She hadn't been kissed like this since she was sixteen.

After days of negotiations by owl, they'd come upon an agreement that had brought them to Hermione's flat in the early evening of a Thursday in late September. Draco hadn't laid any specific ground rules – their back and forth had been self-consciously formal and purposefully vague about what it was they were actually deciding upon – but she was doing everything she could to make him feel totally in control. To that end, she was letting him lead entirely, and that had brought them here, snogging like teenagers.

After a conversation over wine that only loosened up as the bottle emptied, he'd awkwardly moved to go, and when she went to walk him out, he'd gotten her up against the door. She was held in the cage of his arms, his palms pressed to the wall either side of her shoulders. Her own hands were hanging at her side, pushing flat against the wall periodically, her fingernails clawing at the wood as she resisted reaching out for him.

His kisses had been rather artless at first, but sweetly questioning. Sliding his lips over hers and gently pulling and pushing for what felt like forever, she'd squealed when his tongue finally reached for hers. He'd pulled back and looked at her, and she hadn't been able to read what was in his eyes. Itching to pull him back, to kiss him, she'd instead tipped her head up in supplication, invitation, closing her eyes.

Their mouths the only place their bodies met, it made the kiss burn all the more. As he deepened it, pushing forward, Hermione instinctively arched, seeking him out, and their pelvises made contact. She moaned loudly, and he tore his mouth from hers. As he panted against her cheek, she tried to discern if he was embarrassed by the slight hardening she'd felt against her, or just overwhelmed. Either way, he needed to hear it.

"You feel so good, Draco," she whispered, holding herself still.

Hermione imagined she could feel his heartbeat vibrating in the air between their bodies. He made a soft noise at the back of his throat and licked her jaw. She tilted her head to guide his way, and her breath caught as his lips lightly nipped down her neck. As he made his way back up, a whine pushed out from her chest as she exhaled. Turning her head, her mouth opened to his as he plunged them back into a searing kiss.

Draco's fingernails scraped and scratched at the wood near her head. Feeling pleasantly devoured, she moaned from deep in her belly when their centers brushed again. She only hoped he couldn't hear the frustration in it.

:

:

"But it isn't as though you couldn't have done it. You had the N.E.W.T.s for it."

"Well, yes," she said casually, though she was always secretly pleased when someone mentioned her bona fides. "But you've got the same attitude as the rest of them. You think that to be an Auror is the be-all and the end-all, and it's—"

"I think nothing of the sort. I have absolutely no aspirations or admiration in that—"

"You, along with everyone else, think that law enforcement is inferior to the Auror squad. It's as though they're regarded as the elite, and we're seen as those who just couldn't make the cut."

"It's not popular regard, Granger; they're actually defined as such. An 'elite squad' I believe is said of them."

Hermione waved her hand as though that was all such smoke and bother. "There's nothing to it but thrill seeking, and that sort of thing is always flashy and highly thought of, so it gets a lot of attention. Well, that and the high-profile suspects they're after, I suppose."

"Yes," he said wryly. "Mustn't forget the Dark wizards. They're a large part of the attention, you'll have to agree."

"I do agree," she said tightly. This was a tired argument, but one she could never seem to avoid. "But there's nothing to build a life from in that. There's nothing created from that sort of work; you can only destroy. And the ends are worthy, naturally, but what can you hold onto after all the adventure is over? In the end, once what you're after is gone... where's the sense of accomplishment?"

He ruminated for longer than she expected, and she nearly turned over on the bed to look back at him. When he spoke, however, his voice was thoughtful. "So that's what happened between you and Weasley?"

"What?" She'd meant for her voice to come out as indignant or confused, but it was too breathy.

"It's just... he continued his escapades with Potter, and you went back to Hogwarts. Adventure versus accomplishment. There's not much to build a life from in that."

Hermione was disoriented by the heartbeat pounding in her ears until she realized that she had to respond. She couldn't let him think that she was going to allow this line of questioning. Some things should be off limits.

"Wh— Malfoy, what I'm talking about is working my way into lawmaking. I want to really understand how those laws work, how they affect people, and the practical considerations of things, before..." She cleared her throat. "It's a natural progression. MLE to the Wizengamot, I mean. Building. From there."

There was something about lying here in only the dim light from the small lamp on her night table. Though they were fully clothed and on top of the covers, there was an intimacy to it. Turning her back to him (with a foot of space between) eventually led them to speak to each other in ways they never had before. There was such safety in shuttering your face from view, but there was comfort in the closeness of another human being. Hermione hadn't considered the possibility that it could go both ways.

"Do you miss them?"

Her laugh was startled and genuine. "Harry and Ron? I see them all the time."

She thought of Draco's own group of friends from Hogwarts then, and how they'd been decimated in as many ways by the years since. You lost people sometimes, and you outgrew others. While there were those who would always be there, always be family, they couldn't always be close to you. The easy, almost psychic link you have with some doesn't always survive different goals and aspirations.

Hermione sighed and added quietly, "Sometimes."

Her heart was beating its way back to normal when she felt the lightest of touches in her hair. Tiny pulls and tingles shot up to her scalp, making her whole head feel like it was floating above the pillow. The bed rocked slightly as he moved closer, brushing his fingers more confidently through her curls. Colors burst and swirled inside her eyelids, and she felt her body sinking fully into the mattress.

"Mmmnnnh. That feels nice, Draco."

:

:

It was getting easier each time they met. Progressing from the polite greeting to the friendly interaction to the touching, touching, and more touching was becoming almost routine. They weren't really dates, of course, but they followed a similar pattern, and Draco's pursuit of her was earnest as a suitor and eager as a pupil. Since Hermione had been making sure he was in charge of what they did and how, it had been slow going. But his kisses goodnight, though always sweet, had become more fervent of late. He was making his moves with increased confidence, becoming so comfortable with where they were that she'd decided it was time to push him further.

She waited for the knocking and clanging of the radiator to finish and the hiss of the steam heat to bathe them in white noise before reaching for him. She'd asked nicely and he'd agreed, but Draco was lying stiffly against the pillows and looking at her warily as she knelt beside him. For a moment, she took him in against the backdrop of her great-grandmother's quilt; it should have been incongruous to see him surrounded by the humble trappings of her Muggle life, but he was a compliment to it.

Running both hands flat down the crisp cotton of his shirt, she reached the buttons. Her thumbs were deft, slowly pushing one, two... then underneath the fold, three, four... each slowly from its confines. Delicately taking the edges of the fabric in her fingertips, she folded them back to reveal the bare skin beneath. Gently, she pushed the fabric fully back and out of the way. His blond hair golden in the lamplight, her fascination drove her to lean forward. She pressed one finger to a vein and followed it up. His fist clenched empty air, and a hiss to rival the boiler whistled through his teeth.

She'd never seen one up close.

It was the source of his shame, so its mottled appearance struck her as appropriate. Where it had once proudly twisted black against his pristine, white skin, now it bloomed like a bruise in the process of healing; pale purple and blue, green and yellow on the edges. The head of the skull lay in the crook of his elbow, while the tail of the snake was coiled and ready to strike at the delicate skin covering the artery. It was far more detailed than she'd thought it would be, and the markings and designs were ornate and nearly beautiful.

It had taken her weeks to be allowed to see it. There were missteps along the way; grabs at his forearm and squeezes at his wrist that were met with flinches and recoils. Kissing him as fully as his spirited snogging called for was difficult without being able to hold him in some way. He was getting easier and easier with her though, and now she could wrap her arms around his waist and run her hands flat up the muscles of his back. All of it was over the shirt, however, and as committed as she was to this process, she had to admit to becoming impatient.

Hermione wanted to touch him. She wanted to be touched. But she wanted Draco to feel safe and comfortable, and had realized that to move him past where he'd stalled in his sexual exploration years ago would mean defusing the symbol of it. Though she wasn't about to kiss it and make it better, she did think she could accept it and strip it of its power to humiliate.

Wrapping both hands around his wrist, she ran her thumbs lightly up his forearm, squeezing and rubbing the muscle and sinew. Draco's hand went slack as his arm bent, sliding through her grip as he reached up to lightly touch her jaw. She looked up to see that his breathing was shallow, but his expression was without tension. His eyes were intent on hers as he pushed his fingers into her hair and fully cupped her face. His lids were heavy, but as he ran his thumb back and forth on her cheekbone, his look was peaceful. She took a deep breath and reached for the buttons of her blouse.

Draco's eyes widened slightly and his breathing changed dramatically to deep and heavy. Not being quite bold enough to hold eye-contact, she watched the rise and fall of his chest as she opened her top. As she pulled it from her shoulders to reveal herself in a bra of dusty rose, his hand slid slowly down the side of her neck.

Looking up to his face, she saw his eyes no longer on hers but focused decidedly lower, and his gaze was appreciative. It was Hermione's best lingerie, worn purposely for the occasion, and though her face went hot with embarrassment, always shy at first, she couldn't deny that it was just the sort of attention she was after. She tried to relax as his hand traveled the planes and curves down her chest to her stomach.

There she stopped his hand, and his arm went rigid in her grasp. She looked up to reassure him, and saw his brow furrowed. Turning his hand to press against her right ribcage just below her lace-clad breast, she placed it over a rough patch of skin; a burn scar she'd earned in the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco flinched slightly, surprised at the sensation, then looked down to see as well as feel.

Hermione was always hesitant to show this to anyone; she wasn't as vain as the next girl, but she was in fact still a girl. Dark lighting was usually employed to hide this and a smattering of other scars about her body from the war. Draco looked interested but not horrified as he tested the texture under the pads of his fingers. It was not the best place for that kind of exploration, and she twitched as it tickled like hell. She grabbed his wrist to stop him, and for the first time, he didn't cringe at the contact.

Holding his arm in both hands, palm rubbing at the Marked skin, she slid and maneuvered herself to lie next to him on the bed. She pulled his arm so that it lay against her, bare skin to bare skin, cradled between her breasts. He turned his hand to touch her face lightly as he leaned in.

It was barely a whisper, but she clearly felt the words "Beautiful, Hermione" murmured against her lips.

:

:

"Really, Granger, it's not that uncommon. I hear Potter's parents did."

"Yes, that's true, but—"

"You think that's romantic, whereas looking at my engagement, you assume archaic tradition or desperation. Very nice." Draco's tone was far more wry than offended.

Hermione huffed indignantly. Turning to face him fully, she abandoned her preparations for tea. He was quite comfortably sprawled in one of the chairs at her kitchen table, leaned back with his hands behind his head, looking pleasantly sated and welcoming to debate. She leaned against the counter and obliged.

"I said absolutely nothing of the sort. All I meant was that it was a rash decision for a young couple," she said, raising her voice when it appeared he would interrupt, "especially for such a new couple. Six months is just not a very long time to get to know one another."

"I disagree. Six months should really be all it takes." He waved away her shocked expression. "Anything you don't know about each other by then would be best learned over the course of a lifetime and with the safety of a commitment. People are too casual about relationships, and that's what keeps them closed-off. It's why it takes years to get to know a person."

Hermione was dizzy from the logic in that statement. "People grow and change, Draco, and they can't have a clue that what they'd want when they were twenty would be the same as when they're fifty."

His look was incredulous. "Oh? And people don't grow and change in their thirties and forties and beyond?" He raised his brow as though he was quite sure he'd won. "While I see your point, I think it's faulty. There are no hard and fast rules, and the success of any marriage is a combination of luck and hard work. The when isn't as important as you might think."

Deciding to just leave this argument in favor of something she'd been wanting to know for a while, she asked casually, "Well then, what about the 'who' being important? What made you think you were a good match with Astoria?"

He thought for a moment, and she wondered if she'd upset him until he spoke, sounding merely thoughtful. "It wasn't some grand romance, but... Our temperaments suited. Yes, our parents promoted it. That doesn't mean it was a bad idea." He shrugged, but looked her steadily in the eye. "You could always do a lot worse than finding someone you care about and respect. And just because marriage is what's expected of me as the only heir, that doesn't make it a bad thing in and of itself."

He shifted and reached past the remnants of dinner for his wine glass, tipping it into his mouth to get the very last drops of wine. He'd already done that though, and there was nothing left. "And yes, the Malfoy Charter recognizes formal courtship and legitimacy in marriage only to a pure-blood. That's just understood and something I've known since my father explained it all when I was thirteen. I'd never felt particularly trapped by it though."

He paused, and the look in his eyes was one she couldn't place, but her pride wanted to see regret there. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees and eyes piercing under his furrowed brow, it seemed very important to him that she get the point he was laboring to make.

"What I mean to say is that I didn't feel restrained in the choice that brought me to Astoria. The Charter has never been breached, and its legacy is important. Maybe that in itself is archaic, but there's accomplishment in tradition." He sat back and averted his gaze as he continued, "It's a living document though, and its purpose is to serve the family. It's there to give each generation what it needs."

That stung a bit. Hermione had her quixotic side, and she'd be lying if she said she'd never thought of the things beyond the world outside her flat that would keep her and Draco apart. As pragmatic an arrangement as this was, she had a heart, and it would engage itself from time to time in dreaming of 'what ifs.' There was no reason to get carried away with it, but she was human.

He'd begun to insist on certain niceties when they met, that a meal or a drink be had between them, and he always paid or brought the takeaway himself. Though she knew that was his way, upright and traditional to the core, she couldn't help but feel a bit courted. At times, she wished he wouldn't bother; she thought it might be easier if he just treated her as casually as their relationship seemed to dictate. But what was their relationship? They were friends at least, but was that all?

"So what happened between you and Astoria then?" She sat down opposite him and tried not to seem too eager for the answer.

Hermione watched as he went through the routine with the wine glass for the third time. He'd brought only one bottle on the past few occasions, but she hadn't asked him if he was trying to cut down. Watching him make circles on the kitchen table with the bottom of the glass, she wondered if maybe her chance for answers had been missed back when he was still drowning his inhibitions.

"She uh..." It came out raspy, and he cleared his throat. "She heard a rumor." Looking up, a sneer twisted his face. "Well, a friend told her a story, anyway. She got nervous, and she pushed this elaborate scenario to try and seduce me to try and prove—" He shook his head, a shuddering breath coming out of him as he drew a very detailed pattern around the chips in the formica surface with his finger. "It didn't work. I couldn't... Well, you can imagine. It didn't work."

"I'm sorry, Draco," she whispered. And as little as she mourned the end of his engagement, she was sorry.

He cleared his throat again. "She was really hurt, and I just couldn't explain." Raising his head, the lightness of his tone was forced as he said, "It's good it happened when it did, though. I would have— I wouldn't have wanted to make her unhappy."

"You wouldn't have, Draco." She said this so fervently that he seemed surprised. Shaking her head vigorously, she continued, "You would have figured it out. Over the course of a lifetime, you two would have grown and... you would have figured it out together."

His smile was grateful, and her heart lurched and stumbled for the rest of the evening, fairly leaping from her chest to search for his own when he backed her up against that table and kissed her, hard.

:

:

This was the best theory she'd ever concocted.

Draco's problems with arousal and his need for specific circumstances in order to find release were mainly because he couldn't separate it from the humiliation he'd suffered at Bellatrix's hands. It had thus been difficult for him to find anything other than specific behavior erotic, and when things escalated, he would slip into memory to the point where he almost experienced his aunt as present when he climaxed. Trying to break that cycle, he was avoiding those exact circumstances, but achieving and sustaining arousal had been an issue.

Hermione postulated that since he seemed to get turned on by her reactions, if he just focused on her and her pleasure, he would be able to not only refuse any breakthrough of Bellatrix's memory, but would associate arousal with a completely different experience.

Boy, was she ever right about that. Self-satisfaction was a heady drug for Draco, and nothing kept him more emotionally engaged than his pride. His confidence was building and soaring over the course of the past two weeks, and her mood certainly hadn't been hurt any by the process.

As he plunged a second finger into her, Hermione arched and keened imploringly from her throat. Draco's mouth came down on hers through the darkness and the swirling colors against her eyelids. Yes, she was so very, very smart.

His fingers twisted, thumb questing, and as it brushed her center she squealed and bit down on his lower lip. His chuckle was delighted, but it became dark and wicked as she came hard on his fingers with a high-pitched shriek. Stretching and twisting against the sheets, she felt wonderfully and blessedly naked, and more comfortable than she could remember ever being in her skin. Panting, coming down slowly, she wanted to sing. She wasn't sure she'd ever been so pleased with herself.

She was pretty pleased with Draco too, for that matter. She liked him really, really a lot.

What a thing to teach a man, after all, to focus only on the woman's pleasure. His future wife was going to owe her great thanks, but she tried not to think about whoever that was going to be. She was now reaping the dividends of Draco's prodigious skill, as he had natural talent. Naturally, she thought, and the laugh that had threatened officially broke from her as he kissed the most sensitive skin on her neck.

"Sohhh... SsssMMMAAARRRRrrtummm..." she said, shaking her head against the sensation, almost too much for her. The feeling stopped immediately.

"What?" His voice was husky and low and all kinds of sexy.

"Mmmm?"

"What about him?" he rasped, voice tight, but she didn't notice.

"Him?" She couldn't understand why he was no longer paying attention to her neck. It was getting cold.

"Martin." Draco was holding himself very still, propped on one elbow, looking down at her with a great furrow cutting his forehead in two. She didn't like the look of it and reached up to run a finger down it. His eyes slid shut before he pulled her hand from his face. Opening narrowed eyes to her, he said sternly, "You could tell me."

Hermione was suddenly very distracted by the paleness of his skin and the way it shone in the moonlight coming through her bedroom window. Though not burly, his musculature was well-defined, and in this light he looked like a marble statue. She reached out the fingertips of the hand he wasn't holding to touch the scar that ran diagonally down his chest. It had been a great, gaping wound in the center, and the spell used to seal it had to have been rushed and simple to have left such a mark. She knew it had been.

He allowed the touch, and she reveled in how the strip of skin shined in the light. Very suddenly though, he grabbed her wrist and moved quickly over her, holding each hand in one of his, pressing them to the mattress over her head. She held her breath as he moved over her, one knee pushed between her legs.

Draco's eyes bore into hers. "Are you seeing someone?"

Hermione shook her head to clear it. "What? Draco..." Her leg came up to wrap about his own and was disappointed to encounter the fabric of his trousers.

He released a sigh, diving to catch her lips in a quick kiss. As he pulled away, she stretched to follow, but he was holding her down and was soon out of reach. His next dive launched another assault on her neck, and as she moaned and stretched under him, she could hear a mumbled, "...could tell me."

His attack took him on a tour of all of his favorite places as he pushed himself down, down to rest on his elbows between her bent knees. As he scooped her thighs up in his arms and pressed his face forward, she felt her own pride blossom and bloom.

The hardness she'd felt pressed against her through the wool of his trousers was unmistakable.

:

:

Well, now she really felt like a teenager.

'Dry-humping,' she recalled as the term for it from when she was sixteen. It would be ridiculous if it didn't feel so bloody good. She would feel silly if it weren't for the months it had taken to get here, where she could feel him against her and could touch him with abandon. It would be strange if it weren't Christmas, and if he hadn't shown up at her flat this evening without warning and in a festive mood, bearing a bottle of brandy and a box of chocolates the size of Quaffle.

Lately, his interest in divesting her of her clothing was paramount, and he'd done so with great efficiency almost as soon as he'd walked through the door. It had been a little awkward getting it all off, holding the bottle and the box as she was, but she was not at all interested in curbing Draco's dominant impulses, now that they were (finally) making themselves known. That he'd seemed feverishly hot for her was something else she wanted to encourage.

She didn't know exactly what had gotten into him tonight. She hadn't spoken to him since the week before at St. Mungo's Christmas party, and he'd been strangely terse with her then. But here she'd felt embraced, cherished, worshipped. Able to demonstrate all she felt right back to him, it had been as though he was simply her lover, and nothing more complicated than that defined them. It had made her bold, and she'd quickly rid him of his shirt, reaching for his belt and cheering herself on when she met no resistance.

They'd stumbled and tumbled their way to lying on her bed, and she'd been kissing and licking and caressing from her position astride him when he'd given a great moan. Grabbing her hands and flipping her on her back, he'd settled himself on his elbows above her. Capturing her lips with his, he'd wound one arm beneath her neck to cradle her head in his palm. The other pushed under her hips, angling her and pulling her center against his.

And now, though Draco wore his silk pants, and her cotton pajama bottoms were still in place, the sensation was marvelous. His tongue stroked hers and her fingers wrapped in his hair. The hot, hard length of him was insistent against her, and she wrapped her legs up and around him. Grinding herself closer, closer, she tightened her legs and clenched her fists.

With a growl, he took hold of the wrist of the hand wound in his hair and yanked to hold it against the bed. His other arm came from around her waist to grab her thigh. Effectively pinned, she could only receive as his hips sped up. He bent slowly to lick the very tip of one nipple then the other as she shrieked. His breath was hot and heavy against her as he hovered for a moment before fully descending, taking the whole of one into his mouth as he sucked.

Mumbling what sounded like her name over and over, desperately, against her skin, Draco's groans grew more and more pleading. Hermione was arching and striving for something she couldn't quite reach when his whole body shuddered against her. He gasped and then a moan that seemed to start at his toes pushed out of him. His back bowed as his whole body went stiff.

Hermione could feel the wetness through the silk of his pants as his arms gave way. Feeling a satisfaction that overrode any frustration, she went to wrap her arms around him, but he resisted. He pushed himself up on his elbows, heavy lids sliding shut as he caught his breath.

When he opened his eyes, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on the pink mark he'd left on her breast. Hermione reached up, dragging her finger down to smooth his forehead and he flinched, startled from wherever he'd gone in his mind. She pulled back her hand and waited, but he only briefly flicked his gaze to hers before pushing up and off her entirely. His face was pinched, and his expression was full of regret.

Rolling over to sit at the edge of the bed with his back to her, his voice was rough as he said, "I'm sorry."

Hermione hadn't known it before that moment, but it turned out 'sorry' was the worst thing a girl could hear from a bloke when lying naked and sweaty with his come on her stomach. Was that, 'Sorry I jumped the gun,' or 'Sorry I made a mess?' That would be fine, but it was more likely: 'Sorry, that was a mistake.' That made her stomach churn with humiliation, the likes of which she'd not felt since that last night at Hogwarts as she'd listened helplessly to the whoosh of the Floo at his hasty exit.

Her hopeful heart wanted to clarify though, so she asked, quietly, "Sorry for what, Draco?"

He rubbed his face roughly with both hands before standing abruptly. He busied himself with gathering his clothes, saying weakly, "I shouldn't have done that. I lost control."

Hermione wrapped herself in her great-grandmother's quilt and got up to go to him. She wasn't about to take this lying down, literally or figuratively. "That's fine, Draco," she said softly, "you should be allowed to lose control, at least once in awh—"

"No. It wouldn't be right." He was just zipping up his trousers and he raised his head to look at her, his eyes bright, his jaw set.

Her heart clenched, but her fiercest armor came down immediately to shield it. If he was going to end this experiment of theirs because of propriety or prejudice, she wouldn't fight him. She had pride, and it had been injured, but not mortally, and she would never let him see the wounds. Her heart was another matter, but secondary in moments like this.

"Draco," she said, her tone deliberate, "this agreement of ours should be something that's for you. If you want to stop, it's up to you. It's your choice." She held her arms firmly crossed in front of her chest, clutching the quilt covering her, and she was very proud that her voice didn't shake.

He took that in with a deep breath. Searching her face for some answer, he seemed to come up with the wrong one. Shaking his head, he muttered, "I'm sorry." And with that, left the room.

Hermione had followed him out in a daze, missing him just as the green flame of the Floo sputtered. She had her first good cry in a long while, staring at the blinking lights of her Christmas tree until she fell into a fitful sleep on the sofa. When she awoke, the small, modest tree looked cheerless in the morning light.

:

:

"He's staring again," he said lowly, looking over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. "I mean, I wasn't sure when he was over by the punchbowl, and now he seems to be trying to hide it, talking to that skinny bloke from Magical Transportation and everything, but from the way he keeps tipping his head, I can tell that he's definitely—"

"Thank you, Harry." Hermione said tersely, distracted then by a great guffaw from Ron, who was talking to her date about racing brooms. When she turned back to Harry, his arms were crossed over his chest, and he was looking back and forth between Ginny and herself with his most pursed-lipped glare.

"What?" she said, glancing at Ginny to see her rolling her eyes.

"Would one of you mind telling me why?" Harry said, annoyed, but keeping his voice low.

"Why what, Harry?" Ginny said innocently. She had heard all about it, but was under the impression Hermione didn't want to talk about it right now. She was right.

"Why Malfoy looks like he could kill, either Hermione or anyone who comes near her?"

Hermione stiffened her spine and took a careless sip of her champagne. Her voice matched her manner as she replied, "How should I know? Nothing Malfoy does is my concern." She really didn't know, after all. If he didn't want to continue with her, if he didn't think it was 'right,' then why should he care a bit about what she did and where? He shouldn't.

She looked around to the other revelers attending the Ministry's New Year's Gala. Rather, she looked about to the others attending; she wasn't feeling quite as festive as the rest of them. She sighed and looked back to find Harry leveling her with a softened gaze, and her breath caught at the understanding there.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His expression was so concerned that she had to look away.

The noise in the room spiked suddenly – the music, the raucous laughter, and the clinking of eating, drinking, and making merry – and it suddenly felt as though her nerves were trying to escape through her skin. Harry and Ginny standing before her were too caring, Malfoy behind her was too confusing, and Ron and Westley, her date, were too clueless. She was dizzy and breathless and had to get out of there.

Hermione turned to her friends to tell them that she was going to go, but Ginny reached for her glass, and Harry offered to fetch her cloak before she could say a word. Her eyes burned then, and though she was grateful for their sympathy, she absolutely refused to lose control in public. Hermione turned to her date to let him know she would see herself home, but Ginny waved her off.

"If they even notice you're gone, we'll explain you weren't feeling well, okay? Happy New Year, Hermione." Her look was bracing and got Hermione out of the ballroom and through the Floo.

She'd only stumbled around for a minute or two, slipping off her heels and dismantling the elaborate style that had tamed her hair, when there was a knock at the door. As little as she expected to see Draco that or any other evening, she knew immediately it couldn't be anyone else. She hadn't heard from him since what Ginny had termed the 'Humping Incident' of the week before (unhelpfully amending, "Well, it wasn't exactly 'dry' now, was it?"). Clearly, he must have been watching her to see when she'd left. Harry would be so pleased to hear he was right.

He gave only a cursory greeting as he walked in, looking around as though he'd never been in her flat before. Hermione was a bit embarrassed at the state of it; she'd not cleaned for over a week, and there were remnants of the holidays strewn about everywhere. Gravitating toward her mantle, he'd fidgeted with the pictures there while she stood impatiently watching, debating whether to leave him and either get out of the bloody tight dress she was wearing, or make a sweep of the room to clean up all the rubbish.

"You're seeing Martin?" he said toward the photo of her, Ginny, and Luna at a café in wizarding Paris.

When she didn't respond, he turned to look at her. She merely shrugged in response and tried not to feel cheered by the disappointment she saw flicker in his eyes. It was fleeting, and he turned his attention immediately back to very important task of straightening picture frames.

Hermione was tired, and she was tired of being sensitive to Draco's feelings. She had feelings too, and was sick of forgiving his stomping on them because he didn't know better or because he had problems. Well, she had problems. She wasn't a doctor or a counselor, and she'd been stupid to think she could remain objective in all of this. A woman with a heart just couldn't do this sort of thing for this long without needing to push back a little.

So, if he believed she was seeing someone else, that was just fine. Westley Martin was her go-to for formal occasions because the majority of those in the department were married or seeing someone, and it just made everything easy for them. There was absolutely no intrigue to it, but Draco may have seen them together before and easily gotten that impression. In fact, he'd seen them together just recently at the Christmas party; if any of his unfathomable mood swings had an explanation, that could be part of it.

"And you're seeing... Pucey?" she asked. Or Flint, or Bagshot or something like that. The blonde, beautiful, well-bred woman she'd seen on his arm this evening was surely of the finest wizarding stock in Britain.

"Arianna Flint. Her father is on the board."

Hermione looked heavenward as if for strength, blowing the hair up off her forehead before leveling her eyes back on his. "Right. Is that yes?"

Turning fully to face her, his mood was agitated but his expression was guileless. "Oh... no. No, it was a favor. She's just out of Beauxbatons and doesn't know many people in Britain." His expression was serious and direct as he said, "I left her with Blaise just now. I wanted to talk to you."

Oh. Oh dear, they were going to be honest with each other? He was standing there like an open book, practically luminous in his dress robes, and it was just a little too much to take. She was prepared for this to go the way of prideful ego-preservation, providing a relatively clean exit for both of them. But he wanted to talk about it?

She crossed her arms and stiffened her spine. "You didn't have to follow me home, Draco. You always know how to reach me."

His face twisted at that, properly scolded for how he'd disregarded her. Again. "Yes, I'm... " He looked everywhere but her eyes for a moment before he regained his purpose. "I wanted to let you know that I'd stand aside. For Martin."

Stand aside? What was this, the eighteenth century? She would have scoffed and retorted, but he wasn't finished.

"You shouldn't feel trapped by a good deed or—" He shook his head, taking two steps toward her, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. "It's your choice. You're not beholden to this agreement, Hermione, if it isn't what you need." He took a deep breath that seemed to summon his strength. "I need to do what's right. You shouldn't be unhappy if you can get what you want from someone else."

Hermione was barely breathing or blinking by the end of that, ready to burst out laughing at the absurdity of his gallantry in such a situation; wanting to scream at his blind possessiveness and her own foolish pride. It was at moments like this that she knew her legendary bravery was far overrated, because she couldn't find the nerve to say something like, 'But I want you,' or 'I'm not dating Martin you daft git!' She wasn't that kind of a gutsy broad.

Instead, she summoned what pluck she possessed, wrapped it up in hope, and said, in barely more than a whisper, "What do you want, Draco?"

It was remarkable, the change that came over him at her words. Because there were different kinds of courage, and in some ways, Draco was as brave as the most daring Gryffindor. He might not know how to defend himself in battle or to find his own convictions when the world fell down around him, and he couldn't stare evil in the eye without blinking. But when it came to getting what he wanted, he was fearless in his purpose.

Draco's eyes never left hers as he crossed the puny distance of the lounge to reach her. His plans were formulated and routes mapped by the time they stood toe to toe. Reaching for her face with both hands, he took only a moment to make clear his intention before closing his mouth on hers. It was earnest and open, his kiss, and Hermione's heart soared. When his tongue slid against her own, she gave herself over to it, only to feel her stomach drop as he pulled away.

His hands fell to his sides and he stood, waiting. It took only a few seconds for Hermione to understand; she had to do this. He was declaring himself, and he was ready, but it was up to her to consent to it. With a nervous smile, she reached out to take his hand in hers. He was still, and she looked down at their clasped hands for just a moment before she took a breath and tugged. That small pull propelled him toward her, toward the bedroom at the end of the hall, toward the great unknown.

They were immediately fused head to toe, somehow moving as one, backward and forward and turning and twisting their way. His arm wrapped around her waist and his hand pushed into her hair. She dug her hands under his robe and shirt, greedy for his bare skin. He crouched and contorted to make up for the distance in height. Having made this journey several times before, they easily found themselves with shins bumping against the mattress.

Clothing was shed efficiently but not without reverence. As usual, Draco lit the lamp near the bed, bathing them in soft light, leaving nothing hidden from view. Hermione had gotten used to it; she felt warm under his appreciation, and she found that being able to see him was worth it. He stretched out on the bed, and she followed, crawling over him. He was beautiful, scars, Mark, uncertainty and all. Reaching to the elastic at his waist, she pulled the last barrier from between them.

Draco looked at her intently but with trust in his eyes, trembling as she ran her hand lightly over him. Rubbing up his thigh to his belly and the coarse hair there, she gently dragged her hand down to wrap about his length. He was hard and she squeezed with triumph. Moaning, his eyes raked over her face, studying each feature and cataloguing all the traits that made her—

"Hermione," he rasped and held out his hand.

Crawling up, she was embraced, flipped, and overpowered in one deft move. On his knees, Draco leaned forward hard on one hand, running the other lightly down her body. By the look of concentration in his eyes, he was memorizing every curve and freckle. He was too far away from her though, and she pushed up on her hands, angling to kiss him. He kissed back for a moment, then gently pressed for her to lie back down.

His feather-light touch drove her insane. Dragging a hand down her thigh to her toes, he kissed his way back up the inside. He squeezed her breast, then licked and sucked until she writhed against him. He peppered her neck with nips and busses that he refused to bestow on her seeking lips. When his hand finally pressed confidently against her center, she moaned so loudly that he groaned with her.

Hermione was stunned looking at him, this artful lover of hers. His breath was heavy, his eyes fixed on hers as he parted her and slid one finger inside. Hermione lost track of everything but how it felt, reaching out to him, wanting him closer. With Draco's one, two fingers in concert with his circling thumb, she began to climb.

But the sensation and the emotion of it all suddenly became too much and too little.

"Draco..." She opened her eyes to see him above her, and his eyes were so warm her stomach fluttered. He kissed her then, his fingers picking up speed. It was not what she wanted. Tearing her mouth from his, she panted, "Please, please, please, please, please... You. I need you" Her hips arched off the bed as entreaty.

He froze and swallowed thickly, but his expression was not one of fear. Delicately withdrawing his fingers, he sat back, taking hold of his length in one hand. Nestling it up against her opening, he stilled and looked up at her. She didn't know what to do, but she couldn't have torn her eyes from him if she tried. As he jerked forward involuntarily, the tip slipped inside and his eyes slammed shut.

Draco's head dropped to hang heavily between them as a hiss was pulled through his clenched teeth. The bed shook as both his hands came down hard by her shoulders. After a few quick pants, his head jerked up as though he'd suddenly remembered something, and his glazed eyes found hers.

Hermione reached up to push the hair from his eyes, and her hand came to rest on his jaw. Turning his head, he kissed the center of her palm. He glanced back at her with a look of wonder and, with a deep breath, pushed forward to slide inside her. Draco's entire body shuddered, and the moan that rumbled forth was nearly mournful.

Reaching with both hands, she tugged to get him closer, but he resisted all but shifting to his elbows. His eyes were fused to her face with a near obsessive concentration while he did nothing but hold himself still and breathe. She understood; as she'd taught him, he wanted to keep her in his sight, to stay present, to keep the experience in the now. Yet she wanted him, his warmth and all of him, near her, crushing her.

But as he pulled out and thrust slowly back in, his face slack with nearly unbearable pleasure, he groaned, "You feel so good, Hermione."

And the truth of it was plain for her to see in his eyes. It was the most honest and intimate moment of her life, and it was about her, about him, and about what they were to each other. It wasn't about sensation, but feelings, and the lengths they'd traveled to reach this far were written in the air between them. She'd never experienced anything so powerful. She knew she'd never feel anything like it with anyone else.

So she returned the fierceness of his look, laid bare with nowhere to hide. But his eyes were not shuttered from her view either, and his soul was beautiful to her.

Draco's thrusts now became a rhythm, and Hermione ran her hands up his chest to hold his jaw as they moved. His look never wavered, and it was easy to see what he was feeling. She knew he wouldn't last long, but his focus was so entirely on her that he'd already gone longer than she'd expected.

His brow furrowed and his moans became desperate. She grabbed his hand to drag it down to where they were joined, guiding his fingers. His eyes widened with realization, and when he looked to see, he became mesmerized by the sight of him sliding in and out of her.

Eager eyes shot back up to see her, to gauge her reaction, and her heart imploded. Sensation twisted and merged with feeling, and she moaned with each panting breath as she came. Somehow she held her gaze steady though, and she saw him immediately follow her over.

Ecstasy looked like pride and peace on Draco, and it matched the warmth in her chest.

He collapsed then, his breath heavy on her neck. Wrapping her arms around him fully, finally, Hermione squeezed. As he squeezed back and kissed her neck, she felt an untamed happiness conquer her. She felt like the two of them had made sense of chaos and had defeated the only problems that mattered. For now.

For the first time, she fell asleep with Draco wrapped around her.

As usual, when she woke, she found herself alone.

:

:

Whatever she'd been expecting in Interrogation Room Three, Draco Malfoy was most definitely not it. Samson had told her that a witness in the Boles case had come forward to make a statement, and of all the people present at 'The Lair' on the night in question, the one who'd shagged and left her a few days before without a word was the last she thought she'd see. It wasn't that she didn't want to see him. It certainly wasn't that she didn't want an explanation; she did, but this was not the time or place for it.

"Mr Malfoy. What brings you in today?" she said briskly, tossing the file on the table as she sat. She busied herself with setting up the Quick-Quotes Quill and didn't look up.

He cleared his throat as though waiting for more acknowledgement, but he could just go on waiting. She wasn't helping him with this awkward situation.

"Well, Agent Granger, I was wondering if you were aware of Frederic Boles' girlfriend?

She sighed. "Girlfriend?"

"Yes. The one who was at the club the night of your raid."

Hermione's head snapped up so quickly that her wide eyes were greeted by a gentle smirk.

"Thought you'd like that," he said softly. "I made Lucinda Timms' acquaintance a couple of months ago; she's a friend of Pansy's. Seems she's quite annoyed with her boyfriend because he keeps leaving her places with very little explanation. She's got no love for Law Enforcement, but when he doesn't tell her why he needs the distraction—"

"She was in the hallway? The locking spells?"

He nodded. "That wasn't the only time, either. She's often underestimated, and that's going to mean trouble for someone someday."

Hermione bent fully over her notes and scribbled furiously on the parchment. "Well yes, especially if she's not interested in taking a fall as accessory just to save her boyfriend."

"Well, don't you underestimate her either, Agent Granger. From what I hear, she's rather attached to him." He was quiet for a bit, while the sound of quill on paper was all to be heard. "It's interesting how I came to put the pieces of this together, actually," he continued, his tone light. "You see, Lucinda's mother is very good friends with my mum. They have tea every Thursday, and I frequently join them. Needless to say, the conversation is rather boring, but Madame Timms was going on and on the other day about how her darling Lucinda had received a Letter of Intention from one Frederic Boles. Lucy had referred to her boyfriend as 'Freddie,' and I never connected the two."

He paused for a moment and Hermione looked up. Her interest was piqued; he wasn't usually one to ramble on about nothing, even when the situation was awkward. "A 'Letter of Intention?'" she prompted.

Draco's smile was rather alarmingly like the spider to the fly. "Yes. You're probably unfamiliar with the tradition. It's rather old-fashioned and largely practiced by pure-bloods. When a man is intending to court a woman formally, he must address the woman's mother and obtain her permission. That way, nothing can be misconstrued as more than it is, and a man can't string a woman along forever without declaring himself. Ms Timms was over the moon at that letter from Boles, and Lucy was just as thrilled."

Hermione's stomach twisted painfully at the reminder of the codes and prejudices that kept her wishes and hopes as only fantasy. The things that were important to Draco, that made him who he was, made it impossible to be with her. She couldn't expect him to change any more than she could change something so defining in herself. She wasn't willing to be a second-class citizen in his life, and he wouldn't be willing to overthrow the structure of his whole family.

When he spoke again, his voice was now very purposefully casual. "There's a rather balanced distribution of power amongst traditional families, and the lines are clear and impregnable, for the most part. In nearly all of them, while the father has the authority over most practical concerns, as well as over the interpretation and modification of the charter itself, the mother has full say as to the approval of the suitor."

Hermione's eyebrows raised, still trying to grasp the thread of this discussion. "You mean it can't be challenged by her husband?"

"Essentially, no. It works that way as well for the matches to the sons of traditional families, within the bounds of each family's code. There are charters and enchantments to protect everyone's interests and authority, but there are provisions for if the power structure is disturbed." Draco was looking at her intently, and she was listening carefully for every nuance. "For instance, section five of the Malfoy Legacy Charter states that should the patriarch of the family be deceased or indisposed, in the absence of another suitable head of the family, the matriarch will be given all powers previously vested in the former."

He sat back, and Hermione sensed he wanted her to query, "So, would that be the case if the head of the family was incarcerated?"

He smiled and nodded once. "Yes. It so happens that my mother has all the powers over the family charter and its stipulations that had previously resided with my father."

Hermione held her breath as she waited for what Draco had come to tell her. His fingers started fidgeting, and he cleared his throat a few times while her hope surged.

"I spoke with my mother about Bella," he began softly, having more difficulty now making eye-contact, "and how that affected me. I told her about you—" He looked up at her soft gasp and rushed to continue, "And she agreed, given your experience with her, that you were uniquely suited to... counteract Bella's spell."

Hermione's knee-jerk reaction was one of exasperation. "Draco, that's ridiculous! I thought you'd come to understand that there was no enchantment or curse. Your counselor even said that given the—"

"Granger!" he snapped, and she recalled suddenly what he'd been saying. She sat dumbstruck as he carried on. "She agreed, given the state of things and the practical considerations of protecting the line, that changing the charter to allow formal interaction with those of different status would be prudent."

He leaned toward her, and his eyes were so warm and sincere that she unconsciously tilted forward as well. It suddenly didn't seem like the wrong place for this talk at all; their relationship had always been one of negotiation and adjustment, of question and answer, of analysis and healing. Setting and ambiance had never really made much of a difference to them.

"Listen, Hermione. Adherence to certain rites and processes is integral to upholding the Malfoy Charter. The Charter is very important to my mother. My mother and her approval is very important – is essential – to me." He paused, his eyebrows raised for acknowledgment, and Hermione nodded, breathless. "But it's also important to me to do what's right, and there's a way of going about things that I've neglected... I've always thought it was very sensible for people to declare themselves and their intentions, to family and friends as well as each other, and I've tried always to make mine clear when I could. When it hasn't been possible..." he trailed off, imploring her to understand and, possibly, to forgive.

She was still a little unclear as to what was happening here, but she was beginning to recognize the feeling of expanded horizons and limitless possibilities when they presented themselves. What he was offering was heady and big, and there was a bit of fear mixed with the exhilaration she felt. This man before her had always inspired her to jump head-first though, and in the balance of things, she hadn't had much to regret. The comparison of risk to reward was daunting, but it was the kind of challenge that made the lioness within her stretch and prepare to leap.

His face flushed astonishingly red, and his fingers twitched and fiddled wildly. He cleared his throat and said, "So." He cleared his throat again. "I was wondering if I might have your mother's address."

He looked at her seriously, but with that glint that looked so good in his eyes, and Hermione couldn't help but laugh. It was joyous and celebratory, from deep down inside her, and it was way overdue. There were many things to be done and said between them, and they were behind schedule, but it was never too late.

But first, she turned to the Quick-Quotes Quill.

"Statement from Draco Malfoy, witness to Case number 50219G, concluded." And with a wave of her wand, she ended the spell.

:

~ The End ~