Disclaimer: We're both British. That's the only thing that J K Rowling and I have in common. She owns these characters and I suspected she'd be scandalised if she knew that I am doing with the hateful Draco Malfoy, but who cares? He's hot. No infringement intended.

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The fact that he thinks she is pure enough to be tainted plays heavily on Hermione's mind as she gets undressed for bed, his searing kiss still burning her lips. She wonders if he has a suspicion about her virginity and she wonders whether that is what he intends on taking on Saturday.

She cannot sleep, as she pulls her blankets to her chin and stares at the canopy above her head. Her eyes don't see the silken draperies, but instead she vividly replays their final moments in the library, guiltily blushing into the dark as her body responds to the memory and she is surprised – horrified even – to find that there is an odd pulsing between her thighs that she has never experienced before.

Hermione hears her heartbeat thudding in her ears and she presses her cool fingers to her fevered cheeks, and four words screech echoingly inside her ears; I kissed Draco Malfoy.

What will Harry say? she wonders and then she winces; What will Ronald say? She can imagine his cheeks burning red, his eyes wide as he removes his wand and promises to ensure Draco will never kiss anyone else. She clamps her hand over her mouth, promising herself that her, whatever, with him, will remain their secret.

In Transfiguration the next day, Professor McGonagall asks them to turn their feathers into birds, and Hermione turns hers into a beautiful cooing dove and earns gasps of delight from those who only managed ravens. When Draco creates a chirping red-breasted robin that flies around the room and out the window, Hermione beams, releasing her dove to fly after it. No one else notices the fleeing, momentary glance that passes between them and she is grateful.

In the garden, when she is reading, she reaches into her pocket and marks her place with the stunning silver and emerald bookmark that Draco gave her, and she finds that she is not repulsed by it. Perhaps he has given it to her purely as a goodwill gesture, although she cannot help the fragments of distrust that linger persistently in her mind.

Draco saunters past, his feet crunching fresh snow as he steadfastly refrains from looking at her, his body sheathed in his long cloak. Hermione wonders what it will be like, some Saturday, when she will know exactly what he hides beneath his uniform. The peculiar throbbing begins again and she tries to focus her attentions on something other than him.

When he reaches the arched doorway to the castle, Draco turns briefly and his slate eyes linger on her for a moment, she feels her spine prickle and guilt swell inside her heart. How underhand she is, for feeling such powerful emotions.

Draco is dark and she knows that he harbours a million secrets under those liquid eyes, but she cannot help but feel as though she is drawn to his every command, as if under a bewitching curse. The light reflects on his bruise and she feels a deep sense of anger at the insufferably cruel man who marked his flawless skin.

"Wotcha thinkin' about?" Ginny asks later, when Hermione has finished her homework. She doesn't meet Draco in the library because she thinks it will be too obvious where she is going on Saturday. Ron's sister, Hermione's closest female friend, is surprisingly shrewd when it comes to guessing what is bothering her, but in this case, she is miles off.

"School stuff?" she asks, sitting cross legged on the bed. Hermione hums noncommittally, barely listening because she is suddenly struck by the realisation that, when the war with Voldemort finally occurs, she and Draco will be on opposites sides in a battle that is far more serious than whether Gryffindor or Slytherin win the House Cup.

"Yes," she says, hugging her knees, "school stuff." Ginny touches her tongue to the corner of her lips, observing Hermione from two beds away.

"School stuff or a school boy?" she asks, and the immediate flicker in Hermione's eyes betrays her desire to keep her own secrets. "A Slytherin boy, perhaps?" Hermione shakes her head fiercely, unwilling to admit that she would have anything to do with a Slytherin. "Ron's been stomping about because he reckons Malfoy's trying to dupe you into believing he's, like, alright." Hermione makes a rude sound with her tongue – a sort of hiss as she rolls her eyes.

"He's not bloody 'alright'," she insists, but her half-heartedness is apparent. Ginny doesn't believer her, but she does not pursue the issue either and Hermione goes back to thinking about how she would cope if Malfoy was her sworn enemy and if their antics were more serious than their badly veiled games.

Struggling with her books the next day, Hermione knocks into a coat of armour on the second floor and the volumes fly across the floor, the ancient statue lilting forward a little. She struggles to fix his crooked posture and mumbles a curse under her breath, knowing that her delay will have her late for herbology.

The armour chinks and she turns back to the book on the floor, finding Malfoy behind her, the books piled neatly under his arm. "Having problems, Granger?" he asks, a wicked gleam in his eye; it is the first time he has spoken to her since their clandestine kiss in the library and she sees a perfect reflection of it in his irises. Taking her books, she shakes her head.

"I'm fine," she insists and he nods.

"Yes you are," he agrees with a cheeky wink. She blushes. "Saturday isn't far away, Granger," he tells her.

"What's happening on Saturday?" she asks as though she has no idea what he is talking about and Draco lovely features darken – he doesn't like to be played because he is the player. She tilts her chin in calm defiance, clutching her books to her chest. He ushers her into a darkened alcove, his lean, firm body pressed against hers for no other reason than because there is no room to move. His arousal brushes her hip and she stifles a moan that rises of its own free in her throat.

"You know what's happening on Saturday, Granger," he tells her, his hands cupping her cheeks, holding her head steady as he glares dangerously into her eyes. She feels hypnotised and wonders if involving herself with him was a good idea. "No point in denying it." She shakes her head slowly, promising that she won't play games with him again. He looks pleased, leaning down to kiss her. She tilts her head, her lips parting in sweet, delirious anticipation. Her joy is snatched away when he leans back, smirking wickedly. "Not yet," he tells her, sweeping along the corridor.

Hermione feels cheated, furious with herself for the traitorous thud of her heart in her chest. "Fuck you, Malfoy!" she calls out, hating the crudeness of her own voice. She is rewarded with a cold laugh that was merely an extension of his cruel words. Smoothing her hands over her uniform, Hermione makes her way to Herbology where she knows Draco will already be.

She is the last to arrive in the greenhouse and she quickly apologises for delaying the class, steadfastly refusing to look in Malfoy's direction as she takes her place beside Harry. Professor Sprout wants them to get their fingers dirty with making a soil fertile enough to grow one of her obscure plants, and when she asks the class if they know anything about it, Hermione, who does, keeps her head down.

"Somethin' Granger doesn't know?" Draco asks with a sneer, but she doesn't meet his gaze, sinking her fingers into the moist soil.

"Perhaps you can teach her then," Professor Sprout declares irritably – mostly because she's never been particularly fond of Draco, even if his grades are always high. "Since you know so much about it, you can be her partner." A protest forms on Hermione's lips as she lifts her head, startled and quite furious that, in punishing Malfoy, Sprout was punishing her, too. "Go on," the professor insists, urging Draco to the other side of the table, where a Slytherin wouldn't be seen dead.

The Gryffindors crane their necks, smirking. Ron scowls. "Why do we have to end up with fucking Malfoy?" he hisses and Professor Sprout glares.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for cursing!" she declares and Ron's cheeks flush brightly.

"Better than being put over in Slytherin," he whispers to Harry who keeps his head down.

Draco pulls the pot from Hermione's hands, sinking his long fingers into the moist dirt. He is scowling and she cannot look at him because she suspects that he blames her for his misfortune, somehow. "Pass the pellets, Granger," he commands, tipping his blond head towards the container of slug-repellent pellets. Hermione chews the inside of her mouth, reaching across the table.

His dirty fingers brush her hand and knows this movement is intentional; a badly veiled attempt at reminding her of exactly what he does to her – as if she could forget!

"It wouldn't kill you to tell her Hermione once in awhile," Ron snaps from behind Harry. Draco doesn't look up from his work.

"It wouldn't kill you to mind your own business, Weasley." He had called her Hermione before, and she remembers the moment fondly. She hadn't felt like a mere inconvenience to him, then. "Don't hear her complaining…" Hermione growled.

"Malfoy," she snapped with a hard warning in her tone, "don't."

The fact that he obeys her command tells their spectators more than either Hermione or Malfoy realise; for Draco would never obey another, much less a mudblood Gryffindor. Whispers circulate through the greenhouse and Hermione struggles to ignore them, realising the error of her words. Draco, his face was expressionless as ever, impresses Professor Sprout no end, with the quality of their soil.

"Well!" she exclaims, "it just goes to show what the brilliant minds of Gryffindor and Slytherin can achieve when put together." Hermione shakes off her Herbology overcoat, packing things away as quickly as she can without meeting anyone's gaze. Draco strides back to his side of the table, collecting his satchel and pulling on his robe. Three Slytherins glare at him and he glares back.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" he snaps at them, striding from the greenhouse with Professor Sprout moaning that good things with Slytherin never last.

"Ten points from Slytherin," she calls through the open doors, but Malfoy doesn't look back.

.-.-.-

"What is going on?" Ginny asks, "there's rumours spreading through this building like crazy." Hermione changes into her jeans, pulling her hair into an unkempt ponytail.

"Let them spread," she insists grumpily, "I'm tired of justifying myself." Ginny folds her arms, tilting her chin.

"You can tell me," she urges quietly, "I won't tell Harry." Hermione breathes deeply.

"There's nothing to tell," she lies, "if anyone is looking for me I'll be-"

"In the library. Yeah, we know, Hermione."

She knows that she shouldn't chance a meeting with Draco, when her plans for Saturday could be so easily foiled, but after Herbology that afternoon, she needs to see him, to know if he's heard rumours, too.

He is the only person in the library and looks up immediately when she strides to his desk. "People are speculating," she tells him, but he's interested only in her downy blue sweater. His hand twitches over his book, a small smile tweaking his lips. "Draco!" she snaps and his pewter eyes are on her face again.

"Let them speculate," he tells her. "We're not doing anything wrong." Hermione knows this is exactly that Malfoy will say.

"Your idea of wrong and mine are entirely two different things," she tells him, folding her arms. His gaze darkens to the colour of the ocean on a stormy day. She watches the maelstrom of colours swirl and knows she has stepped over a boundary.

"You might find that my idea of right and wrong are not what you perceive them to be," he snaps, turning back to his page. "Never judge a book by its cover, you, of all people ought to know that, Granger." She feels embarrassed and shifts uncomfortably, irritated when his eyes begin their languid travels along her body again. "I know what's wrong and this… isn't."

She thinks about it, as the days progress and wonders if she is perhaps trying to convince herself it's not wrong because she cannot resist it; much the way an alcoholic will tell himself that another drink won't kill him. Hermione thinks death is perhaps a very melodramatic scenario for her forbidden meetings with Draco, but she will, at the very least, get hurt. It is surely a certainty.

She pays strict attention in class because she cannot bear to look at Draco, knowing that he is mentally undressing her, touching her, kissing her. Snape makes a comment about her being twice the insufferable know it all than usual and all of the Slytherins laugh – Malfoy included. She shrugs.

"Better to be a know-it-all than know nothing at all," she says and Snape glares at her. He doesn't deduct House points for cheek and this makes a tremendous change. Hermione continues to mix her potions, silent with Neville's brow furrowed as he desperately wants to ask her what's gotten into her.

By Saturday, Hermione cannot concentrate and she feels sick, pacing her dormitory with trembling fingers. At quarter past one, an owl pecks the glass outside and she jolts, distinctly aware that there is only a single person who would be sending an owl to her.

Taking the parchment from the brown owl's leg, she unrolls it, recognising from several hours in the library, the distinctive scrawl.

Meet me at the statue of Merlin on the sixth floor at one forty.

She tears the parchment into pieces, committing the note to memory. Ginny slips into the dormitory and asks her if she wants to play cards. Hermione combs her hair, knotting it into a loose plait before sliding two pins into her impossible curls.

"No thanks," she tells her friend, "I'm going to do some work." She wears jeans and a loose sweater because she doesn't want Draco to think she is trying to entice him. Ginny snorts.

"You're always working," she complains and Hermione smiles patiently.

"It's an important year." She feels rotten for lying. "I'm going to the library to get some books." She drapes her scarlet and black cloak over her shoulders, fastening to clasp because sometimes the corridors are chilly, especially in winter. "See you later?"

She is at the statue five minutes early, wrinkling her nose because she knows she seems too eager and after their near kiss in the alcove before Herbology, Hermione does not want Malfoy to think she is too keen. By ten minutes to, she beings to wonder if he's playing an elaborate game and humiliation stains her cheeks. What if he just wants to embarrass her?

"Come," his voice whispers, reaching behind the statue and grabbing the hood of her cloak in a tight fist. Hermione refrains from gasping, her lips parting in protest as she stumbles behind the lovely marble statue to the narrow gap in the wall behind. "You need to keep quiet," Draco tells her, knocking his shoulder against the rough black stone.

"Where are we?" Hermione demands and he glares.

"I said quiet." The stone grinds and the hidden brick in the wall shifts, revealing an even narrower gap than the one they've squeezed into. His fingers shift over her back, urging her into the narrow space. She wonders if she might suffocate, and slides further in.

When the gap widens, she almost stumbles at the unexpectedness of it, and he holds her. Behind them, the stone slips back into place and they are trapped behind the great statue of Merlin.

"How do you know about these places?" she asks, pawing the darkness. She cannot feel the walls now, and the darkness engulfs her. "Do you have a map?" She hopes Harry doesn't look at his map today, otherwise their secret will be exposed.

"Move forward, watch your step." She thinks there is nothing romantic about their cold, damp surroundings, but yet, thrill clasps her heart and she's almost breathless as she follows his command. "A little too the left," he tells her and a soft glow appears at the end of the tunnel. Hermione tries to see beyond, to catch a glimpse of their destination.

The room is not large, and there aren't many such rooms in the castle. In fact, it's a tiny chamber with stone floors, torches on the wall, a book shelf, a cello propped against the wall, a sofa and a writing bureau that looks as though it has seen better days. Hermione notices that there are no portraits on the wall and she is almost thankful because she doesn't want their prying eyes on her.

"Where are we?" she asks.

"Dunno," Malfoy replies, "I only find these plays, I don't create them." She wonders how much such places he had found before. "I can enchant the cello to play music," he says, unclipping his cloak. Hermione shakes her head.

"You and I never talk," she sighs, "it's almost like you don't want to." Draco turns to the cello, points his wand and utters a hushed command. The cello vibrates through the chamber with delicious music that sends a tingle along her spine.

"I don't. We always end up fighting," he replies and she shoots him a glare, surprised to find that he is actually smiling. "Take a seat Granger, I'm not going to bite." She doesn't believe him entirely. There is a wickedness in his eyes that is intensified by the flickering orange flames. "Or maybe I will." She releases the catch on her own robe, holding it in her arms as she sits awkwardly on the edge of the large sofa.

"Don't tease," she says harshly, crossing her legs. The cello's lovely melody shifts, dipping low and seductive. Draco watches it for a long moment, as though fascinated by the vibrating strings. Hermione tugs at a loose curl of wool on her jumper, eyes downcast as her stomach clenches with apprehension.

"Granger," he says and she lifts her gaze, shocked by the level of compassion she sees in his. "If you're not sure… if you really feel so guilty…" Hermione smoothes her fingers over her cheeks, setting her robe aside.

"I don't feel guilty, Draco," she insists despite knowing this isn't altogether true. "Won't you sit down?" He edges across the room, his long legs bending as he sits beside her, devoid of his usual cocky arrogance.

"Will Potter and Weasley be looking for you?" he asks and she tilts her body, reaching across the gap between them to brush his blond hair from his forehead. He glances up, following the path of her fingers. She shrugs. "Why did you hide behind the bookcases, Granger?" Draco asks, his fingers curling around her wrist and putting a stop to her ministrations. His fingertips brush her knuckles.

"You intrigue me," she replies, tracing invisible patterns on her jeans. "You're so… hateful. No one in Gryffindor likes you. Or Ravenclaw. Or Huf-"

"I get the point," he says rigidly, lifting his hand to silence her. Hermione smiles.

"Can you blame them?" she says, stilling when his fingers release the band that keeps her plait tight. He eases the knots, freeing her hair and she trembles because she cannot understand his fascination with it.

"You'd look so good as a Slytherin," he tells her, twisting her hair into a haphazard chignon. "Elegant and inaccessible. Slytherin women are known for being unattainable." Hermione feels his hand move along the back of her neck, stroking the baby soft hairs there.

"Pansy and Millicent are certainly not unattainable," she scoffs peevishly. "I'm not becoming a Slytherin for you, Draco. I don't like you that much." He smirks at her, his smile never quite friendly.

"I'm surprised that you like me at all," he tells her and she levels her gaze on him.

"You're always so miserable," she sighs, as though she has just realised it. Draco frowns at her and she cannot help but look at the remaining yellow of his bruise. It's almost invisible now. "As though you have been trapped." Malfoy's features tighten in annoyance.

"I'm not miserable," he insists with a lowly growl. "Don't need your sympathy," he grumps and she folds her arms. How can she be expected to let him touch her when she won't offer anything of himself? She wonders if he is really so emotionally damaged that he is incapable of letting anyone in.

She shrugs. "Don't you ever just want to have fun?" Hermione asks and Draco tilts his head.

"I do have fun," he assures her, their knees touching when he moves towards her. She feels his fingers sink into her hair; his obsession, caressing her skull as he did in the kitchen. She loses herself in the sensation of his touch, her eyes fluttering shut as she feels the stirrings in her body.

She passes her fingers over the thick wool jumper he wears, his forearms flexing beneath her touch. She is pleased that she has an affect on him. His lips pass fleetingly across her brow and Hermione pulls an unsteady breath into her lungs. Draco's fingers fall from her hair, slipping over her breasts. She feels so inexperienced and she cannot be sure that her fleeting touches are enough to arouse him. Malfoy's strokes draw her nipples into tight points beneath her jumper and bites down hard on the malleable flesh inside her mouth.

He leans forward, capturing her lips in a tentative kiss that is altogether different than the one in the library; it is anticipated, expected and she finds that her expectations are fulfilled as his hot tongue brushes her lower lip and urges her to open her mouth to him. As deftly as he kisses, Draco slips his hand beneath her jumper and his fingers tease her nipples through her simple cotton bra and Hermione realises that no boy has ever touched her there and she is altogether unfamiliar with the sensation – but she wants to know it. She wants to get used to having his hands on her.

She wonders if she should tell him about her inexperience, but his tongue commands silence and she sinks into his embrace when his arms slip around her and his deft fingers flick the clasp at her back. When his soft bare palms test the weight of her breasts, she feels the pulsating between her thighs that she has begun to associate with arousal. With Draco.

One hand releases her breast and takes her hand, drawing her hand to his arousal, hard beneath his trousers. She feels her eyes fly open in surprise because she cannot believe she has aroused him so much. He groans against her mouth and she grinds her palm against him.

"…drive me crazy, Granger," he is murmuring and she is astounded at her own confidence when she pulls his zipper down and insinuates her hand inside his trousers. Draco kisses the milky column of her throat, tasting her pulse point with his tongue and she decides that it is, if anything, erotic.

His tongue is hot against her skin and she hisses, sinking her fingers into the too-long strands of his blond hair. He is tender, caressing her until she is so aroused that her limbs feel liquid.

Easing her jumper over her head, Hermione thinks she should have worn something sexier underneath – but then, she's never really had any use for flirty bras and Draco does not seem to notice as he eases the straps over her arms and tosses it aside. She feels vulnerable, exposed, and her instinct is to cover her breasts. Malfoy's fingers are tight around her wrist.

"Don't," he commands, the sound guttural.

The cello plays on and she has almost forgotten about it, until the soft music swells, as if reflecting their pace. She leans back against the arm of the sofa and he drinks in the sight of her, pure and beautiful, her body responding to his touch. Leaning over her, he insinuates himself between her thighs, nestling his arousal against the vee of her legs.

His fingers unbutton her jeans and she knows that she will be his within a matter of moments. She will belong to Draco Malfoy in ways only a person's lover can and she is not altogether sure she is prepared.

He undresses her as though he knows what he is doing and when she is naked her leans over her, brushing her hair from her face. "Are you okay?" he asks and she thinks this is the first time he has been concerned about her welfare. She nods, squeezing her eyes shut as she steels herself for the intrusion; the pain.

Draco strokes her temples. "Hermione, look at me," he tells her and she cannot possibly associate Malfoy with such softly spoken words. She gazes into his eyes, more beautiful than she ever remembers them being before. "Is this…?" she nods, tears prickling the sides of her eyes. He sighs, lowering his mouth to hers as he slips into her, slowly at first. She is surprised to find that his caresses and kisses have prepared her body for him and he moves within her with long, agonisingly pleasurable strokes.

She whispers his name, locking her legs behind him, her fingers digging into his scalp as she arches her body against him, praying that the exhilaration she feels will last forever. "Draco…" she says and the name feels so wrong. Trembling waves pulsate through her body and she cannot explain them, only that they occur when Draco's fingers stroke the tight nub between her thighs. He seems to know what he is doing and she likes that he does.

When his thumb presses hard to the slick spot, she opens her mouth and cries out to loud that the cello is drown out by the sound of her pleasure and Malfoy stiffens, arching his back and glaring into her eyes a swirling look she has never been before but frightens her more than one of his malicious looks.

He seems almost… fond of her.

She closes her eyes against the unexpected emotions as warm wetness floods her insides and she sighs, her muscles lax and tired. Hermione cannot move but his weight on top of her feels wonderful. The look in his eyes haunts her and she cannot keep still.

"Draco," she says but he shushes her, asking if they can be quiet.

"Can't we just… spend some time together before you start regretting it?" She shifts, raking her fingers through his hair.

"I don't," she promises him. Something has changed between them now and Hermione knows she cannot reverse it. Draco is no longer her enemy, the Slytherin boy that she is obliged to hate. "Will you ever tell me about your life, Draco?" she asks and he stiffens in her arms, his silken skin taut beneath her fingertips. She eases the muscles that knot along his back and after a long moment, he relaxes.

"It's not that easy, Granger," he whispers against the swell of her breast. She realises that he is still inside her and she feels oddly comforted by it.

The cello plays still, a sleepy tune that almost lulls her to sleep, except she cannot help but replay his words in her mind. What isn't easy?

"I have to go, Malfoy," she whispers against his hair and he sighs against her.

"Not yet," he commands and she supposes a few more minutes cannot hurt.

The real trouble will begin when they leave the chamber and become Hermione Granger the Gryffindor and Draco Malfoy the Slytherin again.

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Do you want a story or do you think it is better to end it here? Please review. I LOVE reviews.