Hermione had been putting up with this, this feeling, for almost nine months now. Since she'd turned 18 in September, it had shifted through various levels of discomfort, from confusion to dread, to embarrassment, and now to torment.

It was bizarre that first night, lying on a camp bed in a tent in the middle of nowhere with her best friends, dreaming about the boy who had practically bullied them all through school. There hadn't been anything particularly bad about the dream. In fact, it had all been fairly ordinary. He was nice, cordial, they'd had a pleasant conversation. Which was why the beginning only brought confusion. She couldn't remember a time when Draco Malfoy had ever been nice to her. Indifferent, yes. But going out of his way to be cordial? No, never.

Yet that was what he was now, every night in her dreams. She began to enjoy their dream conversations, and, after a few months, she became used to them. But then, Draco had appeared in one without his shirt on and she realised that they'd been conducting their conversations sat on a mahogany bed with green sheets for a while now. After that, she began to dread what she would see when she went to sleep. No, not dread what she would see - she still looked forward to seeing Draco and talking with him - she began to dread what she would have to tell Harry and Ron. Because at some point, she would have to tell them. She knew by now that this wasn't going away any time soon.

The embarrassment came when she did. Literally. She'd cried out in her sleep, in the tent, while Harry was on watch and he'd woken her up, worried that something bad had happened. Hermione supposed that Harry would think it was bad. But in her dreams, with Draco, it had been a natural progression, and the only thing she thought was bad about it was who had been there to wake her. Or rather, who hadn't. It was safe to say that she always made sure to put up a silencing spell around her bed after that.

The Manor was terrible. Draco had looked right through her. When, for months, she'd seen those grey eyes looking deep into her soul, then, they had only glazed over as he looked determinedly at the wooden panelling behind her. She couldn't understand. The dreams meant something. She could feel it. She had not been dreaming of Draco every night for no reason.

Fleur acted strangely at Shell Cottage. She kept looking between Hermione and Ron expectantly, as if trying to figure something out. Eventually, she pulled Hermione to the side and asked her to confirm that she was 18. Hermione answered in the affirmative, being thoroughly shocked by the next question.

"Who is it you see in your dreams?"

Hermione could only stare open mouthed until she began blinking erratically.

"We thought it would be Ron, but he is 18 too now, and there is nothing happening."

"No." Hermione coughed. "No. Umm…it's someone we don't see often. You won't have seen him since the Tournament."

"Ah. He has not yet reached 18. If he had, you would not be here without him."

"Fleur," the French witch was making Hermione nervous. "What is this?"

"He is yours, Hermione. And you will be his."

Beginning that night, the dreams grew more and more torturous, the cool sheets of her bed doing nothing to sooth her scalding skin. She tried everything to find relief, to make the intensity lessen, but while she was sleeping, without him, it would never truly go away, no matter how illogical she found it.

Thankfully, the few times she'd seen him during the battle, everything around them had been so hectic that she couldn't afford to think about the dreams of his blonde head between her legs, his long fingers teasing her nipples, the way his tongue could perform magic without uttering a single sound. Afterwards, when it was all done and Voldemort was defeated, Draco and Narcissa had managed to avoid Azkaban due to their change of allegiance, but they were still banned from leaving Britain until their respective trials could take place.

When the rebuilding of Hogwarts had started, Hermione could sense that he was close by. She could tell that he had come to the castle, to join their efforts, and she had subsequently been on tenterhooks all week. Her lower lip has been nibbled raw, her friends have been exasperated with her restlessness, but she couldn't seem to stop her legs from bouncing when she was with them, supposedly enjoying their company. Each night increased in intensity, but still not enough to sate her, leading her to escape during the day to the bathroom in order to find her own relief.

But today, finally, she could hold herself back no longer. It had become an itch under her skin. She could sense exactly where in the castle he was, could feel the leather of every book he touched brushing her own fingertips, the ghost of a sensation. She can't concentrate and everything within her is pushing her towards him, yet still she clenches her fists and bites her lip so hard that her nails and teeth draw blood.

She knows, logically, that this is his first day, his 18th birthday, and that he won't even dream of her until tonight. She wonders if he'll feel them as intensely as she does now, or would they start as they did for her, calm and innocuous before building. Hermione has always prided her ability to remain logical, but as the hours drag on and she's approaching her third trip to the bathroom for a distraction, it is becoming harder and harder not to give into the pounding of her heart, the itch under her skin, the pulsing in her abdomen.

With her fingers hovering over the old wood of the bathroom door, she grumbles in the back of her throat, scowls at the decision she's making, and quickly turns on her heel, marching towards the library. She can feel him tugging at her heart, her soul, and all she can do now is follow that pull, allow her feet to take her where she wants to be. As soon as she bursts through the doors of the dishevelled library, she can smell him and breathes in the peppermint mingling with parchment, allowing it to envelope her.

He sees her coming, looking up from his task as he hears her approach. Maybe he can sense her too and she wonders what she smells like to him. He stands from where he's kneeling on the floor, surrounded by piles of books, and turns to meet her, raising his hands up in front of him to halt her approach.

"Granger," he drawls warningly, and hearing that from the him, the real Draco, sends a fresh wave of heat to pool between her legs.

Her eyes catch on his fingers, those fingers, held up in front of him and her vision narrows so that for once, she is completely unaware of the books in the library. The dilation of her pupils must have been visible as she hears Draco's intake of breath and she pulls her lip into her mouth, wanting to hear him breathe like that again.

She steps towards him until his palm is resting against her prominent collar bone, able to feel her pounding heart.

"Happy Birthday, Draco," she wishes him breathlessly, raising her eyes to his, warm brown and heated black to cool grey.

"Is it you?" he breathes back, relaxing his elbow slightly, allowing her to step even closer. "Am I yours?"

Hermione lifts a hand and curls it around his forearm, his left forearm, soothing the scarred mark she can see there from his sleeves being rolled to the elbows.

"I'm yours, Draco," she manages to gasp, fighting the urge to just go ahead and press her lips to his, holding onto the knowledge that she has had nine months head start on this.

The holds they have on each other, his on her collarbone, hers on his forearm, tighten so that she can feel his muscles twitching as well as the delicious press of his fingers into her skin, a press that she longs to feel elsewhere. In the silence that seems to stretch for an eternity, they study the emotions and truths that reside in the depths of each other's eyes until she watches, almost in slow motion, as he drops his eye line to her lips and back up again. An unspoken question. One that she does not hesitate to answer.

Immediately it's like someone has set her alight, the flames licking along her skin both hot and cold, but nothing compared to the feeling of Draco's mouth on hers. She may have pressed forwards first, but he doesn't waste time in taking over their kiss, moulding his lips to hers which have become pliant under his precise ministrations that turn her to molten lava. She vaguely feels his hands competing with the flames licking at her skin, stroking everywhere at once, everywhere that his firm body is not pressed against.

She uses the contact to walk him backwards until the nearest bookshelf halts their progress, at which point she stretches up on her toes so that she's able to grind against the hard length she can feel through their jeans. He moans greedily into her mouth as he continues to kiss her, but moves his hands round to cup her arse, helping to lift her higher so that the friction hits the perfect spot.

Hermione throws her head back at the sensation, breaking the kiss and letting out a wanton gasp, praising his name. He moves his swollen lips to the curve of her neck, sucking and nipping and licking while she continues to moan and he holds her up with one, large hand while the other begins to undo their jeans. Once he has them unbuttoned and the flies unzipped, he lifts her to wrap her legs around his waist, kissing her deeply again as he lowers her to the floor, making room amongst the piles of books.

He pulls away from her mouth and the heat of his body leaves hers. Hermione whimpers at the loss but he just lets out a low chuckle before shoving her jumper above her breasts and tearing the thin bra from her chest. She screams as his mouth finds its new target, tongue swirling around a hard, sensitive nipple. When her back arches in pleasure and pleading, he roughly pulls her jeans down over her hips and off her legs, then kisses his way back up the insides of her thighs until his face is buried between her legs, his mouth latched around her clit, bringing her closer and closer to her peak.

Hermione finds herself begging, calling his name in an endless, breathless chant.

"Please. Please, Draco. Draco, please."

He chuckles against her sensitive bud and the vibration coupled with the hot puff of air sends her keening over the edge.

"Oh, Hermione. That's it, love. Come on. I've got you. I've always got you."

When she finally opens her eyes, she sees Draco, eyes silver and sparkling, with his jeans pushed down his hips, left hand stroking his own length while his right cups her breast, thumb stroking her sensitive nipple.

"How long have you dreamed of this, love?" he asks.

"About 5 months," she breathes in response.

"I'm sorry I missed out on them," Draco smirks, obviously pleased that she has been finding pleasure in him for so long.

"They don't compare," Hermione smirks right back.

"Shall I continue to prove that?" He asks as he lowers himself over her, holding her gaze as he presses a lingering kiss to her bruised lips, and sinks his length teasingly into her.