Thirty-Five

Draco snaps awake to the sound of quiet, muffled sobbing, the room still and dark, a trickle of pale streetlight coming in the gaps in the curtains. Hermione is curled into a little ball beneath the blankets, and when he pulls them back, she's still asleep despite the fit of weeping that's overtaken her. "Hey. Hermione," he says softly, daring to brush back a bit of hair that's fallen over her face, obscuring the tear streaks and pained expression. "Come on. Wake up." Half the hank of hair slithers back over her face, and he plucks it up again, tucking it behind her ear this time. She's making whimpering, miserable noises, her hands curled up under her chin like little animal paws, her brows all scrunched and distressed as she mumbles words he can't make out.

"Come on. Wake up," Draco says, slightly louder, and risks running his fingers down her arm this time, and her eyes fly open as she wrenches in a shuddering gasp. It feels like a punch in the gut every time, when she flinches back from him with stark terror all over her face, still gulping sobs, tears rolling fat down her cheeks. And then she recognises him, and her expression transforms, and the relief he feels is immense. "Hermione?" he asks her softly as he lies there propped up on one elbow, his hand drawn back from her, looking up at her. She's scrambled back up the pillows a little, half sitting and with her knees drawn up, gasping in air like she was drowning, in danger of hyperventilating.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay. You're safe. Breathe. Breathe, Hermione," he tells her as he begins to sit up, and she flings herself at him, sending him back down. On his back with Hermione on him. She's finally approaching a healthy weight, all her angles and bones no longer jabbing into him, making her feel soft and lush as he holds her tight and buries his face in the crook of her neck as she sprawls over him. She's still whooping for air, and Draco rubs her back up and down in slow, careful strokes as he takes his own deep, long breaths and talks her through them. Eventually, her breath more or less syncs with his, and he feels like he can try to talk to her.

"Are you okay?" He keeps rubbing her back as though she's a small child, wondering grimly what nightmares had haunted her tonight, given what she'd seen. The dossiers on the American wizards had to have brought everything back.

He'd been coldly furious with Lupin for not thinking of that, and he hadn't held back, snarling at the man. Lupin knew that everything that entered that office eventually passed through Hermione's hands. It had been fucking stupid to have the files delivered there. Irresponsible, and stupid. He'd ended up dressing down Lupin for a good five minutes, too angry to be even vaguely polite – 'dog' might have featured in there somewhere, followed by 'stupid fucking beast' – and to Draco's surprise and Lupin's credit, the older man had taken it all with a calm, remorseful mein. And then he apologised. It had taken the zip out of Draco's broom, somewhat, and he'd sat down with his shoulders slumped, to have Lupin offer him a cup of tea.

The debrief had been, well, brief. Lupin had understood he wanted to get back to Hermione.

And right now, her arms are tight around his neck as she clings to him, nearly tight enough to strangle him. As if she's afraid he'll disappear. "I had horrible dreams," she says at last in a choked voice, and her shoulders shake and her breath hitches. She sounds bleary with sleep still, her words slurred, and thick with tears, the story incoherent as it spills out. "I dreamt that – that you got captured out there, that they took you. Instead of killing you, they captured you. And they took you to Voldemort, and it was like the – the dinner except you were there alone. Just you. And they were hurting you. So badly. So badly, I thought you were going to die." Draco wishes grimly that was how it had been. Him instead of her. That would've been better.

"It's okay. We're both safe," he says softly instead, his hand gentling over her hair now, fingers coming through the waves. And then sliding down her back before starting again at her head.

"But you're not," Hermione whispers, all clogged up and snotty, face right beside his ear with how she's lying atop him, and he can hear the wetness of her tears and her runny nose. There's dampness on his neck, and he thinks it's either tears or snot but isn't bothered – either is far better than a liquefied Snatcher. "You're not safe. You're going to go back out there." The last turns into half a wail, and Draco hisses in concern, trying to hush her with touches and failing.

"I'll be fine," he insists. "Nothing's going to happen to me, Hermione."

"You can't say that." She wriggles off him and sits up beside him, cross-legged, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt. Her eyes are dark and liquid, her features delicate in the near dark; her jaw sharper and lips plumper, her cheeks glinting with tears as she twists her hands in her lap. "You nearly died tonight. What if Ron hadn't been there? What if they'd taken you prisoner?"

"But they didn't," is all he can say, a pitiful rejoinder and no comfort to her at all, he's sure. She stares at him miserably. Helplessly, and pleading.

"Have you thought about what they would do to you?" she asks, and he can see her nightmares in the way her fingers twist together in her lap, her shoulders hunched, horrors in her eyes. "Because I have. I can't stop thinking about it. And it feels like you're not even taking it seriously."

"I have thought about it," Draco says, a flimsy protest. He's more honest than he should be. "That doesn't frighten me," he says, and means it. The idea of torture and death doesn't put him off fighting. She doesn't react to that the way he stupidly thinks she will. Her face crumples, and her eyes well over, her expression all worry and nightmares tangled up tight. And fear. Blatant fear. Stark and overflowing. Guilt swarms up in him.

It's his mission tonight that's done this, not just the dossiers – although they didn't help, certainly. But Draco's known she's been struggling silently with him being out in the field. She hasn't said anything – when he's asked, she's insisted she's fine. He knows that's a lie though; a brave face she's putting on. He sees how much strain these past three excursions have put her under, culminating in this, tonight, set off by the shock of the dossiers and the memories. He wishes he could bite back what he's just said. The last thing she needs to hear right now is that he's not afraid to die. That was half her problem with him fighting to start with. Because she was afraid he didn't value his life enough.

Fuck.

"Have you thought about what that would do to me, then? If you don't care enough about yourself?" she demands, and misery burns in her eyes. Shit. He fucked that up so badly.

"Wait – I didn't say I don't care about myself, Hermione," he says swiftly, already knowing it's a lost cause. She's not listening. "I don't want to die, or be captured. And I don't want to do that to you, either. That's not what I meant. I just meant –" Draco breaks off. He doesn't know what he meant, honestly. Just that he wasn't controlled by fear. That he wasn't going to let the possibility of death or capture stop him from doing the right thing.

She's breathing hard again, but short this time, shallow and frantic, her face still engraved with that horrible misery and fear, joined now by anger. "Have you thought about what it would do to me, to know you're captured? What could I even do? Try – try to rescue you? How? The Order wouldn't help me. They didn't even help when it was me captured," she says with a broken little sob, and he wants to hit Lupin now, rather than just yell at him. The way they'd just abandoned her had been inhuman, and awful. She's going on, utterly distraught. "But I wouldn't be able to just leave you there. Captured. Tortured. God, I'd have to try, and I'd probably fail, and then they'd have us both, and –"

"Hey," he says firmly, trying to stop her before she spirals into hysteria, but it's too late. She barrels on over top of his attempts to calm her, her words sliding into incoherence, spilling out of her like the release of poison, bottled up. A slew of jumbled, bitter fear.

"– fucking terrified for you," he makes out, at last. And then she takes a heaving breath that judders out of her, and then admits, coherently, "I – I sat there tonight for hours, and I was so afraid for you, and I couldn't stop thinking about what they did to me, and what you watched them do to me, and you weren't there."

And oh, that's it, Draco thinks, with a grim satisfaction that gives him no joy. That's the thorn that was under her flesh, drawn out, the wound bleeding freely now. Hermione dissolves into tears, and he tugs her close, bundling her into his arms and hating himself afresh as he rocks her like a child. She'd needed him, and he hadn't been there for her. In fact, he'd only contributed to her fear. Because he was off fighting, risking capture and death. A squirming unease blooms in his chest right behind his sternum, sending tendrils through him. Maybe he shouldn't fight, he thinks, with a sudden, sharp guilt. Not if it was going to do this to her. This strain, and struggle that she's kept locked inside the best she could, until now.

Eventually, she seems to cry herself out. The tension of the past several days, and the shock of having the dinner thrown in her face again, and the nightmares that had arisen from those – she exorcises it all, clinging to him and not quite with it. She's exhausted, and the nightmares and memories are obviously still vivid. But the silent tears stop flowing finally, and then she yawns as the adrenaline leaves her system, and her fingers curl tentatively in his shirt, her limbs slowly going lax against him as he soothes her absently, his mind ticking over.

He had nearly died. That had to be acknowledged. Yes, he'd come home fine in the end, but for a moment, he'd been a heartbeat away from death, and only sheer luck had saved him. Luck, and Ronald bloody Weasley. And while it didn't worry Draco for his own sake, the thought of dying and leaving Hermione like this makes his heart lurch. He can't. It's selfish, and it's cruel. He rubs her back as he rocks her, apologising quietly. And he tells her that he won't fight again, and he means it.

"I'll stay here with you. I won't go back out there. I swear," Draco says, and he's not even sure if she's still properly awake, but he says it anyway. As fucking amazing as it felt to be out there, he can't do this to her again. He can't see her like this and know that he's responsible. "I won't fight again," he says, a cold misery replacing the unease in his chest, making his limbs feel heavy and his senses dull. Her breaths are deep and slow at last, her fingers falling limp, her head a heavy weight against his chest.

Draco lies back against the pillows with her still draped over him, and he stares at the ceiling; the shifting shadows. Trapped again, he thinks tiredly.

When Hermione wakes up, she's in bed alone, and the bed next to her holds only a trace of warmth. Draco must have gone for a shower, she thinks, eyeing the time – it's nearly 7 am. She bites her lip, remembering last night in snatches and blurs that make her feel hot and sick with embarrassment and guilt. Not because of her meltdown in the evening, which had been bad enough – she feels the need to apologise to Harry – but because of last night. When Draco had woken her from a fucking horrendous nightmare, and she'd been a wreck and said things she really wishes she hadn't said.

It's a little hazy now, but Hermione seems to recall Draco saying he wasn't going to fight anymore, while she was clinging to him, sniffling herself to sleep. She sits up on the edge of the bed, groaning to herself and burying her head in her hands. Fuck. That isn't what she wants at all. Well, it is in a way – if he decided happily of his own accord to never fight again, Hermione would be overjoyed, and so relieved. The ball of tension that seems to be permanently knotted into her stomach would evaporate, and the fear that's been making it hard to eat over the past few days would dissipate. Yes, she would love it if Draco stopped fighting. But not because Hermione emotionally blackmailed him into it. Because then he'll just be miserable. And that's no solution.

She sighs and decides to see if she can have a quick shower in the first floor bathroom while Draco's – presumably – having his. She feels all gross with old sweat from her nightmares, and remembering what she'd said to Draco last night is making her break into a fresh sweat. Have you thought about what that would do to me? she'd demanded, as if it was all about her. As if he didn't have the right to have his own wants and needs. She's always been a control freak – Hermione is aware of that flaw – and her total lack of control for so long may possibly have made her need for control worse. But she can't control other people. Horrible guilt writhes in her belly and remains there the entire time she showers, playing things over in her mind, around and around. An ouroboros in her head, twisting and devouring with no end in sight.

They're stuck. Trapped in a no-win situation, with no real compromise. One of them has to lose, and Hermione thinks it needs to be her.

Draco's waiting in their room when she gets back, her hair dry and loose, Sleekeazy's scrunched through it, in leggings and one of his t-shirts. He's stretched out on his side of the bed, holding a mug of something hot. Steam rises off it in wisps and coils, and his eyes are burnished silver in the morning light, his faint greeting smile a benediction. There's a mug on Hermione's side of the bed, and her heart aches.

"I made tea," he says, holding his mug up unnecessarily, and then indicating her bedside table. He looks so fucking sad. He's smiling, but she can see it in his ash-grey eyes, and the tightness of his mouth, and the set of his shoulders. She can read him like a book now. She doesn't need legilimency when she knows his body this well. "How did you end up sleeping?"

She shrugs. "Okay, I suppose. And thank you. For the tea." It's weirdly stilted as she stands there staring at him, twisting her wand in her hands. The air in the room feels heavy and thick. Hermione gulps and comes right out with it. Sort of. "I'm sorry about last night."

Draco stares at her, bewildered, as his brows scrunch down. "Sorry?" He sets his mug aside, all his attention on her, and she wants to sink into the floor. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because of what I said. About you fighting," Hermione says, which is hardly elucidating, but it's harder to get the words out than she thought. She feels sick, and small. She doesn't want to do this, and yet she knows she has to. Draco stands and crosses the room to her and takes her hand, leading her to sit at the foot of the bed, sitting side by side and turned toward each other so that their knees bump together. His hand is warm and large, enfolding hers entirely. The scar up his forearm is already dulled noticeably by quick application of liniment, but Hermione finds herself staring at it.

"I told you I won't fight," he says tightly, and Hermione looks up to see his eyes are unreadable now, his mouth a blank line. A grim determination hangs about him.

"That's not what I want, though." She takes his left hand in her two, on her thigh, playing with it. Thumbs running over his palm, fingertips tracing the lines and trailing up his slightly curled fingers. She stares at his heart line; a deep, strong slash. She doesn't believe in any of that nonsense. "I'm scared, Draco. I'm constantly worried you're going to die. Or that they're going to come back and tell me you've been captured. The reconnaissance wasn't so bad, but last night…" She glances up at him. His features are still held carefully neutral. "That MACUSA file didn't help, admittedly. But even before then – I was racked with worry, honestly."

"I said I'll –" he begins, a sliver of anger slipping in, and Hermione shakes her head.

"I haven't finished," she says, frowning, and he clenches his jaw, that fixed neutrality giving way to impatient irritation. She swallows hard. "So I freaked out – yesterday evening, and then again in the night. I've been trying to hide how stupidly scared I am –"

"It's not stupid," he says quietly. Sadly.

"Well. Still. I've been trying not to put my feelings on you, and then I had a meltdown because of the stupid files –"

"That's not stupid either," he interrupts again, defending her, and she shoots him a wry look, feeling rather tearful. She appreciates his support, but she just wants to say it. And she's getting there. In a roundabout way.

"Either way, I needed you, and you weren't there, and it made me so angry. Probably unfairly, because you can't exactly be glued to me every minute of the day," she admits, still playing with his hand. His thumb twitches as she runs her nail over the base of it. She can see the blue-green veins at his pale wrist and the Dark Mark emblazoned further up. "Even if you were off doing something safe, you might not always be able to drop everything for me. But it made me even more worried for you. All I could think about was the dinner, and you fighting."

"I'm sorry," he says softly when she pauses for breath. She shakes her head.

"Don't be." She meets his steady gaze, seeing the sadness, regret, and resignation in it. She hates that she put those emotions there. "You were doing the right thing," she tells him. "Fighting is the right thing to do, for you, and for the war." She looks down at his hand again, turning it over. There are little nicks and scars on the back of it, and his nails are only a fraction away from being fully grown again. "The Order needs every fighter it can get. And you may be only one person, but from what you said and what Ron told me, you're invaluable out in the field." She feels a cold lump sitting heavy in her chest as she forges on. "I won't lie. I don't want you to fight. Of course I don't. It scares the shit out of me, and personally, I think you've done more for the war effort than anyone should be expected to."

She thinks of his innocence lost, of the scars on his soul that he can't ever erase, of the way he's abandoned his parents to Voldemort's mercy for her. Draco is never going to forget the things he did at Voldemort's command, in the service of the Order. He'll live with the guilt and the horror until he dies. If she loves him, then she can't stop him from doing this.

And she loves him, more than anything.

"But I see how it makes you feel. Being out there." Hermione doesn't go into detail. Both of them know exactly what she means, and somehow it feels too private to list aloud the feeling of purpose it gives him, the sense of atonement, and the pride. "And you need that, Draco. Yes, it terrifies me, but I can't take it away from you. I won't. You should be out there in the field if that's where you want to be. You need to fight. I know that." Hermione slips her hand over his; too small to cover it.

"I can live with my fear until the war is over," she says, not thinking about how she'll feel if he is captured, or does die, "but I don't think you can live with not fighting, whichever way it ends."

Hermione can see it now; Draco would never get past that, whether they win or lose. She sighs. "So I want you to fight. Just –" she wobbles a smile at him, lips pressed together hard and tears in her eyes "– please be more careful?"

He looks at her as though she's given him the moon in the palm of her hand. As though he's an animal she's freed from a trap instead of killing. There's a bright, fierce joy on his face, only slightly tempered by his sadness for her. Because he knows what she's giving up. What she's accepting, by doing this. But it's the right thing to do – Hermione knows it is. It's the only reasonable choice. His hand turns and his fingers catch hers as he stares at her, expression filled with relief, and love that is so sharp it hurts.

"I will," he says intently. "I'll be so fucking careful, Hermione, I swear to Merlin." He stares at her as though he's looking inside her head and seeing all her fear and her love for him laid bare. She blinks back tears and sniffs wetly, her fingers clutching his very, very tightly. Tight enough that the small bones of her knuckles hurt. "Thank you," he says, and then he kisses her, a needy, joyful thing. And while she feels less joyful and more like she's just stepped off a cliff, his mouth on hers is exactly what she needs.

Draco's here, and he's alive. He survived, and he'll keep surviving. Everything will be okay.

The kiss turns into more, the tea he'd brought up forgotten as they fall back onto the bed, him half over her but it's okay. She's okay, she tells herself as she clasps his shoulders, and his back, and handfuls of his short hair, her mouth pushing up eagerly into his, and his hands sliding gently over the swells of her breasts, and the jut of her hip. None of this makes her think of then. That was then, and this is now. Just the two of them alone in their room, and he worships her with adoration in his eyes and awe in his touch. He's wanting and happy, his gratitude overflowing, and there are no bruises, or blood.

Although there's a trace of bittersweetness to the kiss, for Hermione at least.

But Draco's tongue traces the seam of her lips, and arousal flares hot in her belly, little lightning forks of want, like sparks thrown off by a fire. They burn her up, her skin feeling hot, the pads of his fingers like brands, trailing shockingly over the cool skin of her stomach and bumping up over ribs to her right breast, cupping it in a gentle cage of scorching fingers. He's like fire, licking over her, hot and devouring as his mouth demands and plunders, joyful and triumphant.

Her body lights up even as a trickle of worry for him slides down her spine, almost forgotten but not quite. Hermione shoves it away as she parts her lips and kisses him back hard, teeth crushing lips, and a moan shudders from her as his tongue dips into her mouth. A sweet lick, like he's tasting her as his finger and thumb roll her right nipple gently between them and a cord of arousal strings taut between that sensation and her core. Oh. And then his tongue is rough and soft at once, teasing over hers, and the desire that rears up at the way he just takes over her senses snatches the breath out of her.

Fuck, he makes her want him so much. This sweet, patient onslaught. Like a slow-motion tsunami of molasses. Drowning by inches in nectar as he sucks on her lower lip, and kisses the corner of her mouth, and teases her with tongue and lips as if he's playing a game of hide-and-seek with her. It's the best kind of frustrating, and it drives her slowly crazy as the shirt of his that she wears gets pushed up under her armpits, and his fingers keep playing over her breasts, down around her bellybutton, and slipping just beneath the edge of her waistband. Brushing over short hair, and her hips bump upward, her clit thrumming and her vulva needy for stimulation and sensation. She wants his fingers, and his mouth, and the bliss of his cock.

And the whole time, his tongue is teasing hers, with fleeting touches, and dips, and glancing sweeps along her lower lip, and quick curls behind her teeth that make her shiver deliciously from head to toe. But she can't pin him down, and it's making her crazy.

"Nngh-mmph," she protests and clasps her hands together at the back of Draco's head, pushing her mouth up open and seeking, greedy and sloppy. Too full of a heady, thoughtless desire to be self-conscious, her right leg hooking over his, and her kiss a thing of sheer desperation. He moans as their mouths meet properly, her tongue claiming his mouth as her sovereign territory. Hermione makes a sound of victory that's also more of a moan. Her fingers yank at his hair as she invades and conquers, running her tongue over the blunt edges of his teeth and curling it around his, huffing little breaths for air through her nose. Now that she's caught him, she's not letting him go easily. She sucks on his tongue and he moans again, and she can feel his cock hard against her leg as he thrusts against her slightly.

His cock can wait, Hermione thinks.

She's dizzy and her lips are puffy and tender when she finally pulls back from him in order to strip off her clothes with a clumsy haste, sitting in the middle of the bed as she wriggles her leggings off. She's leading the game now as he follows, obedient and eager, and she feels nearly powerful. In control of something, at least. She can't stop Draco from fighting, but she can be in charge here. She could tell him to go to his knees and lick her feet, and she believes he would, just because she asked him to. Her wish is his command. It's intoxicating.

He undresses with rather more dignity than her, pushing to his feet and stripping everything off with quick, efficient motions, his eyes fixed on her, hungry and wanting, his lips reddened from kissing. He's all lean, long muscle, mouth-watering and perfect, and his erection is flushed and sticking out rather insistently. Hermione can't help a smile. Far from frightening her, she's instead developed a fondness for it and how ridiculous it looks, really. Ridiculous looking, and wonderful feeling.

But right now, Hermione thinks she wants his mouth. She goes up on her knees on the bed, naked and playfully imperious as she points at the bed beside her. "Lie down," she commands him, and he gives her a crooked, knowing little grin as he moves to obey as if he knows the game she's playing, and he thinks she's adorable. It makes her happy. It makes her feel normal. Like any other witch with her boyfriend, having fun, with no nightmares lurking in the dark recesses of her mind, and no traps of trauma to be sprung accidentally. Of course that's not the case. But right now, Hermione is going to pretend it is, unless or until something gets triggered.

Draco stretches out, head on the pillows and cock sticking up. "Now what?" he asks her, that lopsided smirk still playing about his lips, and that soft, needy awe in his eyes.

"Now I thought I could…" She trails off, flushing. Her fingers twine together in her lap as she kneels there naked, suddenly too shy to say the words. His expression softens further.

"C'mere," he says, reaching out, one hand splaying over her thigh, fingers curling behind and tugging gently.

"Can I – I mean, can you do it if I'm facing the other way?" she asks, cheeks blazing as she has vague ideas of what she can do if they do it that way. She might not be able to do a proper sixty-nine thanks to her triggers, but she may only need one hand to support herself, which leaves one free to do other things. Maybe. She bites her lip, and he grins.

"I don't see why not."

And then she's settling over him, regretting it even as she does, because it feels even more exposed than the other way around, especially in the bright light of the morning with the curtains open. But his hands are on her thighs, and he makes a low sound of satisfaction, and then his mouth is on her vulva, hot and wet. Sudden. Hungry. Like he can't wait another second. She makes a whimpering exhalation and catches herself on the bed on her hands as she falls forward. His mouth is wide open, his tongue flat and soft, slicking between her folds, and swirling over her clit, and she groans again.

"Nnngh…oh my god, Draco," she gasps, on all fours over him, except his hands are over her thighs, tipping her back a bit and holding her vulva firm against his mouth. He hums and makes pleased noises – little mmphs, and growls, licking a hot, sharp pleasure into her. Her clit feels electric, and her cunt feels empty. And just as she thinks that, he pushes his tongue into her, his shoulders lifting and back arching slightly. It's an abrupt bloom of ecstasy that's nearly too intense, and she can feel herself get abruptly slicker as arousal grips her in a fist while his tongue slides up to her clit, searching along the way and hitting every nerve ending she has. "Oh fuck." She has one hand stretched out and braced on his upper thigh now, and the other resting so that her fingertips brush over his balls and the base of his shaft.

"Good?" he asks, all muffled with his mouth still against her vulva, sending a frisson through her, and she feels her insides all clench up, and oh, she wants to come. His tongue spears into her again, and she makes a strangled sound and presses her fingers against his balls – the skin soft and velvety, the contents so fragile. She cradles his balls a moment, curious, rolling them in her hand, and he makes a huffing sound. She releases them, tracing over the top, drifting to his cock. He pushes up on his elbows slightly, swirling the tip of his tongue around and around her clit, and a sweet, bright sensation builds, driving her toward orgasm.

His cock twitches as she drums her fingers tentatively against the shaft, her face only inches from it. She swallows. Her fingers curl around his cock, and it's iron hard and hot, and the skin is silky soft to the touch. He sucks on her labia, abdomen flexing beneath her as he feasts on her slick vulva. And the way she feels his body shift beneath her as he licks, and sucks, and fucks her with his tongue, his muscles hard and moving under her, is somehow so hot. She's in an ocean of pleasure. Riding him. God, she feels nearly dizzy with it.

She grips his shaft firmly and begins moving her hand up and down, and his fingers squeeze tight on her thighs, and he makes a breathy "hhnnh," his motions stuttering for a moment. "Don't stop," he gasps, like he's dying. "Please, don't stop." He's begging, need thrumming in his voice as Hermione tries to keep going with firm, steady strokes, which is harder than she thought, as distracted as she is by what he's doing to her. His tongue on her clit in endless circles now, inexorable and building her closer and closer to orgasm, the feeling getting sharper and more insistent. She's so wet. Her body is tensing and coiled with the need to come, and her juices have to be slicking his face.

But he's taut beneath her too, hips making tiny jerks as if he wants to thrust up, his cock leaking just a few drops of precum, glistening at the flushed head, and Hermione licks her lips unconsciously. This isn't then. This isn't them. This is him. Draco. The sun streams over their bed, and her cunt is aching for his cock, twitching with the sensations he licks into her, his face pushing up into her so eagerly, his whole body shifting and tensing with the effort to please her.

And she's on top. She's in control. Hermione's always in control, as Draco tells her so often. Less often now. She doesn't need to hear it as much just lately.

She laps the precum from the head of his cock with the flat of her tongue, and one of his hands goes from her thigh to the bed with a thump that startles her. "Fuuuuck…" he groans, and her eyes cut curiously sideways as she tastes the bitterness of his precum on her tongue, lips hovering just above his cock. "Hermione," he breathes as if she's just stabbed him through the heart, and his hand is white-knuckled around a handful of bedding. His other hand is gripping her rather firmly, and he isn't licking anymore. And Hermione doesn't feel like throwing up.

She smiles to herself.

"Don't stop," she tells him, and he croaks, "I won't," a promise in a voice so hoarse it hardly sounds like him, and buries his hot, wet mouth against her again with what feels entirely like desperation, his hand returning to her thigh, holding on just a little too tightly. She lowers her head and sweeps her tongue over the head of his cock again as she clutches the silky hot shaft of it in her hand. He whimpers, a needy sound that turns into a stifled groan. She's moving her hand up and down in small strokes again and keeps her eyes open, staying firmly in the present, staring at her fingers wrapped around his cock.

She sweeps her tongue wet with saliva around the head and then licks at it, almost mimicking what Draco's doing to her clit. It may not quite be a proper blowjob, but paired with her hand moving up and down, he seems to love it, his body thrumming with tension, little sounds of needy approval escaping him. His fingers are trembling. His breath is coming raggedly, his chest shifting unsteadily beneath her. And her own orgasm is building closer and closer, sensations radiating through her in a rippling, squeezing maelstrom of pleasure. Like a balloon growing bigger and bigger, skin tight and pressure building, until finally, with her thighs shaking and twitching, Hermione breaks.

"Ohh…nngh-mmmph…" Her moan is shapeless and gasping, and then muffled as her mouth sinks over the head of his cock entirely, her lips stretched around it as she takes it in. She sucks hard and sloppily as climax rips through her in a torrent. Her cunt spasms and her whole body goes taut, her hand squeezing around his cock, her mouth wrapped wet and hot around him. And he's moaning against her with his own pleasure even as he keeps licking determinedly, shudders running through him, and it's a perfect, exquisite chaos as she sucks messy and shallow. Her orgasm leaves her in a blissful puddle of afterglow, his tongue finally slicking from her clit to her cunt, swirling over her entrance, and she's sure he can feel the muscle spasms pulsing through her vulva and her cunt.

Hermione's sprawled over him now, mouth firmly over his cock, but too limp to do much more than suck on it like an ice lolly, her hand moving rather pathetically as she soaks in the afterglow of her orgasm. She's still eager, but she has more enthusiasm than skill, especially feeling all liquid and uncoordinated as she is. And anyway, she's afraid to take in more of him than she has, in case it goes wrong. So she just sucks, and licks, and swirls her tongue around, draped over his chest, gradually regaining her coordination. And then she starts sliding her hand firmly up and down again, adding a little twist every now and then. And she's sucking, saliva trickling down over her hand, everything wet and slick, and now and then she can taste the bitterness of precum, and he's making little huffs of needy, whimpering sound, tension stringing him so tight she thinks he'll snap.

He pushes two fingers inside her at one point – or rather, he teases them around her slick entrance until she makes a frustrated noise and pushes back, and his fingers slide inside, and oh, oh. Draco fucks her slowly on his fingers, twisting and curling and making her tremble and moan as she sucks at the head of his cock and works it with her hand, and then after a short while, she feels a shift in him. His hips push up and his cock starts to almost thrum, it's so hard, his breath even shorter and harsher than before, and Hermione can tell he's close. She moves her hand faster, and he groans, his fingers going still, deep in her cunt but motionless, and she twitches around him on purpose. He makes a shocked sound and wriggles his fingers, and she lets out a wavering moan that's so throaty and needy that it makes her hot cheeks flare even hotter.

"I'm gonna –" he says roughly, his fingers sliding out of her and grabbing her thigh wetly. "Fuck. I'm gonna come. You – you can – you don't have to –" he gets out brokenly, and Hermione acknowledges him.

"Mmhmm," she says breathlessly and pops her mouth off the head of him, hand working fast, pulling her head back a bit and blinking with a flinch of surprise as he comes with a strangled groan, his fingers flexing on her thighs. Cum shoots up in thick whitish spurts, coming startlingly close to her face – and oh, Hermione doesn't think that would be good, so she draws back further as she keeps working him through the orgasm. His cum splatters down hot over her hand, and she bites her lip, staying in the now. And now she wishes she could see Draco's face. That she could watch him as he came.

And then his hand is covering hers, gently, and she thinks maybe she nearly lost herself for a minute there. "Hermione?"

"I made you come," she says, feeling light-headed, and pleased, and a little shaken all at once.

"You did," he agrees. "And it was fucking amazing. C'mere. Come on." She slides clumsily off him with his help, her legs all stiff, and he grabs a shirt off the bed – his, which she had been wearing – and swipes his cum off himself quickly before he holds an arm out to her as she blinks at him, feeling moon-eyed. Dazed. "Are you alright?" He looks nearly worried. "You didn't have to –" He breaks off, looking at her speechlessly, with his cheeks all flushed pink and his eyes starry, pupils blown, and his lips reddened and swollen.

She slithers into Draco's arms and buries her face against his side as he awkwardly flips one of the blankets half over them. She breathes. "I did it," she says, a weird sense of victory flowing through her now. She didn't throw up or freak out, and she's proud of herself. And it's a feeling she should never have to feel, that she only feels because of terrible things, and yet it's still a good feeling. She smiles against his skin. "I did it. And I didn't, well…panic," she finishes awkwardly, belatedly aware of how not fantastic that sounds. But she knows he understands.

"Yeah," he says, and it sounds almost like he's trying not to cry. "You did." The breath he takes is a little shaky. "Fuck. I love you, Hermione. So much."

She smiles wider, feeling dreamy, all her worries banished for a while. "I love you too," she says, and kisses him over a burn scar on his side, just between two ribs.