Summary: First Year Hermione Granger couldn't wait to send her beloved fairytale collection to her anonymous book exchange partner, complete with a lovingly written note. In return she's given a very rare potions journal and a note written on expensive stationery: I like this book because potions are interesting. Don't feel too bad if I'm top of our class.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence | Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | Hogwarts Eighth Year | Book Exchange | secret pen pals | Enemies to Friends to Lovers | POV Hermione Granger | Head Girl Hermione Granger | Head Boy Draco Malfoy | smut | inappropriate use of the library

One Shot

Author note: Thank you for reading! I post to AO3 first and share visuals on Twitter (xdarkofthemoon) and Tumblr (darkofthemoonfic). Would love if you said hi xx


First Year

It took her a while to select the perfect book. This was to be her introduction to the magical world, after all. Sending along an old favorite to a potential new friend. In the end, she chose a classic fairytale collection. It was illustrated in lovely watercolor and she'd had it since before she could remember.

Professor McGonagall had told her to include a letter explaining why she chose the book. It was to be anonymous, and Hermione found that exciting. Like having a secret pen pal. And maybe her first friend at Hogwarts.

Dear Reader, she wrote, Sometimes the answers we need are in the oldest of stories, don't you think? This is my favorite collection. I really like to escape in these pages and I hope you will, too.

She wrapped it in brown paper and tied a blue ribbon around it, then tucked it into her school trunk. Ready to deliver it to Professor McGonagall's office after the welcome feast.

When she arrived a few hours after they were sorted, she was handed a rather small book, in fine silver wrappings. Her greedy hands tore into it in the corridor. It was one of Merlin's notebooks on potions, published with annotations from famous potioneers throughout the ages like Vindictus Viridian and Hesper Starkey. It was obvious to Hermione that it was a rare and valuable book. A note was tucked inside the front cover. The handwriting much nicer than her own. The stationery expensive.

I like this book because potions are interesting. Don't feel too bad if I'm top of our class.


Second Year

After the chaos of the end of first year's term, they'd exchanged another book before the summer holidays. This time, McGonagall had told Hermione to call for Calliope in the owlery. The barn owl would get her book to the right person and would bring one back for her. She spent the summer reading her first wizard-written novel, The Mysteries of Nicolas Flamel by Jane Mallowan, and taking notes. Reading and rereading the letter that accompanied it: Sometimes getting lost in a book is better than the doldrums of real life. You're right about that, at least. This is the first in the series, but my favorite is the fourth book.

She sent a book she had initially found in the Hogwarts library and then ordered her own copy while home at Christmas. It was the diary of Arsenius Jigger, a former headmaster of Hogwarts and renowned potioneer. Because her book exchange partner sent a book on potions she thought they might find this one interesting, too.

As she read her own book she wanted to write her pen pal, to let them know what she'd thought of the novel, but without the school's owl she had no way of reaching them. So she waited until the start of term, eager to post her letter and a new book as soon as possible.

The morning after the welcome feast the understatedly elegant bird swooped down to her, leaving a letter atop her porridge. She cleaned it with a spell and tucked it into her robes. When she was alone, she tore it open. They'd read the diary in one sitting, just as she had.


Third Year

Professor McGonagall was amused when Hermione asked about keeping a correspondence with her book exchange partner over the summer. But she allowed the use of Calliope on three designated days throughout the break, which meant that Hermione could share three books and received three in response, all before returning to school. They'd talked about the books they'd read and shared theories on the magical titles her partner sent and their opinions on the Muggle books she'd sent.

Her course load was tiring, and the need to keep things secret with the Time Turner made it harder to find time to read for pleasure, but she squeezed it in where she could. Reading a few pages over lunch and again before bed, until her eyes were too heavy to go on. They agreed to exchange on a monthly basis. Their letters growing longer and longer as the year went on. Talking in vague terms about classes and friends to maintain their anonymity.

It was a cold day in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Professor Lupin was lecturing and though Hermione was diligently taking notes on vampires there was some ruckus behind her that had the professor begging the class to settle down. Something hit her chair and she turned to glare behind her. Harry nudged his chin towards the floor, and with a sigh she bent to pick up the crumbled parchment to see what it was about. They'd never passed notes before.

Inside was a decently rendered drawing of a dementor. But it wasn't the art that caught her eye — nor was it the sentiment of the artist, clearly wanting to make fun of Harry's trouble with them on the train. No, it was the curl of the letters. The slope of the script. The way the words, "Pucker up, Potter!" and "Kiss kiss!" nearly glowed against her eyelids when she squeezed them shut.

Tucked into her book was the last letter from her book exchange partner. She didn't need to compare the two to know that Draco Malfoy was the sender.

There was a firm sinking feeling making its way from her throat to the pit of her stomach. Heavy and leaden. She glanced over her shoulder at the pale boy, with his raven feather quill. When he caught her looking he curled his lip in disgust, nudging Blaise Zabini, who snorted.

Maybe she was wrong. Just because the handwriting was similar didn't mean it was Malfoy who sent her mystery novels about alchemists and potions theory texts and rare volumes of Slavic runic dictionaries. For weeks she tried to look at him writing, only to catch his notice and quickly move away before he could get snappy about it.

She confirmed it just after Christmas break, when she stole his ink pot off his table in the library and created a potion to compare the ink in her letters to the ink in his ink pot. It was not a standard ink; she knew that by sight. It didn't fade the way her school-issue ink did. The black dulling to charcoal over time. It was rare and expensive. Something so unnecessary for a student but if one only shopped at expensive places, it made sense for them to throw it around like it wasn't. It was unlikely anyone else used it. To be sure, she scanned every piece of parchment she saw her classmates scribble on. Starting with the wealthiest students, like Theodore Nott, before giving herself wilder scenarios in which someone like Ron might come to possess ink that cost a dozen galleons a pot.

Knowing it was Malfoy who wrote her monthly made his cruelty worse. How could the friend in her letters be so foul? Punching him was the most satisfying moment of her year. Until she realized that just because she knew his identity didn't mean he knew hers. The books she sent began to have common themes. Why blood purity was rubbish. Biographies of Muggleborn witches. She thought she was being heavy-handed. But he read all of them. And he never once refuted what they said.


Fourth Year

The summer before fourth year Hermione was passing time reading one of Malfoy's books, the fourth in The Mysteries of Nicolas Flamel series, in the World Cup box. The one he'd said was his favorite. Everyone else actually cared about the match, so she was left alone to read and occasionally joined in the cheering for whichever team the others were most excited about. Either the green or the red — or were their uniforms brown? It was hard for her to tell, and she didn't care to use the omnioculars that Harry bought to find out. They made her feel nauseated anyway.

Malfoy eyed the book curiously when he saw her, then continued with his usual sneers at Harry and Ron in between whatever was going on on the quidditch pitch.

Later, as they were running through the tents, she clutched her book tightly under her arm. Afraid that she might lose it before she could finish. When they stumbled upon Malfoy he gave them a warning. For her. His eyes flickering to the book in her hand just before he did so.


Fifth year

They'd become friends through their letters, no matter how much she thought it wouldn't be possible once she knew his identity and had begun sending only the best from her Be a Better Person shelf. They could talk about all sorts of things — except who they were. When she suggested they meet, or share first names, he said it was better to keep things anonymous, lest they find out the other was a prat. If only he knew what she knew.

Because she had seen him hiding in the corner of the library, reading her latest recommendation (a Muggle fantasy series with a female protagonist) while she helped Harry and Ron with their transfiguration essays. She wondered which part he was at when she heard him laugh. When she met his eye, he looked away.


Sixth Year

"Mr. Malfoy," Professor Slughorn called, looking from his roster to the class and back. "We'll pair you with…Ah! Miss Granger. Let's see if the two of you can give Mr. Potter a run for his money. What say you, Harry m'boy?"

Sixth year brought with it added academic responsibilities and fewer letters. He hadn't been able to finish her first book before Christmas. While Harry was paranoid, Hermione was worried. Her comments that Draco didn't look well were brushed aside. Ignored.

Professor Slughorn pairing them in potions was part luck and part torture. Harry had jumped to the top of the class, much to Hermione's chagrin. It had moved her down to second and Malfoy to third. Any other year she would have expected him to be annoyed by it. But instead he was indifferent, tossing his satchel at the foot of the stool next to hers.

They were all working on different complex potions, grouped into pairs. While Harry and Parvati were supposed to be brewing a sleeping draught, Hermione and Draco were assigned Essence of Dittany. It required pristine conditions and a steady hand. They would have a month to brew it. Professor Sprout was to supply them with fresh dittany from the greenhouses, and while they waited in silence, Hermione took notes. The temperature of the room (a bit too warm), the thickness of the school-issued cauldrons (less than ideal), and the order in which each ingredient was to be added. Anything to keep herself from focusing on the smudges of purple beneath his eyes. From thinking about the brevity of his last letter. The way his head no longer tilted up as he walked the halls of Hogwarts but down, making himself smaller.

After a few minutes scratching her quill on the parchment she looked up, cheeks turning pink beneath his indifferent stare. He glanced at her parchment and the color drained even further from his pale face. Looking to see if she noticed, he flicked his eyes at her then back to the paper. When he looked up, meeting her eyes once more, she pointedly looked at her notes, then back up at him. They locked eyes. An answer passing between them.

He didn't say anything, writing his own notes then moving to the other side of the table once their main ingredient arrived and they could get to work. Disappointment rankled through her, tasting sour and feeling like every time she was rejected by her peers in primary school. In the first few months of first year, before Harry and Ron decided to be her friends.

With an exhale bordering on annoyed she gathered some of the ingredient jars that they were done with and brought them back to the supply cupboard. When they were dismissed she closed her book, leaving with Harry and Ron. Quiet while they talked about quidditch and the spring training schedule. It was only later, when she opened up the textbook to check something in her notes, that she noticed a slip of expensive paper fall out.

Meet in the fourth floor corridor by the tapestry of the Hebridean Black.

10pm

They were both prefects so it was fine for them to be out late. She murmured something to Lavender and Pavarti about needing to assist with rounds, though neither girl seemed that concerned that she was leaving their dormitory in jeans and an old jumper of her dad's instead of her uniform.

"You knew," he said in lieu of a greeting. Long form leaning against the stones outside of the astronomy tower. Wearing all black, looking like the moon at midnight.

Hermione looked over her shoulder and walked past him into the open space. It was cold, so she cast a warming charm.

"How long did you know? Is that why you started sending all those—"

"Yes," she faced him, expecting him to be angry. Instead he looked at her curiously. "I've known for a few years now."

"Then why didn't you say anything? Hardly fair that you knew it was me and I had no idea." "Because you don't like me, obviously. And at first it was kind of funny, to send you those books."

He scoffed and crossed in front of her to lean against the railing. Looking out over the grounds and the black lake. "That's not entirely true."

"What's not true?"

He scratched at the stone. "I don't hate you. Jealous of your marks, mostly."

Hermione stared at him until he frowned.

"What?" He asked, over pronouncing the t.

"I just…I'm a mudblood. You said—"

"I repeated a lot of blood purity garbage that I was told my whole life," he replied. "You might not believe it but time taught me it was unfair prejudice. Easier to go along with it."

They watched each other. The way the wind ruffled his hair and made her hands cold, so she slid them into her pockets.

"Did you really never think it might be me?" Hermione asked softly.

"I never gave much thought about who it could be," he replied, pressing his brows together in thought. "You said at first—then what?"

"Well, even though I mainly wanted to try to teach you I found that I still liked talking with you about books. And other things."

He nodded and looked at his shoes, then at her hands in her pockets until she removed them. "I liked it too. But now that I'm—" He stopped abruptly, his mouth all but slamming shut.

"What is it?"

He looked away, towards the row of telescopes set up for their class the next evening.

"Draco, I know something is wrong. I can tell." Hermione said. She took the three steps to stand beside him on the parapet. "I think I know you better than you think."

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly then opened them, pressing away from the wall to walk towards the door. "Leave it alone, Granger."

But she couldn't. They kept working together on the potion. They kept passing notes. As subtly as they could. Slipped into books and bags and sent using the school's owls. Never his own owl. They went on like this for weeks. But he never told her everything.

Beneath the table she saw his hand shake, then clench in a fist. The tips of her fingers danced across the tight skin until her hand rested over it. Her thumb slotted into the space between his palm and curled fingers. At first she worried it was crossing a line. To show any sort of affection. They hadn't even said they were friends. But he moved his thumb first. Stroking it across her palm to hook around her own. Then he flexed his fingers until they fanned out beneath hers. And threaded them together. Giving her knuckle bones a squeeze before letting her go.

He'd do this whenever they had to wait while brewing. Or when they did prefect rounds together, after she convinced Ernie to partner them so that they could talk about their potions assignment more. Always only for a second but just long enough that she could feel it. It made her wonder just how starved he was for any bit of affection. Did anyone in his life care?

A successful Essence of Dittany required distilling the leaves of the dittany plant into a whirlpool of clear honeywater and maintaining the rapids within the cauldron for seventy-three turns. Then, over low heat for several days, the mixture was to be boiled down, until only an evaporated film coated the cauldron's belly. If done correctly, it would be a pale green. Like dried eucalyptus. From there the powder was used as an ingredient to create the healing potion. In the days that they spent all of their class working on the essence they were silent. But when they returned after hours to check on its progress, on the days when they didn't have a potions block, they would talk, just the two of them. In the quiet dungeon-level potions laboratory. Continuations of their letters. Discussing the books that neither of them had time to read that year but had made the time for anyway. If she asked about him, and why he looked so tired, he changed the subject.

She tried to visit him in the hospital wing after he was hit with Harry's brutal curse. But there were always other Slytherins around him. When he saw her he shook his head slightly, just enough that she got the message. He never mentioned the salted caramels she sent, but she noticed the blue ribbon she'd wrapped them with tucked into one of his school books to mark his page.

It was the end of term and Harry was gone, off with Professor Dumbledore. Ron had fallen asleep in the common room. Snoring in the lumpy armchair by the window. And Hermione stepped into the hall, walking to a narrow wing of the castle. One that held classrooms long abandoned. She arrived early and waited in front of a tapestry. Not for long. He was always punctual.

When they met in secret, it was never just to say hello. It was because she was too close to figuring it out and he wanted to warn her. There was something eating at him. And for him to ask to meet in the daylight told her it was nearing its goal.

"You can tell me," she said, crowding him before he could speak. "I think you need to tell someone. It's tearing you apart, to be burdened this way."

There was a translucence to his skin. The color drained even further from the normally pale shade. Purple brushstrokes beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. Shadows at his cheekbones. Sharper, because he'd lost weight from stress. Gone was the proud posture, replaced by hunched shoulders. A need to make himself smaller. To be invisible in the halls between classes. But she'd always be able to find him in a crowd.

"I can help you," she pleaded, and boldly reached for his hand. It was cold, and he gripped her fingers with enough force to hurt.

"No," he said, voice low and rough. He pulled them behind the dragon tapestry, onto a small balcony she hadn't known existed. Even after years looking at the Marauder's Map with Harry and patrolling the halls as a prefect. It overlooked the lake. Sunlight scattered across the water like jewels.

"You can't help me, Granger. It's my burden to bear."

Still he held her hand. Not with affection, but with a sort of desperation that she understood. "Why not? I'm a fair bit smarter than Crabbe or Goyle—"

"Neither of them know. They just do what they're told." He looked at their shoes and the fraction of space separating her loafers from his dragon leather boots. "You can't. You just…can't."

With a gentleness she pressed her palm against his cheek and he shivered. "It's Voldemort, isn't it?" He turned his head but she kept her hand on his face. "You have to do something for him? And if you don't he'll hurt you. Hurt your family?"

"Stop. Please — don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you pity me."

"Draco, that's not—Just let me be here for you." He closed his eyes and she pressed on. "I want to be here for you."

"It's not that simple."

"But it can be." She ran her thumb over his thin skin, watching his eyes close. "It should be."

"It's hard enough as it is," he whispered.

"What is?"

The weight of his gaze settled over her. The haunted cloudiness of his pupils beneath a worried brow. "You can't be in here," he said.

She tried to puzzle out what he meant, even as he removed her hand from his face. Holding it in both of his like it was delicate.

"It's too hard keeping you locked away as it is. If you're in here more," he touched his temple, "he'll know. He'll see."

It clicked for her then. Why he always seemed so blank, since the start of term. She'd read enough about it to assume. The occlumency that alluded Harry was keeping him together. As together as possible for someone carrying such weight.

"What if people could protect you? Protect your family?"

"It's not possible. Not for me. Not anymore."

"You can't know that." She reached for his hand, the one still holding her own. "Please," she begged, letting her fingers travel higher, to his forearm. Where she knew with certainty he'd been Marked.

The last bit of composure in his eyes snuffed out and he hauled her up, onto her toes, until their faces were level. The tip of his nose ghosted hers and she tugged on his tie, already loosened, until his lips met hers. Soft and quiet. Scared. She wrapped a hand around his neck, stroking the skin at his nape in soothing waves while she increased the pressure.

Their kiss wasn't gentle. It was frantic and bruising. Like they knew it would likely be the only one they'd have. There would be marks on her hip bones from his fingers. Her hair would be more of a tangle than it usually was. And her lips. Her lips would be the color of three day old roses. Slightly swollen from the way he sucked on her lower lip. Feeling it between his teeth and caressing it with his tongue. And her eyes would always be just a little bit sad.

She hoped his cheeks regained some color. That he would think of her and maybe blush. But he couldn't think of her — he'd told her so. And that was why he pushed her away. Leaving her alone on a balcony without another word.

Later that afternoon, in the library, a paper swan landed on her desk. Transfigured from thick parchment she knew well. She pushed her arithmancy assignment aside and unfolded it.

Stay in your dormitory tonight.

She didn't listen.


Seventh Year

Hermione hated to admit it, but she was inspired by Tom Riddle's diary when she used a protean charm on two pocket-sized notebooks. Once she left with Harry and Ron to seek and destroy horcruxes, she wouldn't be able to write any letters. So she'd owled the notebook before Bill and Fleur's wedding. With a note inside. If you ever need to talk. And he did. Not often, but he did. None of their messages stayed in the pages, which meant that when Ronald picked it up one night, wondering what she was always writing, blank pages greeted him.

"Keep your secrets, Hermione," he'd said. "I won't try to break into your diary."

She had more secrets than she knew what to do with and all of them involved Draco. They listened to Potterwatch, collectively hoping not to hear the names of people they knew. And one other name she kept to herself.

Are you alright?

Safe?

Are you okay?

Be careful.

Alright?

Safe?

Once she let herself tell him that she missed him. The reply instant.

You too.

He wouldn't answer in the days after she saw him, looking down at her on the drawing room floor of his family home. Until she'd said Please tell me you're alright. I need to know that you're alright.

And he'd said No.

Her notebook was quiet after that.


Eighth year.

As a show of unity among the Houses, that war would not break Hogwarts apart, Hermione was named Head Girl to Draco's Head Boy. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Pureblood and Muggleborn. Two opposites, fitting perfectly into the boxes that the Board of Governors chose for their narrative of unity.

But he wouldn't look at her. Wouldn't be alone with her. Hadn't been alone with her in over a year, since they kissed end of sixth year. She wrote him a letter, asking if he wanted to exchange books again. He didn't reply.

After three weeks of prefects rounds ended, and they were left to complete the rotation, he couldn't avoid her anymore. They made stilted small talk about their classes and the prefect schedule until he insisted on walking through the library.

"Madam Pince always checks the restricted section before retiring for the evening," Hermione said as they wound through the stacks, to the darkest part of the library.

"I know," he replied. They reached the tessomancy section, so far removed from everything else. It was a little nook, really. With shelves on either side and along the back wall. Most people missed it, when they wandered through. And as its contents were really only useful for Trelawney's students, it was rarely used. Many of the books were covered in a thin layer of dust.

Draco reached for the highest shelf. His long fingers drawing over the tops of a dozen books before he stood on his toes to reach behind them and pull out a thin, navy volume. It had gilded scrolls on the cover but no title.

For a moment he held it in his hands. Looking at the leather and running his thumb over the corners, slightly bent from use.

"What is it?" She asked.

Without ceremony he turned it and all but dropped it into her hands. Curious, she raised her brows and he nodded, so she opened it to a random page near the center.

Inside was lined paper. Dated. With detailed notes about Nicolas Flamel. She flipped back to the front. Inscribed on a plain leaf of paper was The Diary of Jane Mallowan.

"Is this—it must be a copy," she whispered, tracing the edge of the stained pages. Before she could think better of it she brought the book closer to her face and inhaled its scent. It was old. It was perfect.

"I hid it there for you last year," Draco murmured. "I wasn't sure if I'd get to see— I hoped that it would find its way to you eventually…" he turned the page, showing her the inside cover where he had put her name. The ink a glossy obsidian, from a small stationery supply store in wizarding Paris. The fine slope of his handwriting waving through the letters of her name across the inside of a rare and invaluable book.

Hermione had barely finished processing the curve of the e at the end of her name when she reach up to kiss him. Letting herself pour her feelings into it. Relief, that they were both there together. Gratitude, for the book. Want, for him. She'd been patient. Waiting nearly a month to have a moment alone with him. And she'd hoped that the feelings she put into her kiss were the feelings he returned when his hand gripped her waist.

They pressed closer together and he slipped into her mouth, teasing her tongue while he held her close. The silk of his tie and the wool of his jumper beneath her hands against his chest. Their breathing heavy when they pulled apart, only to crash back together. Against the shelves. Unable to be away from the other for long.

The hair at his collar was soft. Their robes fluttered to the floor, surrounding them. Flared out between the stacks of books. She loosened her tie before removing it entirely. It was so warm — her jumper went, too. Then his. He tasted like caramel and she knew she made noises into his mouth when he palmed at her breast. Drawing teasing circles over the cotton Oxford and her thin lace bra with his thumbs until her nipples perked.

Her lips were swollen and she kissed him harder still. Sucking at the skin beneath his jaw, down to the dip in his throat where she'd unbuttoned his shirt. Letting her tongue trace his collarbone until he groaned and pulled her back to his mouth. Devouring her against the bookshelves, like in the romance novels she kept hidden at the bottom of her trunk.

When he pulled away this time he searched her face. Letting his hands cradle her cheekbones. "I'm glad you're here," he said. And she didn't know if he meant here at Hogwarts or here in the library or here in his arms but her answer was the same regardless.

"There's nowhere else I want to be." She kissed him softly and he pulled back again.

"I missed you. I should have told you more. I should—"

Hermione covered his mouth with her hand. His jaw closed beneath it. "Write me about it later," she said, not quite a question. "I don't want to talk—" she laughed, feeling his lips curve beneath her fingers. The corner of his eyes creasing until she removed her hand and rested it on his chest. "Not just now, anyway. I want to kiss you. Is that alright?"

It was more than alright. He slid his hands from her hips to her backside and squeezed at the same moment he captured her lips with his once more. Leaning until his back hit the shelves and she melted against him. She didn't remember undoing the mother of pearl buttons on his shirt until her hands met bare skin. War had made him waifish but a summer in France had helped him fill out a bit more. Leaving him with lean muscles and the smallest little stomach that she wanted to keep forever.

The wool of her skirt pushed up her hip until he could slip his hand beneath. He murmured something against her lips as he traced her knickers. Tired of being on the tips of her toes, she flattened her feet and pressed a kiss against the scars of his chest. The raised ugliness was a cruel reminder of the cost of some secrets.

She bent to kiss Draco's stomach, her hands tugging at his belt while he asked questions above her. Nodding when she asked if it was alright. Giving verbal confirmation before she pushed his trousers down. Again when she pulled his length from his trunks.

A kiss to the tip before she let herself taste him. Running her tongue all along each side before taking him in her mouth. She'd never done it with Ron, in the few weeks they'd experimented being together over the summer. It was clear he'd never return the act, so she didn't have much of a desire to perform it. But she wanted to the minute she felt Draco grow hard against her stomach while they'd kissed.

She used her hands at the base and swirled her tongue the way she'd seen on the explicit channels her parents didn't know they payed for in their cable television package. Little bits of praise slipped from his lips and he gently guided her with a hand woven in her curls. Helping her move her head in a rhythm he liked. Listening to the auditory cues he gave to know if she should increase the pressure or suck harder. Until he pulled at her scalp, dragging her to her feet and kissing her with a savage intensity. His tongue tangling with hers.

Then he lowered them to the floor, kissing her breathless atop their robes and jumpers and ties. His trousers and shoes discarded. With his hands ghosting along her legs he leaned over her, watching as he reached her cotton knickers. Practical. A neutral black.

"Is this alright?" He asked, and she nodded, leaning up to kiss him while he removed the garment. They felt each other and she knew she was wet without much help from his clever fingers. But he stroked her and teased her with firm circles and light caresses. Stretching her with two fingers until she told him she was ready. That she wanted him. And still he asked if she was sure.

"I'm sure," she said, and pushed him off of her. Grey eyes looking up at her while she crawled over him. Placing her knees at either side of his slim hips. They hadn't removed his shirt. Her skirt fell over them, blocking the view of his cock pressing into her slowly. Their gasps echoed in the small space between shelves. He grabbed her hip bones and helped her move. It was a new position for her, but one she knew she'd like. And one she guessed he would, too. They rocked together at a slow pace while she accommodated him. Faster when she felt herself getting close. And when she knew it would only take a few more ruts of her hips against his, she leaned down to join their mouths. Kissing him while she came. Until he spilled inside of her a few minutes later, panting against her temple.

They lay on the floor of the library for a long while. Exploring with hands and mouths. Talking and fighting sleep. Collecting secrets they could slip between pages.