Their first kiss isn't much of one – just a hard press of mouths and teeth and longing. But for everything that kiss isn't, it's also unquestionably electric. Hermione feels it like static in her hair, or lightning in her veins. Draco must feel it, too. Surely he must.

Hermione wrenches away from him to assess his reaction. But despite his swollen mouth and ruffled hair, Draco's face is blank. His arms hover awkwardly in the air, unsure of where to land. Primal terror seems to roll off him in waves and she thinks, just for a second, that she's made a terrible mistake.

Then suddenly, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. So close, she couldn't fit a sheet of parchment between their bodies if she tried. He smiles down at her, his grey eyes full of something that looks an awful lot like wonder, before he bends his head and molds his lips to hers.

Now this is a kiss. A real kiss that enflames her heart and floods her brain with that familiar buzz she's come to know so well.

But it's there, with his lips upon hers, that she finally understands: it isn't a buzz she's been experiencing inside her brain, this whole time. It's a song, comprised of all the things she adores about him. It's his laugh, his wit, his eyes, his hands. It's the softness of his lips as they press, tug, pull at hers. And it's the fiery sweet tang of his tongue when it finally meets her own.

The world feels like floral tea and cinnamon and laughter and everything indefinably, undeniably good. Their tongues brush a second time, a third time, and her knees buckle. But he's holding her up with one arm, tangling the fingers of his free hand into her web of hair and kissing her even deeper.

When she whimpers into his mouth, he actually growls and lowers his lips to suck at the place where her shoulder meets her neck. She moans as he trails his mouth from that perfectperfectperfect spot to another, glorious one at the base her ear. The movement leaves his neck exposed, too, so she angles her head to lave at his pulse point with her tongue. He groans softly, and so she traces her tongue from his neck to his earlobe. Which she nips at with her teeth. Just a bit.

"Fuck, Hermione," he gasps, jerking back to meet her gaze. His pupils are blown, dilated fully with desire.

"My thoughts exactly," she whispers, and both of her hands drop to his belt buckle.

Draco freezes. Nothing moves except his eyes, which dart to the buckle and then back to hers. "I don't…I haven't…."

Her heart clenches in the most pleasant way imaginable.

"Ever?" she asks.

"Yeah. I mean, I have. But not in a few years. Not since before the War." He releases a hoarse, uncomfortable laugh. "A hazard of my former occupation, I guess."

Hermione leaves one hand on his buckle but removes the other, threading her fingers through the soft hair at the base of his neck. Without removing either hand, she lifts onto her toes to meet his lips again. This kiss is different, but just as lovely as the others: slower and gentler and sweeter than she would have ever expected from him.

She doesn't break the kiss, even when she murmurs, "Don't shut me out again, Draco."

"I won't," he says into her mouth.

"Swear it."

He pulls away, only to close his eyes and lean his forehead against hers.

"You're 'in,' Granger. That's permanent. At least, it is for me. The only way you're getting out of my life now is on your own. You can leave anytime you want – I would never force you to stay. But I…I wouldn't leave you. I couldn't. Not now."

His hand, still woven in her hair, starts to shake. Not from a lack of booze, but from the terrifying truth of his confession. He's been scared for so long, she realizes, that he hasn't learned to trust in the good things. He hasn't given himself permission to believe, just once, that something might go right in his life.

Hermione nudges his sharp chin up with her nose until he meets her gaze.

"I'm not going anywhere, Draco. You can snarl and stomp and swagger like a peacock. I've seen it all before, and I'm sure I'll see it again. But none of that will change what's between us. Because I want you. All of you."

Apparently that's all he needs to know. Draco's mouth recaptures hers with a new urgency. This time, he doesn't stop her hands when they undo his belt buckle. As soon as Hermione accomplishes that task, her fingers move to the buttons at his collar. He continues to kiss her while she yanks off his tie and accidentally rips his shirt in her haste.

The sound of buttons clattering to the floor does something riotous to her insides, and she steps back to cast Colloportus and Muffliato on the library door. Hearing the spells, Draco grins madly.

"That, Granger, was the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

"For now," she promises. She doesn't give him time to respond before she tackles him to the floor.

At first, they're just a jumble of limbs and hands and tongues in front of the fire. But somewhere along the way, they begin to shed their clothing, piece by piece. Each article they lose, Hermione transfigures into an item of bedding upon the floor. Draco's jacket and her hoodie combine into a plush blanket beneath them. His tattered shirt makes a perfect, silken bedsheet. Their shoes, a handful of thick pillows. Their pants, more sheets that just beg to be tangled.

At some point – between transfigured outer clothing and completely discarded undergarments – she grabs his wand and flings it, along with hers, onto the sofa. As far as she's concerned, that's not the kind of magic they'll need tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow, judging by the way his tongue dips between her breasts and her hips grind into his.

They're fully bared to each other now – a state that always made her feel a little mortified, whenever she did this with Ron. Draco, however, seems wholly unashamed. He's currently exploring every centimetre of her skin, whispering her first name like an incantation.

Hermione. A press of his lips to the hollow above her clavicle.

Hermione. A lick at the curve below her breast.

Hermione. Another kiss on her mouth, deep enough to set her aflame.

Draco hasn't touched anything important yet, and it's clearly intentional. He's waiting, she thinks, for her consent. Or trying to drive her mad. Either way, she adores him for it.

She tugs and twists them until his back is propped against the edge of the sofa and she's straddling his lap. Draco only has a moment to comprehend their new position – to dig his fingers sharply into her hips – before Hermione ducks her head to lap at the jagged Sectumsempra scars on his chest. She can feel his muscles tense beneath her, so she places one calming hand on the spot above his heart and another on the faded Mark upon his left arm.

"They're you," she says, still pressing kisses onto his puckered flesh. "They're part of you. So I want them, too."

Draco moans and yanks her hips forward, until the hard length of him lies deliciously against her stomach.

"Your mouth," he begs. "Give me your mouth. Please."

Hermione obeys and they're kissing again, lips and tongues colliding with a frantic kind of need. Draco entwines his fingers in her hair, angling her head backward so he can lower his mouth to her breasts. He licks one nipple tentatively, waits for the guttural sound she makes, and then pulls the nipple fully into his mouth.

Hermione's eyes have rolled so far back into her head, she might as well close them. She whispers something that might be yes, while his tongue dances along both her nipples. She sucks in a hard breath when his free hand snakes across her stomach and lands upon the warm, aching core between her legs.

Like his tongue, his fingers dance for a moment – seeking, teasing, exploring this part of her. He must understand the permission she grants with a wider spread of her legs, because his long fingers dip fully inside her. Slowly, blissfully, he plunges them in and out as his thumb rubs the cluster of nerves just above his fingers.

Her words become unintelligible, then. She scratches her fingernails wildly across his shoulders, and her thighs clench around his. Draco drags his mouth from her breasts to the nape of her neck, his hand still moving between them.

"Beautiful," he whispers against her skin. "You are so beautiful, Hermione."

"I want…I…I want…."

The heat of his laugh on her neck just destroys her. "Yes?" he teases. "What is it you want?"

"You," she gasps. "All of you."

"All of me?" he asks, with a suggestive thrust of hips.

Hermione doesn't respond right away. Instead, she raises her thighs until his fingers have slipped out of her and she kneels fully above him. Draco meets her gaze, frowning up at her with an unspoken question. In answer, she gently takes his face in her hands.

"You," she repeats, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. "All of you."

Then she reaches between their bodies, positions the length of him against her, and slides down.

Draco doesn't gasp or cry out. But his arms encircle her waist and he pulls her torso forward so that their bodies are flush. Hermione gives them both a few seconds to adjust to their connection, before she arches her back and starts to rock her hips slowly and methodically against his.

This position, and the level of control that comes with it, is actually new to her. It's uncharted territory that she finds she likes bestbestbest of all.

Draco apparently agrees. After only a few sways from Hermione, his own hips begin to thrust upward into hers. His movements falter at first, but soon, the two of them build into a rhythm that has them both gasping. Only when her head drops to his shoulder does he slide his hand back between their bodies.

"Please," she pants into his ear as his fingers begin to circle again. "Please."

And so he complies, thrusting and circling until, abruptly, Hermione throws her head back. She's shattering, then – shattering so completely around him that she nearly whites-out from the feel of it. He doesn't seem to know what to do but keep going, circling and thrusting and kissing her deeply after her head snaps back toward his. As she reassembles herself above him, he whispers, "Beautiful," against her lips.

She whispers back one word – Draco – and he lets himself shatter, too.

Several hours and several more shatterings later, Hermione spins lazily in the circle of Draco's arms to face him. They're still naked, with only their transfigured bedding between them and the dying light of the fire.

"What are you thinking?" she asks.

"That your hair appears to have gained its own gravitational pull."

She shrugs one shoulder against his scarred chest. "You love that about me. I know it."

Without warning, Draco's fingers tighten upon her hips.

"I do, Granger," he murmurs. "I really do."

"Draco—" she starts, but he interrupts her with a small shake of his head.

"No, let me say something first. For once." He smirks, but his eyes are tender. "You gave me the reasons why you wanted me, tonight. But I just realized I didn't give you all the reasons I wanted you."

"There's more?"

"Yes."

She's breathing unevenly again, more turned on than she'd like to admit. But Hermione smirks back at him. "Oh, I already know what you want, Draco: my breasts, my biscuits, and my brains. In that order."

He laughs and takes her face gently in his hands. "Correct, as usual. But that's not all."

"My beauty?" she teases. "Like at the Yule Ball?"

When his body goes rigid, she mumbles, "Sorry. That was a joke. I didn't mean to bring up that night. Not if it makes you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable," he says quietly. "I just didn't realize you saw that. The way I looked at you that night, I mean."

She nods into his hands, and he grimaces.

"You shocked me that night, Granger. I shocked myself, because I…I thought I hated you. I really did. But how could I hate you after what I saw outside the Great Hall? The way I reacted to you at the Yule Ball kept me wondering. Fourth year, fifth year, sixth year – every time I saw you after that night, every time we argued or insulted each other, I kept seeing you. Not just some caricature of you. So much so, I realized that I didn't actually hate you at all. I knew it, even before the War. But I couldn't quite admit the whole truth until I saw you standing in the foyer of the Manor that first day, carrying those tarts. Your hair was a disaster, and your cheeks were bright pink, and you looked so goddamned beautiful I couldn't even breathe for a minute. But that's still not the main reason I want you."

"No?" she whispers, pretty sure she's bright pink right now, too.

Draco shakes his head. "No. I want you because of your heart. Your mad, wild heart."

Despite her disbelieving laugh, the referenced organ beats frantically inside her chest. "Wild? Did you actually call my heart wild?"

He just cracks a lazy smile and nods.

Hermione scoffs again. "Aside from my hair, no one has ever called anything about me wild. Controlled, sure. Methodical, absolutely. Precise, detail-oriented…hell, even uptight. But never wild."

"And that's where they're wrong – where I was wrong, back in school." Draco's fingers slip from her face and he leans forward to whisper the rest of his words into the curls at her temple. "You, Hermione Granger, are controlled and methodical and precise. But your heart is just as wild and fierce as Pansy's."

"Thanks for the lovely comparison," she deadpans, and he laughs into her hair.

"It's not meant to be an insult. Pansy is lots of negative, nasty things, but she's also a fierce creature who would do anything to protect the people she loves. You told me that you're just like that, too. The day we talked about your parents."

"Yeah, but…Pansy?"

"You're going to have to get used to her, you know. Her and all the other Slytherins.

"Yeah, but…Pansy?"

He laughs again. "The Pansy thing is sort of beside the point. It's the 'wild' part I like."

"But how…? Why…?"

"Why do I see your heart as wild?" he finishes. "Maybe you Gryffindors call it 'brave.' Maybe I don't want to use the 'b' word because I'll always be a Slytherin, and courage is supposed to make me sick. But the way you stormed in here tonight and declared your feelings was wild, and risky, and brave. So was the way you told me about your father and his drinking. Or the way you ignored my snarling, the day I cut my fingers. Or the way you went witch-to-witch with my mother with a smile on your face. Or the way you treat my owl and my parents like they're actually worthwhile, too. Or the way you…the way you…."

Hermione hears the emotions crest in his voice, so she curls her fingers into his untamed hair. Silently gives him permission to stop, if he needs to. But Draco takes a shaky breath and continues.

"It's the way you looked that day, crying and screaming on our parlour floor, but not giving one fucking whit of information to my aunt. That was the day I knew, in my bones, that all the blood purity rhetoric was shite. Because you were strong and brave. And beautiful and brilliant, and the most incredible badass I'd ever seen."

Her eyes start to burn, and she clenches them shut to keep the tears back. In response, Draco tugs her closer to him. They stay like that for long enough, their breaths start to align, chests rising and falling in a matched rhythm.

"We don't have to talk about the War anymore," she eventually offers. "If you don't want to."

With her eyes still firmly closed, she feels rather than sees Draco pull back to study her. Eventually, she opens one eye to find him frowning down at her.

"Why wouldn't we talk about the War?" he asks.

The image of Ron's grimace flashes, unbidden, in her mind. She shrugs awkwardly.

"Sometimes couples don't want to talk about unpleasant things," she says. "After they, you know, 'couple up.'"

"Are you saying we're a couple now, Granger?"

"Well, you haven't slept with anyone in at least three years, and I'm lying naked on your floor. So…."

"So that mean more romps on the floor, then?" he teases.

"For as long as you…as long as we want."

"And how long is that? In your estimation?"

"For keeps," she admits with a sigh. "Maybe forever. Depending on your understanding of time and space."

Instead of the panicked release she expects from him, Hermione feels his arms tighten around her. Even now, even after the way they just devoured each other on this floor, his embrace makes her heart constrict.

But just as quickly as it arrives, her joy dims. Because Hermione knows this whole "honesty" game; she's played it before, with Ron. And she'll be damned if she traipses into something new without laying the ground rules this time.

"I mean what I said earlier, by the way. About the War stuff. We don't have to talk about it anymore. If that's how you want it to be between us, Draco, then I'll deal with it. I will."

Now it's Draco's turn to scoff.

"That's not going to work, Granger, and you know it. The War is as much a part of 'us,' together, as it is individually. Hell, there wouldn't even be an 'us' without the War. You want to hear something totally fucked up? I think I'm going to end up feeling grateful for that time in our lives, in some perverse way. Because of this." He runs a fingertip down her bare hip to demonstrate, and she shivers happily. "So get that idea out of your head. Any time you want to talk about us, or the War, or us and the War, just do it. The topics aren't mutually exclusive, and you don't need my permission. If I ever fight you on it, just drag me kicking and screaming right along with you. Like you did tonight."

Hermione's lips curve into a Cheshire grin. "Just like tonight?"

"Well, preferably with the kind of screaming that occurred in the latter part of the evening."

He laughs when she pushes on his shoulders until he's lying upon his back again. She climbs on top of him, laces her fingers with his, and gently pins his arms over his head. Still smiling, he asks, "What do you think you're doing, Granger?"

"Well, practice does make perfect," Hermione purrs. "Don't you agree?"

This time, Draco agrees. He really, really does.