I like telling stories out of order. I hope this isn't too confusing. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Interim

His fingers are cool on her shoulders and smooth on her skin as they curl around her neck, brushing back loose wisps of hair. He exhales as his lips graze her ear, sending a shiver through her.

"What would your friends say?" She shrugs one shoulder in response to his rough whisper. That isn't something she wants to think about immediately after they've fucked, while his hands are drifting down her back, curving against her sides.

"They aren't here," she points out. "We're alone. It doesn't matter what other people think."

"I'm not alone," he says. She briefly wonders if he's gone mad, but he goes on. "My father's always with me. Judging me. Demanding to know what I'm doing." He speaks into her neck, snapping off each word bitterly, but the movement of his lips at the hollow of her throat counters the sharp words. She reaches up and brushes back the hair that's always falling into his eyes, and he pushes forward just so, resting his forehead in her hand. The moment holds until he shifts and sighs. Tracing her fingers down the side of his face, she catches his chin in her hand and turns his face to hers. Her heart is beating fast.

"We're living," she tells him, her lips so close to his that she can feel his warmth. "That's what we're doing."

And the space between them hovers, suddenly, and she wonders if she's said the wrong thing, but then her worry disappears as he presses his lips to hers. He's almost uncertain. But she licks his lip, lightly, and then there's no longer any hesitancy in his kiss as his mouth opens against hers.

After

If asked, Hermione Granger will say that it was pure chance she became friends with Draco Malfoy. It was late, she was tired and not paying attention to the hallways, otherwise she would have remembered that it was the second Thursday of the month and not stepped on to that particular staircase.

Draco will snort and say he's surprised that someone as smart as she's supposed to be would fall asleep in the bath and forget about the trick staircases. "They're discussed extensively in Hogwarts, A History, you know."

Hermione will whip her head back, her mass of hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and glare, unsure if Draco is mocking her or teasing her. He'll smirk and wink, and she'll blush and settle back in her seat.

When pressed "So, then, you're friends now?" neither one of them will answer directly.

Draco will assume a bored expression. "Friends? With that bossy know-it-all?" he'll scoff and change the subject without giving a direct answer.

Hermione's cheeks will pink and she'll say, cautiously, "We're simply acquaintances. We're studying for our NEWTs together."

Before

Hermione wakes with a splash, and for a moment she's confused. Why is there water in her nose? Then she realizes that she's fallen asleep in the bath again and sighs. She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and climbs out of the tub, dressing quickly. It was already late when she began her bath, and by the look of her shriveled fingertips, she could have been asleep for ten minutes or thirty. Although her privileges as Head Girl do include staying out of the dormitory past curfew, it wouldn't do to run into a teacher this late.

But Hermione is lucky, as the corridor outside the prefects' bathroom is empty. Her footsteps echo in the silent hall, and she tries to step quietly. Trying to decide whether she wants to finish her Ancient Runes translations tonight or start her Charms essay, she climbs up the usual staircase without thinking. She steps off and continues down the hall for a minute or two before realizing that something seems different. She looks up and realizes that she's not in the hall leading to the Gryffindor dormitory at all; she's in quite a different area of the castle.

Leaning over the railing, she sees nothing but unfamiliar hallway. There are two closed doors, one made of stone, one of wood, with a single torch burning between them. Hermione forgets the time and the homework she still has to do, knowing that if Harry and Ron were with her, they'd want to explore. She likes that she can completely immerse herself in her studies this year, but she still misses them. It's nice to share a dorm with Ginny, but this is the first time in years that she hasn't seen Harry and Ron nearly every day, and she's lonely.

She keeps walking, looking for a way down to the floor below, but before she finds another staircase, a bright movement in an alcove catches her eye. She turns and sees a short, narrow hall, and at the end of it, sitting on the floor and staring at her, is Draco Malfoy. Moonlight pours in from the two windows above him, and his hair gleams. He looks otherworldly, alien.

"Granger?" His startled expression makes her want to laugh. "What are you doing up here? Head Girl, out of bed in the middle of the night?" He finally remembers to sneer.

"It's hardly the middle of the night, Malfoy," she retorts, considering a lie, but realizes it would be foolish to tell him she's patrolling the halls when she's carrying a towel and bag of bathing things. "I wasn't thinking and went up the wrong staircase," she admits.

She knows she should dock him points, send him back to bed, rather than answer and invite his scorn, but he has been very quiet this year, unlike his usual self. The war has changed them all, she knows, and she finds that she might like to see exactly how it has changed Malfoy.

He looks at her incredulously. "You went up the wrong staircase," he repeats and then begins to laugh.

She crosses her arms and waits. Thirty seconds pass and he's still laughing, but his laughter isn't mean. And it is funny, Hermione concedes, with a rueful smile, so she doesn't snap at him. When he finally (finally) calms down, she asks, "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in bed."

"Couldn't sleep," he says, his face shutting down. Now, she thinks. Take points from Slytherin, tell him to go back to bed, and leave. But she doesn't. She wants to see his face open up again, although she isn't sure why and doesn't want to think about it too hard.

"Nightmares? Insomnia?" She presses. He raises his eyes to her face, and she can't see what he sees, but his expression shifts.

"When it's not one, it's the other. And my House isn't very welcoming these days. I've taken to haunting the corridors."

"You'll get caught."

"I have been. But I don't seem to be in trouble yet."

Hermione twists her mouth into a smile. "It's not fair of me to take points from you, since I'm out, too. But if a teacher finds us, we'll be in trouble."

"Always worried about trouble, Granger. Live a little. I bet you've never been out of bed this late, never done anything wrong. No, that's not true, I know you and Weasley and Potter got up to all sorts of things." He smirks at her.

"Not like that," she says, and her face flames. He'll misinterpret it; she knows he will.

Of course he does. "Oh, like what? I just meant sneaking out of bed, do-gooding, meddling in people's affairs… What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing," she says quickly.

"Yes, nothing… You're too proper for anything else, aren't you?"

"If you say so." Annoyed, she turns to leave. She doesn't want to think about sex right now. Or at least, not in front of Malfoy. Back in her room, under her blankets, with the curtains drawn, that's when she'll think about sex, which she admittedly hasn't had much of.

"Granger, wait." Malfoy says, and she stops.

"What?" She doesn't turn back around.

"Are you and Weasley shagging?" There's a taunt in his voice, but also a note of genuine curiosity.

"What?"

After

"Hermione, what's going on with you and Malfoy? This was in the Daily Prophet this morning. You'd better write back quickly, as although I've managed to convince Ron that it wouldn't be a good idea to rush to Hogwarts and curse Malfoy insensible, his face is still extremely red and he glowers at anyone who so much as looks like they might be carrying the paper. Have you forgotten what his aunt did to you?"

Hermione crumples Harry's note and drops it onto the desk. She has a good idea of what's in the Prophet, although she hasn't seen it yet. She agreed to the article in the first place, and without Rita Skeeter to liven up things, the story can't be too far from the truth. However, as she unfurls the newspaper, her stomach twists slightly in trepidation.

It isn't nearly as bad as Harry made it seem. It's just a photo of her and Malfoy studying in the library. The headline reads "Ending Inter-House Rivalries: Hogwarts Head Girl and Former Death Eater's Son Take First Step". Hermione grimaces. Malfoy's going to love that. The article discusses the way Hogwarts has tried to foster inter-house communication since the war, by encouraging cooperation instead of rivalries. It contains a quote from McGonagall: "No matter what choices my students or their parents made in the past, those who are back at Hogwarts are here because they want to be. We must all work together to end generations of prejudice and hate, and that begins here, at school."

Hermione finds that she has also been quoted, although the reporter has reworded her statement somewhat. "Draco Malfoy was never nice to me, and he went out of his way to taunt my friends during our years together at Hogwarts. But last year he had several opportunities to hurt us and didn't. This year, he has been nothing but polite."

Ugh. She sighs. The article makes her sound prim and smug. She supposes the general meaning of her words hasn't changed, but she knows already that Malfoy will definitely have something to say. She can almost hear his mocking tone already. Why didn't they use his quote? It had been a good one, something about seeing sides of people he hadn't noticed previously. Hermione remembers the look he gave her as he spoke, though, and her face reddens.

She looks at the photograph again, in time to see Malfoy-in-the-photograph twirl his quill and smirk. The photograph version of herself crosses her arms and tosses her hair, leaning back in the seat, and Hermione fights back a laugh.

Her smile disappears as she picks Harry's note back up. Who she studies with, or does anything with, for that matter, is really none of his business. It isn't Ron's business, either, no matter how much he thinks it might be. She scribbles a sharp reply, tears it up, considers, and then writes a second note, which ends up being nearly as sharp as the first.

You can tell Ron that nothing's going on. Have the two of you even read the article? It's not even a page long, so I'm sure you can manage. You can also tell Ron that I'm quite capable of cursing Malfoy myself, should the need arise.

Why does there have to be something "going on"? He's a very good student, and it's quite enjoyable to study with someone who's actually read the assignment and taken notes in class.
This is what the war was about, Harry. Ending prejudice. Malfoy was awful to us because he was raised to be. If he can put that aside and look past my so-called "dirty blood", then why shouldn't I encourage him to do so? He's making an effort. I'm not saying we'll all be best friends, or even friends, but if he's trying to change and make amends, you can't keep looking down on him for what he did in the past. We all make mistakes. And no, I haven't forgotten. Have you forgotten what his mother did for you?

She's proud of herself for not lying and doubts that Harry will notice she's evaded the question. Hermione signs the note, tucks it into the front of her bag, and gathers her textbooks. If she hurries, she can stop by the Owlery and send the letter before Potions.

Interim

Hermione isn't exactly sure what's happened. Not thirty seconds ago, her fingers were twitching at the thought of conjuring something messy to throw at Draco Malfoy's obnoxious face, but now he has her up against a cold stone wall, his hands on either side of her face, his tongue in her mouth, and she likes it. She's kissing him back, her hands in his hair holding his face to hers, although he shows absolutely no inclination to pull away. He takes one hand away from the wall and places it on her waist. In response, she weaves her fingers more deeply into his hair. His hand climbs higher and slides across her chest to begin undoing the buttons of her shirt. She offers no complaint but brings one of her own hands down to grab his arse, pulling him closer to her. His erection is hard against her, and she presses closer into him, suddenly, inexplicably, wanting him.

His hand is sliding into her bra. He pulls the cup down and brings his mouth down to suck on her nipple. He bites it, and she sucks in her breath and shivers.

Then in one quick move, his hand is on her thigh, under her skirt. He's backed away and is watching her face, hair hanging in his eyes, his mouth slightly open. She stares straight back, challenging him to do something, and he does. His fingertips caress the inside of her thigh, higher and higher, until he's reached the leg of her knickers. He slips one finger in under the band. She keeps her gaze on him as he works one finger ineffectively under the fabric, then she raises the hem of her skirt and pushes them down herself.

He loses no time in replacing his hand and sliding a finger inside her, leaning up against her as he does so. She moans directly into his ear and hears him exhale sharply in return.

"Granger, you're wet." Hermione hears the trace of an incredulous smirk in his voice.

"And you're hard, Malfoy," she retorts. "Obviously we both want each other, so can we get on with it? I'd rather not think about it too much first, if that's all right.

"Why not?"

"Us shagging is a bad idea, don't you think?

"A singularly bad idea. But a good one, at the same time."

"Yes, right now it seems like a very good idea." Hermione tugs at Malfoy's waistband, and he helps her, unzipping and letting his trousers fall around his ankles. He steps out of them and takes her wrists.

"Come here," he says, sitting on the ground and pulling her down with him. She frees one hand long enough to unfasten her skirt and let it fall. He tosses it to the side and then guides her down onto him, his thin, strong hands tight on her waist. Malfoy's cock is large, but thankfully, not as large as Ron's was, and as he enters her, her breath rushes out in a long moan, and her fingers grip his shoulders tightly.

Last summer, exhilarated with victory after the war, after finding her parents and restoring their memories, she and Ron had shagged, twice. The sex hadn't been bad, but it hadn't been earth-shattering, either. The second time had been better than the first, and she knew it would likely keep getting better, but she didn't know if that was what she wanted, at least not yet. She'd told Ron they'd talk again after she finished school.

Malfoy feels much better inside her than Ron did. There's no discomfort; she feels stretched and full, but amazingly so. It isn't enough. She wants to feel more, and so she begins to move over Malfoy, rising up and letting herself fall back down onto him. His breath comes quickly and his fingers tighten around her ribs.

Hermione slides her hand up underneath Malfoy's shirt, dragging her fingers lightly down his back. His breath hitches, and she drags them back up and then down again, harder this time, eliciting a groan. She kisses what she can reach: his throat, his neck, the bare skin exposed when she pushes his shirt to one side. When she presses her lips against the side of his throat, he moans. His hands go to her hair, and he weaves his fingers through her curls, tugging gently as he brushes his thumb across her shoulder blade.

"Faster," he says, and Hermione obliges. Now is not the time to take objection to his commanding tone. She rides him, pulling back far enough that once or twice he almost comes out of her completely, then slamming back down, her arse making an audible slap on his bare legs. "Granger…" he exhales, and she waits for him to make a snide remark, but when she looks at him, she realizes that his eyes, wide and bright in the near-darkness, are locked on the place where their bodies are joined. His mouth is slightly open, and he seems mesmerized.

It isn't much longer before he shudders and thrusts up into her as her body comes down on his. He grunts and jerks shallowly against her, and she presses down onto him as he wraps his hands even more tightly in her hair, not-quite-pulling in a way that feels very, very good.

They sit silently for a moment, then his hands wander down between her legs and he begins to stroke her. She moves farther back onto his lap, ignoring the wetness that spreads between her legs as he slides out of her, opening her legs wider over his lap and directing him to the right place. The slight sharpness of his nail rubbing against her makes her skin hum, and she wonders if this will be the first time that someone else makes her come, if Draco Malfoy will really be the first person to do so.

"Am I better than Weasley?" he asks suddenly.

"Ugh!" Hermione smacks his shoulder. "I'm not going to compare you!" She considers pulling away but his finger swirls against her just so, and she trembles into him instead.

"Does that mean yes?" He leers.

"Malfoy, you're abominable. You could at least wait until you've gotten me off before asking that."

"Did Weasley get you off?" His fingers press more deeply, inquiring the secrets of her body even as he pries for details.

"That's none of your business," Hermione says, in what she hopes is a quelling tone, but just then Malfoy's thumb slides over her and her words end in a moan.

"I bet he didn't." His voice is low in her ear, electrifying. She represses a shiver. Malfoy already has far too much leverage over her in this situation. "How long did he last? Two minutes? Three? And then he fell asleep on top of you, didn't he?"

"No, in fact, he didn't. And he lasted nearly as long as you," Hermione snaps back. "If you absolutely must know, he was on top, and it wasn't the most comfortable position. He tried to help me afterward, with his fingers, but as it was taking rather a long time, I told him not to worry about it. So stop asking, Malfoy."

"I wouldn't have given up," he says, and she laughs in spite of her annoyance.

"He didn't give up. I told him to stop. Now either close your mouth or hand me my clothes."

Malfoy smirks and lifts her off his lap. She gets to her feet, wondering if he's actually going to pick up her discarded skirt and give it to her. But he steps closer, driving her back against the wall. He kneels and kisses her knee, her thigh, the inside of her thigh. She sucks in her breath as his lips move across her hip, as he brings one hand to curve around her backside and stroke the back of her thigh. Then he comes in close and combs the dark curls between her legs with his fingertips, brushing them out of the way before leaning in and pressing his tongue against her folds. It feels warm and wet and not unpleasant, and she angles her hips to give him more room, so he can find the spot he's looking for, as she realizes, amused, that he's found a way to still not close his mouth.

After a minute he moves away, finds his trousers, fishes in his pocket for his wand. He waves it at the wall, and some of the bricks grind out, rearranging themselves into a ledge.

She assumes a mock-scolding expression. "Magic in the corridors, Malfoy?"

He brings his hand up to cover her mouth. "Sit down," he orders. "Spread your legs."

Hermione, who has been called bossy her entire life, is surprised at the shock of desire his low commands send shooting through her body. She obeys instantly, holding his gaze.

Malfoy comes to stand between her legs, pushing her mostly unbuttoned shirt off her shoulders, his fingers undoing the last two buttons while his mouth is busy at her neck, biting lightly. She can't quite reach any of him with her own mouth, and instead she reaches to his cock, which is hardening again, and begins to stroke it. His breath is hot against her skin when he exhales.

When her shirt and bra are off completely, he takes a step back and looks at her. She sees the hunger in his eyes as they travel her body before he gets on his knees once more, pushes her legs farther apart, and drives his tongue into her.

Before

Hermione whirls to face Malfoy. Her face is hot. "No, I'm not shagging Ron."

"Potter, then?" He scoffs. "Odd that he'd prefer the Weasley girl to you. Perhaps he prefers redheads."

"Well, it doesn't matter who Harry prefers, as I don't prefer him." Hermione says tartly. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Well, who are you shagging then? I feel certain you've been shagged over the summer. You carry yourself differently."

Hermione chokes on the biting retort she'd been about to deliver. "I carry myself differently? What would you know about the way I carry myself?"

Malfoy looks at her without blinking, without replying, until she grows uncomfortable under his stare. He's right, although she hates to admit it to him: she has, to put it plainly, "been shagged." Why does he care?

"I am not shagging anyone currently," Hermione says unsteadily.

"Aha, but you have. Haven't you? Which one? My money's on Weasley. Didn't he kiss you last year? I seem to remember something of the sort."

I will not stamp my foot, Hermione tells herself firmly, although her foot is already an inch off the ground. I will not. She sets her foot down carefully and quietly.

"What does it matter, Malfoy? Who have you shagged? Why are we talking about this?"

"It takes my mind off my troubles," he says simply.

"Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you? You have troubles? Everyone has troubles. That's no reason for me to tell you private facts about my life."

"Maybe not, but what if the intimate details of your sex life interest me?"

She makes a face. "Why? I certainly have no desire to hear anything about your sex life." Ugh. Who would Malfoy be sleeping with, anyway? Pansy Parkinson? Hermione hasn't seen her this year. Likely she hasn't come back. She wonders why Malfoy has. He doesn't need NEWTs. Perhaps his parents made him. She cuts off her wandering thoughts and notices that Malfoy is still staring at her.

"Well?" He asks, and she doesn't know why she does it, but she tells him.

"Ron," she admits. "Over the summer. How did you know?"

"Like I said, you look different."

"I'm surprised you can tell."

"I notice a lot."

"About me? A Mudblood?" She scoffs.

"You'd be surprised," he says, and she doesn't know what he means.

"You seem different, too," she ventures, and he snorts.

"So, how was he?" Malfoy returns abruptly to the previous topic.

"Who?" Hermione asks, pretending not to understand. She isn't going to answer that.

"Don't play dumb, Granger. It doesn't suit you. Weasley. How was he in the sack?"

"I'm not going to tell you, Malfoy. It's none of your business. And you'd better not tell anyone I told you."

"Who would I tell? And why?"

"I don't know, the entire school? To be an obnoxious prat?"

"You just don't want anything to besmirch your pristine reputation. Prefect, Head Girl, top of every class, bossy know-it-all Hermione Granger has gotten shagged. What would your professors think?" He's mocking her, and she bristles to slap him, not least because his words are somewhat true.

But she resists as he smirks at her. She huffs and throws up her hands. "Fine! He was fine."

"Fine?" He asks incredulously. "That's all you have to say about it?"

"What else am I supposed to say? You wanted an answer, you got it." Malfoy takes a step forward. Moonlight slants off his hair and she blinks. When she opens her eyes, he's right in front of her, and Why is all she has time to think before his lips are on hers.

Interim

Malfoy is still kissing her lazily. His lips climb her neck and he licks the outer ridge of her earlobe. She bites her lip, trembling against him.

"Was that fine?" He says into her ear.

She groans and smacks him, but he just laughs.

"I like the way you taste when you come," he says, and she shivers. She's cold, from the stones and the drafty air, but his words burn through her.

"It was good," she mutters, her words getting lost in his shoulder.

"Just good?"

"Don't push it, Malfoy."

"So what is going on with you and Weasley, then?"

"Nothing." She doesn't mind telling him because there's nothing to tell. "What's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're sitting here, talking to me. You've done significantly more than talk to me. That's a marked change from the last seven years of our coexistence."

He leans back against the wall. "I didn't like the things I saw last year." He looks her in the eye. "I saw my aunt, you know. When she was torturing you. And I saw people die. I saw my friend die. I was expected to torture my classmates, kill my classmates… I couldn't do it."

Hermione pushes past the memory of the pain. "So it suddenly doesn't matter that I'm a Muggle-born?"

"It's not it doesn't matter. My upbringing remains the same. It's just that perhaps I'm less inclined to care. More inclined to notice the character of people than their blood."

"As it should be," Hermione snaps, but she isn't angry. She thinks that Malfoy, in his own awkward way, is apologizing to her.

But then he ruins it. "It'll make me look better, anyway, to have a Muggle-born friend."

"As ever, self-serving." She rolls her eyes.

"It's my nature," he says unapologetically.

They fall into silence. It's comfortable, and when they finally stand to dress and leave, it's no longer late night, but early morning.

After

When they're not studying or in class, they're shagging, in whatever moments they can snatch away from their classmates' curious questions. Hermione is amused by the contrast between their "relationship," if indeed it can be called that, and the relationship she had with Ron. She and Ron argued almost constantly, but they were often able to have quiet, peaceful moments together, usually when they were snogging or shagging. However, Malfoy has a remark for everything, and his remarks nearly always seem carefully chosen to incite the maximum amount of irritation.

Hermione mentions Harry's letter in a nonchalant way one evening, and Malfoy sneers.

"I suppose the Weasley girl's been telling him all kinds of things."

"I don't think so. What would she say?" Hermione remains unperturbed, as it's the best way to deal with him.

"I don't know, tell him we're shagging in every corner of this stupid school?" Malfoy hasn't explained why he's back, but she's gathered it wasn't his own choice.

"She doesn't know that."

He smirks. "Please. I'm sure half the school knows. The way you look at me makes it obvious."

Hermione makes a noise of outrage, scowling. "The way I look at you? That would be annoyed. Or exasperated. Perhaps extremely irritated. You're an obnoxious prat, Malfoy."

"Oh, I know that. But you don't seem to care."

Hermione huffs, but he only laughs at her. He leans in and breathes into her ear, "Turn around."

Desire floods through her and she obeys. He takes her hands and holds them up against the wall, pressing up against her arse. His hands slip up under her skirt and he brushes his fingers against her hips and the backs of her thighs, then digs in harder. It isn't unpleasant. It actually feels very good, and Hermione lets out a long sigh.

Malfoy shoves her skirt up, but then takes his hand away. She's about to turn and tell him to put it back when he brings it down hard, smacking her arse. Startled, she jumps and jerks her head back. "What are you doing?"

"I should have thought that was obvious. I spanked you."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to. Because I can."

"You most certainly cannot," Hermione snaps, but then regrets it. She almost wants him to do it again. And Malfoy, the rotten bastard, knows it, because he's looking at her with that smirk, as if he can read her mind, just waiting for her to ask. "You should have asked first," she tells him haughtily.

"I got caught up in the moment. But I suppose I could have," he says grandly, and she gives him a look.

"Well. I suppose you could do it again. But not too hard," she warns.

Two nights later, she's saying "Harder, Malfoy, harder," relishing the sound of his palm slapping against her flesh, enjoying the sting of pain balancing out the fullness of his cock inside her.

The rest of the year is too short.

Now

The front door opens and closes. Ron is home. Hermione looks up from her book and smiles. He comes over to kiss her, and she accepts his caress, squeezing the hand that he places on her shoulder before going back to her book.

"What's for supper?" Ron asks.

"Whatever you like," Hermione says without lifting her head. "But I'm trying to find something I thought I read about goblins last week for my presentation tomorrow, so it'll be a bit, unless you want to make something."

"I can try. But we could get takeaway, too."

Hermione laughs at his hopeful tone. Ron loves calling to order Muggle takeaway. "Yes, go ahead."

The flat has a television as well as a phone, and Ron watches an action movie, marveling at the special effects. Hermione doesn't mind the noise. Since Hogwarts, she's used to studying in a noisy room, and in fact now has trouble working in complete silence. They don't talk, but their silence is companionable. Most of their evenings are like this, although they do go out sometimes to visit friends, get a drink in Diagon Alley, or visit their families.

When Hermione's eyes start to ache, she closes her books. She's getting older (she'll be twenty-three this year), and she can't stay up reading all night anymore. Ron comes up behind her and puts his hand on her shoulder. He pushes her hair to one side and leans down to kiss the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. She leans into him and tries, as always, not to think about the other boy who kissed her like that.

It's Thursday, she realizes. (The second Thursday of the month.) Neither one of them have to be up early Friday, so, although it isn't the only night they make love, it's the one night they almost always do. She kisses Ron's hand and follows him to the bedroom.

They've been together for nearly two years now, and the sex has gotten better, as she suspected it would. Ron is thoughtful and generous in bed, and she's mostly used to his size, now. Sometimes it's a little uncomfortable, but if her thoughts wander to Malfoy during foreplay, as they often do, she finds that Ron fits inside her more easily, although she feels guilty afterwards. She loves Ron, she really does, but he doesn't excite her nearly as much as Malfoy did. But he's kinder, safer, and he cares for her, and she cares for him. Most days, it's enough.

Ron's tongue is circling her clit. "Harder, please," she tells him. He responds with slightly more pressure, and she sighs, remembering Malfoy's relentless tongue. Stop it, she tells herself. It's not like Ron never gets her off. He mostly does. Sometimes she helps. They still have good sex. Ron finds a better spot, and she sucks in her breath. Encouraged, he slides his hand up to curve around her arse, and she suddenly thinks of Malfoy doing the same thing before he spanked her the first time.

"Spank me," she says without thinking, then bites her tongue. She hadn't meant to say that.

Ron stops. "What?" He sounds completely confused, and Hermione quickly tries to think of something she could have said that sounds similar, but fails.

"Could you spank me?" It's better to go through with it, now that she's brought it up.

"Er, I suppose?" Ron says. He doesn't sound terribly excited by the prospect, and Hermione hopes desperately he won't ask why she wants him to do that, or if anyone else has spanked her. Harry and Ron know she and Malfoy became something like close acquaintances during her last year at Hogwarts, but of course they have no idea that she slept with him. She supposes if Ron asks, she could always say she read it in a book and was excited by the idea.

She turns over and pushes her arse up into the air. Malfoy would have groaned and seized her, but Ron strokes her sides and then her arse somewhat awkwardly. He doesn't like to shag from behind, either. ("I like to see your face," he always says. She likes to see his face, too, but every once in a while, it's thrilling to be taken from behind, shoved down onto the bed, as if she has no choice in the matter.) He takes his hand away and then slaps her lightly, almost caressingly.

Well, it's something.

Sleep eludes her. Ron snores softly, sated and happy. She brushes a strand of hair from his forehead and tucks the sheets back around him as she sits up, swinging her feet over the side of the bed with no real purpose in mind. Perhaps she'll go make a cup of tea, go and read some more in the front room.

Hermione is at the door when she hears a faint tap. An owl? It's nearly one in the morning. Who would be owling so late? She rushes to the window, fearing an emergency, but the eagle owl deposits a folded sheet of parchment onto the window calmly, ruffles his feathers, and flies back into the night.

Hermione recognizes the scrawl on the front of the envelope immediately. She had spent so many days looking at his notes, arguing that they weren't nearly as good as hers, crossing out the rude notes and doodles he'd decorated her homework with, and even a few hours shagging atop a pile of his old homework papers. There's no way she could ever forget his handwriting. She shuts the window without realizing what she's doing, and then leaves the bedroom, accidentally kicking both the bed and the door on her way. She keeps from exclaiming until she reaches the kitchen, then bends down and massages her toe, mouthing foul words that she almost never says.

Why is he writing to her now? (It's the second Thursday of the month, she thinks again.) After three years, what could he possibly have to say? The last time they'd seen each other was on the train home after their last year at Hogwarts. They'd said their goodbyes the day before, and although she'd wanted to go find him on the train, snatch one last moment together, she'd stayed in her compartment. He'd nodded to her at the station, then turned and followed his parents, disappearing into the crowd as Harry and Ron demanded to know why she wasn't more excited to see them and whether or not she was going to cry now that she was done with school forever.

Hermione is about to crumple the parchment, throw it away, but she sets it down on the table instead. She puts the kettle on, sits down, stares at the letter. She hasn't moved by the time the kettle whistles, and she jumps at the sound.

She doesn't feel any more decisive with a cup of tea in front of her, but she picks up the letter. Sets it down again. Then she remembers his teeth grazing her neck, his hands holding hers to the wall, his erection pressing into her back in NEWT potions as he ostensibly helped her add powdered boomslang skin to her potion, when really he was using the darkness and steam as an excuse to slip his fingers into her knickers, and she snatches up the letter and tears it open.

Fin.