalked toward the door and said, "Come on. There isn't much in here."

She followed him from the room into an extravagant dining room with the largest dining table Hermione had ever seen in the center. It looked more like a table from the Great Hall than one you'd find in someone's home, but it was exactly the type of extravagance one would expect in Malfoy Manor. Hermione thought back to the time when her mother had upgraded their old four-seater round table to a much larger one that fit six instead. Her father had put on his best Robin Leach voice and, joking her mother, called it "much more refined."

She snapped herself out of the thoughts of her own parents and pulled her attention toward Draco. He was standing beside her stock-still save the deep rising and falling of his chest. He stared wide-eyed at the table in front of him and said, "We had to sit here with him every night. He never ate, you know. Not once."

She really didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing, only stood there watching him relive the memories of his past.

"He had Professor Burbage just there, suspended in the air, begging Snape to save her, and –"

He cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut with a snap. "You know the rest."

She took a step forward and slipped her wand into her back pocket. "I think we're going about this the wrong way."

She saw him turn his head to face her, but she didn't return his gaze. Instead, she hesitantly picked up one of the large goblets from the table setting at the end and weighed it briefly in her hand. She shifted her body slightly to the left and threw it as hard as she could at the wall beside her, feeling a burst of triumph in her chest when it shattered into pieces. "Yep, that feels much better." She picked up another and tossed it toward him.

He snatched it out of the air, his wand awkwardly still clutched in his hand before he too stowed it away. He glanced once toward her before throwing it in the opposite direction. This one shattered with the same satisfying sound, and he turned to face her full-on, no trace of Occlumency shields and a small smile on his lips. "Much more satisfying. Race you to the end," he said, and before Hermione could even register what he said, he was bounding off along the left side of the table, throwing goblet after goblet along the way.

"No fair!" She chased after him on her own side of the table and began throwing those from her side as well. The cacophony of shattered glass and their laughter rang through the room as they tried to outdo one another with each throw. Finally, Draco reached the end a few seconds before she did. He took a brief look around and then climbed up onto the table and reached down to give her his hand. Without even a second thought, she put her hand in his and allowed him to pull her up onto the table, where they raced back down the length of it, kicking plates and cutlery across the room and leaving a trail of clattering and broken dishes in their wake.

By the time they got to the end, they were both slightly out of breath and red in the face. He pulled his wand back out and aimed it at the chandelier on the far side of the table, blowing it from the ceiling with one silent flourish. A shower of dust rained down around them as they both jumped out of the way, and Hermione blasted the other chandelier in similar fashion.

In a few short minutes the room was filled with disarray, broken plates and cups littering the floor. Chairs were overturned, the legs snapped at strange angles, and the mirrors lining the walls had been reduced to rubble as they crashed them into the walls where they'd been hanging seconds before.

They looked around at their destruction, each of them panting from the effort and covered in dust and bits of debris, but the bright smiles on their faces and the light that had returned to Draco's eyes told her that it was working.

He reached a hand out toward her, and when she took it, he pulled her from the room, guiding her across the hall where they'd originally come through the Floo and to a different set of double doors. He stopped, one hand on the door handle, the other still clutched within her own, and turned his upper body toward her.

"This is the drawing room."

All at once, her chest seized, and she felt his hand squeeze hers. Hermione felt her body grow cold despite the way she'd been sweating in the dining room. "We don't have to go in here if you don't want to."

She willed her heart to stop banging against her chest and swallowed. "No. This is why we're here. I have to go in there." She put her free hand on the other door handle, wrapping her fingers around the decorative snake engraved into it. She felt the cold metal against her skin and turned her attention to her other hand and the warmth of Draco's palm against her own. "Don't let go of me, okay?"

He nodded, giving her a silent go-ahead whenever she was ready, and she pushed the door open.

The room looked different than she remembered. She expected to walk in, and everything be just the way it had been when they'd escaped, but it wasn't. The chandelier had been rebuilt; all the glass put back into place as if Dobby had never dropped the entire thing directly above Bellatrix's head. The blood that poured from Bellatrix's handiwork across her forearm and from her forehead when she'd crashed to the floor in the throes of torture had been removed.

Well, obviously they wouldn't leave it there.

The table had been set to rights, no longer shattered and broken from the duel that had taken place, and the windows and walls had been repaired after stray hexes had left them in ruins.

It looked different, she had to admit that.

But it felt the same.

An oppressive feeling of unease hung in the air, wrapping itself around her shoulders like a thick shawl.

No. This wasn't a shawl. It was Devil's Snare, twisting and coiling itself around her throat and chest, restricting her breathing just as Bellatrix's spell had done when she'd been in this room before.

Stop it. Stop it. This isn't real.

She was vaguely aware of a hand in hers. Warm fingers brushing against her own.

Powdered root of Asphodel.

She took two breaths, counting on each inhale and exhale. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8.

Wormwood. Valerian Root.

The tightening in her chest receded to a manageable ache rather than an overbearing weight, crushing the breath from her lungs.

"Hermione."

Brain of a sloth. Sopophorous bean.

"It's okay."

She opened her eyes and blinked a few times as Draco's face swam into view in front of her. His eyes were locked on hers, unblinking, but the look on his face was composed. His hands were brushing calming strokes from her shoulders to her elbows, pulling reality back into focus.

All at once, she was back in his drawing room, shivering slightly at the chill and the shock of being pulled from her panic attack. She wasn't sure how much was her Occlumency practice and how much was him keeping her grounded, but she could breathe again, and that's all that mattered.

"I'm here with you," he said. His hands stopped their ministrations and rested on her shoulders. "Are you okay?"

She took a shaky breath before answering. "I'm okay. Just… Gods, I hate that," she said with a watery chuckle.

"We don't have to stay in here. We can –"

"No. I'm fine. Really. It just took me by surprise that it looks…" She turned around to gaze around the room briefly.

"So normal?" he asked, finishing her thought perfectly.

"Yes. After seeing Nicola's and Luna's memories, knowing that so much more happened here, I just… I expected it to look… sinister. But, even so, it feels the same. Intimidating. Does it feel that way to you?"

She turned to face him, finding him looking down at the dark stone beneath his feet, as he said, "It's felt that way for years. The whole house."

She walked around the room, giving him a minute to adjust to the space in the same way that she was. Her trainers squeaked across the dark stone and she remembered the way it had felt, cold and rigid against her bare back.

Memories came back in flashes, unbidden and unwelcome, but she was powerless to stop them, nonetheless.

"Filthy, Mudblood whore!"

The buttons flying off her shirt as it was ripped from her back.

"Such a beautiful girl."

Rough hands, nails across her chest, scratching over the fabric of her bra.

Hands in her hair and gripping her chin.

"Maybe the Dark Lord will give you to me after the war."

Snippets of eyes on her, raking across her skin.

Icy blue and hungry, chestnut and vengeful, stormy grey and full of fear.

Images of her mother and father, bursts of memories breaking through the pain.

A shove to her back and pain in her brow, blood and the sway of the room marring her vision.

"Fumus Lumina," the smoke turning to metal, and excruciating pain.

"Hermione, I'm so –"

"If you say you're sorry again, I'm going to curse you." She stopped her walking and turned to face him. Her words had caused him to look up abruptly, bringing his gaze from the floor to hers. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

She ran back over the memories in her mind, remembering again everything she'd seen. Being here, in this room, it seemed much clearer than it was in her dreams. She thought back to the eyes in the room, focusing in on them in her mind.

Greyback's arctic eyes as they roamed across her skin. She could see the hunger that he was unable to hold back at the sight of her thrashing on the ground, exposed and covered in blood.

Bellatrix's brown eyes, the color almost exactly the same shade as her mother's. They could have been beautiful at one time, but the madness and hostility in them made them a far cry from the warm, chocolate of her mother's gaze.

And then, the stormy, ocean grey of Draco's, wild and frantic as he stared at her on the floor. She remembered trying to beg him for help, but the words never left her throat. Almost as soon as her eyes fell on his, her mind was filled with images of her parents. Baking in the kitchen with her mother. Dancing with her father across the living room floor, the sound of Beethoven in the background. Her mother teaching her to braid her hair, and her father holding her as she cried after slamming her fingers in the car door.

All at once, it hit her. She whirled back around, facing Draco again, to find him already focused on her, his eyes so similar to the ones in her memory, only these were filled with remorse and shame instead of fear. "You were in my head." It wasn't a question. She already knew the answer. She walked toward him, saying, "I saw my parents. In the middle of it all. Why didn't you tell me?"

Draco wiped a shaky hand across his brow. "I didn't know if it worked or not. It was chaos in there. I wasn't even sure it could be done, but I… I tried," he said, lifting his shoulders and pulling into himself again.

She placed her hand on his cheek, lifting his face so he would look at her. The pained expression on his face softened slightly, and without thinking, she leaned toward him, dropping her cheek to his chest and wrapping her arms around his back. She could hear his heart beating, just as fast as hers. She knew being in this room and this house in general had put them both into a panic, but now, as close as they were, feeling both grounded and yet even more nervous, she had to touch him.

Despite his constant self-hatred, thinking he hadn't done enough or that he'd always made the wrong decisions, he'd done everything in his power to help her.

"Thank you," she said, pushing back the sting of tears in her eyes.

He'd tried to fill her mind with peace, succeeding in it briefly, and he'd saved her in the end. He'd saved them all, yet he told no one. Even this, he'd kept a secret, fearing that it hadn't worked. He'd had the perfect opportunity weeks ago to tell her everything, but he didn't think she'd have believed him. Then, once again, on the couch after seeing her scar, he could have told her then, but he hadn't. He'd only admitted it now because she already knew.

"I want you to be able to tell me everything."

He hadn't moved. To his credit, he hadn't pushed her off him either, so at least there was that. She thought maybe she was asking too much of him. This morning, they'd been this close, but if their morning routines had taught her anything it was that what happens when they're sleeping doesn't transfer into waking hours.

But just when she thought she should definitely pull away, she bit back a sob as she felt his arms wrap around her sides, pulling her close to him. He dropped his head to rest on top of hers, and she felt the weight of the room, the memories, everything she carried with her every day, just slip away. It was all replaced with the weight of his body against hers, but unlike the weight of the past, this feeling wasn't at all domineering. This weight felt like a heavy blanket on a cold day, and the chill she'd felt since stepping through the doorway was superseded by the warmth of his hands splayed across her lower back.

She couldn't remember ever feeling this… this accepted, this vulnerable with anyone. Ron, Harry, and Ginny had seen her at her worst, of course, and they'd loved her through it, but this was different. She pushed away all the nagging thoughts that were always there, lurking just beneath the surface – that she wasn't enough, that she felt something he didn't, that she was just going to get hurt. She just took comfort in feeling his arms around her, his breath in her hair, and the sound of his heart beating against her cheek.

They stood there, her crying onto his black button-down and him rubbing circles in her lower back with his thumbs. She stepped away after a moment, wiping the tears from her face and said again, "Thank you. You… just… thank you, Draco." She didn't know how to say everything that she was feeling but thank you would be enough for now.

He walked over to the table, pulling her along by the hand, and picked up a large oil lamp from where it sat. He turned, stretching it out toward her, offering her the first opportunity to purge herself of the painful memories of the room by purging it of its trinkets.

She took it from his hand, judging the weight of it and the cool metal against her palm. She took a deep breath and threw it with everything she had against the opposite wall. The satisfying smash as it hit felt like chiseling away a bit of ice from herself.

She pulled out her wand and with it pulled the elaborate mirror above the fireplace from the wall. She sent it careening through the air, slicing it through the fixtures holding both chandeliers in place. She watched in awe as each one clashed to the floor, sending sprays of glass through the air. The tiny nicks in her face barely registered as she jammed her eyes shut, protecting them from the tiny shards. But she was high, exhilarated, just as she'd been in the dining room, feeling invincible and full of steam.

There was far less to throw around in this room, but still they raced around the room, demolishing whatever they could find. The chairs were thrown through the windows and the statues lining the walls had been reduced to rubble. An embellished chaise that had been tucked neatly beneath one of the windows had been torn apart, lines were gashed through the green fabric by a knife conjured by Draco, and stuffing littered the floor around its remains. Even the curtains were destroyed, yanked from the ceiling and set on fire.

They stood back when there was nothing left and marveled at their work, each of them feeling weightless after the heaviness of the room had been tempered.

They continued that way, moving room from room, destroying everything in their path like a hurricane bursting against the shore. They left a path of destruction behind them, littering the floors with broken trinkets and baubles, overturned tables and lamps, shattered vases and glass.

They came to stop at what looked to be the main sitting room, with a short row of bookshelves on one wall, a few chaises and benches, and a grand piano in one corner. Draco walked to the center of the room and paused, looking down at the floor, looking as overwhelmed by memories as she'd been in the drawing room earlier.

"This is where I took the Mark."

She waited, hoping he would know he could trust her enough to tell her but not wanting to push him into it either. She thought maybe he'd say that he'd been forced into it; she expected his father to be the type of man who would commit his son to that sort of life. She thought he'd say they'd held him down, made sure he couldn't back out, but that hadn't been the case.

"I wanted it. How stupid is that?" He never looked at her, just sank both hands into his pants pockets and clenched his jaws. "I actually wanted it. I thought that was my chance—to prove to everyone that I was more than just my father's son. I could carry the family then. I could do it. I didn't realize what all it meant."

He turned to face her, but there was no sign of anger in his face as he said, "I was so angry at you, and Potter and the rest of your friends. My father was in Azkaban, and it was your fault. How stupid is that?" he asked again, scoffing at himself, but she knew he wasn't looking for an answer.

"When the Dark Lord told me that I had the chance to fix my father's mistakes, I jumped at it. I was so naive. I thought I'd be shaking hands at the Ministry, lining pockets like my father had been for years. I had no idea what he was going to make me do. My mother stood right there," he pointed to a spot beside the piano, "and watched as he put this thing on my arm, and I fucking wanted it."

He snatched a lamp off the table beside him and hurled it across the room, causing her to jump with the suddenness of his motion and the sound reverberating off the walls.

"He wanted me to fail, to die. They all did. He wanted to force my mother to watch as he took her only son away, her son who went willingly. He wanted me to feel that moment of pride at having been asked to join the ranks at only sixteen." Each sentence was punctuated with the sound of clattering glass as another object from the room was smashed.

"And I did. I felt like for once I'd been noticed. Like I'd finally been recognized. How fucking stupid is that?" This time, when he asked, he stopped to look at her, his eyes searching hers for some sort of absolution.

"Snape tried to tell me, but I wouldn't hear him. I… I know this is ridiculous, but can you believe that I actually thought it was the right thing? All that bullshit I'd been fed my whole life said we were doing the right thing, purifying the Wizarding World, and I believed all of it."

He closed the distance between them, stopping only inches from her face, and the intensity of his gaze was wild as his eyes shifted between both hers. "I was wrong. I wish I could put the blame on someone else, on my parents for making me believe this lie, on the Dark Lord for forcing my hand, but I can't. It was all me. I was stupid and scared and… and broken."

She could offer him no absolution. They both knew he was right. His parents were to blame, as was Voldemort, but she'd be lying to him if she said he hadn't been stupid and naïve. She wouldn't lie to him, but she could comfort him just as he'd done for her. She could forgive him for all of it, and she had. She could help him to pick up the pieces of himself that remained, just as he'd done for her.

"Not anymore," she said, lying her hand across his arm, covering the remnant of that life beneath his shirt in the same way he'd covered hers weeks ago. "You aren't stupid or scared or broken. Everything is different now. You're different now." She reached behind her, picking up a glass tumbler from the desk and handing it to him. "You're … you're a good man, Draco."

The look on his face changed at her words. He seemed less distressed, less panicked, as if just that slightest encouragement on who he was now was all he needed to hear. She wasn't sure if he believed her yet, but she'd tell him every day if it would help him to no longer carry the guilt and shame of his past mistakes.

He swallowed and took the tumbler from her hand. He tilted his hand to the side, and they both watched as it slid from his palm and landed on the floor with a clunk.

"Well that was anticlimactic," he said after a pause, and she couldn't help but laugh.

She picked it up and handed it back to him. "Let's try that again."

He took it from her hand again and sent it flying toward the window where it crashed through, raining bits of broken glass onto the yard below.

"Better?" he asked, turning back to face her. She smiled and nodded in return, and he said, "I never would have imagined it, but I think perhaps you like a bit of destruction."

She laughed. "I've always done things by the book, very thorough, very precise. It's nice to just throw shit around for once… Plus, it isn't my stuff I'm breaking, so there's that."

"Well, none of this is mine either. This was my father's lounge. I wasn't allowed in here, actually."

She turned around, pulling the glass stopper from the decanter and pouring whisky into the two remaining tumblers on the desk. Turning back to him, she handed him a glass and said, "I suppose you weren't allowed to drink this either."

"Of course not," he said, downing the two fingers of amber liquid in a single shot, "which naturally means I did every chance I got."

She followed suit, shaking her head slightly at the burn in her throat before sending her tumbler to follow the other out the window. Draco sent his crashing through the mirror above the piano, and just as Hermione started to throw the decanter as well, he took it from her hands.

"Eh eh eh. This is a twenty-year-old Scotch," he said, as he turned it up to take another shot. He handed it back to her and walked around the room, trying to determine where to begin. She took a drink and sat the bottle back down before walking along the other side of the room.

Just as they'd done before, they made short work of destroying everything throughout the room. Feathers flew through the air from couch pillows that had been blown apart. A metal figurine of some sort was now embedded in one of the pillars along the back archway. The lamps were shattered, and almost every windowpane was reduced to gaping holes of broken glass and twisted metal.

After a few moments of disarray, Draco picked up a metal book stop in the shape of an ornate snake on the desk where Hermione stood, taking another drink of whisky. He tossed it into the air a few inches above his hand and caught it. "You think I can hit that?" He pointed at the other end of the room, at the large chandelier above a small table near the last remaining windows. It was fifteen feet away, but she couldn't help but rile him up.

"If you throw like you catch a Snitch, then I'm going to go with no."

"Low blow, Granger," he said, shaking his head before adding, "Potter's a dirty cheat."

She scowled at him and gave the most skeptical look she could manage.

"Okay, maybe he's not a cheat, but he certainly got lucky on more than one occasion."

She lifted her eyebrow even higher and took a pull from the whisky in her hand. "Give it a go then. If you can hit it, I'll concede that you're clearly the superior athlete. But, if you can't, you have to say, 'Harry Potter is the best seeker Hogwarts has ever seen.'" She finished, smiling sweetly.

He blanched. "I'll never say that."

"And you won't have to… if you can hit that chandelier."

He glanced back toward it, sizing up the distance again, now that there were clear stakes on the line. He turned back toward her, pulling the bottle from her hands and taking another swig. "You're on."

She took another drink as well, and lifted both arms out as if to say, 'Get on with it, then.'

He turned around, squared off his stance, and rolled his shoulders back. He took a slight step forward with his right leg as he hurled the snake across the room… missing the chandelier by a few inches.

"Oooh, tough luck. Now, who's the best seeker?" she asked, trying to make her voice drip with sarcasm.

"You didn't say I only had one chance!"

"Oh, Merlin. I should've known you renege."

"I'm not reneging; I'm just taking my time," he said, as he walked to an end table beside one of the chaises and picked up a large glass paperweight. "This is better. The weight was all disproportionate before. This is good."

He took his stance again. "Yeah, yeah, any other excuses?"

"Oh, shut up, Granger. You couldn't do it either."

"Of course, I couldn't. The difference is, I don't insist that I can when I so very clearly can't."

He rolled his eyes again and pulled back his arm to try again. Just before he let go, she hit him square in the back with a couch pillow, throwing his aim off by a few feet. The look he gave her when he turned back around had her doubled over in laughter before she could stop herself.

"You're a cheater too, I see! Alright then, admit it. Who's better?"

She could barely get the words out between laughs. "I'm admitting nothing. You didn't hit it."

"You cheated, witch!" he said, walking toward her and taking the decanter from her. "You'd only cheat if you knew you were going to lose." He finished the rest of the whisky in the bottle and hurled it across the room. Just before the bottle left his hand, she pushed his elbow, throwing off his aim, but the bottle crashed into the chandelier, sending broken glass cascading onto the rug beneath it.

"Ha! Told you!" he turned, his face beaming, shining red from the whisky and a slight sheen from sweat after spending the last three hours destroying every room in his house. His hair was disheveled and at some point, while they demolished this room, he'd unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and rolled his sleeves up, exposing his white undershirt and his Dark Mark as well.

"Well I did hit your arm, so some would argue that you only won with my help."

"You're grasping at straws, woman," he said, stalking toward her.

She took a step back, into the wall behind her, biting back the smile threatening to surface. "You can say it. Don't worry. I won't even tell Harry."

"I'm saying nothing. You lost. Pay up." He stopped a few inches from her, his arms on either side of her shoulders blocking her in. His hair was disheveled, and the faint blue in his eyes amid the sea of grey stood out in the flickering firelight brighter than she'd ever seen them.

She shook her head with a smirk, daring him to go further.

"I thought Gryffindors were noble to a fault," he said, and she realized how close he was to her. She could smell whisky and clove and something that was so categorically Draco but she'd never been able to put her finger on it. His cheeks were flushed, and she knew hers were too by the warmth rising in her chest.

She lifted her chin slightly and tried to stand up taller, wanting him to get the hint she was trying to get across. "I'll deny this until my dying breath, but the hat may have suggested I'd do well in Slytherin."

His eyes looked predatory, but she wasn't scared. They were standing in a way so reminiscent of how they'd been the last time she hit him, after accusing him of sharing her confession with Pansy. He was looming over her in the same way he'd done that night, boxing her in with his hands on the walls around her. There was no sign of the normal fear and racing heart that typically accompanied her being this close to a man. She only felt exhilarated, from the high she'd been riding all night and the way he was close enough that his breath ghosted across her face. She trusted him in a way that she never thought possible, not just with him, but because of all that she'd been through. But, despite the way she'd always run when she'd sensed the beginning of any type of intimacy between her and Ron, she was practically begging Draco to kiss her.

Almost as if he were using Legillimency, his eyes dropped to her mouth and lingered there for a second before sliding back up her face. He licked his lips and hesitated.

She couldn't take it anymore. This dance was killing her, and the nervous thudding of her heart felt like a wrecking ball crashing into her chest. She hooked her hands into the dip of his pockets and pulled him to her.

As if that were the cue he'd been waiting for, he closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth to hers, the tip of his nose brushing against her cheek as she caught his lower lip between her own. His lips were soft, and she felt herself sighing and breathing in the smell of him. This wasn't enough. This would never be enough, and she opened her mouth to him, hoping that would be enough invitation. Almost simultaneously his tongue dipped into her mouth, pressing against her own, and he tasted like whisky and cloves and she'd never tasted anything so heavenly.

Where kissing Ron had been filled with a strange, nervous tension, this felt as natural as breathing, and she brought her hand up to rest against his face, feeling the slight stubble across his cheeks. He shifted his head to the other side, deepening their kiss, and resting one hand on the nape of her neck, his fingers twisted into her curls. Her other hand was still curled into the pocket of his pants, and she brought it to rest beneath the hem of his shirt. When her hand found bare skin, he moaned into her mouth, making her heart pound and sending the warmth in her chest sinking south.

That feeling in the pit of her stomach, of falling into a pulsing warmth and a desire to be touched, was one she had never felt before, not with another person. She wanted his hands on her. She wanted to feel his hands in her hair and on her skin, and the rush of it all had her pressing into him, seeking for more.

He pressed back, sinking into her and gripping her hip tightly in his hand. When she bit down onto his bottom lip, he pulled back, and she thought for a second she'd done something wrong. He certainly had more experience here than she did, if all the times she caught him with Pansy were any indication. What if she was awful at this? But, instead, his eyes searched her face wildly, his pupils blown wide. His chest was rising and falling deeply, brushing against her own with every breath, and he crashed back into her, gripping her thigh in one hand and lifting it to wrap her leg around his waist, pressing himself closer to her.

She couldn't hold in the heavy sigh that burst from her throat as he pressed his waist into hers. She felt him against her sensitive core, and it was like nothing she'd ever experienced, sending flashes of color behind her closed eyes.

That moan, breathed heavily into his mouth, made him stop, his fingers gripping into her thigh for only a second before he dropped her leg. He gave a sigh of his own, breaking the kiss, and moved his hand to her face, putting the other back on the wall beside her.

Draco dropped his forehead to hers, and said, "I'm sorry. I'm… I'm sorry, Hermione. I…"

"Why are you apologizing?" she asked, confused? Did he already regret it?

"I got carried away," he said.

She opened her eyes to look at him but found his still closed. He was trembling slightly. She could feel the hand resting on her neck shaking against her skin. She brought her own hands up, placing them on either side of his face. "Look at me."

He opened his eyes. They were no longer wild, but now they seemed full of shame, like a child who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Kiss me again," she said.

He hesitated for a moment, like he wasn't sure of himself, but he dipped his head down again, brushing his lips against hers. It was just as wonderful as before, though less frenzied. He kept his body away from hers, only their lips touching and his hands on either side of her face. He broke away after a moment, before kissing her one last time, chastely, and taking a step back.

He smiled down at her, and his thumb brushed against her lower lip as she leaned into his touch. They stood that way, each of them coming back down after their kiss.

After a moment, he chuckled and removed his hand, using it to pick bits of glass from her hair.

"Were you keeping these for souvenirs?"

"Maybe," she said, unable to conceal a smile. At school, she'd always made fun of Parvati and Lavender's sickening conversations about boys, and in their earlier years, she'd heard more times than she could count one of them remarking about "getting butterflies" or "spaghetti legs." But she understood it now.

Her insides were fluttering and, though she couldn't speak to spaghetti legs so much, she felt shaky all over. She realized to her rational mind, none of that sounded appealing whatsoever, but it was the best feeling she could ever remember experiencing. Her palms were tingling just as they'd always done before a magical explosion, but this was from the feel of his skin beneath her hands.

She felt… weightless.

When he turned away, she took the opportunity to shake her hair out, hoping to rid it of broken glass and gods knew what else and wipe her sweaty hands down the front of her jeans. She couldn't break the smile from her face, but already she was starting to worry that she'd done everything all wrong. It wasn't as if she had much to compare it to. She'd kissed Ron many times, but it had never been like that. And she and Viktor had only ventured beyond a peck once. It was enough for both of them to realize they were absolutely not cut out for anything more than a platonic friendship.

So, as was her custom, she began replaying the moment in her mind, breaking apart every sigh and movement, wondering how awful it had been for him. Was it possible to be a horrid kisser? Ron had said once, after Harry made fun of his and Lavender's repulsive snogging sessions in the common room, "Snogging is kind of like pizza, mate. Even when it's not that great, it's still pretty damn good." At the time, she'd thought he was ridiculous… now, she hoped that was the truth.

She shut down her internal monologue, packing it away until she was safely back in her room and could unbox and fully overanalyze the situation. She looked up when he took her by the hand and said, "Come on, I have something to show you."