Hermione stood in the center of Minerva McGonagall's personal office, before her large, mahogany desk, which was neatly organized; not a quill out of place. Draco Malfoy sat to the left of her, tied down to one of the two chairs in front of the desk. Hermione had not sat down, yet. She couldn't. Her heart had been trying to beat its way out of her chest since Professor McGonagall had addressed her in the hall, and she was so shocked and enraged that sitting down was no longer an option. She glanced at Draco.

"I've seen you tied up far too many times now, for my taste," she chastised. He shrugged.

"Or not often enough, given the circumstances."

"You're a git."

Why he kept insisting on tormenting her with this backhanded flirting, she had no idea. It was a strange new low for him. At least when he was insulting her intelligence, her bloodline, or the way she looked, she retained ownership of all those things. This felt like he was trying to put ideas in her head... thoughts and feelings of him that he had manifested. This constant undercurrent of insinuating that he was in her head in a way she would never be in his... it made her feel small. And it wasn't even bloody true. She felt coated in his slime.

From the upstairs foyer of the private office, Hermione heard yet another impassioned wail from Sybill Trelawney, who she was certain was most likely hyping up whatever had transpired between she and Malfoy… the question she was asking herself was just what he had done to her. She wanted to believe it was nothing- just blown out of proportion. But having met him before, she wasn't about to rule out the fact that he had done something revolting.

"All right, Sybill, all right. I will take care of it, for goodness sake, now please… just lay here and rest. I will be right back." Hermione heard McGonagall shut the door to her chambers upstairs and she came walking down her spiral staircase. She eyed the two of them as she approached, her hands in front of her, holding one another. She made it to her desk, and looked between them.

"Not 24 hours since you've set foot on Hogwarts grounds, and already, my faculty has been attacked by one of you, the other spent her time traipsing about without even so much as a 'Hello,' with two of my teachers- one of whom is on medical leave and is not to be disturbed under any circumstances," she said, her eyes landing on Hermione. "And really, Moss Granger. I am shocked by this behavior.

"Not me though, eh? No one seems to find any rubbish I'm accused of shocking, at all. Not in the slightest. What a great prat Draco Malfoy is, right? You can both sod off."

"Malfoy, really," Hermione said through her teeth.

"I didn't touch the old bat! She attacked me!"

"And yet," McGonagall cut in, "Sybill is the one who has sustained a heart attack from the physical burden of being shoved up against a wall. Quite a measure of self-defense for a man of, what, 28? Against an elderly witch without a wand anywhere on her person?"

Draco let out a heavy breath, tapping his foot impatiently. Hermione eyed his actions, and suddenly, she knew. He hadn't done it. No charm, no excuses, no hesitation, and no attempt to breeze over the situation… he hadn't attacked her. She squared her jaw.

"Professor, I was with Neville—Professor Longbottom—when the carriages were bringing the students in. He told me that Hagrid had been in a bad way, lately, and I just wanted to make sure he was all right. It was thoughtless, and I apologize. I should have checked in with you first." She eyed Draco who was staring at the floor as if planning to set it ablaze with his thoughts. "And, for what it's worth… I doubt that Draco is lying about this... attack."

Draco's head spun to meet her eyes, but she averted his gaze. She looked ANYWHERE but at him. She couldn't. She didn't want to lead him on, let him know she was starting to buy into this if it ended up all being a game. Her pride was worth more than his satisfaction, even if he did happen to be telling the truth about this incident.

McGonagall seemed to think for a moment before answering. "I've spoken with Professor Longbottom and confirmed your story. You may sit down, Miss Granger." She sat down, fully aware of Draco's stare still focused totally on her. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and said nothing.

"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall addressed him, pulling his attention from Hermione, "what happened?"

"I took the carriages in with the kids from the lake. When I got off, I made for the doors, and then… she came out of nowhere, and remembered me—I mean she remembered me by name… I was surprised. She grabbed me, she pushed me aside—and into the bloody WALL, and then she started spouting bollocks about a wizard- she didn't say his name. She just started talking about what Granger and I were up to. It barely made any sense."

McGonagall's demeanor had changed, Hermione could see, and she knew once and for all that Draco was telling the truth… she and Minerva both knew what Draco did not, which was that Sybill was a genuine seer, if only for a few brief moments in the span of her entire career.

"Describe the prediction, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said, slowly.

"Prediction? No, she didn't even sound right in the head, her voice was ridiculous- it was a bunch of—"

"I won't ask you again."

He sighed. "She said… she said that 'we' were the key… she said that he wouldn't remember me… but that he would be expecting Granger. At least, I think she meant Granger- old bat didn't mention a name of course. And then she told me to bloody wear silver."

McGonagall, Hermione could see, was hanging on his words. She was focused, and thinking quickly. "What happened next, Mr. Malfoy?"

"She… I don't know, I asked her what she was on about, and she kind of… snapped out of it… like she didn't even remember walking over to me, or remembering me, never mind babbling on like that. She let me go… she grabbed her arm and she fell."

McGonagall sat back in her chair. She took a deep breath and looked to Hermione.

"You know what this means," she said to her. Hermione nodded. McGonagall nodded as well. Draco looked between them, impatient, but asked nothing.

"Mr. Malfoy… you and I are going to sit together and work on this for as long as it takes to get it straight, until you are certain you have given me everything… for you are the only person who has heard this third true prediction of Sybill Trelawney… and it must be recorded for The Ministry of Magic."

"Fine, whatever, 'as long as it takes,' but do I have to be tied up for this? It's really starting to get old." McGonagall snapped and the binds around Draco wound back away from him, coiling around themselves and filling the back of the chair in what looked like an intricate pattern to the naked eye, as if the bonds had never been present. He rubbed his wrists and cursed under his breath.

"You, Miss Granger, may go if you like… I can have Sir Nicholas show you to your room if you prefer."

"That's all right, Professor," she said. "I want to hear this."

It had been hours. Draco was exhausted, but he pushed through. He was even a little bit proud of himself for not snapping the millionth time McGonagall, his least favorite teacher, asked him about the damned prophecy. He had it right, he was sure. He'd become a master at reading his own mind when he truly wanted to, and right now he wanted nothing more than to truly sleep.

So he and Granger walked side by side, a person's width apart, behind the ghost, Nearly Headless Nick, who was simply delighting them with talk of what had changed at Hogwarts since they'd last been inside these walls. Even Granger seemed impatient with him, eager to get to bed… and here he thought she didn't have the ability to dismiss any form of new knowledge.

"Well, here we are!" Nick stated as they came to what appeared to be a broom closet. He squinted at the room. Hermione seemed nonplussed.

"Thanks so much, Nick! This'll be perfect." She turned her wand on the knob. "Alohamora," she said, and the door popped open. She stepped inside and Draco froze.

"Right, The Room of Requirement," he said, following her inside. Hermione turned to face him, blinking. Then she remembered.

"I forgot, this used to be a special room for you, Malfoy." Even in her exhaustion, he heard the disappointment. The disgust. In the eye of his mind, he watched as he puzzled over finding ways to keep his promise with The Dark Lord, to kill Albus Dumbledore... his frustration. His tears. He watched as he opened the vanishing cabinet to allow Death Eaters into the school. If she sounded disgusted with him, it was nothing compared to the emotion it elicited in himself. He blinked himself back to the present.

The room today looked a bit like a mid-scale hotel room, with a large King Size bed in the middle, decent décor, a dresser for each of them, a vanity with a mirror and stool, and even a back area with a private restroom.

His eyes fell on the bed, which had obviously arisen just for him. There was nothing in the whole world he wanted to do more than sleep. But why just the one? She must not have been ready to sleep yet, he guessed. No matter. It would appear, in time. Everything did in this place.

"Professor McGonagall told me we'd be staying here. Seemed perfect," she said thoughtfully. Something was on her mind, and he could tell. She didn't seem as ill at ease… if anything, she seemed more serene, more confident... he suddenly understood.

"You really missed this place," he said. She looked to him.

"Yeah," she said. "Sometimes I wonder what it might have been like… if I'd finished school." She sat down on the edge of the bed, letting her suitcase stand on its own on the floor.

"Me too," he admitted, but he knew it had more weight for her than he'd ever be able to understand. She looked down. He'd made her uncomfortable, now. She looked at the bed and slid the blanket down away from the pillows on one side. Now he was confused.

"You're not tired yet?" she asked, straightening the pillows to her liking and folding down the sheet.

"I'm ready to drop," he said pointedly, an eyebrow raised at the bed.

She looked from the singular bed to his face, and back to the bed. "You're joking," she said, a hint of desperation in her voice. She glared at him.

"Think harder, then," she said. He glowered at her.

"All I'm thinking about is climbing into that bed and having the most deserved night's sleep I've had in months! You need to think harder about—" he stopped. He furrowed his brow. He smirked.

"Granger…"

She groaned.

"Are you… conflicted?" She gaped at him.

"What are you playing at?"

"I dunno... does any small part of you perhaps have... Baby Fever?"

That had clearly not been what she was expecting him to ask.

"Excuse me?"

"You know… babies. They come from ladies, usually after they have one special night with a wizard of their choosing—"

"I'm not trying to seduce you," she said, turning pink and rolling her eyes, as if the thought was more than even her oversized brain could process. "And I'm not 'baby hungry."

But his eyes latched onto the color clouding her cheeks and his brow cocked. He was no better than a dog with a bone, now. He couldn't resist tormenting her.

"You sure? Cause, I mean… you are getting on in years now... and you were watching those kids come out for the train a little bit starry-eyed—"

"Malfoy. It's been a long day. Please don't test me."

He sighed. "It was just a question, Granger."

"It was pathetic, Malfoy."

"I'm just stating, for the record, that the room is under the impression that we only require one bed. And it didn't get that idea from me."

She rose, went to her suitcase, picked it up and plopped it on the bed. She unzipped it and started rifling through.

"We'll just have to share it… make the most of it," she said. She pulled a sweater out of the bag and a nightgown tumbled out. She turned scarlet, tried to hide it before he saw. He was too quick for her. He snatched it up and held it in the air for her to view.

It was black, semi-transparent, and had lace roses along the trim. Her gulp was audible.

"You're… not trying to seduce me? This is a rather poor job of it, then."

Hermione was dumbstruck, embarrassed, and caught- framed, rather- black-nightied. How the hell had that gotten in there?! She hadn't even bought it, she realized. Ginny had given it to her when she and Ron had begun to fall apart. She'd never even worn it. She vaguely remembered it being in her hands while she was packing… getting distracted and… Merlin, she'd folded it and stuck it right in there when Ginny herself had arrived on her doorstep. Speak of the damn devil, indeed.

How the bloody Hell was she going to get out of this one?

Draco was drinking it up, as if holding the last sliver of evidence that put the nail in her coffin. He was laughing at her, and she felt small and vulnerable; totally undesirable… not that sexy was an adjective that she felt on a day-to-day basis, but she usually didn't feel like a rubbish fire, either. Just a bit asexual, really. This was humiliating. She stretched forward and snatched the nightgown from his hands. She tossed it back in the suitcase and stuck her finger in his face.

"Stop talking to me… like I am some bloody woman," she said. Bugger. That wasn't exactly what she meant.

For a moment, silence passed between them. Then Draco could hold it in no longer. He laughed in her face. He was laughing in her face… she was truly going to disembowel him. Or herself.

"Hermione… you are a woman, yeah? Did you want me to talk to you like… I don't know… a lamp? A pack of chewing gum? The Bloody Baron?"

"You know what I'm talking about! This passive aggressive... flirting! It's phony, and so transparent. And... it's disrespectful."

She'd surprised him; she could see it in his eyes. He crossed his arms.

"Come again?"

"Of course I'm not seductive, all right? I'm not trying to be, for you. I wouldn't! I know I'm not the belle of the ball or a bloody Veela, okay? You don't need to remind me with the constant insinuation that I'm, that I'm... fantasizing some unrequited relationship with you. I mean, for all you know, if I was trying, I might be a little more of a catch," damn the blood rushing to her face, right to Hell, "But you don't have the priviledge of knowing me in that way, Malfoy. You are beneath me. I've tried to be civil, and let you have your fun to keep the peace, and to keep myself sane… I know you never think about it, but I'm still a human being. I have feelings."

He made like he was going to speak and she silenced him.

"Enough, Malfoy, I just… just go to bed."

She turned back to the bed and a couch popped into the air from nowhere and landed several feet away. They both eyed it.

"Looks like the room changed its mind, after all. Now it requires that you get the Hell away from me," she added, and sniffed, quietly as she could. She hoped he didn't hear it. She'd just had enough. She didn't have the time or the emotional bandwidth for any of this. Her life had one purpose, right now, and she didn't need reminding that some of her best years and assets would soon be behind her. She wasn't interested in sex, or feeling sexy, she told herself. This was no time to watch her biological clock tick. She just wanted to do her job.

Malfoy walked toward the couch, away from her, and she could have rejoiced. She climbed into bed, still dressed, and turned off the light. She closed her eyes.

"And Malfoy? …Don't call me Hermione."

Draco was lying in bed thinking of Hermione Granger sleeping peacefully in the large king bed, confused, angry, and frustratingly aroused. She cared about what he thought? She thought he was using sex as a weapon? Granger wore teddies?!

He kept rolling over, switching sides, trying desperately to get comfortable… no such luck. She was in him now, like a sickness. In his head. In his blood.

She thought his playful, sexual banter was psychological warfare. Did men actually pretend to be interested in women? She had called his whole sexuality into question with just one impassioned speech and he wasn't standing for it. Well, he was standing for it in one particular piece of his anatomy, but it made him damned irritated.

She's just insecure, he reminded himself. She wasn't trying to lay down a challenge. But it didn't matter to him what she'd intended to do… and she had no idea how lucky she had it—how difficult it would be for her to get him out of her system if he gave her a taste. He was addicting, and he knew it. He'd had women before. He'd changed them. For a selfish prat, he was an incredible lover… he wholly desired that pride that only the unabashed climax of a woman could satisfy just right. And just think how less tightly wound she'd be if he did give her what she needed, he reckoned. She'd be a new woman.

He rolled over onto his back and damned his erection. He didn't want it to be for her. But at the end of the day… she was only a witch… and he was only a wizard… and they were just bodies… and there was really only one outcome that was going to lead to a sound night's sleep for both of them.

She heard him before she saw him moving. She could sense his presence near her. Merlin, why wasn't he asleep yet? She needed a break from all of this.

"What is it?" she asked, sleepily.

"You," he said, looking down on her. She sighed.

"Alright. I'm sorry I snapped at you. Will you please go to bed now?"

"Not yet." She blinked, and made to sit up. He lay a hand on her chest, pushing her down, gently. Her eyes followed his large hand, up his shapely arm, over his bare shoulder, chest and abdomen. His hair was partially obscuring his face, ghosting along his clavicle. She swallowed, hard. Mouth suddenly dry.

"You need me."

He slung a leg over the edge of the bed and climbed on top of the blanket. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes betraying her heart by lingering here, there, and everywhere along him as he did. His legs were thick as tree trunks, disappearing under black boxer shorts. He was stronger than she had previously imagined. She unconsciously moved away from him, toward the middle of the bed. He settled on the other side of her.

One of his hands wrapped around back of her, behind the pillow and rested on her opposite shoulder. The other snaked its way under the blanket… and she felt it on her lower abdomen with a gasp… she felt it unbuttoning her jeans.

"Are you insane?!" she asked, struggling against him for just a moment, sitting up on her elbows. Panic. Confusion. Excitement. The last one caught her by surprise. She was caught in a vortex of complicated reactions, all vying for first place. Her core began to shake. A weakness. A debate. He felt it. He looked down at the covers, where his hand rested upon her. A moment passed. When his gray blue eyes turned to her face, they were smoldering to ash. Her mouth parted in surprise.

His lips crashed into hers. She was instantly somewhere else. The blood rushing to her head made her mouth fall open further in a moan and he took it as permission and let his tongue trace her bottom lip before it delved inside. She shivered. Something so wrong should never be so delicious. Now the blood was rushing away from her head; far away, indeed.

Wrong, she remembered. Her hand moved on top of his, which was now sliding under her jeans and over her panties. She tried to still him, applied pressure to his hand… she managed to push his fingers over her now swollen clit and she jumped. Oh, there was no stopping it now. Her thighs parted and her hips rose to meet his hand as he made quick work of returning to her sex under her panties, nothing between their skin but fire.

He was tracing circles around that most intimate, sensitive part of her womanhood, making her whimper and follow his lead in small thrusts. He interrupted their rhythm suddenly with light flicks, rubbing her up and down, and she was panting for him. He increased his speed and pressure. She was losing herself when he began to penetrate her soft opening. First one finger, then two. And then the palm of his hand was massaging her nub while his fingers created a mounting pressure inside her she had never felt in her life.

She felt it all slipping away. His lips left hers, allowing her cries to grow in frequency and volume. And when his lips closed over the hollow of her throat and sucked gently, she exploded.

She came hard and loudly, her fingers closing over his wrist, nails digging in; her slick wetness squeezing the devil out of his fingers. She was shaking before it was over… and a cloud of satisfaction and release delicately blanketed her body from her thoughts. Her clit was throbbing, sensitive, but heeded. He withdrew his hand from her sex and she whimpered a little, again. He lowered her hand back at her side, stood from the bed and righted the covers around her. She was still trying to catch her breath, and she could feel sleep itching around the corners of her eyes, again.

"Now then," he said, quietly. "Let's not ever mistake my flirting for "teasing" again… Hermione… because a tease would never satisfy you like that." He walked toward the couch.

And even though anger should have quickly replaced this elation that she was feeling… even though she should have felt like a tart for letting him pleasure her, like that… she couldn't feel guilty, she couldn't feel ashamed. She closed her eyes and almost immediately, she fell asleep.