a/n: TW: This chapter contains a scene of sexual assault. Please mind your triggers.

Malfoy apparated them directly into the living room of his flat. In an instant, he was cupping her face in his palms and staring intently into her eyes. "Can I kiss you again?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "Yes," she replied, feeling breathless.

His lips were on hers in an instant. He was still gentle, still careful, but more persistent this time. It still wasn't enough. She wanted more. Hermione summoned her Gryffindor bravery and took charge, running her tongue along the seam of his lips. Malfoy had teased her here last time, not quite asking for permission. Hermione could feel his body go suddenly still, before he parted his lips and allowed her entrance. His hands skated down her sides, and his fingers were on her waist, pulling her closer. She needed him closer, too, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his face down to her.

All at once, it had grown exceedingly intense, and Hermione briefly wondered if she had taken things too far, but then the kiss started to shift. Malfoy regained control and he slowed. There was still passion in his kiss, but there was also a meticulousness to it. He was exploring her, tasting her, getting to know her. It was slow and gentle, a characteristic Hermione had begun to associate with Malfoy, and she could've laughed if his luscious lips weren't currently pressed to hers. The kiss slowed further, and his lips began to linger just before he pulled away and pressed his forehead to hers. His lips were red and plump from their kiss, and his cheeks sported a healthy flush. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling. "Thank you for coming home with me," he said hoarsely.

Hermione's brain must have short-circuited in that moment, because she could not find the words to reply to him.

His gray eyes opened and peered down at her. The corner of his mouth quirked, and he raised an eyebrow at her. "Never thought I'd see the day Hermione Granger didn't have some quick-witted response prepared."

That snapped her out of it. She lightly smacked him across the chest. "You don't have to be such a prat," Hermione replied.

Malfoy grinned and caught her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. His expression turned serious "I jest," he said quietly. "But I meant the 'thank you.'"

Hermione couldn't help but grin back at him. "You're welcome," she replied, squeezing his fingers.

He kissed her forehead before pulling away. "Let me get you some fresh pajamas, and you can have a shower," Malfoy said, gesturing to the washroom.

Hermione heard herself groan. "Oh, gods. Thank you. A shower sounds wonderful."

Malfoy quickly collected a set of pajamas and a fresh towel before returning to her, his brows furrowed. "That reminds me," he said, lightly biting his lip in concentration, "How do you normally shower?"

Not wanting to answer that question, Hermione reached for the pajamas and towel he was holding.

At once he withdrew them, his eyes narrowing. "No, tell me."

Hermione grinned at him and snatched the stack of fabrics from his arms. She quickly raised herself up on her toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I will tell you," she promised. "After my shower."

Malfoy hesitated only momentarily before rolling his eyes. "Fine. Go," he said, motioning towards the washroom\. "Enjoy." He grinned at her.

Gods, he was so handsome.

As much as she had wanted to linger in the shower the last time she had been at Malfoy's flat, Hermione now found herself rushing, eager to return to Malfoy. Impatiently, she waited for the water to rinse the final dregs of shampoo from her hair, her stomach bubbling with excitedness.

Malfoy had kissed her, more than once. It had made him smile.

She'd made him smile.

Hermione hastily combed and dried her hair before pulling on Malfoy's pajamas and returning to the living room where she found Malfoy, now dressed in another pair of pajamas and reading a book on the couch. As Hermione approached, he closed the book and raised an eyebrow at her. "The fact that you didn't answer my question means it's dangerous, doesn't it?"

"What?" Hermione asked, feigning ignorance.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "That's a yes, if I've ever heard one."

Hermione sighed, sitting next to him on the couch. "I normally just using a cleaning charm," she replied. "But sometimes I just…." Hermione paused, biting her lip. "I just need to feel something, I guess. There's a little lake not too far from my tent. When it's warm, I'd go there."

Malfoy sighed but didn't say anything.

"Not anymore," Hermione continued, looking directly into his piercing gray eyes. "I won't. Don't worry."

He studied her for a moment before nodding. "Okay," he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into him. He kissed the top of her head. "Okay."

Hermione allowed herself to settle against him, appreciating the strength and solidness of him. She grabbed the book from his hands. Potion Making for the Modern Wizard: Art and Theory. "Just a bit of light reading?" she asked, sarcastically.

"Fine, I'm a Potions swot," Malfoy admitted, his tone light.

"I love it when I'm right," Hermione replied, leaning further into Malfoy's embrace and opening the book.

"Did you just steal my book?" Malfoy asked, even as he moved to be closer to her on the couch.

"Yep," she replied, flipping to a random page and pretending to read.

Malfoy plucked the book from her hands. "Find your own," he said, smirking at her.

Hermione made to grab the book again, but Malfoy pulled away from her. Her palms landed soundly on his chest as they shifted on the couch. "But I never finished the section on Bubotuber pus!" she protested.

"You are infuriating," Malfoy replied, grinning up at her.

"You'reinfuriating—why are you smiling at me?" Hermione asked, unable to stop herself from grinning back. Potion Making for the Modern Wizard was now the furthest thing from her mind.

Her hair had fallen into her face by now. and Malfoy tucked one of her errant curls behind her ear. "I suppose you just have that effect on me." He was still grinning at her.

She kissed him. She couldn't help it. His smile undid her.

When she pulled away his smile was even wider, and she could feel the blush staining her cheeks. "Well," he said, "the section on Bubotuber pus is particularly interesting. I suppose I could stand for a reread." Malfoy moved, making room on the couch. He patted the empty space next to him. Hermione instantly slid beside him, resting her head partially on the back of the couch, and partially on Malfoy's shoulder. He opened the book once more, flipping to the section Hermione had been reading previously and propped the book up so they both could read.

They sat in silence for a long time, and Hermione was pleasantly surprised to find that Malfoy read at similar pace as she did. She was struck with the thought that she'd never read with anyone before—not like this, at least. It could've been awkward, or uncomfortable—it could have highlighted how fundamentally mismatched they were. Instead, like everything with Malfoy, it was easy, it was simple—and most of all, it was comfortable, almost as if it were instinctual, as if they understood each other on a deeper level. It was almost as if it were—well, right.

It had been a long time since anything had felt right to Hermione, and it had been an even longer time since anything had felt easy.

But this. This, with Malfoy—this, was easy.

She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that it took her several moments to realize that Malfoy hadn't turned to the next page yet. Hermione tilted her head up to find that Malfoy was watching her with a small smirk, his eyebrow raised as he looked down at her. "You think rather loudly, you know," he said.

"Sorry," Hermione replied. "I was thinking about how healing potions containing Bubotuber pus might interact with potions containing—ginger," she lied.

If Malfoy caught the lie, he made no indication. "If it's an oral potion, ginger could help alleviate some of the nausea that sometimes occurs. Bubotuber pus is notoriously difficult on the stomach, even when it's incredibly diluted." Malfoy lightly chewed his lip, clearly thinking. "If used in a topical potion, ginger may increase the likelihood of causing skin irritation—perhaps even burns."

Watching Malfoy thinking critically about Potion Theory did something strange to Hermione's insides. Her stomach was practically doing somersaults. "You really are a Potions swot," she replied.

"I thought I was in good company," Malfoy said, nodding towards her.

Hermione smiled at him. "You are," she agreed, once again resting her head on Malfoy's shoulder.

She felt his face tilt against her forehead. "But you weren't thinking about Bubotuber pus and ginger, were you?" he asked after a moment.

Hermione sighed. Her first instinct was to lie to him. But almost immediately, Hermione reconsidered. She didn't want to lie to him. He hadn't lied to her. And if this dynamic with Malfoy was as right, and as easy as Hermione was beginning to suspect, then there was no reason for her to lie to him. Since the day Malfoy had revealed that he was a spy for the Order, Hermione had wanted to trust him. To her, he had been a beacon of hope that could lead her back to her friends, and back to the Order. He was hope that everything had not been lost. He had been everything she had been desperate to find since the day Harry had trudged alone into the Forbidden Forest.

But now, even though he still made her feel hopeful and desperate, those feelings had morphed. It wasn't the hope for her friends, the desperation to return to the Order, to the fight. Instead, the hope and desperation were for him. For his smile, for the way he looked at her, the way he kissed her.

And she found she couldn't lie in the face of all that.

So, instead, she told him the truth. "I was thinking that this was nice," Hermione said quietly. "Just—reading with someone. It's nice." She paused, feeling a blush rise on her neck. "And now that I've said it, I'm realizing how pathetic it sounds."

Malfoy stared at her for a moment. "It doesn't sound pathetic at all," he replied simply. "I've been alone, too, Granger. For even longer than you."

Hermione hadn't even considered that. He had been alone—almost entirely since Sixth Year.

She could remember the way he had looked that year, so suddenly and viscerally that she was practically transported back to Hogwarts. Hermione could see him—too thin and pale and pointy, and she had thought it strange at the time that he hadn't played Quidditch that year. He had been quieter, too. Less boastful and more subdued. He hadn't spoken much in classes, and he had frequently been absent or late.

A plan. All of it.

"You're thinking again," Malfoy said, once more interrupting her thoughts.

"Sorry," Hermione replied. Seeking knowledge that did not involve Potion-making even in the slightest, she slammed the book shut and pulled herself up next to Malfoy, tucking her knees into her chest and staring down at him, where he still laid on the couch, clearly confused. "I think I've had enough talk of Bubotuber pus for one evening."

Malfoy's expression remained unchanged. He had one eyebrow raised, clearly requesting further information.

Hermione took a deep breath and she saw Malfoy's expression immediately turn to worry. She didn't want him to worry. Instinctively, she took his hand and laced their fingers together. He was very tense. Hermione squeezed his fingers, hoping to comfort him. "Tell me," she said quietly.

"What?" he asked.

"I remember you during Sixth Year. It didn't occur to me until just now that you were alone even then," Hermione replied.

His fingers flinched against hers. "Yes," Malfoy replied tightly.

In an instant he was that Malfoy again. The one who had hurt her, who had teased her—the Malfoy who had called her Mudblood with a chuckle and a wicked sneer. But then she stared down at him, at the man who was letting her hold his hand. And there—she could just barely see it—was the smallest flash of insecurity.

When he kissed her, he looked happy.

He wasn't that Malfoy anymore. Hermione wasn't entirely sure that he had ever been that Malfoy.

No. He was Draco.

When she kissed him, her stomach did somersaults.

"I want to hear about Sixth Year," Hermione replied simply.

He stared at her intently for several seconds before averting his eyes. "I've never talked about it with anyone before," he said quietly, gently rubbing his thumb against hers.

"You don't have to. But if you wanted to—I'd listen. I—I want to know, Draco."

His eyes flickered to hers. "I think that's only the second time I've ever heard you call me Draco."

Another thought struck her. She had rarely heard anyone ever refer to him as anything other than Malfoy. She wondered if it had ever bothered him, and whether anyone had ever bothered to even care.

He had been so built up by perceptions. He was a Malfoy, a pureblood and one of the most powerful families in the Wizarding world—practically royalty, if there had been such a thing. He was wealthy, unbelievably so. The Malfoy name was a precursor to who he was as a person. He was a Malfoy, and that was all that one ever needed to know about him.

And, perhaps, all of those things were true, or had been true before his family had been decimated by Vodemort. In the presence of a war, he had lost the ability to hide behind his family name, and in the process had revealed his true nature to Hermione.

So, then, the man sitting before her was Draco. His name, his legacy, his money—none of that mattered now, especially not her.

"I think I like Draco," Hermione said simply.

Draco's eyes flashed with something that Hermione couldn't quite identify.

"I thought Hermione was a silly name—But I suppose it has grown on me."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I was just thinking," she said. "Everyone always called you Malfoy, and I just—wondered if you even liked being called that."

Draco looked pained for a moment. "I did," he said softly, his eyes not meeting Hermione's. "Not so much anymore."

Hermione had expected as much and she noddded. "Like I said," she repeated. "I think I prefer Draco."

There was that flicker in his eyes again, and this time, Hermione saw that there was a kaleidoscope of emotions behind his normally carefully schooled façade, and she realized that she had only begun to graze the surface of the complexity that was Draco Malfoy and Hermione found herself wanting to know more. She wanted to know everything.

Draco sighed, suddenly looking exhausted. "One day," he began, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, "I'll tell you whatever you wanted to know. But not tonight."

Hermione nodded. That seemed fair. "Okay," she agreed, leaning into his embrace. Hermione felt him drop a kiss to the top of her head. His lips lingered for a moment.

"I think I've only ever heard you call me Hermione twice," Hermione said, echoing Draco's own sentiment.

Against her, he grinned. "Like I've said, while it is a rather silly name, it has grown on me a fair bit."

"I'm sure it has," Hermione replied, rolling her eyes, even as she further relaxed into his arms.

Being with him was just so easy.

There had been several heavy moments that had just transpired between them, and it could have ruined their comfort—their sense of ease. But it didn't—it hadn't even come close. Instead, Hermione found herself taking comfort in the form of Draco Malfoy. And, judging by how relaxed his arms were around her, she suspected it was the same for him.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a long time, and Hermione found herself growing sleepy in the warm circle of Draco's arms. She had nearly dozed off when Draco's voice interrupted the silence. "I usually have a bit of tea before bed. Care for some?" he asked.

"Sure," Hermione replied, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

While Draco went into the kitchen to make the tea, Hermione made her way to one of the small windows one the far side of Draco's flat. The curtains were thick and always drawn when she was there, and she found herself curious about where Draco lived.

Hermione pushed one of the curtains back, and she was surprised by what she found. For some reason, she had expected an abandoned street, thick with filth and grime—instead she was greeted by a well-maintained boulevard bustling with witches and wizards all dressed in sleek black robes. Across the street from Draco's flat was a busy pub filled to the absolute brim, with several guests outside drinking and smoking Muggle cigarettes. They appeared to be having a great time laughing and dancing with each other.

Draco came up behind her, handing her a cup of tea and wrapping his arms around her midsection. "Don't let it fool you," he murmured into her ear.

Hermione shook her head and took a sip of tea. "It's just not what I was expecting," she replied. "I guess I wasn't expecting anything. It's so quiet in here."

Against her, Hermione felt Draco swallow. "Silencing charms," he replied tightly. "It can get rowdy later in the evening."

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of this comment until out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a witch and wizard around the corner of the pub. The witch's robes were pushed up, the wizard's hands beneath them. The witch appeared to be crying. Hermione's stomach clenched and she felt herself grow stiff. Her breathing quickened.

"Hermione?" Draco asked, tilting his head to follow her line of sight. "Oh, fuck," he swore. "Turn around, Hermione. Don't look."

She couldn't move. She was paralyzed. With the help of Draco's arms around her, she felt herself turning to face him. Hermione buried her face in his chest and breathed in his scent—mahogany and teakwood. She focused on it. She was shaking.

In an instant she had been transported back to the woods, the Snatcher on top of her. "He's hurting her," Hermione said into Draco's chest, her heart racing.

Draco took a step back and Hermione missed him immediately. But then his hands were cupping her face gently and he was peering into her eyes. He studied her for a moment. Then, he gave a frustrated sigh and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Stay here," he said, pulling away from her fully.

He practically transformed in front of her. In only a matter of moments, he had gone from Draco—happy and relaxed—to a Death Eater, formidable, his face stone cold and harsh. He pulled on one of his pristine black robes and dragonhide boots, standing to his full height. The last thing Hermione saw before he donned his Death Eater mask were his light gray eyes, fixed on her face. They were deadly. "Stay here," he repeated, his voice harsher now. He promptly disapparated.

Immediately, Hermione turned back to the window. She watched as Draco promptly reappeared at the corner of the pub, as if he had just exited the building. He walked across the street with a swagger Hermione was sure she hadn't seen since their Hogwarts days. He was the very picture of a Death Eater: Cool, calm, collected—confident and perhaps on the verge of murder. This wasn't the man who had just held her hand and made her tea. This was someone else entirely.

This was Malfoy, the Death Eater.

As Hermione watched, Draco pulled the wizard away from the witch with a sharp yank on his perfectly pressed robes. The force of Draco's pull was so strong that the wizard immediately began coughing and sputtering.

Good, Hermione thought. Let him choke.

Hermione's focus immediately turned to the witch, who had stopped crying. Her eyes were wide with shock and confusion, watching on as the masked Death Eater pulled her assailant further away, pinning him forcefully against the wall of the pub. Despite the silencing charms, Hermione was certain she could hear the sharp crack as the wizard's skull connected with the brick wall. The Death Eater held his wand to the wizard's throat, and Hermione did not need to hear the words to understand the threat Draco was whispering into the wizard's ear.

Draco released his hold on the wizard, who promptly turned and ran in the opposite direction. With an errant flick of his wand, Draco sent a harmless spark to the wizard's heels. The man nearly jumped out of his skin as he ran across the street.

Hermione watched as Draco's attention turned to the witch, who was still pressed against the brick wall, her eyes wide. He nodded at the woman. "Go," Hermione watched him say.

The witch nodded back. "Thank you," she mouthed before turning on her heel and disappearing into the night. The Death Eater waited several seconds before turning the other direction, promptly getting lost in the crowd around the pub, before disappearing all together.

He reappeared seconds later in the flat. Hermione turned to face him as he was removing his mask. His face was tight, his jaw clenched so tightly Hermione was afraid he'd crack a tooth. She went to him, touching his cheek gently with her palm. He instantly relaxed at her touch. "Marcus," Draco murmured. "Fucking scumbag."

"Flint?" Hermione asked, surprised.

Draco nodded into her palm. "Not the first time I've caught him," he said coldly.

Hermione wrapped her arms around him and she felt him sag against her. "You saved that girl," she said.

Draco merely shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "I told him I'd kill him next time."

Hermione didn't know how to respond to that. She simply held him tighter.

"Fuck," Draco swore, pulling away from her. "You're shaking."

Was she? She had forgotten.

From his Death Eater robes, Draco pulled out his flask. "Here," he said, pouring a bit of firewhiskey into the cup of tea she hadn't realized she was still clutching. He took a long swig directly from the flask, wincing as he did so.

Hermione suspected he was more shaken by the incident than he wanted to let on. Draco took a second swallow as she took a sip of her tea. It was the perfect amount of firewhiskey, warming her throat and stomach as it simultaneously calmed her nerves. She realized she was exhausted. It had been an incredibly long day.

Draco seemed to have made the same realization. "Come on," he said, taking her hand and pulling her towards his bedroom. "You should get some rest." Hermione followed him, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Draco, still in his Death Eater robes, kneeled before her, resting his hand on her knee and staring up at her. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Hermione took another sip of tea and bit her lip, trying to figure out how to answer that question. "I'm okay," she finally replied. "But, Draco, can I ask you something?"

"Anything," he replied promptly.

"Am I—am I safe here?" Hermione asked.

Draco's expression hardened."You aren't safe anywhere, Hermione. None of us are," he said. "But I will do everything I can to make sure you're safe here." He reached into his bedside drawer, pulling out the Portkey and Narcissa Malfoy's wand. "These are yours in any event that you need them. I have my coin on me at all times. There are over a dozen protective wards on this flat—I will know if anyone ever attempts to intrude. There are three different silencing charms, and no one can see into the windows. If you're safe anyplace, it's here."

He could have lied and simply said yes, but ultimately, Hermione would have known it was a lie. What he said was the truth—No one was safe, not in this world, not during this war.

But he would keep her safe. She knew that to be the absolute truth.

Hermione kissed him. He tasted like firewhiskey and her lips tingled.

"I will keep you safe, Hermione," Draco said. He was staring up at her, his gray eyes boring into her.

"I know," she replied softly.

Draco's eyes softened and he kissed the corner of her jaw. "Good," he said. "Now, you should get some rest."

Hermione nodded. Truthfully, she was feeling quite tired, and the comfort of Draco's bed was practically calling out to her.

Draco lifted up the corner of the emerald green comforter and Hermione instantly shifted on the bed, crawling beneath the comforter and laying her head on the pillow. Draco pulled the comforter back over her before kneeling beside the bed. He tucked a stray curl behind her ear before he kissed her forehead "Goodnight. I'll be on the couch if you need me."

She was so tired. So very tired. But still, part of her wanted to ask him to stay. She liked his arms around her. She liked the way he smelled. She knew, instinctively, that if he stayed she would sleep better. But so much had happened today already, and she didn't have the energy to even ask.

Hermione burrowed further into Draco's bed. You aren't safe anywhere, Hermione. None of us are. She knew this to be the truth, but as she looked at the Portkey and the wand on the bedside table, and thought of Draco asleep—wand in hand—Hermione felt she couldn't be anywhere safer.

It was the last thought she had before she fell asleep.

a/n: See ya next week! Thoughts are always appreciated.