Twenty-Four

Hermione sleeps alone that night. It's awful. Draco's just through the wall in the spare room, but he might as well be in Australia. She'd heard him limping past the door earlier as she sat on the edge of the bed waiting for him while she was still trying to calm down from the nearly hysterical, very shrill scolding she'd given Harry and Ron. She'd really let loose on them – perhaps even more than they deserved – channelling all her anger at them, and all her fear for Draco, into one furious meltdown. And then she'd stormed upstairs and slammed the door, fury bubbling under her skin, feeling hot, and teary, and miserable.

She hadn't expected Draco to just walk past their bedroom when he came up, finally. She'd expected that awkward limp to lead to a knock on the door, at least. An opportunity for her to apologise. For him to say he wouldn't insist on fighting. Her stomach had plummeted sickly, her hands curling into tight, clammy fists as she'd heard the spare room door shut with a quiet click.

She feels torn asunder by the distance stretching out between them, like half of her heart has been scooped from her chest, bleeding and ruined. Hermione both hates the feeling itself – horrible and sick-making – and hates that she feels that way. She doesn't know if it's normal to feel so wounded by this separation rather than just the argument, but she almost certainly thinks not. It's like a simmering anxiety and distress beneath her skin, and there's a tight feeling in her chest, a hot fear eating through her. Being so dependent on him makes her angry – not at him, because it's not his fault, but at life – and that anger drives her to a stubborn refusal to cave and go try to talk, or apologise.

If not for that dependent need, Hermione thinks she probably would've gone through to the spare room and tried to reconcile with Draco because she feels awful for what she said. She wishes she could take the words back. Stuff them back down her throat and choke on them. It had been cruel and unfair. He hadn't picked the fight with Harry and Ron – and Merlin, she was furious with them – and he wasn't a bad person for wanting to fight in the war. If anything, the latter illustrates his goodness, despite his insistence he's a monster. But in an ironic twist, Hermione's desperate, animal desire to go to Draco is the very thing that pushes her to stay away.

She refuses to give in to it. To do so would feel like being controlled by her trauma.

So instead, Hermione spends her evening curled up in bed, miserable and caught between desire and anger, her infuriating need itching at her as she runs over what had happened in a nightmarish loop. The sex – and oh god, that had been amazing. Draco standing there between Harry and Ron, blood smearing his face, unrepentant. The feel of his back under her fingers. The way she'd said what she'd said to him. That horrible attack. That cruel verbal stab. I'm sick of you apologising to me after you've put your dick in me. The memory of his face at the moment she'd spoken makes her feel hot and cold all over. She regrets it with an intensity that hurts. She cries a little, but less than she thought she would, as a sense of numbness begins to slowly blanket her. The whole day has exhausted her, and that just makes her want Draco more.

He is her comfort, and now he's angry at her. Wounded by her. It's a wretched, fucking terrible feeling.

What if he hates her now? What if she hurt him too badly? What if he thinks she hates him? Hermione's head is an incoherent jumble of fears.

She ends up slipping quietly from her room and asking Tonks for a vial of Dreamless Sleep before it gets too late – unable to stand another minute of lying awake, knowing that Draco is right there, and not going to him. Unwilling to feed her dependency; she feels like a drug addict. She lies down, head on her pillows and blankets tucked neatly around her as she stares up at the ceiling, vial in hand. A part of her hopes with a frantic desperation that he'll come into the bedroom and take the choice away from her. End her suffering without her having to give in to her maddening itch. But he doesn't.

So she uncorks the vial and drinks the potion, and shortly thereafter, slides into merciful nothingness.

"Oh, Hermione," Lupin says with mild surprise as he appears at the office doorway, and Hermione rubs her eyes, glancing at the clock. It's nearly midnight. That means she's spent almost three hours on nine lines of encrypted text that she still hasn't managed to make heads or tails of. She's thought she solved it more than once, but the encryption never works out. No wonder her head is aching. The fact that she worked through most of the day probably hasn't helped. Really, she should have put her work aside hours ago, but it distracts her from obsessing over Draco, at least.

She hasn't spoken to him all day, and she's only seen him once. Hermione feels all tangled up remembering it – she'd gone to leave their bedroom mid-morning, and she'd seen him coming up the stairs. Their eyes had met for a split second before Hermione had backed swiftly back into the bedroom and shut the door. He'd seen her, she knew it. He'd seen her run from him. She'd heard his footsteps, slowing outside the door. Stopping. She'd leaned against it, her breath coming fast and heavy, and she wasn't sure if she'd wanted him to knock or not. But after a few seconds, the footsteps had started again, and then a moment later, she'd heard the spare room door shut.

Hermione still wasn't sure why she'd avoided him – embarrassment? Fear that he'd be angry with her? But in the moment she'd felt so awful, remembering what she'd said to him and how coldly furious it had made him. His anger had made him look like a stranger. A dangerous, wounded animal. Except if she hadn't avoided him, if she hadn't been such a coward, perhaps they could have sorted it all out. Instead, she'd hidden, and their rift had dragged on all day. Hermione feels all hot and stupid just remembering the way she'd fled from him. The little glimpse of angry hurt on his face as he'd crested the stairs, his fringe falling in pale sheaves over his eyes.

After that near run-in, Hermione had shut herself in Lupin's office. She'd risked making a cup of coffee and met a shame-faced, bruised Ron in the kitchen, guilting him into bringing her lunch and dinner, so she'd only had to leave the office to use the bathroom. Stupidly, part of Hermione had hoped Draco might've come to see her, but why would he after she'd shut him out like that? She felt like such a horrible coward. When Ron had brought her dinner, he'd said Draco had appeared briefly to make some sandwiches and tea and then disappeared upstairs again. Hermione doesn't know if Draco's still too angry to see her, or if he thinks she's too angry, or if he just doesn't know how to break the ice between them, much like her.

She's been fretting and sick over it all day whenever she has let herself surface from the mind-numbing boredom of her work, and she doesn't think she can face another night without him. Every molecule in her body is screaming for him. But she's too cowardly to make the first move.

"What are you still doing down here?" Lupin drags her from her thoughts.

"Work," Hermione says through a yawn. "This intercepted owl is driving me insane." She frowns. "Like everything else in my life," she mumbles, misery curdling in her stomach. Louder, she says, "Oh, that reminds me, Remus – I decrypted a note for Kingsley earlier. It came from Apple, at Hogwarts. Not urgent, obviously." She pushes the piece of parchment forward across the desk. She doesn't know whom the code name represents, and doesn't ask. Lupin enters the room, tucking the note in his pocket and sitting down opposite her. She wonders if Draco has talked to him about fighting again, or if he's been avoiding everyone.

"Thanks. I'll make sure he gets it." He pulls over a quill and a spare piece of parchment. "I have to send an owl off to my contact at MACUSA."

"Oh." Hermione rests her forehead in her hands, staring at the indecipherable text, mind swirling. There's silence for a moment. Then: "Please don't let Draco fight." She lifts her head and stares at Lupin pleadingly. He looks at her with a sad kind of compassion, mouth pressing into a sympathetic almost-smile as he puts his quill back in the inkwell and leans back in his seat. Listening. "He's done enough," she goes on quickly as he remains silent, her voice vibrating with intensity. "Let him rest, for Merlin's sake. He's sacrificed himself literally body and fucking soul for the Order, and now you want to get him killed?"

Lupin sighs. "It's not me who wants to send him out there," he tells her gently, and she hates the words as they fall from his lips. "He wants it. He seems to – to need it, Hermione. And I can't say I don't understand. If I were him..." He stares off into the distance, mind far away, before he blinks back to the moment. "I imagine that to Draco, the idea of killing Death Eaters seems like the only way to atone. He's spent so long killing innocents. From the debriefings... I won't go into detail –"

"Please don't." Hermione would rather keep her ignorance. It's not bliss, but it's better than knowing what he did. She doesn't want to look at him and think of any more horrors than she already does.

"Well, let's just say I understand his desire to wreak vengeance. To kill the right people for once. To try to balance the scales. To atone," he repeats, and his expression is filled with a terrible compassion that makes Hermione shudder.

"But it's not going to undo what he did," she tells Lupin intently. "We all know that. And I doubt it'll make him feel so much better that it's worth risking him. His back – he doesn't have the mobility he needs –"

"Hm," Lupin interrupts, scratching at his stubble and smiling faintly. "He seemed fine with Harry and Ron."

"Well, he's not. The scar tissue restricts his movements, and causes him pain, and –"

"Scar liniment will treat that," Lupin says placidly, and Hermione could slap him.

"Remus!" Tears cloud her eyes. He's missing the damn point, and she's pretty sure he's doing that on purpose. "If he goes out there... He's got no care for his own life. He doesn't value it. I'm convinced he thinks he should be dead. I don't trust him out there. I –"

"You think he'll get himself killed on purpose?" Lupin raises his brows, questioning. Concerned.

"Not consciously, " Hermione prevaricates. She rubs a hand over her eyes. It comes away damped with tears. "But maybe subconsciously. Remus, just... Please. Don't give his wand back. You can't let him out there. He's – he's a liability," she tries, desperate, and Lupin gives her a kindly, pitying look.

"Is he? Really, Hermione?"

"Maybe! I don't know." She leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, tense. She chews on her lower lip, staring at the table as Lupin stares at her, his gaze even and calm. She sighs, breaking first. "I just don't want him out there," she says in a small voice. It's wet with tears that she hasn't shed, her voice a little scratchy and thick.

"You can't decide for him," Lupin says, and Hermione blinks hard. Her eyes sting. It isn't fair. "I'm not going to give Draco his wand back yet –" oh god, relief barrels through her for a moment, "– because I feel I should get a consensus from the senior Order members. His debriefing may be finished, but the others may still feel uncomfortable with having him work in the field."

"And when will you do that?" Not for weeks, Hermione hopes desperately, crossing her fingers discreetly. Not for weeks.

"Well, we usually have weekly meetings, so I could –"

"Could you hold off on that just a little longer? Please, Remus." She widens her eyes, begging. "For me." He frowns.

"No. No, Hermione, I can't."

"Shit," she mutters and hitches a little breath in, a tear spilling over. "God, I'm just so scared," she says in a tiny, broken voice, and Lupin winces and looks apologetic.

He folds his arms and thinks a moment, face unhappily contemplative. "Fine," he says at last. " Fine, Hermione. I won't do anything – yet. But if he asks me again, then –"

"I know, I know," Hermione babbles, interrupting him. "Thank you so much, Remus. Thank you." Relief is rushing through her in a torrent, the floodgates opening. A stay of execution is all she could have realistically hoped for, and she's gotten it. Thank Merlin. Lupin eyes her.

"You should talk to him, Hermione." She looks away. "Talk to him about how scared you are. Like the adult you say you are. Or, accept that he's going to do what he's going to do, and let it slide. Learn to live with it. Either way, you two need to sort this out, somehow. You can't keep on this way. You've both obviously been miserable. He's been shut in the spare room all damned day, and you've been locked in here...it's very productive on your end, I suppose, but it's untenable. Ridiculous." He tips a sympathetic smile toward her. "And I would know. Just...talk to him."

"I –"

"Either that, or go to bloody bed. It's too late for you to be working." He raises his brows when she doesn't immediately move. "Go on. I'm not kidding. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here," he says lightly, as if quoting something, and Hermione surrenders with a weak smile.

"Fine. I'm going."

She thinks of talking to Draco as she tidies her files away and feels sick with nerves, although she knows Lupin is right, and she needs to do something. She knows this situation is her fault, really. She shouldn't have said what she did. To use the sex they'd just had against him like that was beyond the pale. It was more cruel than Hermione had thought she was capable of. The hurt that had flashed across his face as the words struck home had stabbed right through her. She says goodnight to Lupin and heads for the stairs, chewing on her lip as she tries to sort through her thoughts so she can do what the older wizard advises, and talk to Draco.

First she'd said that horribly cruel thing, and then she'd actively avoided him – he probably thinks she's furious with him. When really, it's he who has every right to be angry and hurt, if he is. Because he's done nothing but take care of her, as best as he could, for months. He's sacrificed for her – so much. She's been thinking about it today, despite her best attempts to bury herself in her work, and it's slowly become obvious that he has done nothing but give to her, and she isn't sure how much she's given back. She worries she may only have taken from him. That upsets her more and more the more she dwells on it.

And then yesterday, Draco had heard Hermione screaming at Harry about how he'd raped her, before she'd pushed for sex, telling him that she refused to see what had happened as him hurting her anymore – only to fling it straight back in his face later, without even thinking. She'd lashed out because she was scared for him, but that didn't make what she'd said any less hurtful. Shit. It is becoming clear to Hermione just how badly she's messed up. And the longer she leaves it, she thinks as she trudges up the stairs, the worse it will get. She should wake him. See if he'll let her crawl into bed with him, even if they don't sort anything out until morning.

Hermione still stalls though, nervous. She showers, part of her mind thinking just in case. And as she does, she finds herself thinking about what they did yesterday before it all went wrong. As she runs the flannel over her shoulders, her breasts, her thighs, she finds her mind drifting to what Draco had done to them. The softness of his mouth, the swipe of his tongue, and the press of his fingers. Like magic, the thought of him doing those things makes her feel shivery and heated, arousal pooling low in her belly.

Regardless of how things turned out yesterday, Hermione is so glad they had sex. So glad. Because now, when she thinks of his touch, of him pushing inside her, she thinks about that, instead of...before. And it had been so good. So much better than she'd thought. Draco had worshipped her body. Reverent and obscene all at once, and oh god, it had been like being reborn. Something hot and needy grows in her as she stands in the bathroom in a clean vest and a pair of his boxer shorts, drying her hair with magic. She stares at herself in the mirror for a long moment, and then – focusing carefully – casts a contraceptive charm. She feels arousal competing with her fear that Draco will turn her away. But she can't bear to spend another night away from him; Hermione knows that now with a steady certainty. If she has to beg him to sleep in the same bed, she will, and she will take it as her due.

Draco jerks awake as his hand shoots out, locking around a wrist, eyes snapping open as there's a feminine gasp, and his gaze lands on Hermione. Shadowy and silvered in the moonlight, her hand stretching out toward him, and her eyes wide, a pretty ghost in his grasp. For a moment, he doesn't think she's real. An apparition. A desire. Then the fog of sleep drops away as though she's slapped it out of him, and he lets her go fast as she tugs back. He'd just been dreaming of her – a good dream, the best kind of dream – and he's pretty sure he's hard. Fuck. Draco just hopes it's not visible. He doesn't want to scare her off. Because she's here.

She's actually here.

His dream is vivid in his mind; pleasure and slickness, and the echo of her moans. He eyes her carefully. She's avoided him all last night and today, and now she just turns up in the spare room at – well, it's late, he knows that much. He hadn't fallen asleep until after 10 pm. It sets him on edge. He thought she was angry at him.

Hell, Draco had thought he was still angry at her too, until he'd opened his eyes to her face. To her silhouette in the dark, her body right there in reach, and his dream is crowding his thoughts out. No, he's not angry. Concerned, yes. Worry creeps up fast as his brain kicks into gear and starts doing its job. What's Hermione doing in here, in the middle of the night? After what happened? She looks fine physically, but –

"Are you alright?" he rasps, thinking of nightmares and panic attacks, but she nods, quick and nervous. The tip of her tongue sweeps out over her lips, one hand twisting in the hem of her vest and pulling it taut and thin as she shifts on her feet. She's limned in moonlight, and the soft glow makes her look even more ethereal. Dark hair in a cloud around her face, nipples a shadow under her top, the black boxers of his that she wears sitting precariously low on her hips, as though she hasn't magically resized them. Fuck.

With Draco's worries set aside for now, he's left with just wanting her; straightforward and uncomplicated. He wants her in his arms, in the bed, under the blankets and tangled with him, clothed or unclothed; it makes no difference. He wants her warm and close, his, in his grasp, where he can press his mouth to her flesh. His anger is a distant, forgotten memory. Nothing compares to having her in front of him right now, like a succubus.

Nothing else matters much.

The vicious rage and hurt he'd felt at her last words had passed by the time he'd woken from last night's restless, nightmare-plagued sleep, leaving only a bruised tenderness. The anger and frustration that she doesn't want to let him pay recompense by fighting with the Order has lingered, but it is swept away like a phantom in the face of her presence. He can deal with those feelings – with that problem – tomorrow. Later. Whenever. Who cares. She's here.

All this passes through his head in a second.

"What –" he begins aloud, voice rough with sleep, but Hermione interrupts him, her eyes big and hands wringing. Fuck, she looks so good. So touchable. So luscious. It makes his fingers itch for the feel of her – the brush of skin on skin, the wet heat of her mouth. It makes him want to re-enact his filthy dream. Her head tipped back and throat bared, her legs falling open, her hips bumping up, that pretty, sweet pussy all flushed and slick and begging to be touched. His breath hisses in at the thought, the darkened room spinning dizzily. He blinks.

"I didn't want to sleep without you again," she says, voice shaking slightly as if she's afraid Draco will turn her away. Salazar's sake, he would never. Never.

"Come to bed," he says and it comes out like an order, his voice still low and husky as he shifts over, lifting the blanket. She slides in, and her body is cold as he tucks her close, a fierce, protective feeling searing to life in his chest. She turns in the circle of his arms to face him, her head tipping back so their eyes meet in the dark, and hers are inky and unreadable, her lower lip a plump curve of dusky desaturated rose and shadow as her mouth opens to speak.

"You avoided me," he cuts in first, wanting to know where he stands – on solid ground or quicksand. "Why?" Her gaze drops. She pauses, and her breath is short and shallow. Shit, he recognises her fear. He rubs a hand soothingly up and down her back. "I'm not angry at you, Hermione. Not even a little. You can tell me." It's a reassurance and a prompt.

She takes a breath. "I was afraid," she says in a little out-rush, gaze still downturned. "I was embarrassed, and I was worried you'd be angry because, really, you didn't do anything wrong. It was Harry and Ron who started the fight. And then what I said – it was all my fault, and – Draco, I'm sor–" He ducks his head and kisses the words from her lips without thinking. He knows what she's going to say, and she doesn't have to. They don't have to think about it at all. Not now that he knows she's not angry. He's careful as always – makes it easy for her to pull away. But she doesn't. Instead, Hermione breathes a startled moan into his mouth, and a shudder shakes her chest as she unexpectedly fists her hand in his hair and kisses him back brutally hard. She's controlling the kiss and he gives in. There's a tension racking her body, and their teeth clack briefly as they work out the angles, her tongue hot and seeking. Penetrative, like she's fucking his mouth.

Oh fuck. Pleasure judders down his body at the thought and the sensation, and his dick twitches. He tugs her closer instinctively, her insistent, greedy demand making him less careful. What does she want, doing this? He knows what he wants – all of her; her pussy clutching around his dick, coming on him, her mouth screaming, her breasts under his mouth, fuck , she's so perfect, so good – but then her grip yanks at his fringe and their mouths break apart with a wet sound as he goes with her pull. He stares at her, open-mouthed and panting, wanting, as she licks her lips.

"– Sorry," she finishes a little dazedly, her breath coming hard and her mouth all kiss-red, and then bites her lip and Draco whimpers. Her eyes widen at the sound. He wants her an obscene amount. After that kiss, he wants her more than he wants to breathe. He nuzzles against her throat, the two of them tangled together, his mouth open and sucking, tasting her skin. In his dream, he'd taken her apart completely – no care and no tenderness, just an overwhelming hunger, and she'd screamed, and screamed as she'd come on him, beneath him, impaled by him, choked by him. His dick twitches again. Her hands are on his chest now. His abdomen. Searching over his scarred skin, soft fingers drifting, exploring.

Merlin.

"I'm not," he says aloud. "I'm not sorry." Her fingers wriggle beneath his waistband, and he sucks in a breath. And then her grasp is firm around his achingly hard dick, her fingers cool and soft, "Fuck, Hermione, what –" Her lips press to his parted ones; an open press, soft and luxurious, and only brief. It's enough to shut him up.

"I want you," she says very softly and seriously as she looks into his eyes, and hearing that nearly kills him. Something knots up in his stomach, and he bites his lip on a groan. He cups her face in his hand, thumb running over her cheek, and he's trembling ever-so-slightly, his blood thrumming in his veins, his breath catching.

"Now?" he manages to ask, and she nods against his hand, a hint of fear lurking in the back of her eyes. " Good," he says vehemently, and then he's lying her back against the pillows and sliding down the bed, his knee twinging with pain. He ignores it. The boxers she wears – his boxers, baggy on her, Merlin he loves how she looks in his clothes – slide down so easily as she lifts her hips, her breathing still erratic, her eyes big, and she's not wearing anything underneath. Just soft, short curls and her already glistening wet, flushed pussy. Fuck. He's starting to think Hermione planned this.

"Yes?" he asks as he parts her thighs, and she gulps and nods and whispers a yes, her voice tight. Her hair is loose and haloed over the pillow, her lips dark in the low light, her nipples barely visible through her vest as hard nubs, her chest rising and falling quickly. Her thighs are so soft under his hands, so lush, so perfect as he settles on his bruised stomach between them and sinks his mouth to her flesh. The moan that drags from her throat at the contact is heady. She's delicious. A feast; her juices pleasant and faintly tangy, and there's something inexplicably, deeply arousing about the taste of her as he slides his tongue between her folds, licking up her from cunt to clit and relishing the way she squirms under his ministrations.

She whimpers and moans, and her hands find his head, burying in his hair, her fingers curling and tugging at the strands. "Oh god...oh god, Draco... fuck..."

Draco hums with filthy satisfaction as he slicks his tongue over her clit in soft, sloppy circles, and she writhes as the hum reverberates through her. He's on his elbows and his hands slide beneath her, gripping the curves of her arse and holding her, his tongue moving inexorably. He's thorough. Tongue laving between her folds and spearing into her cunt, making her clench and twitch, and Merlin, he wants to put his dick there so badly. But he has to make her come first. Her legs rise up, her thighs clamping on his head as he moves back to her clit, circling and lapping, and when he raises his eyes to see, she's arching her back now, thrusting her breasts up, a flush creeping down from her cheeks to the neckline of her vest, her hands clutching at the bedsheets.

Hermione's breath is coming in short, hard pants, her eyes screwed tight shut and a little frown line etched between her eyebrows as she holds her mouth open in an o, and Salazar's sake, if he could only push his dick between those sweet lips, he'd die happy. He feels the orgasm building in her. Her thighs tensing, her features drawing tight, her pants for air becoming vocal little moans, that frown of hers deepening in concentration as she focuses on what's happening within her. He holds her tight, tongue light and rhythmic, repetition his entire world. She whimpers, fingers scrabbling at the bed, and one hand locking back in his hair as the climax rises up, the peak she's about to hit and tip off, and then she makes a little cascade of gasps.

"Oh – oh – oh –"

And then a strangled, breathy moan tears from Hermione's throat as she tries desperately to be quiet and doesn't quite succeed, her hips lifting off the bed, her whole body a strung bow. Draco grins to himself as he keeps licking, slowly easing off, finishing by pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against her pussy and feeling little twitches running through her soft, wet flesh – rippling aftershocks. Her body goes limp and lax as her fingers pet through his hair clumsily, and he climbs up her body, settling over her. She pulls him down to her eagerly, her legs bracketing his hips, all her fear gone in the wake of her orgasm, her eyes heavy-lidded and pupils huge.

"Have you cast a contraceptive charm?" he remembers to ask, expecting that she hasn't – suddenly worried she's going to say they can't have sex because of that, especially because she doesn't have her wand on her – but she blushes even pinker and nods. Oh. Oh, she was planning this before she even came in.

"Please," she whispers, and fuck, that's so dizzyingly hot. He kisses her mouth, light and lingering, before he presses cheek to cheek with her, one hand reaching down to fit them together. He remembers what she said involuntarily, and a needle of hurt pricks at him, mixing with his desire. So much desire – he feels drunk on her, intoxicated, half out of his head with want. "Draco – please."

"I'm not apologising for this one, Hermione," he tells her, low in her ear as he slowly presses his dick inside her, her slick flesh stretching to accommodate him as she clings to him and whimpers needily. "I don't care what you fucking say after this. I'm–" The head of his dick slips fully into her, and he gasps and moans, and so does she. His head drops, his forehead pressed to her cheek, the rest of his shaft slowly sliding home. "Hnngh..." The universe is gripping and wet, and he loves it. Loves her. "I'm not sorry." His voice is strangled and he breathes hard. "Not sorry. Fuck." He's coming to pieces inside her, and she's holding him together.

Draco moves inside her, and she's moaning. He's moaning. Losing himself completely, his self-control slipping clean out of his grasp. She's hot and amazing, and the pressure builds fast. The lingering shreds of anger combine with his hurt and make a potent brew. He doesn't try to last, just fucks into her mindless and needy, kissing her cheek, her mouth, and her throat, gripping her hip, palming over her side, grunting with the effort of each thrust. He fucks her hard. "Is this –?" he asks incoherently at one point and feels her nod fast and sharp, her hands clutching his shoulders.

"Yes," she gasps, clumsy and slurred. "Don't – don't stop."

He doesn't, until he comes. Hard. Spilling into her with a shudder and a groan, and a series of erratic thrusts, and oh Merlin, it's like coming home. He clutches her close, pressing his mouth down against her sweat-damp cheek, panting against her as fading ripples of pleasure wash through him, satisfaction heavy in his bones. Her hands stroke over his head and down his neck, fingertips dragging firmly, palming over his shoulders and down his back. "I love you," Hermione murmurs, a blurry little exhortation, and he turns his head and kisses her before he pulls out of her carefully, and rolls to the side before he crushes her.

"I love you," Draco says drowsily, satiation and tiredness creeping up on him as he slides his arm around her, and she curls up against him with a little sigh. She seems blissfully happy, and he couldn't feel more satisfied than he does right now. Everything else can wait until morning.