.
Morning
He isn't supposed to stay.
He isn't supposed to be in her bed.
He isn't supposed to be curled around her, solid and warm, legs tangled with hers, arm wrapped loosely over her belly.
She's set rules. Rules that don't include his bare chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm against her back while the first light of day creeps its way around the curtains. Rules that don't allow her to feel anything more than the (guilty) pleasure he affords.
He's supposed to leave. When they're done. They rarely exchange more than a few words. And he leaves. She never allows him more than a few hours. Never allows more than what this is.
Yet, he stayed.
And for reasons she refuses to understand, she allowed it.
oOoOoOoOo
His eyes never leave her from the moment she arrives. She doesn't need to look at him to know; she feels the weight of his gaze as she makes her way across the crowded room.
She's stopped several times by people who wish to congratulate her. Order of Merlin, Third Class. Her research on how to reverse ancestral curses in blood maledictions was the reason the award was to be bestowed on her this evening. She would have been happier had the award simply arrived via Owl Post.
She shakes hands and (fake) smiles her way across the room, hating every step as she approaches Harry and Cho.
"You don't look stressed at all," Harry notes as Cho reaches out to gently squeeze her arm. Her Healer colleague is well aware of her dislike of crowds.
"It's a ridiculous farce," she answers, accepting the comforting smiles and murmurs of assent from her friends. Her want of recognition during her school years disappeared after the war. Her only desire now was to bury herself in research.
And to bury herself in him.
She accepts the offered glass of wine from a passing tray and takes the distraction of Ron and Susan's arrival (air kisses and handshakes and hearty guffaws) as an excuse to chance a glance his way.
He's still watching her. His face impassive, blue-grey eyes giving her nothing as he lifts his glass and slowly sips the golden liquid held within its crystal walls. And it's those eyes, the coolness, the indifference, that both unsettle and aggravate her.
Truthfully, he's always unsettled and aggravated her.
He's aloof. Unapologetically so. And underneath the flickering ceiling of candles, devastatingly beautiful. His once sharp childhood features have mellowed into square, refined, strong. Masculine. And the effect of his lost youth isn't lost on anyone.
Women approach yet never get within a few feet of him. An invisible shield appears to surround him, deterring and pushing away those he has no interest in. Shallow and unintelligent (he has expressed in those rare moments when more than a few words are shared between them) holds no interest. He needs fearless. Determined. A challenge.
Her (he doesn't say).
She tears her gaze away when Charlie and Pansy join their small group, lest Pansy (in her shrewd and all-knowing way) suspect her glance across the ballroom is anything but innocent. Because her glance is anything but innocent.
Even when he's not physically present, he's around her. He consumes her – mind and body – claws at her chest and pushes an ache into her soul. But she refuses to let him in. She tells herself she doesn't (shouldn't) want him. Not for anything more than the gratifying explosion of sensations he never fails to draw from her.
The conversation surrounds her. Dragon, Quidditch, Healer, research, award — words that she hears but can make no sense of, such is the distraction of his enigmatic being. A distraction that whispers along her spine, caresses her neck, spills much filthier words than those currently being spoken into her ears. Her returning sentiments are never as eloquent. Oh and gods and more are all she ever seems capable of.
She sips her wine, resolutely determined to not let her mind fill with images (pale skin stretched over tight muscle, grey eyes staring, wicked lips doing sinful things), and tries to concentrate on the conversation around her.
More words reach her. Congratulatory praise at which she nods in acknowledgment. More handshakes and air kisses and unwanted attention, all the while her frustration simmers underneath. She's uncomfortable, wants to slap the hands of strangers who think it's their right to touch her — no matter how innocently. Her skin crawls with each contact of a hand to her shoulder or her back as those same strangers lean in to talk to her. She subtly shifts to distance herself, but her actions go unnoticed and the torture continues.
And those eyes are still on her. Heavier now. Darker.
He's moved around the room, unable to maintain his original vantage point. She is the guest of honour, but even that cannot completely hide the reasons he's so intent on watching her. He talks with a group of men, of which she only recognises two, and is positioned where he can see her through the crowd. And from where he now stands, he sees and understands her discomfort. Sees the men who only know her by name yet believe they actually know her, thereby are free to (unwantedly) touch her.
His frustration and anger are evident as his eyes grow darker still; a burgeoning storm that threatens to burst forth in a biblical wrath and she allows herself a momentary lapse, wishing him to rescue her.
But she's set rules. Rules he will not disobey.
The evening wears on (wears her out). She nurses the same glass of wine, taking only the tiniest of sips. If her friends notice, they say nothing. In any case, her demeanour suggests what they already know: she abhors these events and is dreading the moment she is called upon to accept her award.
Pansy presses fingertips to her forearm, distracting her from her thoughts. Eyebrows raised — are you alright? — Pansy's whispered question is one of concern. She simply nods in reply, hoping she's convincing. She is anything but alright. She wants to leave. Wants even more for him to follow. She won't, however. She'll do the responsible thing. She'll (begrudgingly) stay and (fake) smile and make her (memorised) speech.
The applause when her praises are sung embarrasses her. She dips her head to hide the heat that sneaks beneath her skin and reddens her cheeks. It's Harry who offers his arm (when she is called to accept her award and feels rooted to the spot) and escorts her to the stage. She gives him a look that he reads perfectly and he takes a step back, giving her the spotlight (that she doesn't want) but remains close enough to ensure she feels safe.
Her speech is gracious, modest, almost self-depreciating. She gives thanks to all the pertinent parties, makes them all feel like they contributed (they didn't) and accepts her award with humility. What she doesn't do is look at him; she keeps her attention focused on the crowd directly in front of her. It's rude, she knows, but he is distraction enough simply being in the room.
More applause and congratulatory words are offered as she clutches Harry's arm tightly on the return path back to her friends. On the outside she keeps her humble façade in place. On the inside she's calculating the minutes until it's considered polite to leave.
An hour, she tells herself. Sixty minutes. Less if others begin to depart — which she cannot stop herself from hoping for.
She receives several requests to dance, all of which she denies. She doesn't dance, she says while smiling. She doesn't want the expectations that she sees in those who ask. She's not a prize, nor is she for sale, and she won't allow a Ministry, who uses her image (without permission) to promote their own agenda, to force her to act against her will. She's given them enough of herself by being present at this pointless event.
"Congratulations."
The word slides over her skin, his voice speaking it is the only time this evening it has held any significance. Her response holds equal significance; his is the only praise she willingly accepts.
"Thank you."
A single nod and then he moves to speak to Pansy for a minute before heading towards the door. He glances back, catching her eye as he passes beneath the ballroom archway. The fleeting look tells her everything she needs to know.
He'll be waiting.
Time drags then. The hour she allowed herself passes by in increments that resemble a glacial crawl. Another drink is offered and she holds her hand up and says no. Another drink means she must linger, must adhere to societal etiquette and take her time, pretending to savour the bitter sharpness of the red wine she loathes.
She feels numb as she makes polite small talk, and even now her friends notice her lack of enthusiasm. She can pass it off as exhaustion, however she has used that excuse far too many times. Her abhorrence of notoriety, of crowds, of acknowledgement, will suffice for the evening, but even that justification is running thin.
And so is the time she has allotted herself. The hour that has dragged is finally up. She begins her farewells, shaking more hands and dodging unsolicited cheek kisses. Her ire rises once more at the inappropriateness.
"Hermione!"
Harry's call causes her to pause her exit. She turns to face him and the concern in his voice is reflected in his face.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
"I am," she tells him, and she knows within the hour this night she considers little more than a farce will be torn from her memory and replaced with the salacious memories she craves.
"Congratulations," Harry offers with his usual easy smile. "You deserve the accolade, even if you don't want it."
She steps into his embrace, returning his comforting hug, and for only the second time this evening, gives her thanks sincerely.
Apparition has been reinstated in the Ministry's atrium and she takes full advantage, the instantaneous pull landing her in her front garden where he's waiting for her, has been waiting almost an hour. He's perched on the stoop, his long legs stretched out, his back pressed against the door. The silver slivers of light offered up by the moon dance between the leaves of the Birch tree and cast shadows across his face.
As he rises to his feet, she moves towards him, the attraction that shouldn't have occured between them is now a tangible entity with a life of its own. It twists and curves and draws them inevitably to each other.
His acknowledgement of her arrival is fierce. His hands rise to her face and he pulls her in, their lips meeting in a kiss she knows he has been eager to give. She isn't to blame for those men who dared touch her. He has, however, taken it as a personal affront.
She gasps at his roughness, his desperation, feels the tension, anger, frustration, and the biblical wrath that threatened her eager suitors finally bursts forth.
"Inside."
Only the second word he has spoken to her tonight and its meaning holds more than its simplicity.
Inside her house.
Inside her.
She wordlessly lowers the wards allowing them to enter together, and in a heartbeat he tears her dress from her body and backs her against the wall. He drops to his knees, his calloused palm curves around her hip, fingertips press into her skin, and he pauses to glance up at her.
For a moment they stare at each other with a knowing familiarity, the way lovers do. Their chests rise and fall in time and she dares to reach for him, caresses his cheek with the barest of fingertip touches. And the moment holds, lingers between them, fills the air with all those unspoken things.
But unspoken things don't belong in this moment and she shoves them aside. He understands immediately and presses his thumb into the soft space just above her hip bone, breaking the tension, and, in the same instant, builds tension of a different kind.
Those wicked lips she's (not) thought about all evening descend upon her and she knows the night she wants to forget is about to be exchanged for one she will savour and hold inside her memory.
oOoOoOoOo
She is yet to determine if he is awake, but undoubtedly sleep will fail him if she acts on instinct and slips away from his warmth. She searches her mind to find even a scant memory of the last time she woke up with this feeling, and is unable to.
That she is safe — feels safe — is an emotion she hardly recognises. Hidden in nightmarish dreams is how she spends most of her nights, yet none of the darkness, the fear, the brutality came to her as she slept, her mind remaining blissfully dreamless throughout the night.
Everything she's wanted — solace, safety, quiet — he's given her. In one night.
But, of course, as it always does, the doubt creeps in.
Her overused mantra — I don't want this — begins as a quiet (reluctant) chant inside her head. It's what she tells herself every time he leaves. It's what she forces herself to believe. What they've done (what they've been doing) is precarious. Neither had wanted more than to put to rest the ache they both felt that first time they fell apart together, but now they've wandered into territory they hadn't intended to explore.
She sees the shift, has noticed it in him for months as their trysts have become more and more frequent. She also recognises the shift in herself. The line between doubt and longing was blurring (had been blurring for some time) causing a constant internal conflict and forcing her to make a choice she isn't entirely sure she's capable of.
He confuses her, the contradiction that he is. His public persona — the cool aloofness — all but disappears when he's with her. He is soft, malleable, patient. He takes his time, and every hour, minute, second they spend in the muted darkness of her bedroom, he (dare she say it, even think it) loves her.
He's become an addiction. The weight of him, the safe solidity, the towering size of him. The warmth in his eyes he reserves only for her. But these things do take place in the dark, where they're hidden away and their secret can be kept. Because it is a secret, this thing between them. She's insisted upon it. Not because she's embarrassed. Because it's them.
The scrutiny would be unbearable. The comments and opinions would be undoubtedly slanderous, not to mention, vastly incorrect.
She had been shocked to discover just how natural, how easy, being with him was. They shared an understanding that made words and talking (mostly) unnecessary. Even the first night they'd spent together, the expected fumbling and embarrassment simply didn't exist. Like two pieces of an unfinished puzzle, they just fit.
He shifts behind her. The arm so loosely draped over her tightens, his calloused palm rough as it drags slowly over her skin to land just below the curve of her breast.
She holds her breath, anticipation sticking in her chest. She's completely lost in this situation, not certain how she will react to his realisation of being so intimately wrapped around her at the first light of day. She's certain he won't object, and it terrifies her that she doesn't want him to.
The warm exhale on the nape of her neck indicates she can assume he's still asleep, and she dares to curl her fingers around his forearm. She does it slowly so her action could be passed off as an unconscious movement if by chance he is awake.
It had been a revelation the first time she'd seen the ivy. She had expected to see the mark of his former life. The ugly blight that marred his skin had, however, been covered and the intricate design of the plant fascinates her. Clingy, luscious, misunderstood. She knows the significance of the ivy that climbs his arm and curves around his shoulder. Despite the perception as it weaves its way around the vast trunks of trees, ivy protects rather than strangles. The tattoo is his own personal protection.
He shifts behind her again, his arm moving higher to slide between her breasts, his legs bending to curl himself even closer to her. She feels his unconscious erection press firmly against her behind, and the thought of that magnificent piece of manhood resuming its place inside her in the grey light of morning forces her to bite back an eager moan.
"Morning, Granger."
The words vibrate over Hermione's skin. His voice is heavy with sleep, deep, gravely, drunk almost, and it worms its way along her spine, spreading heat to places that are already warming with want.
"Did you sleep well?"
It's such an innocuous question. One that no one else has ever been given the opportunity to ask. She does like hearing it in his voice though.
"I did," she responds, her own voice still husky from sleep.
He buries his face in her neck, his breath is warm and still holds the comfortable in-and-out ease of one who is still sleeping.
"I like breaking rules with you," he murmurs between soft kisses along her shoulder. His fingers trace lazy patterns over her chest, following the line of her collarbone then lightly over the swell of her breast.
They have broken the rules. Her rules. And she wants to be mad at him (at herself) for not adhering to what she set in place. She can't be though, not when everything she feels in this moment feels right.
"This was just a momentary slip, Malfoy," Hermione tells him. Her response is automatic, but the words aren't aimed with her usual direct coolness, instead there's a light, teasing lilt to them.
"Hmm, is that so?" Draco's hand sweeps downwards, sliding between her breasts to brush idly over her belly, her hip, her thigh. Hermione holds in her sigh, but her body betrays her and she arches into him.
"It is," she says, continuing as best she can with her half-hearted nonchalance while his hand explores.
He presses several quick kisses to her neck. "Best I be off then."
"No!"
The word is out before she can process her thoughts, and the reflexive way her arm jerks back to hold him in place startles her. She's never needed anyone like this — at least that's what she tells herself — and she hasn't ever intended for him to be the one to change that, hasn't intended to ever admit to herself she needs (wants) him to be the one to change that.
Draco's quiet laugh comes out as a soft rush of breath over her cheek, and she squeezes her eyes shut at the mortification one tiny word brings. She's not intended to appear desperate, or needy, she's not that woman. And she certainly doesn't want him to assume things she's yet to decide.
"I mean, leave if you want, Malfoy."
"Perhaps I will," he tells her, but his meandering hand says otherwise. He's as comfortable as she is, and with the unspoken understanding they share, she knows he'll go on holding her until she truly objects.
His mouth finds her neck again, his lips brush over her skin, his nose nuzzling her hair, his inhale audible as he breathes deeply. She waits for his question, but he remains quiet. And, as is her usual way, her mind fills with all the possibilities of what he's thinking.
She knows he wants her, wants her beyond the rules she's set, beyond the curtains and the door and the walls of her bedroom. He wants this to be real. Wants them to be real, wants to be seen with her in the outside world. She continues to vacillate between wanting the same and being terrified of what a visible relationship with him means.
"Alright?" he asks, sensing the distraction in her.
Hermione nods, her mind still whirling with questions and possibilities.
"Malfoy?"
His response is a quiet, questioning hum.
"Why did you stay?"
His mouth stops kissing her, his body tenses slightly, and his hand comes to rest over her ribs. He shifts away from her, but before she can protest (maybe even apologise), he gently grips her shoulder and silently urges her to her back. She sees him for the first time in the grey light, and as beautiful as he is in his usual state of put togetherness, it pales in comparison to the rumpled, morning version presented to her now.
"I stayed because you didn't tell me to leave," he states, his face the picture of impassivity, his voice even.
"Oh." She feels the sting of disappointment; his reason is not because he wanted to, but because she didn't tell him to go. "It's that simple?"
"No, nothing between us is simple."
He pulls away from her, landing on his back and flinging his arm across his face. The frustration she witnessed in the ballroom rolls off him in waves, the space he's put between them feels like a splintering crevasse. And the loss of warmth only adds to the sensation.
Seconds pass, stretching into something excruciating and awkward, and she wishes she could take her question back. She should have just remained quiet, satisfied with the fact he was wrapped around her. Instead, she's done what she always does: overthinks.
Draco lets out another frustrated huff before rolling off the bed. He doesn't look in her direction as he walks around it, disappearing into the bathroom. The door closes with a quiet snick and Hermione's eyes close at the sound.
She curses herself, whispering stupid as she flings both her arms over her face.
And she does feel stupid.
She wakes up next to a beautiful man, who does nothing but comfort her and make her feel safe, and her first instinct is to over think, over analyse. Overreact. She lets her fears take hold. Not the fears of wars or nightmares, but the fears of the unknown, of judgement, of scrutiny. Of being hurt.
The flush of the toilet sounds followed by the familiar pull of water through the old pipes. The shower starts and Hermione drags herself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, her arms curling around her chest to hold the sheet in place. She's unsure of what to do. He's never showered here. Their usual protocol follows the same path. Sex. A short exchange of meaningless words afterwards. He dresses and leaves. Then she lays awake for hours, filled with regret that she doesn't allow him to stay.
Hermione tightens her arms around her chest; the regret she feels when he leaves has now doubled, and the thought that she has hurt him presses a heaviness into her heart that far outweighs her own fears. It hadn't been her intention to be so disconnected, to be so startled by his honest response. She hadn't asked him to leave, and beneath all the analysis inside her head, she knows he stayed because he wanted to.
Too many times she's talked herself out of this. Too many times she's let fear take over her life. Too many times she's let him walk away, leaving her empty and alone. And empty and alone are no longer how she wants to be. But, she's never been able to fully express her emotions, keeping everything she feels close to her chest. Even with Harry and Ron she struggles to allow herself to open up completely.
Her name precedes her. Hermione Granger. Brightest Witch. And (much like Malfoy) the notoriety surrounding her moniker gives her pause to protect herself. It's also why he has been the only man in her bed since a short dalliance with Viktor three years ago. She doesn't trust any other men enough to protect her privacy.
Her trust in Draco, however, is complete. His aversion to publicity is equal to hers, and his ability to deflect unwanted attention is a skill she admires. She is still too polite (manners having been ingrained since childhood) and simply ignoring people like he did was something she isn't quite yet able to do.
Her thought — Perhaps he could teach her — brings a smile to her face. But the water shutting off instantly has the opposite effect.
She listens in the silence, her pulse quickens and goosebumps break out across her skin. Fight or flight. She knows the sensation well. But she isn't given the time to decide if she wants to flee.
Draco emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and an expression of neutrality on his face. Hermione pulls her knees to her chest, protecting herself (not from him, from herself) just the smallest amount. He stares at her, hands on hips, his chest rising and falling evenly.
She tries not to squirm under his gaze, her fingers pick absently at the hem of the sheet to distract herself.
"Do you want me to leave?" He asks, all the gravelly sleepiness having left his voice.
Hermione shakes her head. "No."
He remains where he is, his eyes still focused directly on her. Her mind is a myriad of jumbled thoughts, all clashing and clambering for attention and she is unable to sort through the mess and clutch onto just one.
"What do you want?" His tone remains even, the frustration she knows he feels he keeps at bay.
"That's the problem," she says, finding a tiny drop of courage. "I don't exactly know."
His hands drop from his hips and his shoulders relax a little, a small, understanding smile lifts one side of his mouth. He finally moves, walking towards her to sit at her feet.
"What are you terrified of?"
She allows a smile of her own to escape as he curls his hand around her sheet-covered ankle. His ability to read her so well astounds her once more.
"So many things." She drops her gaze to her knees, trying to find the words that won't insult him. Because it's not him. It's never him.
It's her.
Her insecurities. Her anxieties. Her self-doubt.
She feels the whisper of gentleness as his hand momentarily tightens around her ankle, feels so much warmth (love) in that one small gesture. A lump forms in her throat and she attempts to swallow it down as she bats a tear from the corner of her eye.
He waits patiently (always patiently) for her to gather herself. His thumb slides back and forth across the top of her foot, comforting, calming, soothing, all things she would never have once thought to associate with him. But he is those things, and more.
Draco Malfoy has managed to do what so many others have tried and failed. With patience the likes she has never experienced, he has worked his way beneath her skin, has wound himself around her heart like the ivy on his arm and grasped her very soul.
"Why did you stay?" she asks, not able to look up at him, fearful of his response.
"Because I wanted to wake up beside you." His hand wraps around her ankle again. "I've been waiting almost a year for you to not ask me to leave. Is that what terrifies you?"
"A little," she admits, watching his thumb circle around the bony nub of her ankle.
"Do I terrify you?"
"No." She snaps her head up quickly to look at him. "You don't terrify me at all."
"Good," he says, sounding relieved. Then he moves, crawling around her bent legs to sit beside her. He takes her hand, linking their fingers. "We never talk, you and me. Not more than a few perfunctory words anyway. Perhaps we should talk now."
Hermione nods and leans just a little closer to him. He does make her feel safe, and he has never once pressured her for anything more than what they've been doing. She owes him some words, owes him her feelings, her anxieties.
"I'm scared of this," she admits in a hushed voice. "Scared of how much I want it."
"It's okay, you know?" He reassures her, squeezing their linked hands gently. "To want this. It's okay."
"I know, it's just…" she trails off, not exactly sure how to say what she's thinking without insulting him.
"It's just…?" His voice is gentle, more so than she's heard before, and the tiny knot of anxiety in her chest pulls tighter.
"You're not concerned?"
"About being with you? Absolutely not."
"No," Hermione turns her shoulders slightly to look up at him. "I mean, it's us. You and me. We're not supposed to be together. Everyone thinks so."
"I've not cared for the opinions of others for years. People will think and say what they want regardless of the information they may or may not have. And most people have made up their minds about me, so I see no reason to dwell on things that are out of my control."
"I'm not like you," she says, and winces. "Sorry."
"Your apology is unnecessary," he assures her. "You're not like me. I know you can't simply ignore people, you're far too polite. I also know you prefer anonymity." His eyes crinkle and he bites his lip. "But, I did rather enjoy watching you rejecting men with such eloquence last night."
He's teasing, she knows, and his understanding of her need to shrug off her notoriety loosens the tightness in her chest a tiny bit.
"You don't owe them anything," he adds before she can respond. "You're not their slave. That's the exact thing you fought against. They could have easily presented that award at St Mungo's."
"I know," she concedes, leaning her shoulder against his arm. "I asked them to do that, but they wouldn't listen."
His head turns and she feels his nose brush her hair. "I need to teach you to be more forceful."
Hermione glances up at him with a coy smile, "Do you really think you could teach me something?"
"Ha ha, Granger," Draco drawls, then releases her hand only to shift his grip to her knee. His voice is a low growl when he leans close to her ear. "I've taught you so much already."
His hand makes its way slowly down her thigh, the sheet pooling beneath his palm when he reaches the juncture of leg and hip. She drops her gaze to his hand, blushing at his words. She's never thought herself as sexually repressed; she's been with men before him, but none of them ever gave her what he does. And she's not just thinking of the toe-curling orgasms. He's given her the chance to be free from her name, from her image, from the expectations she's held to. He's also given her trust and loyalty (she knows he's not been with anyone else, neither has she) and — until now — asks nothing more of her than she's willing to give in return.
"Can we do this?" Hermione asks. "Can we be all of this—" she waves her hand between them "—outside of here?"
His smirk returns and he teases, "It might be quite the scandal in the current state we're in."
"Malfoy, be serious," she chides. "And if we do this, we'll be quite the scandal anyway."
His expression changes, sobers, his mirth dropping down a notch. "Granger, listen. We will be judged and scrutinised regardless of our state of dress. They will assume the worst, that I somehow got inside your head and turned you to the dark side. And we know that's not what happened."
Hermione blushes again, (no, that's definitely not what happened). She thinks back to the first time. Thinks about Ginny and Theo's wedding, and bridesmaids and groomsmen. And being single (and lonely). She was annoyed (jealous) at no one in particular and everyone at the same time. So, she dragged him into the garden. She kissed him. She apparated them to her bedroom. She instigated it all.
"No," she agrees. "That's not what happened."
"I didn't mind," he tells her. "In fact, I rather enjoyed you dragging me away from the crowd."
She allows a smile at this. He'd followed her without hesitation (or question) and had kissed her eagerly when she all but threw herself at him.
"And I really enjoyed discovering the more devious side of our brightest witch."
Hermione blushes again, but huffs a laugh. "That wasn't usual."
It's Draco's turn to laugh and he bumps her shoulder with his. "I'm not complaining. You were — are — the most incredible woman I've ever shared a bed with."
"I'm sitting beside you naked, you have to say that."
"You could be sitting across from me, fully clothed, in a busy cafe and I would say the exact same thing." He tilts her face gently to look up at him. "Why would you believe otherwise?"
"Sometimes it's easier to think the worst. I'm less likely to get hurt if I do."
"I'm sorry," he apologises, skimming his thumb lightly across her jaw, and smiles almost sheepishly. "I was probably the worst for that."
"Not recently." She tilts her head the slightest amount into his touch. "And I wasn't referring to you hurting me."
His sheepishness turns to surprise. "No?"
"No. You've only ever been honest with me. Even when we were children, you hated me honestly. And now, with this…"
She trails off, not certain how to phrase what she's thinking without scaring him.
"I've only been honest in loving you?"
Hermione nods, and the nervous knot in her chest dissolves completely. He's not scared of what's developed between them, and his lack of concern about what others might think is something she wants to embrace.
"Is that what this is? Love?" (The knot might have dissolved but she still needs his reassurance).
"For me it is," he answers honestly. "And it has been for quite some time. You've not been ready to hear it though."
No, she hasn't been ready. Her own terror of what being in love with Draco Malfoy entails has stopped her from allowing her true feelings to grow. The realisation that she had fallen for him (a few months after they'd begun their tryst) came as quite a surprise, but she forced those feelings down and told herself she was only thinking such things because she was sad and lonely. Draco Malfoy wasn't the one for her.
Now, she tells herself, those feelings are perfectly alright. She can love him. She needs permission from no one but herself. She has been judged since she was eleven years old. Expectations she would never meet had been placed upon her by people who believed they knew who she was. Being with Draco (in public) would be no different. Suspicions would be raised, questions would be asked, and she would allow Draco to teach her how to ignore it all.
Hermione gazes back up at him. His brow is furrowed, her silent pause clearly causing him concern. She touches his cheek, brushes her thumb across his lip, smiles as the sheet slips as she angles closer to him. She nudges his nose with hers, then kisses him.
His hand slips into her hair, his fingers sliding back and forth as he cradles her head. Their kiss is soft, unhurried, just lips pressing together for several long minutes, so unlike the frantic momentum of last night.
She leans further into him, but the position is awkward, and they break apart. He tugs the sheet away and she climbs over him, hugging his hips with her thighs and aligning herself with the growing hardness beneath the towel covering him.
Draco's hands coast along her thighs, his eyes travelling downwards to her chest, her stomach, to where her hand is tugging at the towel. The tease of hair on his abdomen tickles her fingers and she pauses, taking in the warm expanse of muscle (and man) before her. She's touched and tasted, been under him, over him, had him in more ways than she's ever thought possible, but she's never stopped to just appreciate him.
Blue-grey eyes meet hers, questioning, and she reassures him with another nose bump and a gentle kiss. A smile she rarely sees graces his face (a smile, she thinks, he reserves only for her) and she resumes her exploration. Fingertips trace playfully over his abdomen, his ribs, his chest, and he's watching her carefully take inventory of him, cataloguing every perfect inch of his skin, every tightening muscle.
The thump-thump-thump of his heart pulses against her hand when she presses her palm against his chest. She stills for a moment, closing her eyes, allowing herself to just feel the steady rhythm. His hand covers hers and she opens her eyes. He's smiling at her, the blue-grey storm dancing with desire.
"It's yours," he tells her. "My heart. It's yours."
She glances at their hands, the steady thump strong beneath them, and she knows (she's always known) he speaks the truth. And then (because it's ridiculous that she's not) she kisses him.
Her hands curl into his hair, his curl around her hips, and this kiss becomes more. Her fingers itch against his scalp, his tongue glides against hers in a slow rhythm (one that matches the thump of his heart), and the quiet throb between her thighs blooms into an urgent ache.
Draco pulls away on a groan and grips her hips harder, stilling the back and forth movement she's begun. He lifts her and fumbles with the towel, and she groans her own pleasure when the hard length of him is freed and presses eagerly against her thigh.
Hermione moves to lower herself over him, but his hands grip her arse and hold her still. She looks down to ask what's wrong, but her words are stolen from her throat in a gasped breath when he draws her nipple into his mouth and swirls his tongue around the tightened peak. She clutches at his head and rocks her hips. She can feel the very tip of his cock as she slides against his stomach, but his hands on her arse restrict her movements. A whine of protest becomes a whimper, his tongue licks at her nipple, and his mouth sucks wet kisses over the swell of her breast.
"Draco," she whispers, threading her fingers through his hair as he tilts his head to look up at her.
"Say it again," he commands softly. "My name. Say it again."
She lowers her lips to his, brushing them with a kiss before whispering directly into his ear, "Draco."
He shudders and moves his hands up her back, allowing her to realign their lower bodies once more.
"Draco," she murmurs again, and the effect is astounding.
His arms wrap tightly around her and he buries his face against her neck. His exhale is an uneven shudder, as if he's been waiting a lifetime to hear his name in her voice.
Hermione smiles against his temple, runs her nose along his hairline, and whispers his name again.
"Draco."
She both feels and hears his deep inhale, and his hands begin to meander aimlessly along her spine, his mouth ghosts kisses against her neck. And then he's looking up at her with such clarity it takes her breath away.
"I want you," he says simply. "Can I have you?"
She nods, knows the double meaning, and gives in. She wants this (wants him) more than anything. Suspicion and judgement and hatred be damned.
Shifting slightly, she reaches between them, wrapping her hand around his cock. He's so hard, so thick in her hand her fingers don't quite circle him fully. And when she strokes him up and down, sliding skin expertly away and swiping her thumb easily over the head, his groan is beautifully low and deep.
"You can have me," she whispers, positioning him where she's wet and warm and aching for him.
"Fuck," he swears darkly, his jaw dropping open, eyes falling shut as she sinks down, rises up, sinks lower,
taking in more and more of him in incremental inches until he's impossibly deep inside her.
His hands move to her waist, holding her in place and she watches his face as he swallows thickly and slowly opens his eyes. He bites his bottom lip and roams his eyes over her naked body once more, cataloguing her the way she had him. His fingers clench lightly on her waist, and when he looks back up at her, she has to bite her tongue to not remind him this isn't their first time, such is the expression of awe on his face.
It's the intimacy of it, she tells herself. It's what they've all but admitted freely to each other. It's what they've both been wanting, needing, but have been too terrified to take. It's him loving her. Her loving him. And, she supposes, that fact alone is enough to believe this is a first for them both.
She does, however, find it impossible to remain still, and clasps his wrists, dragging his hands up her torso to cover her breasts, then shifts her hips, moving in a slow grind that has him groaning again and lifting her breasts with his palms. He flicks both thumbs across her nipples and she claims his mouth with hers, moaning softly at the steady tug and twist and squeeze of his hands and fingers.
And this, this, is what she wants.
The snug fit of their bodies together. The exquisite firmness of him inside her. The warmth of his skin, the roughness of his hands. The heart that he has so willingly given.
She wraps her arms around his neck and her movements shift from the slow grind to an up and down slide. Draco's hands move back to her hips, his fingers splaying and clutching, and more low groans rumble from his chest.
"Incredible," Draco murmurs, and Hermione returns the sentiments.
Because he is. Incredible. Charming. Beautiful. Intense. And when she's with him like this, the entire world could slip away and she would be hard pressed to care. He unravels her, gives her what she needs. And not just sex. He takes away the world, he gives her time, he gives her herself.
She kisses him again, her tongue pushing out against his lips. He lets loose another low rumbling moan and opens for her. This kiss isn't sweet or slow. It's hot and messy. It's raw and rough. It's tongues and teeth and little nips at each other's lips. Her breath catches and she jerks away from his mouth when Draco's hand drifts to where they're joined. His thumb strokes her clit and she gasps loudly, moves faster, gasps again.
"Oh!"
She wants to tell him, slow and wait and not yet, but the single, gasped expression is all she can manage. His thumb (oh, god, his thumb) presses down, and she bucks against him, clenches, and rides him harder, taking him in deeper strokes.
And before she can even be slightly mortified at how hair-trigger her response to his touch is, she's crying out, sparks of pleasure exploding deep in her belly. She clutches at him, her fingers scratching at his neck, his back, and she can't look away from him. His eyes captivate her, catch her in their depths and hold her there.
He has her. There's no denying it. She's lost, completely gone for him, and (she knows) he's gone with her.
His hand shifts from between them and his arms wrap tightly around her. Then he's lifting her (never parting their bodies), and she's on her back, her head at the foot of the bed. He's grinning at her, almost smirking. Her hair-trigger response had been exactly what he wanted.
Hermione jabs a finger into his ribs, "I did that myself. It wasn't anything to do with you." (It's a lie. It was all him).
He laughs, (a deep, rumbling sound that sets those sparks flying again), and covers her body completely with his. Her heart does a little flip in her chest and she sighs; it's like a drug, the weight of him. Heavy. Solid. Real.
"I know," he murmurs close to her ear. "I love when you do that to yourself." He plants a series of wet kisses along her shoulder, the side of her throat. "But now it's my turn."
He gives her a few quick, stabbing thrusts then props himself up onto outstretched arms and eases out of her until just the very tip of him is touching her. He holds still, his head dropping down to see where their bodies are touching. Where she's spread open. Where she's ready for him.
He still doesn't move and she wonders what he's waiting for.
"Draco?"
She sees the smile, sees it curve his lips, and understands. She reaches down, touches him, touches the crown to her clit and circles, circles, circles.
"Draco."
His name. Not Malfoy. Not the name that invokes sneers and hatred. He wants to hear his name.
"Draco."
She guides him lower, and in the slowest way imaginable, he feeds every solid inch of himself back inside her.
"Draco."
This time his name is a near breathless moan as he lowers himself over her, pressing their chests together, his hips holding her thighs wide.
"Hermione," he murmurs into her ear and her name in his voice causes goosebumps to raise on her skin and her heart to double thump.
Granger and Malfoy. It's all they've ever named each other. Even in the wildest throes of sex, they've never used first names.
She raises her hands to his face. "Say it again."
He grins, catches her lips in a kiss that bypassed sweet and went immediately deep.
"Hermione."
Her name pushes into her chest, and in this one moment, they've become something else. Granger and Malfoy no longer exist.
He begins to move, slowly, gently, the usual rush having gone the way of their names. The slow glide in and out of her (he gives her every long inch, in and out, in and out) curls her toes and tightens her nipples against his chest. She wraps one hand around his nape, the other she moves down to his arse, gripping tightly, feeling the clench and relax of muscle with each slow thrust.
Hermione whines softly, arches into him, wanting more, but he refuses. He keeps the pace slow, maintains the even glide, but he does dip his pelvis against her clit at the end of each slow, upward thrust, causing her to gasp and clutch at his nape.
"Draco… I need—" her words fail on a sharp gasp as he thrusts deep and holds.
"What do you need?" his voice is filled with gravel, husky and rough, and the sound sends a thrumming vibration through her.
"This… more… everything… you," she stutters, unable to even force her brain to function past her staccato response. He's so hard, so tight, inside her, and his restraint (while toe-curlingly admirable), is driving her to the edge of insanity.
He withdraws again, rolls his hips, and is pushing back into her before she can take a breath. A throb of pleasure pulses where he's moving, a friction that's building into what she knows will eventually become an explosion of pleasure.
"I'll give you more," he tells her, dropping more hot kisses along her shoulder. "I'll give you everything."
Reaching for her knee, he pulls her leg higher, urging her to open further, and the slow thrusts turn into hard, sharp snaps of his hips. Her whines become keening moans, her hands move to his waist and hold tightly. It's all she can do to stop herself from shattering into a thousand pieces.
Draco has shattered her before now (of course he has, more times than she can count), but this — this — is what she's wanted. The knowledge that he loves her, that he will do anything for her, fills her heart with a contentment she hasn't allowed herself in an age. His expectations don't terrify her; he expects only this. Only her.
He slows again, almost stops, takes the time to kiss her. If she wasn't breathless already, this kiss is the one to take her last gasp away. His lips are firm and possessive, his tongue swipes through her mouth. The full weight of his body presses into her, his hands slip into her hair and scratch against her scalp, and his body moves over her like a rolling wave.
Hermione pulls her mouth away on a gasp when he hits the sensitive spot inside her.
"Yeah?" he asks, smirking at her.
She nods, grips his hips, and lets her legs fall wider. "There."
His next thrust is shallow, the head of his cock finding that spot again, and (the smug bastard he is) he manages to pulse against it over and over until she's writhing beneath him.
She cries out wordlessly, raising her hips and gripping his arse, pulling him deeper. She flies then, when he reaches the very end of her, her body splintering with the most exquisite pleasure he's ever managed to wring out of her. Her orgasm twists and spirals, arching her under him, has her clutching at his arse, not wanting him to stop.
Draco makes a promise to never stop (her thought had been screamed out apparently), buries his face against her neck, and gives in to her pleas. He speeds up, fucking into her with hard and heavy thrusts, each one accompanied with a grunt exhaled against her skin. His breath is warm, his lips barely touching her, just hovering as he works himself past the point of no return.
His hand lands on her hip, his fingers tense and dig bruises into her skin. Sweat slicks between their bodies, the heat and friction a delicious coil building and intensifying until her body cries out again. She shudders, chokes on a stuttered breath, and finds herself in a place where she never wants this to end.
And what sane person would want this to end?
Her revelation that they do belong together has unleashed something inside him (he's never left her wanting, has always given her everything, but this time everything feels like more), hips and spine arching, pushing so deeply as if he wants to completely consume her.
Turning her head, she runs her tongue along his neck, tasting the salt on his skin, and she wonders how she became the centre of his attention. How could he want her like this? How could he have so much love in his heart for her? But now she knows that love is there, she can't imagine ever giving him up. She wants to wake up with him, wants to ignore the opinions of others with him.
Wants to hear the urgent, guttural sounds currently being groaned into her ear every day.
"Draco," she breathes, and the hard, heavy thrusts intensify.
His mouth finds hers again, hungry and demanding, his hips slapping against her thighs in a glorious symphony. Her body responds instinctively to the rhythm, arching and rocking in tandem with him, and suddenly he's giving in to what his own body needs.
"Fuck, Hermione. Fuck!"
His breaths become grunts, every thrust changes to something ragged and uneven as he begins to shudder. He stares down at her, his hair damp and stuck messily to his forehead. His eyes are the deepest blue she's ever seen, and his eyebrows are clenched in concentration.
"You need to come," he says through gritted teeth. "Hermione, you need to come."
She smiles up at him, continuing to match his thrusts. Her hand moves back to his arse and she shakes her head.
"No, I don't." She clenches around him, hard, rhythmically, and the groan she's given in return is a sound she wants to capture and play on repeat. "You do though."
He grunts again and she urges him on, whispering his name over and over until he snaps his final tether and she feels the throb and jerk of his cock. His moan is muffled against her collar, his hips pumping in tiny stabs as his release fills her.
"Draco," she murmurs, and runs her hands through his damp hair.
"Hermione." He exhales her name and sinks completely over her. He dusts kisses along her jaw, her cheek, continues to slide lazily in and out of her while he catches his breath. "That was so bloody good."
Hermione laughs and agrees. "I think I'd be happy to wake up every morning like that."
Draco lifts his head to look at her, his eyes hopeful. "Yeah?"
She nods and cranes her neck to kiss him. "Yeah.
He pulls out of her with a quiet moan, lays beside her and drags her close. She fits into his side, her arm stretching across his chest, his arms encircling her and holding tightly. He touches his lips softly to her forehead, holding there for the longest time. She hears the heavy click in his throat, the intake of breath, watches his hand slide along her arm to capture her hand and link their fingers.
"This is just the start of us," he whispers against her skin. "Right here, this is us."
She nods, her cheek sliding against his warm chest, and the overwhelmed feeling she hears in his voice becomes double for her.
He places their linked hands over his heart and kisses her forehead again.
She doesn't have to say the words.
He understands.
(He always understands).
