For Harmonic Friction, who encourages me in every way.

This story developed because I wanted to write Hermione and Draco in an established relationship and show why that relationship works. I'm very pleased with how it turned out.

M rating for explicit sexual content, dominance/submission.

And Time, It Can Be Cruel or Kind

February 14, 1997

He's thin these days. The bones of his hips are sharp against her hands when she holds on to his hips while working her mouth over his cock. He sighs and moans and tightens his fingers in her hair, but even his sigh is sharp, refined, whittled to nearly nothing. He doesn't take off his shirt. She doesn't want to think too carefully about the reason why, but she's sure that if she could see his ribs, she'd be able to count them. She wants to tell him to eat a proper meal but thinks that during sex is likely not the best time.

When he comes, thrusting shallowly into her mouth, she swallows, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He slumps back onto the pillows, his face unreadable, not relaxed like it often is.

"You're not coming back next year, are you?" Her voice echoes slightly in the empty room. For some reason, the Room of Requirement has pulled from their thoughts a large, barren chamber, its only furniture a wide, dark bed dressed with satin sheets, wrapped in a matching canopy. She knows she shouldn't have said anything. They've never voiced their agreement to avoid all discussion of the war, their futures, the fact that they are on opposing sides, but they are in agreement nonetheless.

He sits up and almost lunges toward her, catching her face in both his hands. "Shut your mouth, Granger," he hisses. "You know nothing, and you don't want to know anything."

She isn't afraid of him. It's cold, and that's why she shivers. When he lets her go, her face is sore from the strength of his hands. She doesn't flinch when he reaches for her again, but it's a near thing.

This time, though, his hands are soft on her skin, the anger on his face is contradicted by the way he kisses her neck, her shoulders, the softness of his tongue climbing the inside of her thighs. He usually fucks her hard, fast, as if he's fighting something. But this time it's sweeter, almost as if he's trying to remember her. She wonders, as she always does, if this will be the last time, and is surprised when her eyes burn as she realizes that it might be.

He leaves first. She gives him a few minutes before she opens the door to make her way back to Gryffindor Tower.

Harry catches her in the hallway. "Where've you been?"

"Oh," she says, remembering her excuse. She half-heartedly roots around in her pocket for the scrap of red parchment. "I had a note from a "secret admirer," but they didn't show up. Must have been a prank." Malfoy offered her the excuse, and she cringes as she hears the cruelty of it. He really can be awful.

"I'd say Fred and George, but they're gone," Harry says.

Don't be stupid, Harry, she thinks. They weren't mean like that. "That's true," she agrees aloud.

"Well, let's go to dinner. Ron ate with Lavender in Hogsmeade, so he likely won't come down for a bit."

"All right," Hermione agrees, wondering if she should pretend to care about Ron and Lavender. Her thoughts are wrapped up in her own twisted non-relationship.

Why should she worry about Ron and Lavender when she's just been shagging Draco Malfoy, her best friend's mortal enemy?

February 14th, 2003

Hermione is gently tugging her stockings up her legs, trying not to run them before she even gets them on, when she hears a thump from the fireplace and then "Hermione?" from the front room. She sighs. Not now, Harry.

"I'll be another minute," she calls back. Since Ginny left Harry for her Quidditch teammate Eliza Wood three months ago, in what became a scandal that is still mentioned in both Witch Weekly and The Daily Prophet, Harry has taken to haunting Hermione's flat. He doesn't seem to mind the breakup, exactly. Hermione thinks that he seems instead rather relieved, if a bit lonely.

"I've just been by Ron's flat for a drink," Harry calls. He's rattling things in the kitchen. "He says hello. He also says that he's been practicing his Transfiguration, so, and these are his exact words, "if that git bothers you, I'll turn him back into a ferret."

"Oh, that's lovely," Hermione says, rolling her eyes as she zips up her dress. "I appreciate the sentiment, I suppose, but I've already been dating that git for a year." She's never told anyone that her involvement with Draco actually began at Hogwarts. They weren't exactly dating, so it doesn't count, she reasons.

She studies her shoes. Usually she charms her one good pair of heels to match her dress, but she suspects that Draco has noticed this by now. And yesterday, when she passed the boutique on the corner on her way home from the bakery, a pair of shoes in the window had caught her eye. They were black satin pumps, but the fabric had a hint of shimmer to it. But the bow in the back, almost the exact deep blue-green of her dress, had drawn her into the shop without a second thought. She'd bought the shoes, not caring that they cost more than her dress.

Hermione steps into them and takes a few careful steps. The heels are higher than she prefers, but she very much likes the way they look. The kettle whistles from the kitchen. "And I'm quite capable of transfiguring him myself, if necessary," she adds. "Make me a cup too, will you?"

The cupboards open and close. Harry probably knows her kitchen better than she does.

"Of course you are," Harry agrees. "Ron still hates Draco, though. He'd love a reason to curse him."

Fastening a silver bracelet around her wrist, Hermione steps out into the living room. Harry, still dressed in his Auror's robes, has come out of the kitchen and is flipping through the notes on Hermione's desk. "So what are you doing tonight? Shall we head over to Ron's for-" He turns and studies her as she shakes out her skirt pointedly. Her dress is teal satin, fitted through her hips, where the skirt kicks out with a subtle ruffle. The neck is low, lower than she usually wears, but it has straps, which is more than she can say for most of the dresses she saw in the shop. She does have a definite advantage over most women, in that she can keep her dresses up or down or closed with magic, but she doesn't like feeling so bare, at least, not in public. "Oh, you're going out, then?" Harry asks innocently.

"Yes, of course I'm going out, Harry." Hermione allows a hint of exasperation to color her voice. "It's Valentine's Day. Draco will be here in twenty minutes, so if you don't want to see him, you might consider leaving now. I'd suggest you go back to Ron's, but he likely has plans tonight, too."

"Oh, he doesn't," Harry assures her, in too blithe a tone. "He's between ladies at the moment and says he's quite glad he doesn't have to shell out a week's wages on dinner and flowers."

"How very Ronald." Hermione whisks into the kitchen and waves her wand to tidy away the tea things that Harry has left all over the counter. She takes her cup and on second thought, Harry's too, into the other room.

"Well, why don't the two of you spend Valentine's Day discussing my shocking relationship, then. I know he put you up to coming over here. Are you trying to interrupt my date? It isn't going to work, you know. Draco will arrive and you'll glare at each other, he'll say something snide, you'll bristle and pull out your wand, and then I'll be cross with both of you. Is that what you want? Do you want to ruin my evening?"

Harry's face is slightly abashed, and Hermione gathers that she was correct on most counts. "No," he says. "I just really don't know what you see in him. You hated him in school. He was rotten to you, to all of us."

Hermione feels a twinge of guilt. She'd been sleeping with him then, back when he was still a Death Eater, back when he was simply Malfoy, cruel and irresistible at the same time. "I know. He was. But he isn't anymore. I mean, he can still be a prat, but somehow, I can't stay away from him. We try not to talk about the past. It's the past."

"We should have gone back to Hogwarts with you," Harry says suddenly.

"So you could have protected me from Malfoy?" Hermione scoffs. "I likely would have gotten to know him anyway. He's quite brilliant, you know. Better at Potions than anyone else. Even me."

Harry snorts.

"If you're going to keep prying, I'll tell you," Hermione continues perversely. "He's quite good in bed."

"I don't need to know that," Harry says. His cheeks are pink. "I just want to make sure he isn't a prat."

"Oh, he can be," Hermione says. "But I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

There's a loud pop from the kitchen. "You've got company, Granger?" Draco drawls as he comes into the front room.

"He was just leaving," Hermione says, glaring at Harry.

"No, no, by all means, let him come with us. I'm sure the restaurant can squeeze him in at our table. After all, everyone feels sorry for The Boy Who Lived right now." He smirks. "Sorry, Potter, but I always thought the Weasley girl was rather a tomboy. Although if you found them in bed together, that might have almost made up for the shock."

Harry is snarling now, and Hermione wonders if it would be more effective to silence Draco or smack him. He's being an arse on purpose. "Malfoy, shut up or I'll take Harry's invitation to have drinks with him and Ron tonight. Harry, I told you what would happen if you stayed. You can finish your tea but you'd better be gone when we get back."

"We're not coming back," Draco puts in. "I've got a room at –"

"That's nice. Shut up, please." She ignores his sulk and gives Harry a hug. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Watch him," he mutters in her ear, and she sighs. It's been six months since she and Draco made their relationship casually public. Men.

He leaves through the fireplace. Draco comes up behind her before the flames have even cleared and puts his hands on her hips. "You look stunning," he murmurs in her ear, pushing back a loose curl of her hair.

"And you were very obnoxious," she snaps.

He slides his hand up to her chest. "Would you really have left me for Potter and Weasley? On Valentine's Day?"

"No," she admits. "But if you believed me, my threat worked." She smirks at his outraged face.

"You're tall tonight." He changes the subject, looking down at her feet. "Oh, these are new. At least you've given up charming the other pair. I suppose it's all right if you're a little taller than usual."

"Oh, you suppose it's all right? What if I wore shoes that made me taller than you? Would it be all right then?"

"You couldn't walk in heels that high."

Hermione admits that this is probably true. "Ron offered to turn you back into a ferret, if you misbehaved."

"Misbehaved? And what exactly does that mean?"

"I'm not sure. You could ask him."

"I'd rather say nothing at all to Weasley, thank you. Now shall we go to dinner before I lose my appetite?" Draco offers his arm. Hermione grimaces but takes it. When she touches him, though, his other hand darts out, grabs her arm and yanks her into him. He trails his finger along her chin and tilts her face up to his, then wraps his hand in her hair and tugs, roughly but not too roughly. She can't help the moan that slips out from her throat.

He kisses her, hard, biting her lip and pressing his fingers into her scalp. Hermione can feel her own wetness against the lining of her lace underwear, and she presses against him, feeling the hardness of his cock through his trousers.

"Ah, ah," he says, pulling back. "Later. I want you now, but I want to eat first, so I can shag you properly." He leans in and bites her earlobe, then says, directly into her ear, in a low voice that makes her body hum, "besides, it's fun to make you wait. You're so wet when I finally let you have my cock."

She exhales, and he slides his hand down her hip and pushes up her skirt. "Very tight," he says. "I like it. You've got the most fantastic arse." He moves his hand to her bare skin, up to her arse and then pulls her knickers down and re-adjusts her skirt.

Draco puts her knickers to his face and inhales. "Merlin, Granger."

Hermione flushes. Draco throws the black lace fabric over towards her bedroom. "I think I'd rather you wear nothing under that skirt."

"I think that you're misbehaving," Hermione says, in a not-very-convincing attempt to cover up her arousal. It's not as if Draco doesn't know exactly what turns her on. Part of the reason they're even together now was his discovery that she likes being told what to do.

"Go ahead. Tell Weasley I stole your knickers and made you go to dinner without."

"I wouldn't. But you're awful," she tells him.

"You like me that way."

She shrugs one shoulder. "Won't we be late?"

They arrive at the restaurant just in time. Hermione allows Draco to pull out her chair and sits (careful to keep her legs together), but she narrows her eyes when he tries to order for her. While they're eating, a reporter from the Prophet stops at the table. Hermione smiles and is about to agree, although she's privately annoyed that they're still news fodder, but Draco cuts her off.

"Absolutely not. We're in the middle of dinner. What makes you think it's acceptable to interrupt us? I know you know who I am, or else you likely wouldn't be here."

Hermione sighs. She doesn't want a scene. Draco's voice is low and dangerous, and she half expects him to finish with, "My father will hear of this." But the reporter apologizes and darts off.

"What's wrong with a photograph or two?" She asks, keeping her voice neutral. She doesn't like the way Draco behaves in public sometimes. Entitled, high-handed. He's a spoiled little boy, still. Sometimes his petulance, his need to be praised and cosseted, his preening when she does so, is endearing. Other times, it's exasperating.

His look is incredulous. "You know what the headline's going to be. Draco Malfoy and Muggle-born Girlfriend. Or Draco Malfoy, Reformed. Or Hermione Granger and Death Eater Boyfriend. Haven't you had enough of all that?

"They're not that bad," Hermione protests. But it's true that she has had enough of it.

"I'm not reformed," he goes on. "Purebloods are superior to Muggle-borns. I just so happen to be unable to stay away from one Mudblood in particular."

"Malfoy," she hisses. She knows he isn't being hateful, but she still doesn't want others to hear. It's better for his image if they don't.

He grins, a cocky grin that means he's up to something. "I have something for you."

"What?" She asks, wary. He doesn't often give her gifts. He's given her two gifts: the silver bracelet she's wearing now for her birthday last year and lingerie (an emerald green lace bra-and-knicker set) for Christmas.

He takes a piece of parchment out of his pocket and hands it to her. It's been crumpled and smoothed and refolded, and it looks a little old.

"What is this?" She asks, unfolding it carefully, afraid of ripping it. When she has it open, she stares at it for a moment, unsure of what she's seeing. Then she remembers, and her mouth falls open.

February 14, 1994

It's Valentine's Day. Hermione doesn't expect a Valentine from anyone, not exactly. She's noticed the way Harry stumbles over his feet when Cho Chang passes, and he's rather more like a brother to her, anyway. A good friend, but she doesn't fancy him. Sometimes she thinks Ron might fancy her, as he's often teasing her, and everyone knows that boys tease girls when they fancy them. But sometimes he's just too annoying for words. He's still only thirteen, after all. She's been fourteen since September. Sometimes it's hard being older than her friends, especially as they're both boys.

And lately Ron has been horrible, accusing Crookshanks of eating Scabbers. As if he would! And Harry, taking Ron's side. Hermione's felt very alone lately. She'd been busy with her studies, at least, as with the help of the Time-Turner, she's been taking extra classes. At least that occupies her mind so she doesn't have time to worry about boys.

But still. She wonders if she'd have been given a Valentine if she hadn't gone to Hogwarts. Likely not. Harry and Ron were the first friends she'd ever had. She probably would still be walking to and from school with her nose in a book, if she hadn't been accepted to Hogwarts.

As she leaves the Arithmancy classroom, having turned time to back to where she's supposed to be, Hermione is so lost in her thoughts that she fails to realize she's come within a foot of stumbling into Draco Malfoy, who is now leaving his last class.

She hears a sharp, "Watch it, Granger," and looks up. He's standing in front of her, alone for once. She's alone, too, but she isn't afraid of him. Harry and Ron are too quick to react when he jabs at them. It's best to just ignore bullies, she knows. If you don't react, they give up.

Hermione steps back.

"That's better," he says. "I wouldn't want your filthy Muggle things contaminating my robes." He sneers at her. She stares back at him, challenging him to look away. He does, after an awkward moment.

"What's this, Granger? Your homework? Another page of perfect answers from the school know-it-all?" He picks up a piece of crumpled parchment from the floor.

"Jealous, Malfoy?" She lifts her chin, knowing that Malfoy's marks are almost as good as her own. The paper isn't hers, and she doesn't care about it, so she turns to leave but stops as Malfoy calls after her.

"It's you, Granger. Who'd draw a picture of you? A secret admirer? Likely Longbottom. He's too thick to care about your dirty blood." His voice is delighted, and she whips around.

A drawing? Of her? Why was it on the floor? Had someone put it in her bag without her noticing? She's just been in Arithmancy, and her bag sat unattended for a bit. Perhaps someone slipped the paper in. But who?

Malfoy looks it over. He's silent, for once. Likely because no one else is around. He's the type who performs for an audience. Sometimes, although she hates what he jokes about, she has to admit that he's witty. She never shows it, but sometimes she wishes that he wasn't so awful. He's very clever, and she would have liked to have a friend who cares about their studies as much as she does.

There are footsteps in the hallway, and voices. Malfoy peers over his shoulder, then crumples the paper and throws it at her. It falls near her feet. He mutters something that Hermione can't hear and disappears around the corner.

Curious, she picks up the parchment just as a group of giggling Hufflepuff girls lurch around the corner. A tall girl in the middle is holding a lurid pink heart, which seems to be singing. They shriek and pass Hermione, who shakes her head. She has to hurry or she'll be late to Divination. Not that she'd miss anything important, but she doesn't want to be late, on principle. She stuffs the paper in her bag and rushes to class.

That night, when she's in the library researching Buckbeak's appeal, she remembers the paper and pulls it out. It's a sketch (not very good but not terrible, either) of her studying in the library. The artist has drawn her hair piled up on top of her head, with a few curls tumbling down, instead of loose and wild, as she usually wears it. Someone has scribbled something at the top and then scratched the words out harshly. She thinks she can see an "He" and then an "r" and an "e". Her name? The parchment is ripped at the edge.

Hermione studies the drawing for several moments, and then looks over her shoulder. Is someone watching her? There's a group of Slytherins at the far table. Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson have their heads very close together. They seem to be arguing. Two Ravenclaw girls are whispering over a textbook, and Ginny Weasley and a small girl with very fair hair are industriously copying papers at the next table. No one is looking at her. She shoves the paper away and goes back to the law books. When she leaves, she doesn't take the drawing.

2003

"Why do you have this?" she asks, somewhat puzzled. "I left it on the library table that day."

"I picked it up. I was offended that you'd throw it away so easily."

"Offended?" She stares at him blankly. "Why-" Then she realizes. "You drew it? You drew a picture of me in third year?"

He shrugs and looks embarrassed. "I hated you, but I couldn't keep my eyes off you. Especially after you slapped me. Although that was after I drew that. I don't know why, but you interested me, and that made me hate you even more. Why should a Mudblood interest me?"

"But I thought-" Hermione remembers a particular incident in fifth year, and her face pinks. She can tell by Draco's smirk that he knows what she's thinking about.

"My feelings for you have always been very complicated, Granger. I hated you. I wanted you, I thought, because I couldn't have you. When I realized I could have you, I shouldn't have wanted you anymore. But something else happened. I didn't hate you, and I wanted you even more."

She toys with the last bite of her braised asparagus. "So, before fifth year, then."

He lowers his voice. "I used to dream about you, you know. My dreams were nothing you'd want to hear about, but you were on my mind from the beginning." He curls his lip faintly, and she just barely keeps herself from laughing at his childishness. "Bossy, buck-toothed, know-it-all that you were. Are."

She brings her hand to her mouth, remembering. She supposes it's thanks to him that her teeth are perfect now, but still. She had hated him then, too. She doesn't know when exactly her feelings changed, as for a long time, a year perhaps, they hovered in the gray area between hate and not-hate.

February 14, 1996

Hermione has stopped in The Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer, had an awkward but somewhat hilarious-verging-on-insane conversation with Luna Lovegood (she still isn't entirely sure what Wrackspurts are), and is now poking through the stock of Honeydukes. She's not particularly in the mood for sweets, but it's something to do. The Weasley twins are whispering in the corner. Their faces are darker than usual, and she feels a snap of anger in her throat. She hates that foul woman, she won't even give her the title of Professor, because to Hermione, she isn't a real professor, for ruining Hogwarts, for torturing students, for taking the pleasure out of a perfectly cast spell, for her injustice.

Ron is off somewhere, and she considers going to find him, but decides she is enjoying the quiet, the lack of bickering. When she and Ron are together, they invariably begin to argue. She thinks she fancies him, sometimes, but wonders how they'd ever date if every other discussion dissolves into an argument. It's possible they'll outgrow it, in time. But for now they're good friends, and she can be satisfied with that. She's too busy studying to date, anyway. There's time for that, later. After Voldemort has been defeated. Right now she has to learn as much as possible so that she can help defeat him, when the time comes.

A familiar drawl comes from the front of the store, and Hermione turns her head slightly to see Draco Malfoy come in, Pansy Parkinson clutching his arm. Time to leave, she decides. If they see her, Malfoy is sure to say something rude or nasty, and she'd rather avoid the conflict entirely. She is a prefect and could take points from Slytherin, but he's a prefect, too, and he seems to think that entitles him to do exactly as he pleases.

Pansy is loudly instructing Malfoy to purchase her chocolates, the most expensive box, for a Valentine's gift (and they say I'm bossy, Hermione scoffs), and Hermione catches him rolling his eyes when Pansy's attention is diverted. She slips out the door, thinking she's gone unnoticed, until she hears a sharp voice behind her.

"Granger!"

She keeps walking. It's Malfoy, and she doesn't wish to speak to him. She's still somewhat unsettled by the way she can so clearly remember the last time they were alone together, in third year.

"GRANGER. Stop." he shouts again, but she rounds the corner, still ignoring him, somewhat amused by the way her unconcern irritates him.

She hears him begin to run but continues walking. If he wants to catch up to her, well, she can still ignore him quite easily.

"I told you to stop," he says, falling into step beside her.

"I don't have to listen to you, Malfoy," she returns, not even turning her head to look at him. There's snow on the ground still, and she kicks a clump with her boot, wishing she dared stick out her foot and trip him. It's not that she's afraid of what he would do, but now that he's got Umbridge on his side, she should be careful. The school isn't how it used to be.

"You do. I'm a prefect," he says, in a haughty voice.

"In case it's slipped your mind, so am I. Anyway, we're not on school grounds right now," she snaps. Why is he bothering her? Hasn't he got better things to do?

Malfoy has only taunted her, never come close to touching her, so she's stunned motionless when he suddenly grabs her wrist and pushes her back against the gate. She suddenly notices that there's no one in the vicinity. It's begun to snow lightly, and the falling flakes muffle their voices.

He takes her other hand almost lightly, before she can go for her wand, and holds both her hands against the gate. Malfoy's taller than her, but not by much, she notices. She's never noticed his height before.

A snowflake falls onto her cheek, and Malfoy brushes it away. "School grounds or not, Granger, I do what I want," he says.

Her heart is pounding. What exactly is it that he wants to do?

He leans in, and she thinks he's going to hiss something foul into her ear, but instead, he presses his lips to hers. She bites his lip instantly (although if she'd taken the time to think about what was happening, she might have reacted differently), and he jerks back, pulling hard on a handful of her hair, which is hanging loose underneath her wool hat.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," he snarls, letting go of her wrists.

She laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. "What did you expect me to do? Kiss you back? You'll have to be a bit nicer for that, Malfoy." Hermione shakes out her hands. There's a slight ache from the pressure of his grip.

He sneers. She's embarrassed him, and he doesn't like to be embarrassed, she knows. Malfoy is very childish sometimes. They haven't had much interaction outside of class, and none of it positive, but she can tell that much. She takes a step and is about to leave, to return to the world that is not mad, where things are normal and Malfoy doesn't try to kiss her, but he steps in again, looking unsure of himself. Hermione studies his face, and then, for some inexplicable reason, she moves forward to meet him, turns her face up to his as he leans down to her, and kisses Draco Malfoy.

Then, pulling back, she gives him a shove. "Twenty points from Slytherin," she snaps. Without another look, she turns and runs back to sanity.

The kiss was very short, two seconds, maybe three, but later that night, her lips still burn at the memory of it.

A period of intense lust had followed, which she'd blamed on teenage hormones coupled with the lure of the forbidden, but finally she had realized, they both had realized, that resentment and desire could only mingle for so long before they twisted into something unmistakably stronger, something that they were still trying to find the words for.

1999

They don't talk about the war. He was pardoned by the Ministry, Hermione knows. He committed no major atrocities. Minor ones, perhaps, but he did try to save them. Or at least, he didn't try to expose them. Maybe his aunt tortured her, but she's dead now, and Hermione is alive. He hadn't tortured her.

Maybe there is a Dark Mark on his arm, a black and vicious scar that will never fade. Every time she sees him naked, she remembers that he is supposed to hate her. But he doesn't. Somehow he doesn't.

He'd caught her in the hallway, once. They'd shagged several times in sixth year, but she'd thought he'd put that behind him, until he backed her against the wall, saying nothing. She waited, her heart thudding soundlessly, painfully, in her chest, while he leaned in and just breathed against her head. Breathing in the scent of her? Intimidating her? Hermione couldn't be sure. But then he leaned in and whispered, "Why can't I get you out of my head, you filthy Mudblood? I'm supposed to hate you, but I want you," and she couldn't help the moan that rushed out of her throat, couldn't keep her body from answering his low voice, her hips from pressing against his groin. He grabbed her and held her roughly, awkwardly. He didn't know how to be gentle, but she didn't want him to be.

They don't talk about anything. They sit on opposite sides of the classroom and don't look at each other. In the library, they study for their NEWTs. There aren't a lot of students in their hodgepodge eighth year, so it wouldn't be odd for them to study together, but they sit at separate tables, and their eyes never meet. In the dining hall, over meals, they face opposite directions.

But at night, when the castle is quiet, they sneak into whatever abandoned classroom or quiet alcove they can find, and they fuck. They don't kiss, at least, not often. They don't hold each other or tell each other how they feel, since neither one of them knows, anyway. They pull at each other's clothes, urgently. She bites his neck, and he wraps his hands in her hair and tugs. He turns her to the wall and slams into her, and she whimpers and arches back to meet him. She kneels and takes him into her mouth, and his fingers are gentle as they curl around her head.

Some nights, a very few, they spend in the Room of Requirement, where they have more time, more space to decipher each other's bodies. And although they're still awkwardly navigating their – whatever it is- they're becoming more comfortable with each other.

He's still arrogant, cruel at times. There are days when she hates him, when the pain of a particular memory is sharp. But there are also days when she can only think about the way his face looks when he is spent and slumped next to her after a good shag, and she feels that the days where she hates him are diminishing.

2003

Draco has indeed reserved a room at a hotel, and as they walk the short distance from the restaurant, she can tell his mood has changed. She steps carefully, as the cold is creeping up the skirt of her dress. He walks ahead briefly, turning his head back to look at her, amusement and arousal in his gaze. Then he stops. When she catches up to him, he grabs her arm and propels her to the low stone gate outside Flourish and Botts.

"What are you doing?"

"Turn around. I've been hard all through dinner, thinking about you sitting there with no knickers."

"What? But we're almost there," Hermione protests, looking up and down the street. They're behind the shop, and there isn't anyone around, but someone could come at any time. It's dark, but if someone walked up, they'd be seen easily. "What if someone saw us?" That would make a wonderful news story. But despite her objections, she's interested. She wants him, right now, and she knows that he knows it.

"I said, turn around, Granger." His voice is soft and dangerous. She shivers. Sometimes she's afraid of how much she likes surrendering her control. But oh, she does enjoy it, and he takes a perverse pleasure in testing her, seeing how far she'll go, seeing just what he can make Perfect Prefect Granger do. But he won't win this round. Hermione turns around and places her hands flat on the gate, unable to keep her limbs from quivering in anticipation as he puts his hand heavily on the base of her spine. He slides his palm to curve around her arse and then slides his thumb up under the hem of her skirt, and she twitches. She likes the suspense, but at the same time, she wants to beg him to hurry, to shove his cock in her, pound her. But she knows that will only make him go more slowly. So she's silent, and she waits.

Draco drags his finger down the back of her thigh, then up between her legs. He rubs his fingers through her wetness, which has spread to the insides of her thighs, but he doesn't comment. It's just like him to say he wants her now and then take his time. It drives her mad, but she craves the agony of it, knowing that when he does slam into her, it'll feel better than anything else.

"Granger," he sighs, gripping either side of her waist. "Your arse, your body. It's perfect. You're stunning." He takes his hands away, and she hears him unfastening his trousers and then finally, finally, she feels the tip of him pushing against her opening. He slides in easily, pushing in as deep as he can go. She exhales, something between a moan and a sigh, and he presses his body to hers. His voice is rough in her ear as he fucks her, "Merlin Granger you were so wet down your legs bet you thought about my cock in you all night I'm going to fuck you sore tonight but you'll still be begging for more and maybe I'll give it to you maybe I won't but it doesn't matter because you're mine all mine," and then he bites her neck and crushes her tits under his hand and thrusts hard three times, grunting, and then he's still.

She allows herself to revel briefly in the exquisiteness of the moment, the feel of him against her, the delightful shame of the fact that he's just shagged her in a public alley for anyone walking by to see.

How did we get here? she wonders, not for the first or last time, and straightens. He backs up just enough to let her, muttering a spell to clean them up. Hermione pulls her dress back down, smoothing it, and he extends his arm.

"Shall we to our hotel, Miss Granger?" He asks with a half-bow, and she laughs and takes his hand. He's nothing if not well mannered.

The concierge gives them a knowing glance when they arrive at the hotel and check in. Draco narrows his eyes and puts his arm around Hermione, leading her up the stairs. When they're in their room, he locks the door, then turns to her, pulling her dress over her head.

"Take it off," he says, motioning to her bra. She does, and he licks each of her nipples, then bites them, and then kisses down her stomach. He kneels and shoves her back so that she falls onto the bed, pushing her legs wide apart and then driving his tongue into her. She moans as he tastes her, laps up her juices, and when he moves his tongue to her clit and slides his fingers into her (first two, then four, then after a moment, his whole hand) she cries out, bucking her body against his hand and reaching for him, running her hands through his hair and dragging her fingertips down his neck. It doesn't take long before her whole body convulses, but he keeps going, relentlessly, until she has to push him away and lie there, shaking.

He strips while she watches through heavy eyes, and then he bends over her, taking her face in his hands, kissing her hard, biting her lower lip. She holds on to his hips as he enters her, raising herself to meet him, sighing as he fills her.

"This is much better than listening to Weasley and Potter blather on about Quidditch and my many flaws, isn't it?" He murmurs into her ear.
She rolls her eyes. "Is now really the time?" But she's used to his inability to just shut up by now.

"Of course it is. When is it ever not the time?" He takes a handful of her hair and toys with it, tugging it, wrapping it around his fingers.

"You know it's better," she informs him. "And I know you pretend to be afraid I'll leave you for Ron or Harry-"

"Not Harry. I'm not worried about him in the slightest."

"Right. I really don't want to knooo-" He bites her earlobe while she's speaking, and she forgets what she was saying momentarily. "I was saying, you don't have to worry. It's not like either of them would ever think of shagging me behind Flourish and Botts."

"How very true."

The weight of his body on hers is familiar, comfortable. He's quiet for a moment, and then his lips find her ear. His voice is almost a whisper, almost a sigh. "Hermione."

Her body quivers in response and his lips move on, down her neck, along her collarbone, brushing the hollow of her throat.