Draco's having trouble concentrating.

He's revising in the Slytherin common room, a recent necessity. Zabini's just asked him a question for the second time, and it's the second time he's had to do it. Now he's looking at Draco oddly and that won't do.

He won't question Draco, though. Not like he would have done last year. Zabini knows better but even so, Draco can't afford people wondering. There's only one thing Zabini – or anyone else – is allowed to speculate on, and since no one will mention that aloud either, Draco decides to let Blaise assume it's more of the same.

After all, Draco is the only one who knows something is different. Something is irrevocably different from only a week ago.

His occlumency has been helping during lessons, tremendously, but even that is starting to show some cracks now. That concerns Draco more than his various Slytherin housemates noticing he's preoccupied.

Draco feels in control of so few things that lessons had become inordinately important this year. He thinks his failure at his other task is inevitable, and that will have severe consequences. Consequences that top marks in lessons won't mitigate, by the way, but it's a small, short-term sort of boost when he does well. It helps keep his morale up, so to speak.

But now something else has positioned itself. Someone else has positioned herself.

At first she'd had nothing to do with it on purpose. He'd enjoyed partnering with her for projects, knowing those top marks were all but guaranteed, but he'd also begun to enjoy the fact that it was her specifically, and not any other top student.

She's so different from Pansy. From Daphne and Astoria. From Sadie, back at home in Wiltshire, who was sent to Durmstrang. Over the past year or two, she's gotten really pretty. Hot, in fact, because she doesn't know it. That wild hair that always looks like someone's just had her in bed, the full lips she's always biting, the flush in her cheeks like she's thinking of something dirty.

The uniform skirts they wear always get shorter as the girls get taller, of course, legs growing longer and all that. Granger's haven't. She's short, a short witch. She barely comes to Draco's chest. But that's made the glimpses of skin above her knee that much more tantalising, because they're rare. Girls like Pansy and Daphne tug theirs up just a smidge when they sit, a subtle motion meant to escape the professors' eyes but never the wizards'. Granger doesn't. She tugs hers down, just covering her knee with her legs crossed.

She's a good girl.

Those legs are perfectly shaped, with delicate calves and fine-boned ankles. Draco wants to run his hands over them. Across, around, up. He wants to thumb her anklebones, slither his fingers over the arches of her feet and hope she's ticklish. He wants to see each perfect toe. He wants to know if he tongues one of the smaller ones and imagines he's between her legs instead, does she visualise it that way also? Would it send a stab of heat to her stomach? The same kind that imagining her licking and sucking his finger does to him?

And her chest had filled out beautifully. He doesn't think she'd noticed this either, the tightening of the buttons on her uniform blouse, the extra work they're having to do this year. Maybe she has and is trying valiantly to ignore it. Either way, wizards can't ignore it and Draco's been no exception.

He'd had all these thoughts long before she propositioned him in the library. She'd been the visual bright spot in a royally shitty year, one Draco was more than happy to soak up at every opportunity. More joint projects and revision, please.

But then she had propositioned him and he'd nearly fallen over.

Generally speaking, witches made their attraction known in a less… overt way. Well, less and more, in an odd contrast. Daphne, for instance, would spend full minutes blatantly staring at him. He'd finally look at her and she'd smirk and bite a lip, wink an eye, maybe. But had she actually walked up and asked him to shag her? No.

Astoria's come close, but that's since he'd shagged her and then refused to do it again. If Daphne found out, she'd hex his bollocks off and Draco doesn't fancy the risk.

No, never in his life has any witch walked right up to Draco and asked him to shag her.

Much less Potter's princess. Knowing full well she wouldn't want it to get around school anyway, Draco had been assuming she'd had at least some sexual experience. She'd be the type to keep it quiet. Draco had figured she'd let Potter up her robes – the Chosen One, after all. Why not? Then it seemed like she was slightly vexed about Weasley and the Brown girl, so maybe he'd been up there, too. Whatever.

Didn't stop Draco staring at her tits during working joint-project sessions in the library. Or in the greenhouse. Or anywhere else. Or noticing her legs, or wondering who might have mussed her hair.

But then…

'Sort of.' She'd 'sort of' done it before. That's how she'd put it, after he was done reassembling some cohesion of brain matter and could focus again.

How could a person 'sort of' have sex? Well, Draco thought he had one that might count, but it was entirely different. It had been after a blazing row with Daphne over something or other, and Draco had thought they were past it, moving onto makeup sex. She'd let him get two seconds worth of entry before telling him to get the hell off her, that she was still mad. So that was probably a 'sort of,' but not the same vein as what Granger had inferred.

Draco couldn't figure it and had long since stopped trying. Undoubtedly the man thought he was just picking up a pretty girl in a pub, had gotten too enthusiastic with the drinks and botched the job. But Draco, having never made the same glaring mistake, couldn't absolve him. No extra pint was more important than the girl he was about to take to bed.

At least she hadn't taken it personally. That was something.

And… she'd asked him to rectify it. That was another thing Draco couldn't figure. Why?

Maybe she thought he was fit. Not impossible. Maybe she just thought he wouldn't talk, that he'd be as embarrassed about it as she was.

That bothered him, that she was embarrassed about it. It shouldn't bother him and he didn't like to admit it. She was… Potter's girl. Swotty. Prissy. Stuck up and standoffish. A Muggle-born.

No, his mind corrected. A Mudblood. He had to keep that in line, publicly, to others. The same sort of thing he had to correct when his insufferable brain wanted to call her 'Hermione' instead of 'Granger.' He'd gotten quite used to thinking of her as 'Hermione' over their various projects this year.

On the surface, he understood that she didn't want people talking about her trying to actively get shagged, on her own terms. Hogwarts would go mental, the gossip mill churning. But at the same time, he chafed that she wanted it so secret. That he, as her choice, had to be secret. It was probably all tied in together, he knew in rational moments, but he didn't like it.

Not one bit.

Every witch his age in this castle wanted to shag him. Well, even if nobody had the guts to approach him like Granger had, nobody had ever turned him down, either. But she was either ashamed of the act or ashamed of him – he isn't sure which – and it bothers him.

It bothers him that it bothers him.

Relying heavily on his Occlumency, he finishes his interminable History of Magic revision with Zabini. Zabini seems somewhat placated regarding his focus and Draco wonders for the thirtieth time whether Blaise is reporting back to someone.

He snaps his notebook closed and goes up to his dorm. He knows Zabini will follow sooner or later, as will Theo. Greg and Vince might already be up there, and Draco curses how crowded their year is. Four other wizards in his dorm, any of whom might be cataloging his progress to people outside the castle.

And would he want any of them telling anyone else that he shagged Hermione Granger? No, he wouldn't.

So why does the secrecy get under his skin so much?

The dorm is still empty but as soon as he's ready for bed, Draco yanks his bed curtains closed. He casts his usual privacy charms – not because he plans to do anything private, necessarily, but just because he's tired of feeling like someone's always watching, always listening. He always casts them now.

He's been under so much stress this year, he can't believe it's already April. His time is almost up. Three months until summer. The year has both dragged and flown simultaneously, confusing enough to make his head spin. He's kept on top of lessons but nothing else, and time is short.

His time watching Granger's chest, her shirt buttons strain to stay in place as she twists in her chair, or her legs, end-capped by her perfect ankles, has seemed more worthwhile. Draco isn't sure what that says for the progress of his assignment, but mentally, it's been the only bright spot in sight. Then, Granger said he could actually touch them. Touch her.

Draco's dick hasn't gotten hard for another witch in months. Any witch. Anywhere. Not Pansy, not Daphne. Not Astoria, though he could hardly be blamed for that with the silent threat of her sister's reprisal in the air. None of the others hinting they'd like an invitation to Hogsmeade. Draco's needed the stress release badly, desperately, but not enough to embarrass himself in front of someone who would talk about it after.

That made the proposition from Granger perfect – aside from the fact that her legs and tits and hair and feet have been making appearances in his dreams for months. Wet dreams, to be precise, Draco waking up distinctly uncomfortable in his (perfectly silenced) four-poster bed surrounded by four other teenage wizards.

He isn't sure what it is about her, exactly. Is it that she's the perfect swot, the goody-girl, teacher's favourite, and so on? Is it that she has no idea how hot she is, completely oblivious to how she comes across to others? Is it just that she's Potter's girl, the one and only witch he definitely should not want? The one who would give his father apoplexy if he weren't in Azkaban? Is is a combination of teenage rebellion combined with the tempting nature of choosing a Muggle-born? The Muggle-born?

Why did she choose him? How long has she been thinking about it? Was it a sheer impulse? He doesn't know which angle is more alluring: that she's secretly reckless or that she's been thinking about it - about him for a while?

Alone in his bed, he reaches his hand into the pants he sleeps in. Tonight, he made no plans with her. It's the first night he hasn't seen her since last Friday.

He pictures the look on her face when she looked at him bare for the first time.

It's not that he's that large, exactly, but she is very small. Draco knows he is large, at least in comparison to his sixth year dormmates and the Slytherin Quidditch team, but it's more that he and Granger have such a size discrepancy between them. She'd had nothing to compare him to, and the heat slithers down his body again at that thought. But he knows he's going to savour the look on her face until the day he dies. Especially because she could take him. She did take him.

Gods, she'd felt so good. No other witch he's ever shagged has felt like that.

It wasn't just the shagging. Days before, gripping his hands in her hair and pressing his mouth to hers, and the way she'd responded to him. Draco had felt like he was on fire. He couldn't get enough of her.

And she was responsive, like no one else he's ever been with. The noises she made, her faces. Draco knew all of this was new to her, but Pansy had been inexperienced in fourth year. Hell, Astoria had too, last year, and Draco had been much better at things by then. But none of them reacted like Granger had.

After all these months of erectile celibacy, with the blasted thing refusing to cooperate unless he was asleep – and did that count as cooperation? Draco refused to think it did – it sprang to life with vengeance. It couldn't get enough of her, either.

Having her atop him, feeling her body beneath her clothes. The flare of her hips, the surprising strength of her thighs as she sat on his lap. Her full breasts, covered but nearly brushing him as his mouth explored hers.

Draco's hand moved now, up and down, without even realising it.

Granger's perfect tits in his hands, her back against his chest. They're big and round, full and more than he can grip in a hand. Draco has big hands and her breasts are luscious, decadent. Her nipples are fat and round, high peaks and pebbled areolas. And no one has ever touched them but him.

Sliding a finger inside her, feeling her curl her body around him. She compressed herself, making herself tighter. Her legs gathered to her hips, her knees bent. Her stomach would fold over, bending at the waist. Her chin dipped to her collarbones, her mouth open, her eyes squeezed shut. His hand was trapped in there, somewhere in the middle of her body, wet and hot. Clenched in every sense.

And no one has ever felt it but him.

He swallows hard, imagining it now.

She'd asked him to do it. No one else.

Strangers didn't count. She trusted no one she knew. No one but him.

'Sort of.' What bollocks. And because she was such a good girl, she'd never tried anything else either. She's given Draco everything.

Speaking of 'everything,' there's no way Draco can replicate how she feels around him. Not in his most vibrant imagination. Why is he here, again, in his dorm? It's hard to recall. He thinks he needed to be visible for a change, should probably keep a better eye on things like that, but right now it's hard to rank the importance of it.

Her words come back to him. 'Will you teach me how to touch you like that?' and Draco actually groans aloud in his bed. He wants to teach her so many things. And she asked, after all. She asked him in the beginning, and she asked him again last night.

He spills across his hand, over his stomach and reaches for his wand.

What will he show her first? More shagging, of course. Give her a full experience not split down the middle by stabbing pain of the formal loss of virginity - no 'sort of' to be found, not any longer. And after he tastes her again, sinks his tongue deep inside and licks every drop of her. She was delicious, her arousal everywhere. He couldn't get enough of how he made her feel, what he was making her body do.

He can't control many things lately, but he can revel in the reactions Granger has to what he does for her.

But he's had plenty of that. She wants to do things, now, and it's not like Draco is going to say 'no.' He'd have been happy until he died from shagging her, just touching her and playing with her, coming inside her or on her. She doesn't have to do a damned thing, but if she wants to…

And if his dick is finally cooperating, he won't turn that down, either. Granger had bragged to Ginny Weasley that he'd gotten her off five times in three days (eight in four days, by last count, his brain chimes in) and that had certainly been an ego rush. But he'd been getting off too, for the first time in months. Even this, tonight, is unusual. A new resurgence of sexual activity.

Thinking about all this has him hard again, in fact. And forget the lack of erectile activity this school year, he hasn't been hard again this soon after wanking in years. No witch in sight.

He pictures her hair, her wild hair, splayed on a pillow. Her legs are against his shoulders, his hands on her feet. His thumbs press against her arches as he drives into her, and she's so incredibly wet and tight. No one else has ever been inside her, no one but him. Her mouth falls open, a strand of hair misbehaving with the motion to drape across her lips. He wants to move it for her, but her toes are starting to curl and his fingers tighten on her feet. Her breasts move up and down with his thrusts, her perfect round nipples high in the air. She gives her head a brisk shake, tossing the hair aside, and presses her face into the pillow as he –

He stares at her across the Great Hall.

She's talking to Potter and Weasley, and Draco's jealousy is nonexistent. They'd had a chance, but even if they wanted it, in her own words Granger didn't want to ruin friendships.

He refuses to let the subtext of this bother him, this morning. They weren't friends. They aren't friends. There's nothing to ruin. They're partners for several projects for NEWT subjects, that's all. No one will suspect anything, which Draco can have a little fun with, if he thinks about it the right way.

He'd love to know that she's doing things for him – things that no one else understands. First off, he thinks… maybe he'll buy her a pair of shoes. Something simple, not too far out of her norm, but something he'll know she's wearing just for him.

He'll have bought them and asked her to wear them, and because she is such a good girl, she will.

He'd never expected the reaction she'd have to that, to being praised, but neither did he expect how much he liked it. He didn't think he'd feel the same if it was Daphne, or even Astoria, even though she was younger and less experienced. This feels unique to Granger.

A good girl, a proper student, fighting for the 'good' side of things – whatever that means. No makeup, busy tugging her skirt down over her knees. But also, sexually naïve and yet brave enough to ask him of all people to take her virginity.

A good girl. His good girl.

He wants to see how much they can explore this designation. Not taking his eyes from her, Draco fumbles out a quill and parchment from his stack of books and materials. He pens out a quick note to a shop in Hogsmeade, taking a guess at her shoe size, and folds it up. As he's standing to make for the owlery, he stops.

Finch-Fletchley, a Hufflepuff, is pausing to chat to Granger.

Half-standing by the Slytherin table, one leg still behind the bench they all sit on, Draco sees red.

Finchy is touching her arm, laughing and leaning closer to her. One hand rises and Draco thinks he might even brush Granger's hair behind her shoulder.

He thinks he might break the hand if Finchy tries. He can feel his jaw clench and he forces his vision to focus on Finchy's hand returning to its proper location on the strap of his book satchel.

No one else has ever touched her.

It doesn't matter to Draco if it's a casual brush in the Great Hall or something more. No one else will ever touch her.

Malfoys collect things. Rare things, unique things. Things that are one of a kind. Draco doesn't think his father has ever parted with a single item once he's obtained something of great value. If, a week ago, someone had told Draco he'd consider Hermione Granger part of this collection, he'd have scoffed.

Publicly, he'd still have to. Privately is a different matter.

He'd been expecting her to back out from the moment she'd asked him to shag her. He'd given her every opportunity to voice a protest and when it came to the actual shagging, he'd verified her intent several times. He still couldn't believe it. Why did she want him?

But she had. And now... now that he knows he's the only person she's ever had, the only one to even give her an orgasm, he's not letting go.

("Did you think I'd just let you walk back out of here and get on with your life?")

Not a chance.

("Not a chance.")

This conflicts somewhat with his current mission. Draco hasn't figured out how to wrangle that, yet, the cohabitation of his competing drives. In the meantime, there are still three months until summer. Three months until his mission has to be finished, must be, or else. The clock ticks down. His stress levels rise accordingly. Draco looks for a way to reduce them. It's been like that all term, and the whole first half of sixth year, too. But now he has a way. He has something good, at last, at long last.

Finch-Fletchley isn't going to take it from him. No one else will, either.

The purchased shoes arrive directly to him, of course. He couldn't risk having them delivered straight to her and having the shopkeeper know he'd bought something for Hermione Granger. Knowing what the box contains, he doesn't open it. He squirrels it up to his dorm to inspect the shoes in person, where he puts a complicated sizing charm on them. Within a close enough margin, they'll fit to her feet perfectly. And he thinks he got close enough.

'Potions project, library, 9pm,' he writes hurriedly without signing his name, sending it back out with his owl Fox.

Throughout lessons, he's distracted again. He'd caught her not paying attention a few days ago and silently admonished her for it, but now he's the guilty one. He manhandles his occlumency back in Herbology, making himself listen and trying to forget that her table is behind his own. He can't see her. He can't see if she got the shoes, if she's wearing them. He didn't tell her what to do with them; not yet. She can see him, though, and he makes himself concentrate on that instead. He needs to seem like he has it together.

He hears Seamus Finnegan say something to her and grits his teeth when she gives a light laugh.

Zabini kicks him under the table and gestures to his fist, which is currently squeezing the life out of a gurdyroot.

They aren't even fussing with gurdyroots, which are a second-year Herbology lesson, and he has no idea how one got in his hand in the first place.

He manages to ignore her during dinner, forcing himself to eat with Theo and Pansy, but he doesn't kill the rest of his time in the Slytherin common room. He grabs his bags and heads for the library anyway, even though he's early. He'll get something done there, maybe, or maybe -

She's early.

Of course she is; doesn't she almost always beat him here for their project sessions? But this is early even for her.

Draco tucks into a shelf and watches her for a few minutes. The corner they always use is dim until they get right under the light, and he can't see her feet. They're tucked under her chair, crossed at the ankles as she leans forward to write on her parchment. Her hair is spilling over her face and trailing onto the table while she writes. He wonders if she ever gets ink in it. She must.

Her skirt drapes just over her kneecaps and Draco smirks to himself as he conjures a dark addition to the table, shielding the front view of her in shadow.

He doesn't want to risk anyone seeing what they're about to do. Or hear them, for that matter, and he casts a muffliato.

She's so absorbed in her work, she doesn't even notice. He stifles a chuckle and relishes the way she seems to get flustered when he emerges from the rack of books.

"No Come and Go Room tonight, then?" she asks, a little breathlessly, and his own heart speeds up. Does she sound disappointed? He thinks she does.

"Not tonight. Tonight we're going to work on something different. And it isn't Potions," he adds, teasing her a little.

"Well, it's a bit of a poor spot to work on Potions themselves," she starts to ramble, "but I thought you might have wanted to read more about the theory of -"

Draco drops his bag on the floor with a thump and settles himself in the second chair. "We can read more about theories of all sorts of things, but tonight is going to be more hands-on."

He loves the colour in her cheeks. "Here?" she squeaks, brown eyes wide.

"Now, Granger," he can't help himself now, "a few days ago, you were asking me to shag you right here."

"Not here specifically," she sputters and he holds up a hand.

"We've snogged here already," he points out unnecessarily, knowing she's recalling every second of it without his help.

She tries to regain her composure and it's adorable. "So is that what we're doing?"

Draco lets her linger a moment. "No."

Her face flushes again, and he still can't quite pin down whether it's disappointment he sees. She shifts her weight in her chair and finally whispers, "I wore the shoes."

"Did you now?" He's intrigued. "Let's see, then."

He thinks she wants him to tell her that it was good to wear them, that she did well. That she did what he'd intended, but he doesn't. She stretches out one ankle and with a surreptitious look around, Draco lifts it until her foot is propped on his knee.

"Do you like them?" he murmurs, running one hand over them. They're not dissimilar to her usual Mary Janes, except they have a slightly higher heel. It's something most people probably wouldn't even notice as higher, but Draco can't wait to see how great her legs look in even higher heels and that'll come one step at a time. And these have a small little peep-toe where the tip of her toes show just a bit.

She nods, almost furtively, and he leans into her ear. "Wear them every day this week."

He's still handling her foot, letting his thumb stroke her ankle, when she breathes out her agreement.

"And if anybody asks," he continues, "tell them you fancied something... different."

He thinks he can feel a small shiver run through her and he gently puts her foot back on the ground. Enough for now. He reaches into his satchel and retrieves his Potions notes, their collaborative work, and a quill. Granger's looking at him from the side, clearly thrown off but not saying anything. Finally, she sorts through her own pile of books and settles in to work alongside him.

Draco lets them both get a few minutes into this before grabbing her chair leg and sliding her right next to him without warning. She stifles a small shriek and whirls around to see if she was overheard.

"Don't worry, I silenced things," he tells her absently, still sifting through his papers. Once her breathing levels back out, Draco moves a hand to her leg.

She stops breathing at once and he masks a grin. "Keep writing," he encourages her quietly, sliding his hand beneath her skirt. Granger hesitates before diving into her bag for a spare piece of parchment and he can't hide the grin now. "Don't want to ruin all your hard work? Smart girl."

This time he does feel the shiver run all the way down her leg, beneath his hand, which he moves higher.

"We can't, though," she manages, eyes darting around. "Someone could walk up any minute."

"They can't see anything. I charmed the table."

At this, Granger ducks to the side and down so fast, her hair catches him in the face. She inspects the front of the table. "When did you - never mind," she shakes her head, face flaming.

"Before I sat down," he answers anyway. "And you don't have to worry. I'd never let anyone see you."

He meets her eyes directly, enjoying the flame in hers. It matches the heat flickering up his stomach and he wonders if it does for her, too.

"So tonight, we're going to work on this project of ours, in our usual table at the library, like we often do. The game, Granger, is that even though it's too dark for people to see beneath the table and they can't hear anything specific, they can see us. So you have to look and act like we're doing our usual sort of revision. Can you do that?"

She swallows and nods, her eyes wide.

"Good girl," he whispers to her, committing to memory the way her eyes darken, her pupils dilating. He turns back to his own notebook and slides his hand fully under her skirt. "Let's get to work, then."

Draco pulls her spare parchment to the middle of the table, as if they're both inspecting it, and holds his quill in his left hand. His right snakes between her legs, which she parts agreeably, and he feels the centre of her knickers with a finger. His resolve is also tested immediately when she's already wet, and Draco reminds himself that he can't be the one to fail the game this early. He closes his eyes instead and makes himself focus them on the parchment on the table.

Granger's sucked in some air but otherwise not responded and Draco wiggles his finger beneath the hem of her knickers to slip between her folds. She exhales what she just sucked in, but keeps looking at their 'work.'

"Write something down there, won't you?" he prompts, truly curious about what she'll come up with.

That turns out to be a snippet from the introduction to A History of Magic. "Trying to draw this out, are you?" Draco comments, impressed despite himself. "Alright, then."

This angle is hard, though. His hand is turned to the side and almost upside down, and he doesn't think she needs to draw anything out deliberately. This might take him a while anyhow. He doesn't mind in the least, so long as he can get the job done without getting a hand cramp right before she finishes.

Granger shifts in her chair, letting her knees fall further apart and scooting slightly closer to the edge. That does help, and he's able to get his finger in deeper, deep enough to slip the tip of his finger against her on his way back out. The angle is perfect for that, as a matter of fact. Draco approves. He thinks she does, too, based on the small noise she immediately muffles behind a hand.

He can't get his thumb in a good position, though. Oh well. He speeds up with his fingers instead, slicking in and out of her wet heat to coat her, inside and out. He moves his index finger on her nerves rapidly, flicking it, and her quill staggers on the parchment.

"Careful, now," he whispers in the direction of the table, and she tries to gather herself. "You don't look very studious at the moment."

"Have you done this before?" she asks breathlessly, and he's a little surprised. She's vacillated between wanting to know more about his various experience and wanting to ignore the details.

"This?" he answers honestly. "No. Fun, though, isn't it?"

He swirls around her clit again and sinks his finger back in her. Granger tightens around him and he relishes the sensation. She closes her eyes and holds her breath, swallowing. Finally, she re-focusses on the tabletop, quill still in hand.

"Keep that in your right hand," he tells her next, and she glances at him expectantly. The mix of trust and anticipation he sees there nearly stops his heart. "With your left hand, touch me."

Her eyes widen again at this but she does as instructed, fumbling a bit with the button. She's right-handed and this provides a delightful extension to things, her hand and fingers brushing all against him before she's ever set him free.

This poses a new problem, though, one he should have foreseen. He quickly stacks a few books in front of them, elevating the profile of the table to hide his erection. She traces her fingers up and down his length, just like the other night, and Draco re-commits to his fingers inside her instead.

He rolls his jaw and concentrates, letting her touch him as she likes. But she'd asked him to teach her, and so he leans back in. "Keep writing, love." He sets down his own quill and wraps his left hand over hers. He shows her how to grip him, how to move up and down, where to squeeze. Where to pay extra attention. But this requires a level of coordination, when combined with his right hand beneath her skirt, he can't maintain. No matter; she seems to have the gist of it.

Her hand is so small around him. She's staring at the table like she should be, and even manages to shuffle a notebook to the side as if she's looking for something. She twists a little at the top with her hand, and he whispers, "Just like that." At his words, she gives a little squeeze, her hand in sync with what's between her legs.

Draco grips himself at the base, giving her the top half to work with. She runs her thumb over his tip and he barely holds in a groan. "That's so good."

She tightens too, and he feels her arousal on his hand. She's breathing more heavily and he murmurs, "Keep going. Keep doing that." It's just general feedback, but of course it does mean she's doing a good job of it, and he thinks she might be getting close.

She gives him a squeeze and a twist, her thumb skating over the ridge at the top and down beneath it, and he realises he's about to come. "Gods, Granger. Yes, like that. Do that -"

She does and he spills into his own lap, trying his best to stay still. When he can think again, he realises she's extremely wet. Sopping wet around his hand, her knickers soaked through. "You like that, don't you?" he asks her intently and she gives the barest nod.

He sinks his fingers in again, deep and stroking, and speeds up in time with her heavier breathing.

"Now, don't react," he tells her. He knows this will be hard. She's so responsive. "I don't want to hear a single thing out of you. I want you to show me everything you think and feel right here," he says, and presses into her. She clenches on him but doesn't make a peep. "Good girl."

She's practically panting and she puts down her quill. She props her elbow on the table and rests her forehead in her hand, as if something she's reading is vexing her. This is a good idea, but Draco knows that in spite of her best efforts - and his - there's no way they'd fool anyone who happened to be watching. He takes a quick glance around to satisfy himself that they're still alone, and rededicates his fingers.

"Hold it in," Draco whispers. "Let it out here." He presses into her again, scraping his fingers, and she tries to compress herself. This is how she comes, he knows, every muscle tensed for it.

"Keep those pretty new shoes on the floor for me," he instructs, wanting to draw it out. She's trying not to whimper, her eyes squeezed shut, and he curls against her inner wall while flicking at her clit haphazardly. He wished he had a better angle, but this one is going to work just fine.

She sucks in a breath and does hold it, trying to rock slightly onto his hand as Draco does his best to hit the right spot. He can't look at the table; he has to watch her face. One more stroke and she starts to come. Her legs try to jerk up but she remembers his words and plants them back on the ground.

He leans into her hair and whispers, "Good," as she convulses around him. Her hand is fisted in her hair and he feels her abdomen jerk with the waves of her orgasm.

She's so tight around him, Draco can't help but wish they were shagging. But she had asked him to show her how to touch him the way he touches her, and he'd gotten her off, too. And they'd had a bit of new fun with it in the meantime.

There's plenty of time for shagging.

He cleans up quietly, Granger straightening her skirt. She's shifting her weight around awkwardly for a few minutes before he realises she's taking off her knickers. Seeing his face, she turns bright red and hurries to explain, "They're just - well, wet."

Ah. And uncomfortable to wear. Draco understands at once. He could dry them. Hell, she could dry them, but he holds out his hand for them instead.

He waits until she's packed up her bag and they're about to leave before saying quietly, "Don't forget to wear the shoes."