"What?" Draco asked, his eyes instantly going wide with disbelief. "You've never—?"

Hermione bit her lip and shook her head. "No," she replied, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable.

"Not with Weasley, or Potter, or—?" His face darkened, and Hermione could see murder in his eyes. She knew he was thinking of the Snatchers.

She was naked in his bed, and she did not want to think about the Snatchers. She did not want him thinking about the Snatchers. Not right now. "Draco," Hermione said quietly, calling his attention back to her.

As he stared back down at her, his gaze softened. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Hermione cupped his face in her hands. "It's okay—I know. I know," she repeated. "But no, not with Harry. I thought with Ron—maybe, at one time. But it never happened. We were a little preoccupied."

He was still staring down at her, his gaze soft. "We don't have to," he said quietly.

"I know," she replied. "I want to. Is it—ok? That I'm—?"

"What? Yes, of course," Draco replied emphatically, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Of course it's okay, Hermione."

There had always been rumors about Draco—that he was a bit of a womanizer, that he was good in bed. Hermione even distinctly remembered Padma Patil telling Parvati that he was known as the Slytherin sex god amongst the Ravenclaws. They had just been rumors, of course. But Hermione knew that there was some amount of truth to any good rumor—so why was Draco just staring down at her, looking as if he wasn't sure what to do?

Kiss me, you idiot, Hermione thought to herself.

She stared up at him and suddenly realized that he was apprehensive, too. She didn't entirely understand it. She stroked his cheek. "Draco, what's wrong?" she asked.

His eyes met hers. "I love you," he said quietly. "I love you, and I want your first time to be more than a makeshift bed in the dirt. You deserve better than that."

I love you.

He'd said it.

"Right here is perfect," she replied, smiling up at him even as her nerves flared. "This is where we met—for real. And I love you, too."

Draco stared down at for another before he kissed her softly. Then, his lips began to travel, a slow descent, lingering on every bit of skin they came into contact with. Her lips, her jaw, her collarbone. They trailed over her breasts, where he lingered even longer, his tongue gently flicking her nipples until they were stiff peaks. She could barely breathe. His lips returned to hers. "I love you," he repeated against her lips. In the same instant, his finger found her clit and began rub in slow circles. "Tell me what feels good," Draco murmured, his lips and breath grazing her ear, causing her to shiver.

"That," Hermione moaned.

His lips were on hers again, kissing her. She clung to him as he continued to touch her. The sound of his fingers on her was almost obscene. A moan slipped from her lips inadvertently. Draco was breathing heavily.

Draco's fingers left her clit abruptly, but then she felt him slip one finger inside of her. Her hips jerked. "Is this okay?" Draco asked.

Hermione bit her lip and nodded. Draco began to thrust slowly, his thumb returning to her clit. She was obscenely wet; she could hear it with every movement of Draco's hand. Her hips began to move of their own accord. Draco kissed her as he added a second finger, swallowing her moan.

"I want you," he said, as he continued to thrust.

"I want you," Hermione replied.

To her disappointment, Draco's fingers disappeared, leaving her feeling empty. Within moments, however, she felt Draco's erection rubbing against her. Feeling him like this was curious, he was both hard and soft at the same time. He was erect, but the skin against hers was velvety soft. She watched in awe as he coated himself in her wetness. When he was drenched, he took himself in his hand and guided himself to her entrance. "Is this okay?" he asked again.

"Yes," she replied.

He kissed her again before he began to slowly press himself into her, a focused expression on his face. He moved slowly, inch by inch, his eyes fixed on her face the entire time.

Hermone had expected it to hurt—she had heard that it hurt the first time. There was some discomfort, certainly, but it was more of a stretching sensation, accompanied by a bit of burning. It didn't feel good, per se, but it also did not hurt. It was merely uncomfortable. His hips met hers and he stilled with a groan. "Are you okay?" he asked, pressing his body against hers.

Hermione nodded, her eyes tightly shut as she willed the sensation to disappear. "I'm okay," she replied.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

"I promise it won't last long," Draco said apologetically before peppering her face with kisses. He did not move. "I'm sorry."

He was right. After a few minutes, the burning sensation eased. She was still a bit uncomfortable, but not in any pain. "Draco," she said quietly, wrapping her legs around him. "Please."

With his eyes still fixed on her face, Draco withdrew from her minutely, then gave an experimental thrust. Hermione gasped.

Another thrust, a longer stroke this time. "Fuck," Draco moaned.

As the pain eased, Hermione began to explore Draco's body, wanting to run her hands over every bit of him. She relished in the way his biceps flexed as he held himself above her, moving inside her. Down, over his waist, and to his arse, where she could feel him thrust into her.

It had stopped hurting and suddenly, it felt good. It felt really good. "Draco," she moaned. Her fingers held his arse tighter, urging him to go deeper.

Draco pressed his forehead against hers just as his thrusts began to change. Deeper, faster, harder. He was panting. His fingers found her clit again, and she could feel her orgasm building in her belly.

Draco, on top of her. Draco, inside of her. His fingers on her clit. It was the most erotic thing she had ever seen, and it didn't take long before she was coming. She clenched on Draco as she did so, intensifying her orgasm as he continued to thrust into her. "Draco," she moaned.

As she orgasmed, Draco's thrusts became somewhat erratic. "l'm gonna come," he said, panting. "Can I come?"

"Yes," Hermione murmured, clinging to his sweaty shoulders.

Draco's hips met hers again. "Hermione," he moaned, grinding his hips against her. She could feel as he filled her.

They were both panting hard, and Draco was trembling. His hips stuttered against hers once more and then he groaned just before collapsing on top of her.

Almost immediately, his arms were wrapped around her and then he was flipping them, so that she was lying on his chest. His heart was pounding, and he was still trembling. As soon as he caught his breath, he pulled the comforter up and over them. "Are you okay?" Draco asked quietly as he stroked her hair. "Did I hurt you?"

"I'm okay, Draco," Hermione murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest. He was covered in sweat, and he tasted salty. She loved it.

"Do you need anything? Potions or water or—?"

"Draco," she said. "Shut up. I'm fine."

There was nothing more intimate than lying naked with him, their arms wound around each other.

Draco pressed a kiss to her forehead "You're okay?" he asked again.

"I'm okay, Draco," she replied, rolling her eyes. Truthfully, there was a definite ache between her legs. But she wasn't about to tell him that.

"Okay," he reluctantly agreed after a moment, tightening his hold on her.

"I told them about you," Hermione said quietly, just as their breathing had evened out.

"Hmm?" Draco replied absently, placing a lazy kiss on her hair. She wondered if she tasted salty to him, too.

"Well, Harry guessed. About us," she continued. "But I told Ginny."

"I'm guessing that's why you're my newest handler," Draco said replied, stroking her shoulder.

Hermione stared up at him. "I know what it looks like when you've been tortured. I know what happens when things go wrong. Did you expect me to sit back and do nothing?" she asked.

Draco pushed an errant curl behind her ear. "You? Of course not. But I'd hoped. What you're doing is dangerous, Hermione."

"What you're doing is far more dangerous," she shot back.

"I'm aware of the risks."

"As am I!"

"Hermione—" he began.

"I just want to protect you, Draco," she said quietly. "I want you safe."

"And I want the same for you, Hermione. I didn't have a choice in this. You did," he replied.

"I didn't," she said firmly. "I love you, and I didn't have a choice either."

Draco's eyes flickered and he seemed to relent as he remained silent and pressed a long kiss to her forehead. "I love you, you infuriating woman."

Hermione buried herself back into his chest. "The last time you called me that, you meant it as an insult," she said.

"I still do," Draco quipped, even as he began to stroke her hair. "You are infuriating."

"You love me," she said.

"I do," he agreed.

"I'll try and find out who the other spies are," Hermione continued.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

Against his chest, Hermione laughed. "Okay," she agreed.

She wanted to stay awake—she really did. But between Draco stroking her hair, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, and the exhaustion from their coupling—Hermione found herself being quickly lulled to sleep.

When she woke, the sun was just beginning to rise. Draco was curled protectively around her. They were both naked. Instantly, memories from the previous night rushed back to Hermione and she flushed. She'd had sex. She'd had sex with Draco Malfoy. They'd had sex, and now she had to leave him. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest.

She didn't want to leave him.

She loved him.

As soon as she shifted in his arms, however, Draco was fully awake. His eyes grey studied her momentarily before he kissed her softly. "You have to go," he murmured against her lips.

"I know," Hermione said quietly.

"I mean it this time."

"I know," Hermione repeated.

He kissed her again, before rising from the makeshift bed. Instantly, Hermione felt her face flush a deep bright red. She'd seen him naked just last night, of course, but it was different now. The sun was glowing in the sky, illuminating the paleness of his skin—all of his skin. In the morning light, Hermione could see every curve of every muscle, from his shoulders all the way down to his perfectly sculpted arse.

Draco seemed unbothered by his nudity as he walked around the clearing, collecting Hermione's clothes from where they had been haphazardly tossed the night before. He grinned at her as he handed her the pile of clothes. "See something you like?" he asked, noticing her blush.

"Shut up," she said, quickly pulling her clothes on.

He laughed before finding his own pair of pants and pulling them on.

When Hermione was fully dressed, Draco stood in front of her, his expression serious. He gently took her face in his hands, staring down into her eyes. "Don't come back here, okay?" he said. "Not unless you have official Order business."

"Draco—" Hermione began.

"No," he cut her off. "If you're going to be my handler, this is nonnegotiable."

Hermione swallowed. "Okay," she agreed quietly.

"I'm serious, Hermione," Draco continued.

"I know," she replied. She didn't want to argue with him. Not now. Clearly, he was worried about her safety. He wasn't being unreasonable, really.

"Good." He kissed her hard. "Go home, Hermione," Draco said when he pulled away.

"I have a nonnegotiable request as well," Hermione said quietly.

Draco nodded. "Yes?" he asked, tucking a curl behind her ear.

"Don't you dare die, Draco Malfoy. Because I will never forgive you."

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "I will do my best for you, Hermione," he promised. "For you, I will do my very best."

When Hermione returned to the safe house, she found it quiet and empty. It was still early in the morning, so Hermione reasoned that everyone was still asleep. It was just as well—Hermione still wasn't ready to encounter the entire Order. Not yet, especially not after she'd just had sex with one of their spies.

One of the Order's spies. One of three. She'd have to figure out who the other two were.

She climbed the stairs quietly, attempting to make her way to her bedroom without being detected. Hermione was successful until she opened the door and found Harry Potter lying in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Hermione jumped back, startled, before walking in the room and hurriedly closing the door behind. "Harry Potter," she hissed. "What on earth are you doing?"

Immediately, Harry sat up, flushing. "Sorry. I didn't expect you back so soon," he said, not meeting her eyes.

Hermione crossed her arms across her body. "So you decided to sleep in my room?" she asked.

"No," he said blandly. "I don't really sleep. I was tossing and turning—I didn't want to wake Ron."

"Oh," Hermione said awkwardly.

"Sorry," he said simply. "I thought you'd be gone longer." He made no attempt to move. He looked exhausted and impossibly sad—and impossibly defeated.

Hermione took several steps forward before seating herself on the edge of the bed. "I didn't sleep for a long time," she said quietly. "After—everything. I saw everyone dying in my dreams. Sometimes I still see people dying."

Lately, it was Voldemort that was dying. But that hadn't always been the case.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see the people I care about being murdered. I've seen you, I've seen Ron, I've seen—" Harry cut himself off, forcing his eyes closed. His mouth twisted. "Over and over again. I've seen all of you die, in so many ways. Sometimes, I would wake up and I wouldn't be sure what was real or what was a dream. I had trouble keeping track of who was still alive because the dreams were so vivid. So, I stopped sleeping."

"The same thing happens to me, sometimes. There are so many times I woke up convinced you were still alive." Hermione laughed. "But here you are, I guess."

Harry stayed quiet, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "I know you're wondering about me and Ginny," he finally said after several minutes of silence. "I saw it written all over your face when I told you we weren't together."

Hermoine nodded. "I was surprised," she offered, not wanting to disclose that she had already had a conversation with Ginny on the very same subject.

It had been a foregone conclusion to Hermione that in a perfect world, Harry and Ginny would be together. But then again, they didn't currently live in a perfect world, did they? In a perfect world, she probably wouldn't be with Draco either.

"She barely talks to me," Harry said sadly. "And when she does—when she has to—it's usually about Order business." He laughed bitterly. "I can't sleep at night because all I see is the people I care about dying, and the person I care about the most won't even speak to me."

So, Ginny was in love with Harry, and Harry was in love with Ginny. That had been fairly obvious. It seemed unfair to Hermione that two people who were in love with each other couldn't find a way to be together in such a cruel and dangerous world.

"I don't even understand why," Harry continued quietly.

Hermione sighed. "She's seen you die, too, Harry," she said quietly. "You aren't alone in that. Except she didn't see it in a dream—she saw it for real. Just try and imagine that. I think of Draco and if that—" she paused and swallowed. "If I saw that happen to him—I don't know what I'd do."

Harry stared at her for a long time. "I hadn't—I hadn't thought about it like that."

"Put yourself in her shoes," Hermione suggested.

"We're all just fucked up, aren't we?" Harry asked.

Hermione laughed, feeling suddenly as if she were once again in the presence of her best friend. Perhaps, in her exhaustion, she had forgotten the strangeness between them. She fell against the pillow beside Harry, staring up at the ceiling with him. "A little bit," Hermione agreed.

"How do I fix it? With Ginny?" he asked.

"Don't die again," Hermione offered.

"Well, that's incredibly helpful."

Hermione shrugged against the pillow. "You asked," she replied.

"Are we friends again?"

"We were never not friends," Hermione replied. "You were just dead."

Harry laughed. "Fair enough."

They laid in a comfortable silence for a long time, just staring at the ceiling. Hermione was back and Harry should have returned to his own bedroom. But Hermione found she didn't quite want him to. Lying together in bed, just thinking, it reminded her of when they had been alone hunting Horcruxes, after Ron had left them.

It was a memory, a piece of nostalgia that Hermione could feel viscerally just below her skin. At one point, it had just been Hermione and Harry.

And well, without Draco, Hermione was alone.

Was Harry alone, too? Hermione wondered.

For a moment, Hermione reasoned, it could just be them again. Just Hermione and Harry against the world.

But that wasn't accurate—not anymore. It was Hermione and Draco against the world. Harry—Harry just seemed lost. "Why is the Order such a mess, Harry?" she asked after a while.

It was his turn to shrug. "Shacklebolt and Ron are mostly in charge these days." He paused, swallowing. "They think I'm broken, you know," he said, turning to look at her.

"Are you?" Hermione asked.

"Well, I did die."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"It's strange, and I don't know entirely how to explain it," Harry began. "He used to be in my head all the time—you know. I could see what He was doing—I was Him, sometimes. I lost that connection, when I died." He swallowed. "The Order—you know what it was like. I had visions. I don't anymore, Hermione. So, they don't trust me. Because I'm broken."

"That's because you were a Horcrux, Harry," Hermione said gently. "That's why you had—visions."

"I know," he replied quietly. "Sometimes, I think they—Shacklebolt and Ron—I think they sometimes still wish I was a Horcrux. Because it's just easier. It's just easier for me to have visions, so I can tell them what He's up to. But when was war ever supposed to be easy?" he laughed bitterly.

Hermione felt herself grow cold with horror. She had known that the Order was horribly broken. She couldn't have predicted how splintered it truly was. It was stumbling horribly, relying almost entirely on a fractured joint—Harry—while entirely ignoring the rest of skeletal structure. They were putting all of the pressure on one badly damaged joint, even as the others began to grind against each other, unintentionally damaging the entire structure in the process. "They're going to get us all killed," Hermione said quietly.

"Probably," Harry replied, his voice slightly strained.

"And you're just okay with that, Harry?" Hermione asked, sitting up in the bed and staring down at him. "Because that's not the Harry Potter that I know."

Harry's green eyes flashed. He sat up, too. "Well, maybe you don't know me anymore," he replied coldly.

"It seems that I don't," Hermione agreed.

Harry stood abruptly from the bed, jostling the thin mattress so much that Hermione nearly fell off. He made his way to the door, and just as his fingers began to turn the doorknob, his hand dropped to his side. He turned around, crossing his arms over his chest. "This has been my entire life, Hermione," he said quietly. "My entire life. He took my parents. He's killed people I love. He killed me." He paused for a moment before meeting her eyes. "Can you understand that maybe I'm tired now?"

Hermione felt herself soften. "I understand it, Harry," she replied. "But that doesn't mean you can give up entirely. He's still killing families; he's still destroying people's lives."

"I know that," he said sadly. "But—why does it have to still be me?"

"Because it always had to be you, Harry," Hermione said.

He shook his head. "The prophecy has been fulfilled," he replied. "I think it's someone else's turn."

This was why the Order was in such shambles, Hermione realized. Harry had completely given up.

But of course, he had. He had been the force behind an entire war, a position he received as an infant—a position he had accepted gracefully and without question. He had been the force behind an entire war, and all it had earned him was the death of his family and of himself, and now—now—he was still supposed to be the force behind an entire war, just without the woman he loved and the trust of the Order. He was still supposed to handle all of it, even when he couldn't.

He was tired. Hermione had seen that. But he was more than just tired. He was exhausted straight down to his bones—straight down to his soul. Yes, he deserved to rest. Hermione reached for him. "Come here," she said.

Almost instantly, Harry fell into her arms. "I'm so tired, Hermione," he said quietly. "Some days I can barely drag myself out of bed."

He should have never had do to this alone. And he was right—it was someone else's turn. Hermione wasn't tired. It was her turn. "You're right," she said as she held him. "You deserve to rest. You've done enough. I'm here now—and it's my turn."

Harry looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed. "I couldn't ask you to do that, Hermione."

"You're not asking," Hermione said determinedly. "I'm offering. No—I'm insisting. It's my turn, Harry."

"You were always a better friend than I ever deserved, Hermione," Harry repeated.

"I wasn't," Hermione replied. "But that changes now."

Harry, Ron, and Shacklebolt met every morning at 10 AM, Harry had informed her. At 9:45, Hermione left her bed where Harry was still soundly sleeping, quickly dressed, and made her way up the stairs to the meeting room. She wasn't surprised that the heavily warded room did not allow her entry. That, of course, would be the first on her list of demands.

Shacklebolt was the first to arrive, at a quarter past 10 AM, finding an impatient Hermione sitting in front of the door. "You're late," she accused.

"Where's Harry?" he asked.

"Asleep," Hermione replied soundly. "I'm Harry now. We have important business to attend to. You're late. Where is Ronald?"

"Probably also asleep," Shacklebolt replied, opening the door with quick press of his wand to the doorknob.

Hermione followed him into the meeting room. While Kingsley settled himself at the table, Hermione took in the rest of the room. There were maps all over the walls, covered in red arrows. Many of them looked old, their edges beginning to curl and fade. The newest looking map was had a V scrawled at the border of Luxembourg, and an O marked towards the edge of France, with several arrows pointing towards Luxembourg.

That had been Draco's work. She ran her fingers over the parchment.

There was a small table with mismatched chairs next to one of the windows, containing a stack of unused maps and a chess set that Hermione instinctively knew belonged to Ron.

Hermione took a seat across from Shacklebolt, who was absently flicking through a thick stack of parchment. There was a clock on the wall. Half past, now. Where was Ronald? Hermione began to absently play with her fingers as Shacklebolt continued to shift thought the parchment.

A quarter 'til and still no Ronald. Hermione sighed. "I know you're in charge of the spies," she finally said. "Since Ron didn't seem to know the identities of any of them."

"I am in charge of meeting with them," Shacklebolt said, not looking at her. "Weasley handles strategics."

Her eyes shot back towards the chess board. Ron had always been a great strategist.

"Who are the other two spies?" she asked.

Finally, Shacklebolt met her eyes. "Miss Granger, I mean no offense," he replied. "But you've been here less than a day. You don't learn all the Order's secrets in less than 12 hours—and that includes the identities of our spies. That is sensitive information I am not willing to share just yet."

Kingsley promptly went back to the stack of parchments. Hermione crossed her arms and glared at him as he skimmed. After a moment, she fixed her eyes on the clock. At 10:56, Ron came through the door, barely dressed and his face red. There was a dark hickey blooming on his neck. "Harry—" he said, completely out of breath "Shacklebolt—" His eyes fell on Hermione. "'Mione," he said quietly. "Hermione."

Hermione looked away. "You're late," she said coldly. "Take a seat."

"Where's Harry?" Ron asked breathlessly.

"Harry's tired," she began. "He's carried this for too long. So, I'm taking over."

"'Mione—" Ron began.

"Hermione," she corrected instantly. "Harry has been carrying this his entire life, and he's tired. I, however, am not tired."

"Miss Granger," Shacklebolt replied. "Forgive me, but you do not have the connection Harry has with He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Neither does Harry. The connection Harry had with Him is gone—it disappeared when Harry's Horcrux was destroyed," Hermione replied assuredly. "I currently have a better connection to Him than Harry. I have Draco. He's a Death Eater. I'd have an even better connection if I knew the other two spies."

Shacklebolt's face darkened. "Miss Granger—" he began.

She waved him away. "I know," she said. "I can't be trusted and all that."

Ron was staring at her, his blue eyes intense. "They're both part of the Sacred 28," he said slowly.

"Weasley—!" Shackbolt shouted.

"What?" Ron asked. "It's not like I know anything else."

Three pureblood spies. Interesting.

"Fine," Hermione relented. "If you won't tell me the identities of the other spies, can you at least tell me what Draco's current mission is? Since I'm now his handler."

Shacklebolt stared at her for a long time. Hermione stared back. Finally, he swallowed, and spoke: "Trelawney made another prophecy the same night she made Harry's. Harry saw it when he—died. No one was aware of it before that."

Suddenly, Hermione could barely breathe. The prophecy has been fulfilled; I think it's someone else's turn.

There was another prophecy. It was someone else's turn.

No, Hermione thought. They were not tasking Draco with stealing a prophecy.

They couldn't.

It was the same mission that had ultimately killed his father. They couldn't do that to him.

Shacklebolt's voice interrupted her thoughts: "Malfoy's mission is to steal the second prophecy from the Department of Mysteries and deliver it to the Order."

Because of course that was his mission.

a/n: Next update will be 6/16. Until then, I'd love to hear your thoughts! See ya next time!