Chapter eight is here!

This chapter is long, I considered breaking it up into two but found it worked better as one. Brace for a long one. Sorry not sorry *snickers*

Chapter warning: the chapter will contain a little bit of explicit language.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or other references to the original work of J.K Rowling. I only own my own mistakes

-o-o-o-

Unable to stop from stealing glances at his hair, she did her best to keep up as they strolled the cobblestoned streets of Liverpool. They were heading for Shingley's Dock, the wizards equivalent to the muggle's Albert Dock. She should've known their best bet at finding the original potion would be to go here. The hidden space just beside the famous muggle dock had been a known location for all sorts of wizarding trade for centuries.

They'd arrived outside of what appeared to be an abandoned shoe shop in the city centre. Malfoy took the lead and soon they'd entered into the wizarding part of Liverpool. Both sides of the street were filled with an assortment of restaurants, tearooms and shops. An old lady with a hunched back gave them a smile as she crossed their path. The lady opened the door to a bakery, allowing the air around them to fill with the scent of freshly baked pumpkin pasties. Hermione breathed in the delicious scent and looked about, deciding the place appeared different than Diagon alley; the buildings had more of an old industrial feel to them. The street was narrow and eventually opened up into a square, with several outdoor dining areas. Witches and wizards occupied a couple of the tables and could be seen enjoying a bite of food. Even the fashion seemed different and Draco stood out of the crowd in his refined white button down shirt and fitted trousers.

She knew it was him, could smell it was him with each a gust of wind that came their way, but it didn't look like him. He lacked the usual Malfoy trait; the tell-tale blonde, hair was now a deep brown. His eyes were a vivid cognac colour, and his jawline a little less sharp, no longer able to cut class. It was his mannerisms that gave him away, a small tug at the corner of his lips at the beginning of a smile and how his skin tightened around his eyes when he scowled. He hadn't changed anything about his body, he still had the same build and walked in the same way. No one would know it was him, but Hermione would, even if she hadn't had a front row seat to the transformation. It made her feel a little awkward, for she realised she had studied him closely and it was becoming apparent she was unable to stop it.

"You're staring," Draco reproved, glancing at her sideways, confirming her thoughts.

She averted her eyes, instead studying a group of young witches tittering and indulging in sugar quills outside of the sweetshop. "You just look– you look different," she settled on not wanting to admit she still found him desirable.

Draco snorted softly, adjusting the holster on his right shoulder, his arm brushing slightly against hers." That's the whole point, Granger."

Before they'd scurried toward the apparition point outside of the Bunker, Draco had spent around ten minutes altering his appearance. "To avoid being recognised," he'd mumbled as an explanation when Hermione gave him a weird look. He did it with a high level of practiced ease and it told her he'd done it before – many times. Hermione hadn't given much thought to how Draco's life must be at the moment, he was free, but he wasn't free. He still had to live in hiding, to avoid being seen by anyone. Many still believed he was in Azkaban and he needed to keep it that way, for his own safety. Hermione chose to stay in her flat the majority of time to keep out of the papers among other reasons, but for him, it wasn't so much a choice as it was a necessity. She felt a little sorry for him when she looked up at his altered face.

"I'll do the talking – since you lack auror training," he said, deciding for them.

Hermione made a face but didn't protest. "Yeah, yeah, we've been over this," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. She fiddled a little with her roll neck and kept trying to tug her skirt down. It hadn't been the best day to slip on the nearest skirt without enough time to charm the length to her liking. Squinting up at the sun, she thought maybe exposed skin was a good thing; her roll neck was practically suffocating her. It was the peak of summer, very humid and the upper part of her body was covered in material that didn't breathe.

They walked in silence for a while. Hermione caught him yawning a couple of times when he thought she wasn't looking. Long distance apparition could be quite the tiring task. It required a lot of energy and focus – most people avoided it for that reason. It was even more wearing to do it with a side-along. Hermione was impressed Draco hadn't rolled up into a ball of exhaustion yet. He had insisted this was the best way to go about it and the uncompromising look in his eyes made it impossible to argue. There was something in the tone of his voice that made her want to be compliant, to trust in his decision. It was worrisome, and she felt it to be a recurring theme throughout their work arrangement.

It took them four rounds, pausing a while between the last two. If she focused, she could pretend the warmth of the sun on her skin was the same as the heat from his body as they stood close together. For some reason both of them thought it less intimate if he had his arms wrapped around her waist than if they were to hold hands. Each stop had pushed them closer together, her chest right against his stomach, his hands splayed across the small of her back. A few curls had broken loose from her braid, and each time he breathed out they'd catch in the air. They'd been standing that close. Considering how erratic she'd behaved in his presence before, she'd expected being flush against him would worsen it. That didn't happen. Something about being wrapped in his arms made calmness spread from her fingertips all the way to her toes. It was as if his very presence soothed her. It took her several long minutes after her feet touched ground before she could form coherent thoughts again.

It came in waves throughout the day, a sudden feeling of numbness. She'd look at a crooked building, and the brick red colour would remind her of the colour of Warwick's book and the things she knew she had to learn in order to survive. The shape of a window frame would remind her Agatha might have dropped off a reply from Noah, the Danish Alpha – the man who was supposed to save her from an untimely death. She didn't know what he looked like, but she'd read Alphas were tall and had a strong build; in her mind he was kind of intimidating. For some reason, she imagined him to look a little like Theodore Nott. She thought about asking Malfoy about him, to tell him what she'd witnessed the other day, but she didn't. It would be better to ask Theodore when she saw him next, or maybe even asking Harry when they got back.

She had always loved taking in new places, seeing its possibilities, imagining what it was like for the people who lived there. What places they would frequent, the best spot to enjoy pudding or to find new books. Her mood seemed to jump from one place to another and at times it left her jaded. She was just about to suggest breaking for coffee when Draco came to a halt.

"We're here," Draco said.

Shingsley's dock stretched before them. It was built like a rectangle and bordered with tables along the sides, filled with various articles for sale, a different vendor behind each table. If one was looking for untested potions, rare ingredients, opportunities to haggle and semi-shady people, this was the place to be. She could feel herself perk up at the sight. Taking a breath through her nose she could smell the closeness of the sea. A few seagulls were making unpleasant noises, gathered on a small bridge fighting over a loaf of bread.

Hermione looked up at him. "What should I call you? Draco or Malfoy wouldn't be a good idea I think."

He looked to be giving it some thought. "How about, Sir?" he said, nudging her shoulder and lifting a brow suggestively. "I am kind of your boss on this mission."

Hermione's stomach did a flip and her mind desperately tried to block out the many scenarios in which she'd very much like to call him Sir. By the mischievous look on his face he was teasing. She liked it and if she didn't know better, she might have mistaken it for flirting.

"I, uh–," she stuttered. Words, where were her words? Draco let out an amused sound, something very similar to laughter. She both liked and disliked how smug he looked.

She said the first thing that came to mind, "I was thinking more along the lines of ... Toby. You look like a Toby to me." Her tone held a feigned seriousness; it was easier when the colour of his eyes didn't constantly make her short for breath.

Draco looked as if she'd just slapped him. "No. Definitely not."

Reaching up, she patted his shoulder gently. "Now, now, don't be such a bore Toby, it doesn't suit you."

Draco shook his head at the ground, blinking, but she detected the beginning of a genuine smile. "Lord," he said as he breathed out. "This is going to be a looong day." He dragged out the o's to make a point.

"My thoughts exactly," she said with a cheeky smile. He gave her a long look that could only be perceived as amusement mixed with uncertainty.

They started to make their way into the midst of the busy dock. "Remember, we're looking for someone that goes by Dick Tawny," Draco said, his voice louder than usual to override the bustling sounds of people scurrying about. Hermione nodded once and scanned the different tables and faces. Since they lacked a physical description of Dick Tawny, they quickly started tapping people on their shoulders, asking if anyone knew of him.

A short man with a stubby nose smiled at them with yellow teeth. His robe looked too big for his frame, and his hat had seen better days. He explained Dick was only at the dock on Tuesdays, around midday, pointing toward a table to the far left. Hermione and Draco exchanged a look and thanked him. They dodged around the tables and the busy dock to find a quieter place, stopping behind a few overflowing dumpsters.

"Not until tomorrow." Draco said, as if Hermione hadn't been listening to the same conversation.

"Do we head back?"

Draco was quiet for a moment, and moved to fix his fringe that currently wasn't there. He let his hand drop back down and shook his head a little. "No, apparating to the Bunker, then back again tomorrow, it's too straining. We'll have to stay." He seemed to study her reaction and she did her best to look unaffected. It was easier when he didn't look like himself.

She lifted her eyes to his. Stay. They had to stay, as in get hotel rooms, eat dinner and breakfast in each other's company.

Yes, Sir.

"What now then?" she asked adding a shrug to appear even more casual.

"You're a potions mistress," he said, as if it meant something in particular. Hermione raised a brow in question. "Yeah, so isn't this potions paradise or something?" he said, gesturing toward the dock.

"Oh– I. Yes, I could kill some time here, in fact I think I spotted some Abraxan hair and–" she lost her train of thought when he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. She'd always had a thing for men's forearms, and as far as forearms went, he had great ones.

"Go," he said. "We'll meet up at the square in two hours. I'll check out the hotels in the area, find us someplace to stay–" his voiced trailed off when he noticed where her gaze had landed. He clutched his left wrist; hiding the Death Eater mark they both already knew was there.

-o-o-o-

Britain had fallen under a heat wave and the humidity did unkind things to his hair. He had survived the day by the help of a multitude of cooling charms. While he waited for Hermione, he'd gotten them both a room at a nearby hotel, overlooking the dock. He was standing by the floor to ceiling window with a cup of tea in his hands, feeling cooled and refreshed after a shower. If he looked closely he could make out the top of Hermione's head in the crowd of shoppers, at least, he thought it was her, he was a little too high up to be sure. The reflective one way finish overlay on the glass safely hid the guest's privacy without depriving them of the view. He stood there for a while, still wet from the shower with his hips draped in a white fluffy towel. He sipped the lukewarm tea and watched as Hermione stretched her hands forward, probably turning a flask in her hands and most certainly giving the vendor a hard time to assure its authenticity.

Draco's lips curved into an involuntary smile. Hermione looked very different outside of the Bunker, something about her seemed very golden under the bright sun. When they'd made their way through the city centre, she had been taking in their surroundings, pointing at various bookshops, saying she just had to visit them before they left for the Bunker. Her excitement was rare to him and he found himself envious of it. She quieted at times and her shoulders slumped. Draco wondered about it, but didn't think it his place to ask.

He was tired, could feel his body wanting to slouch onto the bed and sleep for hours – but the apparition had been worth it. Not only had it saved them time, he'd for a second time had the pleasure of Hermione's body up against his. Face to face this time, allowing him to appreciate her facial features at close distance. He'd noticed the cluster of freckles on her nose, realising he'd spent far too much time taking long glances at her legs – the magic wasn't there, it was held by the flecks of gold in her eyes.

He abandoned the window when Granger disappeared out of sight, and it dawned on him how much of a creep he was being. For a moment an image of Potter walking in on him sniffing her cloak flashed before his eyes. He cringed inwardly. He placed the teacup on top of the dresser, he fell onto the bed.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he relaxed his body into the blissful feel of luxury hotel sheets. He'd met with Pansy at her townhouse this weekend to discuss keeping the new information on murdered muggleborns out of the papers. She'd offered him hippogriff shaped cookies and when he'd eyed them suspiciously she'd rolled her eyes and told him they'd come out of a box. Draco had eaten her baked goods before, only to spend the following hours with stomach-ache and a bad taste in his mouth. While he'd taken a tentative bite, Pansy agreed to help and with the cunning only a Slytherin journalist could have, she'd asked Granger related questions.

Pansy's and Hermione's friendship was odd to him, but he'd never cared enough to question it. She had ended their teatime with fixing her eyes on him, saying something about being nice to Granger or else she'd end her friendship with him – which was saying a lot since they'd been friends since they were babies. It was most likely an empty threat; Pansy did have a flare for the dramatics.

Draco was left questioning why Pansy had felt the need to say it. Of course, he knew he didn't always come across as a nice guy, mainly because most of the time, he wasn't one. Pansy knew this and there was something in her words and eyes that said she wasn't really saying anything at all, secrets she wasn't sharing.

Draco lifted his arm, laying it flat over his forehead. He was running out of excuses – he was feeling something for the witch. Attraction, yes, and maybe he found it more endearing than gross finding strands of her hair all over the lab, he'd even brushed off a few from his suit jacket. It was incredibly fascinating how someone could shed so much hair and not be bald. She had this habit of itching her neck and rubbing her wrists together, and her scent set her apart from others so much he thought it impossible how not everyone noticed this.

The sound of a door being shut snapped him out of his thoughts. He drew in a deep breath, did a quick cleaning charm on his clothes and headed out to the square, leaving all the unnerving thoughts in his room. The sun sat lower on the sky now, and people could be seen trudging about, heading home from work or on their way out to dinner.

Draco was early and Granger wasn't there yet. He popped into a few shops and picked up a new shirt and a few other necessities to make up for the lack of packing. Without giving it too much thought, he bought two of everything. Stopping unashamedly and way too long by the women's section. It wasn't until he was back standing at the far end of the square waiting for her arrival he comprehended what he'd done.

Had he just shopped for Granger?

He'd gotten her a pyjamas. People don't just buy pyjamas for someone they work with, but when he'd picked up a pair of slacks to sleep in, his brain had pointed him in the direction of the women's selection because she'd need something to sleep in too. Crossing his arms, eyeing the bags at his feet in disbelief he contemplated who he was, because his actions made no sense to him. For all he knew she didn't even sleep in pyjamas, she could very well sleep in the nude.

"Been spending your money I see." Draco's head shot up at the sound. Her skin was shiny and her eyes gleaming as she looked up at him. Draco became suddenly aware of his mouth, and how it was supposed to make sound, speak words, but all he could think was he'd just wondered if Granger slept naked. How was one supposed to string words together to make full, understandable sentences with that imagine in mind. He was thankful then, for the talkative Hermione in the afternoons, for she could hold monologues and all he'd have to do was grunt and nod.

She was still talking. "Me too, hence why I'm late. But there was so much to look at, I get why this place is well known in the potion circles, you can find anything here, literally." She extended her arm a little, giving the bag in her hand a gentle shake to prove her point. From the 'clinking' sound of vials inside, she'd made good use of her time at the dock. "What'd you get?"

"Hmm?" he said foolishly, furrowing his brows in a scowl.

She bent her head down at the bags surrounding his feet. "What's in the bags?"

"I–er. A few necessities." He cleared his throat noticeably and told her he found them a hotel near the dock, trying to deflect the attention from his unplanned shopping spree.

Hermione seemed pleased, mumbling she could use a shower and swiftly turning around toward the dock again. Draco stood frozen for a second or two, watching her walk, wondering how in the world he was going to tell her he'd bought her a fucking pyjamas. His eyes unintentionally dropped to her legs, her skirt wasn't covering much more of them than that plaid shirt had done. The material swayed smoothly as she walked. Draco inhaled sharply, silently reprimanding himself for acting like he'd never been around an attractive woman before. He shook his head when she wasn't watching, wondering what had become of him, and how in the world Hermione Granger was making him loose speech.

-o-o-o-

They had to get dinner over with and then, hopefully, he could catch up on the sleep he'd needed since the fourth apparition. Draco appreciated he didn't have to convince her, she agreed to eating in as soon as he explained he was simply too tired to alter his appearance again. Hermione almost looked relieved at his suggestion to eat together, and it wasn't until they were seated opposite each other in a room with little less than a bed and with a burning candle between them – a candle the service staff had lit without asking – he realised this was something people did with a girlfriend, or a wife. It felt disgustingly romantic.

He gave an awkward smile in attempt at an unspoken apology. "Er– this is awkward, yes?" he said, arching a brow in her direction when he couldn't take the strained silence any longer.

Hermione snorted softly. "Yes."

"Something I can do to make it less so?" he asked, because she sat stiff as a stick on her chair, shuffling a potato wedge around the plate with a fork.

She made a crack at a smile. "We could talk," she suggested, shrugging.

Draco swirled the red wine in the glass. "We are talking," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, now, but we didn't for about ten long minutes," she pointed out, smiling wider now.

Draco didn't really know what to say. He hadn't said anything, because he'd kept himself busy watching Hermione bathe in candlelight with the view of the ocean behind her. The light cast a wonderful, almost a pink glow over her face, and it had proven to be magnificently distracting. He settled on something safe, asking her about what Harry had filled her in on this morning. Pausing now and then to take another bite of his risotto or a gulp of wine. She said it worried her and Draco decided talking murder during dinner wasn't really appropriate. Instead, they discussed how they would go about their conversation with Dick Tawney the next day, speculating on different approaches for a while.

"Did you ever think you'd be stuck in a hotel room with me, sharing a bottle of wine?" Her question came out of nowhere and it made him laugh.

"Wouldn't say I'm stuck, but no. Did you?"

She grinned, and shook her head a little. "No. This is so weird. I used to hate you." She said, her face now serious again, but there was a glint in her eyes, a bit of humour to it.

Draco regarded her for a second. "Used to?"

"I don't hate you anymore," she said in a tone that suggested this was obvious, "and Pansy did tell me you make a great friend," she continued, punctuating her sentence with a sip of wine. He gathered the last of his risotto and took it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

"I never hated you. Disliked, maybe, but never hated."

"Oh," she said, setting her glass down. She felt bad now, he could tell. She shouldn't – he kind of hated that version of himself too.

Feeling the need to calm her, he said, "It was easy to not like you, you were kind of annoying, always correcting everyone in class and constantly outshining the rest of us. And by the rest of us I specifically mean me." Draco wiggled his eyebrows to show he was merely teasing. "It particularly didn't sit well with my father. I was being outsmarted by a muggleborn and apparently that brought shame onto the Malfoy name."

As soon as the words escaped his lips, he regretted them. He rarely shared things about his father, mainly because all the things that concerned his father put him in a bad light, made him look weak and as though he pushed any blame of his own behaviour onto his father. He blamed himself often, so often it was a constant weight to him and he'd grown used to it.

Her eyes cut to his and he wondered if she saw the instant regret. His words lingered between them and he thought he could see pity in her eyes. Detesting it, he cast his eyes down, as though admiring the intricate pattern on the napkin in his lap.

Hermione broke the silence after some time. "Thank you!" she blurted, a little too loud considering how close they sat. Whatever he expected her to say it wasn't that. He looked at her quizzically.

"For thinking of me– I mean for buying me things–no. That– just, for the things," she said, slapping her palm to her forehead and watching him through her lashes.

"You're welcome." He smiled, rather enjoying watching her struggle for words. He felt his cheeks heat slightly too, he wasn't used to people thanking him, mostly because he rarely did anything for anyone to be thankful for.

Draco waited for Hermione to finish her meal, not even minding she ate insufferably slow. She took very tiny pieces into her mouth and then proceeded to chew said piece for a long time, tasting it until it was tasteless. While she ate, he emptied his glass and they talked about what it would mean if they could successfully deconstruct the potion. Hermione seemed to forget her food when she talked, explaining different methods they could use, sometimes answering her own questions as she followed her train of thought. It wasn't hard to understand this was her passion. She was relaxed when she talked, using hand gestures to describe and sharing anecdotes from her time as an apprentice. Draco thought she had a very pleasant voice and he listened with great interest, humming and nodding in the right places. He wondered what it was like to be so certain about what one wanted out of life, to have the freedom to pursue it and still not doing so fully. It had taken him and Harry to knock on her door for her to work on something more advanced than pepper up potions. It was obvious she was meant to do so much more than that. Hermione was known for her intelligence, yet as he watched her, he got the impression she was still underappreciated by most of her peers. People saw her as Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's best friend and somehow that overshadowed what she was also known for, the brightest witch of her age. People shouldn't be writing articles questioning her sanity, or discussing why she and Weasley had parted ways. They should be discussing her brilliance in the potions field instead.

Hermione excused herself and locked the bathroom door behind her. It wasn't until he was alone at the table he yawned and remembered how tired he was. He didn't see the harm in resting his eyes for a few short moments. In lack of comfortable places to sit, he dropped down on the bed, thinking he couldn't leave until she came back out, it would be rude if he left without saying goodbye. His breathing settled into a slow rhythm as he waited.

The bed was soft against his back and there was something peaceful in knowing he wasn't alone, in hearing her footfalls on the tiled floor behind the bathroom door. Without thinking he pulled one of the fluffy pillows under his head, his right hand resting on his wand. The pillow already had her scent all over it, and somehow, at some point, it lulled him to sleep. He never heard her come out of the bathroom, or felt the bed move as she sat down next to him.

-o-o-o-

He awoke slowly, at the feel of fingertips brushing over the leather holster he had on. Instincts kicking in, he sensed danger. Someone was going for his wand. Without opening his eyes, he caught the culprit's hand, but it wasn't what he'd expected. The hand he gripped was petite, and with each breath his mind cleared. Slightly above him, someone winced.

Granger.

He was in Granger's hotel room, and he'd fallen asleep on her bed.

His eyes shot open, only to be trapped in hers, one of her curls tickling his jaw. Her lips were slightly parted; he could feel her hot breath on his face. She looked, guilty and a little dazed.

"Sorry," he muttered hoarsely, not having quite found his voice and not sure if he was apologising for falling asleep on her bed or almost breaking the bones in her hand. He could feel her shiver against him and became very aware she was right beside him. Close enough for him to feel her thigh against his. She was leaning over him, her face inches above his. He loosened his grip, but didn't let go of her hand. She made no move to get away from him. Her hair looked slightly tangled, as though she'd been sleeping too. He breathed in through his nose, and everything else fell away. God damn, her scent was everywhere; filling all of his senses until the world narrowed to her. It was like inhaling a very potent amortentia. Her scent surrounded him, vibrated through him, softening all of his edges and blurring every line.

Gently, he released her hand, feeling an urgent need to trace his fingertips up the length of her arm, until he was holding her chin between his thumb and index finger, looking into her eyes in search of answers. Her pupils seemed larger than usual and the flecks of gold made them sparkle. He held eye contact watching her reaction as his hand slid down to her throat. Her heart was pounding fast, matching the speed of his own. His fingers tensed a little around her throat, and his eyes fell to her lips. With one rapid motion he tugged her closer to him.

She moaned and it was the most beautiful, innocent, sweet sound he'd ever heard. It travelled through his body settling at his crotch. He kissed at the corner of her lip, looking back at her, expecting her to want him to stop, but he couldn't see anything but pleading in her eyes. He touched his lips to hers, biting down a little on her bottom lip, before licking against the seam of her mouth. She tilted her head slightly and parted her lips, inviting him in. Lips moved against lips, and her second moan was trapped between them. She kissed him back with a sense of urgency, moving her lips to the rhythm of his. He could feel the kiss in his entire body, it moved from his mouth all the way down to his toes, touching every nerve, lighting every spark and he wanted more of her. Indecent sounds escaped from the back of his throat and were swallowed by her mouth. He could kiss her forever, until his lips were chapped and dry, until he didn't know if he was breathing his own air or hers. She tasted of red wine, rosemary and something that was entirely her own. Her fingers were in his hair and his hand found her thigh. Gently, he pulled her leg over his hip, moving her to straddle him, sliding his hands on the backside of her thighs. She pushed herself closer, her chest flush against his.

"So responsive," he mumbled under his breath.

He wanted to leave his mark on her, make her his as much as he in this moment already felt like hers. If he could live in her scent until he drew his last breath he would. With agile fingers he started to tug at her roll neck, wanting to drag his tongue over her neck, feel her skin between his teeth. It would be so easy. She craned her neck, as if she could read his mind. But it wouldn't work yet. She wasn't ready.

He was placing a kiss on her cheek, heading for her neck when he could feel the colour drain from his face. He wanted to bite her and she was exposing her neck as though she wanted him to and he'd known she wasn't ready for that. To be claimed.

No.

It couldn't be.

It could.

His eyes shot open as an unyielding tsunami crashed down on him, showering him in cold, cold water. Hermione didn't seem to notice, or she didn't care, because her kisses continued down his jawline, her tongue darting over his neck. He groaned and bent his head to the side, allowing her better access against his better judgement. Draco stared up at the ceiling, as if he'd find answers written across it, trying to make sense of all of the memories that came together like pieces of a puzzle.

Hermione's scent, the way she'd complained about his scent. Her behaviour last Friday, jumpy, frazzled, folding her hands under herself as if compelled to use them in a way she didn't want to. The word pheromones kept repeating in his head. He had released suffocating amounts of pheromones inside of that damn small potions lab, and he still was this minute.

Draco clamped his eyes shut, as if the force of his eyelids could push away the truth. Hermione was licking his throat and he wanted to grab her wrists, pull her underneath him and find pleasure between her legs.

No. No. Fucking no.

It made sense now. Pansy's word of warning, the way Hermione would itch the juncture between her neck and shoulder, how she'd rub her wrists together.

He should have known; he had scent glands in those exact same spots too.

Draco had been blind, stupid, and he'd been shopping for her today, feeling as though he'd accomplished something with each galleon he'd spent. Then he'd stood at that square, waiting for her like some moron, not understanding any of it. Overcome by the need to take care of her.

He callously shoved her off of him when she was getting dangerously close to unbuttoning his shirt and dragging her tongue over his scent gland. It took all the energy he had to stand, to walk away.

Long, fast steps carried him out the door. Away from her. He didn't look back, afraid of what he would see and what he would do if she looked hurt. Fumbling a little with the lock on his door, he finally managed to get it open, working fast and frantically as if he was afraid if he didn't get inside of his own room, right this second, he'd lose all his reserve and barge into her room. Scoop her into his arms to comfort her and seek comfort for himself.

It was impossible, but it explained everything. He slapped his palm against the wall for support, leaning his head against it, his fingertips touching the lips she'd kissed only moments before. He was out of breath. His knees felt weak and his lungs too small. Either her scent was all over him or he'd already memorised it well, because he could still smell her.

The only word that came to mind was torture. This. Was. Torture.

He pressed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself. Tried to focus on something else than violets, coconuts and citrus all wrapped up in decadent vanilla, amber, musk, and hints of black pepper. Something other than her lips against his, the sweet taste of her tongue and her delicate moans.

His attempts were futile.

Hermione Granger smelled like sparkling rain on pavement after a warm summers day, like the beauty of a sunset reflected onto the sea, like a goddess or a fairy – like crushed fairy dust. She was the first Omega in a century. She was also his colleague, terrifyingly clever, unfairly gorgeous and absolutely off limits to him.

-o-o-o-

Thank you for checking out Crushed fairy dust.

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