A/N: Sorry about the longer time between updates....I was at a music festival allllll week/weekend.

Anyway, if your still reading this, KUDOS! Thanks for sticking with me! I love love love all the grand reviews! They keep me going!

P.S. The songs for this one's "Don't confess" by Tegan and Sara

Draco Malfoy has changed. Changed so abruptly in fact that Hermione can not pinpoint exactly when it has happened or how. Or maybe he hasn't changed at all. Maybe this charming, thoughtful, and affectionate Malfoy has been there all along, and she had simply never taken the time to find him.

More importantly, she doesn't know when he has become such a integral part of her life. Thinking back, she's not even sure why she had let him kiss her so brazenly in the first place. Yet, somehow, she'd seen the look in his eye, heard the tone of his voice and had known, inexplicably, that it was right. She can even go as far as to say that she had wanted it. That she had been thinking about him for days – and not only about his strange self-mutilating behavior and all the blood, but also, embarrassingly, about the definition in his arms and the broadness of his shoulders, the soft silver strands of his hair and the frustrating way they fall over his eyes...

She knows he still cuts himself, that much is obvious. She sees the marks marring his arms when he forgets himself and rolls up a sleeve, or shivers under her touch without a shirt. This fact alone shows that being with her hasn't been enough to change him any more than outwardly; superficially. The only amendable thing is that the cutting seems to be getting better; lighter, less frequent.

Hermione worries that she has fallen prey to the feminine ideal so casually rooted in every girls childhood; in the stories of Beauty and the Beast, and The Little Mermaid – that if she just tries hard enough, somehow, she can change him. That she can save him from himself.

Nevertheless, she must face the truth; he is still the son of a Death Eater, and most likely a follower of Voldemort. That alone means one thing; they stand for many directly contrasting ideals. They are nothing short of being from two different worlds. From opposite sides of a bloody war.

Hermione feels like she's watching the world go by from behind rose tinted glasses, yet in the back of her mind she doesn't know how much longer they can go on like this – purposefully ignoring talking about anything important, tip-toeing around the topics that cause any sort of anxiety. This thought brings a horrible aching to her chest because though she hasn't heard him use the word 'mudblood' in weeks, she often wonders about his stance on blood purity. Has being with her changed his views? Or is she the only muggleborn exempt from his prejudice? Or worse still; can it be that in some part of his mind it still disgusts him to touch her?

That thought is almost too much, and she purposefully ignores any mussing on the topic, like she has so often done before. And so it goes. She's slowly realizing that their time together has been nothing more then glossed over with a shinny gold film of ignorance; of playful banter and lust, and knowing this, she now finds is impossible to turn a blind eye to the darkness lurking under the surface.

But when he walks into the Head common room after rounds and smiles at her, she suddenly feels that maybe all of that doesn't matter. Because Draco Malfoy is smiling at her. And she likes it.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione shuffles the stack of papers in her hands for the third time, tapping them lightly against the mahogany desk in front of her. Quietly clearing her throat, she looks back up at thirty or so students in front of her; the assembled group of Hogwarts Prefects.

"Well, that about covers everything." Her eyes scan the group before moving pointedly to the blond seated at her side. "Malfoy? Do you have anything to add?"

"Nope," he says, twirling a pencil carelessly in his fingers. His long legs are propped unceremoniously on top of the desk and Hermione has to stop herself from rolling her eyes in exasperation. Honestly, can he not take the meetings a little more seriously?

To her pleasure, he seems to take notice of her disapproving gaze and straightens himself up a bit in his chair. "Well, unless anyone has any questions?"

Fortunately, no one does, and with a screech of wooden desk chairs and a cacophony of voices, they all rise to leave.

Ron and Harry, per routine, fall into step beside her. They've both been lucky enough to have been made Prefects this year. Or unlucky enough, in their opinion.

"Hermione," Harry says casually, a question in his voice, as she gathers up the rest of her things. He's looking at her rather thoughtfully. "Have you ever thought of becoming a Professor? Of what I've seen of you being Head Girl, I think you'd be great at teaching."

"Yeah," Ron cuts in boisterously, "that meeting was so dreadfully boring, I think you'd fit right in!!"

"I don't know, Harry," she says, completely ignoring Ron's comment, as she moves around the desk. After years of friendship, she's learned that it's usually the best way. "I've never really thought about it before...." Aware of her words, she trails off uncomfortable.

Realizing his mistake, Harry looks down. "Oh... yeah."

Ron's face screws up in a unreadable expression and he looks in the other direction but she knows the exact thought going through each of their minds because it is one in the same. There is an unspoken agreement between them and Harry's question has simply been a small slip up. The thing is, she's never thought about what she wants to be – and neither, she knows, have the boys - because the idea of living past their eighteenth birthdays is a luxury. A false hope only to be crushed by certain, imminent death. Together, they've come to accept their part in the war against Voldemort as a burden and an honorable task, yet inescapable all the same. Because though it is rightfully Harry's burden to bear, he knows that Hermione and Ron will never leave him to shoulder it alone.

"I'd always thought we'd become Aurors together," she ventures quietly, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah," Ron agrees distractedly, "I've always wanted to be an Auror."

They move across the room to the door, the boys flanking her on either side, and she's not aware of being so involved in her own thoughts until a deep, familiar voice snaps her out of her daze. "Granger, a word?"

At the sight of Draco Malfoy standing in front of them, Harry and Ron instantly snap into defensive mode, shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing in distaste. Strangely enough though, there hasn't been any altercations between them in quite some time. She has a sneaking suspicion that the newfound civility between her and Draco has caused Ron and Harry to be much less inclined to throw protective older brother type fits of anger.

All the same, Ron speaks up first. "Do want us to stick around, Hermione?"

She sighs internally, rather bemused at the whole situation in general. If only Harry and Ron knew the extent of what has been going on between her and Draco. Outwardly, she says, "No that's okay, I think I can handle the dirty little ferret on my own."

Harry and Ron chuckle openly at Draco's expense, and apparently quite confident with her ability to protect herself, they make their way out of the classroom. As far as they are concerned, the only threat at the moment is the boredom of Head duties.

Smiling fondly after the boys, she turns around to face Malfoy who has moved to lean casually against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Dirty little ferret, Granger?" he says, "That wasn't very nice."

Still in a more or less capricious mood, she teases, "Who said I was nice?"

He smirks at her from his place against the desk, and shifts his weight, standing upright. "Hmm, touché. I rather like it when your being naughty."

As he moves towards her, Hermione swallows. Hard.

"Besides," she says, trying to steady her breathing, "I think it was a rather accurate description."

Now standing in front of her, he reaches out and runs a finger lazily along her jawline, down her neck, across her collarbone, in the dip between her cleavage and it leaves a trail of fire in its wake.

"I'll have you know I have impeccable grooming habits," he says, his eyes following his movements, "And little? Ha!" He leans back to look down at himself, "Also, I'm pretty sure I'm human."

"Oh," she breaths, as he leans forward and the trail of his finger is replaced by his lips, "I stand corrected." He continues to graze his lips against her, tormentingly softly, reminding her of that pivotal morning in her room. "Clean, large human then?"

"I'd say that sounds about right," he mummers, his lips brushing against her own with his words and then finally, finally, he presses them full against her mouth. The kiss is like a chemical reaction, and her blood boils, a spark of electricity shooting down her spine to the tip of her toes. It seems impossible that such a small amount of contact – the simple caress of his lips against her own – could cause such a reaction. Yet, every nerve is on high alert, and as the tip of his tongue probes her own, she feels goosebumps rise along her arms.

As his mouth devours her own, tasting, sucking, and biting, her body is on fire. And the only thing that she can think of to put it out is pulling herself closer. Draco must have the same idea because he leans forward and pins her against the wall, every inch of his hard, masculine body pressing against her own. Every curve against every hollow, like pieces of a warm, unbearable puzzle. She could stay like this forever, her blood humming pleasantly in her veins, a warm throbbing between her legs. But at the same time she has an unquenchable thirst for more. More skin, more heat, more touch.

She reaches up and twines her arms around his neck, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. But it's still not close enough so she presses her breasts up against his chest, her pebbled nipples rubbing painfully on the inside of her bra. He groans into her mouth and she feels the bulge in his trousers, hardening against her abdomen. Her inner walls throb, wanting, instinctively, that length buried inside of her, stretching her, pounding her against the wall. She moans at the thought, pushing her hips forward to find release.

And he pushes back, grinding his aching hardness against just the right spot and Oh, god, she thinks, if only they had a bed, if only they weren't in a classroom. A classroom. They were in a classroom.

Hermione groans, and not in pleasure. "Draco, we can't do this here."

"Why not?" He breaths, only half aware of the conversation. He's still kissing her, his wandering hands caressing and rubbing her curves.

"It's....Oohhh--," she moans as he touches a particularly reactive spot, but quickly regains control over herself, "It's indecent."

"Indecent?"

The word brings an iota of concentration to the Slytherin and as he comes back to himself, he seems to realize the nature of the situation also. Or more accurately, realize exactly whom he has pressed up against the wall so intimately. Granger. Hermione Granger. Virginal Hermione Granger. He winces briefly, wondering how far this classroom tryst would have gone. To say he got carried away is a bit of an understatement; the girl makes him loose his head.

Yet with a mood swing that would rival his fathers, he's smiling again.

"Well, I guess you leave me no choice. I'm taking you back to my room to shag you senseless." With that he grabs her around the waist and hoists her over his shoulder. Hermione screams playfully at the turn of events, her legs kicking in the air frantically. He's joking, that much is obvious; it's not like he could carry her off down the hallway like this.

He laughs and slaps her exposed bum and she kicks harder, screaming, "Put me down this instant!!" He bobs her around a bit, enjoying her predicament and he's laughing freely when he suddenly realizes her playful squeals of protest have died down. He turns around, swinging Hermione's legs around the other way, and takes in what has been enough to silence her.

Blaise Zabini is standing in the doorway, looking rather amused. Again.

"Sorry," he says, but he doesn't look it at all, "I didn't mean to interrupt. Just forgot my bag."

Draco tenses, and then realizing the complete ridiculousness of having Hermione still thrown over his shoulder, sets her silently back down on the ground.

At loss of words, Draco and Hermione both watch the dark haired boy run three rows down, hoist a brown leather satchel over his shoulder, and make his way back towards the front. Without a word, Blaise gives them a brief salute and is out the door.

Draco looks down at Hermione with a small amount of alarm. "Well, that was awkward."

"Yeah, talk about rain on the parade."

He looks at her like she's spoken gibberish. "Rain on the what?"

"Rain on the parade," she tells him, "As in 'Don't rain on my parade'. It's a muggle saying."

In an incredibly uncharacteristic action, Draco suddenly bursts into peals of laughter.

"Haha! I get it! Rain on the parade! Meaning no more fun." Much to her chagrin, he reaches out with one hand and messes up her hair. "You muggles say the craziest things."

Glowering at him, she runs her hands over her rioting curls, smoothing them back down. "If only Voldemort was amused by muggles so easily," Hermione laments dispassionately, "we'd be in a much different situation."

End of chapter Seven.

A/N: Always like to end the chapter with a bit of humor, or a bit of angst. *hint hint for next chapter* So, been meaning to ask, what do you guys think of my song selection at the beginning of the chapters? I don't necessarily want you to listen to them while your read ( I find music distracting) but I like to set a little bit of an atmosphere.

I'll update right, right away. I have most of the next chapter written.

P.S. Review?