A/N: Hello everyone. Surprise I'm not dead. Just not writing nearly as often as I would like. Anyway, here's my most recent brainchild. RATED M FOR A REASON.

I came across a fic way back in October that made me want to write Dramione again (it's been a while) and of course there just HAD to be a sex scene. (My second one ever, to be exact. ((The first one was Klaine so this is also my first published hetero smut.)))

I know it's cliche but I'll say it anyway: if it sucks, please let me know in a kind way. I appreciate any feedback that's actual feedback and not just someone saying "this sucks." Please tell me with greater detail WHY it sucks or how I can be better next time. Please and thank you.

If smut isn't your thing, you should probably read tags more often. But seriously, it's takes up about the full second half of this fic so please keep that in mind.

This is beta-ed by me and me alone so all mistakes are mine.

The title of this fic is a lyric from the song "If Walls Could Talk" by 5 Seconds of Summer. I love the entire album (Young Blood) and I would definitely recommend giving it a listen! :]

He pulled his cloak tighter against him, the warming charm he had cast prior to leaving his home beginning to wear off. The humidity of the previous week had suddenly given way to flurries of snow. He groaned in annoyance at the insufficient protection against the chilling breeze but pressed onward to his destination.

He caught sight of her outside the Leaky Cauldron. The establishment was now in the capable hands of Hannah Abbott, who had taken the job in part to be closer to Neville Longbottom now that the man held tenure as Herbology professor of Hogwarts. Plenty had changed in the ten years since the fall of Voldemort.

Draco kept to the shadows, his hood securely in place. The Malfoy surname still wasn't exactly liked in the general populace of the local Wizarding community. Sure his father resided in Azkaban for the foreseeable future, but for some the lighter punishment Draco and his mother received didn't seem quite enough. Never a bad idea to err on the side of caution, especially considering what he had in mind.

Draco watched as the two women conversed, Abbott gesturing toward a door off to the side of the building. Granger moved quietly through the side entrance; Abbott rushed inside the pub to attend to a man who had spilled his drink all over another customer.

Draco strode to the door Granger disappeared behind, slipping inside.

"I'm sorry, this room is for employees only," she said, her back to the door. She turned to face him when the lock clicked shut in the quiet room. "Bloody hell."

"You sound nearly identical to Weaselbee," Draco scoffed in disapproval. "Perhaps you should seek out better company."

The witch's eyes narrowed when Draco moved two steps nearer. "What are you doing here?"

Cold, but curious as ever. He could work with that. "I heard you're no longer a bride-to-be." His eyes slid across the room, landing on an iridescent paperweight sitting idly on the desk. He reached for it and began turning it between his hands. An outlet for the adrenaline flowing through him.

"My love life is none of your concern," she countered. She tidied the papers strewn over the desk as she spoke. Maybe she felt just as anxious. "Does Pansy know you're here?" she asked sweetly.

Draco ignored the question, instead snatching the documents out of her hands before she could react. "What have we here?"

In an instant Granger had her wand drawn and pointed straight between his eyes.

"Drop those papers," she commanded.

He felt his body freeze. Every witch and wizard alive had a general idea of Granger's skill with a wand, but Draco had multiple firsthand experiences concerning what the witch was capable of. His eyes darted involuntarily to her left sleeve, gazing at the spot where his insane aunt's handiwork would forever be branded into Granger's skin. He also pushed away the intruding thought that purple was a good color on her.

He let the paperwork fall to the floor, listening to the rustle of each page hitting hardwood. Granger waved her wand without a word and the pages reorganized themselves before landing neatly on the desk. Draco breathed a sigh. "I need a drink."

Granger lowered her wand, keeping her hand wrapped firmly around the beloved wood as if she expected an attack at any given moment. She raised her brows questioningly, following his gaze to where it still rested upon her left arm. She turned away from him, fiddling with the bookshelves.

"Stop staring at me," she said over her shoulder.

He said nothing, watching as her fingers lovingly skimmed across each book's spine. Eventually she pulled out the copy of "Quidditch Through the Ages," opened it, and removed a bottle of firewhiskey from its hollowed out interior.

"Thank Merlin," he murmured in appreciation.

Granger placed the bottle on the desk, opening one drawer to produce a corkscrew and two shot glasses. He would have told her to just use magic, but he didn't have the heart to break the pervasive silence with an observation she could easily perceive as an insult. She uncorked the bottle and poured two fingers of liquor into a glass, handing it wordlessly to Draco.

He took it from her, giving a sincere thank you. He threw back the shot with nary a wince, relishing the burn flowing down his throat. He watched as she poured a drink of her own and took it just as effortlessly. "You drink?"

"When my stress levels necessitate it," she replied. "Or," she added wryly, "when Ginny is in charge of girls' night."

"Another?" he asked. She shrugged and handed him the bottle. He took a swig from it gratefully.

"What brings you here?" she inquired.

Draco shrugged in response, his eyes again drawn to the stretch of fabric covering her scar. "Your arm."

The admission shocked him just as much as he assumed it shocked her.

"My arm?"

"Back then, at the Manor, when they forced me to watch you be tortured... Not an experience one forgets easily."

"You're telling me."

"I... I wanted to do something to stop her. I wish I could say I was too terrified to move, but I had to protect my mother. Any sign of disobedience and Voldemort would... I had to prove my loyalty. As my father had done before me." Draco paused, shifting his eyes. "I was the one who planted the idea of the cursed blade. I was the one who told Bellatrix about your specific relationship with the word mudblood."

Granger stared at him, her grip tightening around her glass to the point that her knuckles turned white. He could feel the fury of her gaze. Suddenly the glass slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor.

"You. Bloody. Fucking. Git!" In the span of fifteen seconds she took two strides to close the distance separating them. In half that time her fist connected with his nose.

Oddly, all that passed through Draco's mind was a thrill of deja vu. He had enough sense to toss the firewhiskey to safety on a nearby chair.

She pulled back for another attack, but this time he was ready for her. He clasped his hands firmly around her wrists, using his body weight to hold her still. "I should have expected that."

"Let go of me."

"Not yet."

She struggled for a moment, eventually conceding defeat. Draco hoped she didn't currently have the focus required for wandless and wordless magic.

"It's eating at me more than I like to admit," he confessed. "I've been told it would be good for me to apologize. You have no idea how deeply I wished I could stop them in that moment. I had to stand by as they tortured you, or my mum would take your place. I love and respect my mother, Granger. But she isn't as strong as you are. Neither was I."

"I don't want you apology," she retorted. "Let go of me before I do something rash."

He re-positioned his hands, squeezing her fingers instead. Her glare of hatred melted into a glance of genuine confusion. He let go of her and took a small step back.

"I'm sorry any of it ever happened. I'm sorry for the part I played in your suffering. I'm sorry for not stopping them when I had the chance. I'm sorry I didn't try harder to protect you." He sighed, feeling a minuscule wave of relief wash over him.

"I spent the last ten years wondering what to do with my life. I thought the fall of Voldemort would lead to the life I had always envisioned, but that's not what happened. The remnants of the Death Eater factions were displeased with how cooperative I'd been, testifying at various trials. They attempted to send a message, but I endured. One by one they were captured and thrown into Azkaban. I testified against them all."

He stood silently for a moment. He pulled out his wand, one hand held placatingly in Granger's direction. With a quick 'reparo' he fixed the broken glass, followed by 'tergeo' to remove the stain left behind.

"Could we perhaps move this conversation to a more secure location?" he asked.

"The door is locked," Granger pointed out, obviously unwilling to leave territory she considered to her advantage.

"But it can be easily breached," he argued.

The witch thought it over. Draco could see it in the flash of emotion behind her eyes the moment she came to a decision. "I'll be done here in about an hour. You can meet me here." She took a sheaf of paper, tore it in half, scribbled down an address, and handed it to him. He read it over, his mind stuck on the final words: Muggle London. He thought he vaguely recalled the area. It lay nowhere near any wizarding neighborhoods within the city.

Snow fell around him in soft sheets when he arrived at the address Granger had given him. She could show up at any moment. He pulled his coat closer as various muggles walked past. He wished he could cast another warming charm, but the risks outweighed the reward. The plaza seemed fairly popular, even at this time of evening with this kind of weather. Minutes passed and he soon grew impatient. His gut instinct was telling him this was the wrong place.

A block of flats loomed across the lane, calling to him. He crossed the lane, against his better judgment, and followed the path to the only home with lights on. Its front door sat slightly ajar; a spike of unease flitted through him and he drew his want as discreetly as possible. He mentally braced himself for the worst possible situation.

What met his eyes instead? The sight of a sobbing Hermione Granger clutching a glass of wine as if it were a lifeline. A mess of papers lay at her feet. Draco recognized them as the same pages from their earlier altercation. His presence registered for her in that moment, and she looked over at him from her position on her sofa.

"I didn't mean for you to see me like this," she said quietly, putting down her wine. "No one, usually, but especially not you."

"I was worried you wouldn't show," he explained. "The door was ajar. You ought to be more careful."

"Are you concerned for me?"

"You were the one member of your precious trio I worried about the most," he admitted. He stepped inside and closed the door, his blood finally void of adrenaline and his mind working rationally again. He put away his wand absentmindedly.

"Ron was here," she said, breaking into their mutual silence. It seemed they were trading in secrets tonight.

Illogically, he felt a burst of anger. His fists balled up at his sides. Potter and Weasley had always been selfish and reckless.

"I signed divorce papers," she explained. "He wasn't happy about that. He wanted me to give him and our marriage another chance." She eyed his hands as she spoke and for some inexplicable reason it made him nervous.

"So you were married." He had had his suspicions, along with the rest of wizarding kind, but only fools blindly believed articles on Page Six of the Prophet.

"It was a quiet affair. We did it on the seventh anniversary of the Final Battle. It felt right at the time, I swear it did." The words left her in a rush. "But that didn't last long. We were unhappy for years. Neither of us acknowledged it. He took over some responsibilities at WWW to help George out. The stress of it was getting to his head and he took all of that, the frustrations and anger and disappointment, out on me. I told him our relationship wasn't the same anymore and he wasn't exactly happy with that answer."

"Did he touch you?" Draco asked through gritted teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of her answer, fearing he already knew. He knew full well how purebloods viewed marriage.

"No, he never laid a hand on me," she answered promptly. "In any way," she added meaningfully.

Draco slumped into the chair across from her, allowing the words time to sink in.

"You never had sex, you mean?" Maybe he had misunderstood.

She glared at him balefully.

"No bruises this time," he said as her returned her gaze. "Third year was bad enough."

"I'm not sorry for that," she asserted. "You were being an absolute prat."

"I'm sorry for that too."

She finished the wine left in her glass before placing the empty vessel on the table. Possibly he was seeing things, but he would have sworn her hands shook. She waved her wand, conjuring a fire in the small fireplace, her eyes locked on the window. Snow drifted gently on the other side of the glass. He took advantage of her inattention to take in his surroundings. Among the clutter of books, scrolls of rolled up parchment, and various knick-knacks, he spotted a group of photos atop the mantle. Some moving, some still. There were a handful that included her parents. One was more recent. Granger's features looked more weary, older, marred by the occasional scar.

"That was when I finally found them," she said softly. Draco glanced over to see her gazing at the photographs.

He quickly averted his eyes. The sight of her like that, vast and empty and numb, sent a chill down his arms.

"Ron insisted on coming along." she added. "He never quite understood my desire for solitude after the war. He's part of a large family, so I suppose he couldn't fathom the idea of choosing to be alone."

She stood up then, and stretched her arms above her head with a despondent sigh. Either she had forgotten the papers left at her feet or she was willingly ignoring them. He watched silently while she went to a cupboard in the hall and returned with a quilt and a pillow.

She handed him the items, their fingers brushing momentarily as the quilt moved from her fingers to his. "This flat is mine. I needed to be away for a while." It felt like time had frozen, leaving the two of them standing close and holding the blanket together. His hands felt warm over hers.

A log in the fire crackled and shifted, breaking the moment. She stepped back, her hands sliding out from beneath his. Her earlier words hit him again: He never laid a hand on me. In any way.

"Which of you was touch averse?" He hoped the words would lighten the tense atmosphere, even as he realized he hadn't meant to say them aloud.

"You can sleep on the couch. Looks like a blizzard out there."

True to form, the soft flurries of earlier had morphed into blinding drifts.

"I could disapparate from here," he suggested. Maybe she couldn't think straight. Maybe she had forgotten exactly who she had for company. Maybe this was all some hallucinatory dream.

He laid out the quilt anyway, fluffing the pillow before setting it against one armrest. Not up to the usual Malfoy standard, but he had seen worse.

"Stay, please."

Granger, though he would never say such a thing to another breathing organism, had always been one of the strongest women he knew. To see her like this... did things to his psyche. His hatred of Ronald Weasley grew exponentially in that moment.

He glanced at the papers still laying innocuous across the carpet, peeking out from beneath the table like a child forgotten during a game of hide and seek.

She followed his gaze, her spine tensing. She flicked her wand - honestly, it scared him a bit; how quickly and silently she drew it - and the pages flew into her hand. She turned and took a few steps into the hallway before saying, "There are sandwich things in the refrigerator, if you feel peckish. I'm going to bed."

She paused again, halfway up the short staircase leading to the second level. "Ron couldn't bear to be touched," she murmured. "And by that point, neither could I."

She went up to her room after that, leaving him to his own devices in the firelight's glow. So it had been Weasley who'd initiated the no-sex rule. Draco couldn't wrap his mind around the concept. Then he recalled his parents situation while he grew up: his father immersed in his work, first for the family business and then for Voldemort; his mother always smiling, even when her eyes glittered silver with unshed tears; his mother and father taking up separate rooms, in opposite wings of the manor, no less. And that had all occurred before the war. He pushed the memories out of his mind with a bit of effort. He couldn't think of that.

In search of a distraction, he wandered into the kitchen to look for the promised sandwich items. He couldn't remember the last time he had made his own sandwich. House elves of various employ had provided his meals for the majority of his life. While he rifled about, he tried to keep the noise level to a minimum. From afar he could hear the telltale signs of a crying session: suppressed sniffles, gasped breaths, resigned sighs.

A part of him, a minuscule barely noticeable portion, wanted desperately to go to her. To wrap her up in his arms and promise her everything would be alright. He blamed the urge on hunger, quickly tucking in and letting the sound of his chewing temporarily occupy him.

He made another sandwich and ate it, thanking Salazar Slytherin's spiteful ghost when no further sounds of apparent sadness reached his ears. Once he felt satiated, he glanced at the clock hanging on the wall above the entryway. The time read well gone midnight. Three hours in Granger's home without even realizing.

A full moon cast its silver glow through the window shade, small flurries of snow being pushed about by retreating winds. Soft. Peaceful, almost. Idyllic in the way nothing had been since he had lost his childhood innocence and learned what the world could really do.

Draco crawled into his makeshift bed, relishing the homey comfort offered by the quilt. He'd never put another log on the fire, so now all that remained were embers. He felt it to be symbolic of the lingering concern in his heart he couldn't shake.

Just as he began to drift off to sleep, he heard a noise. He lifted his head, eyes darting toward the sound out of pure instinct.

Granger stood at the foot of the stairs.

"You'll need another log on the fire," she warned. "This place isn't all that good at retaining heat."

Her matching flannel pyjamas brought a smirk to his lips. His body always ran warm, as Mother often liked to tease, but he didn't want to ruin this hesitant peace between them with rudeness so he held his tongue.

They engaged in a staring contest. He had been caught out watching her, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to tear his gaze away. Apparently neither could she. After a moment she walked over to the fireplace, his eyes wordlessly tracking her journey. She put on another log, and in the dancing light he caught sight of raised skin. The scar. That dreadful word. The wound had healed as much as any dark magic inflicted wound could heal; one wouldn't even notice it if they weren't actively looking for it. He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Her right hand moved to cover the area, probably out of habit. He shrugged when she looked at him, hoping to convey nonchalance. He had his own scars.

For a moment neither spoke. He could hear his own breaths thundering through his ears, could differentiate each individual beat of his heart. The temperature of the room seemed to skyrocket. Heat from the fire became overshadowed by the tension stretched between them. He knew she had some wine in her system, but she didn't seem on the edge of drunk.

She looked straight at him, like she knew what she wanted and wouldn't stop until she got it. Would that inner fire end with the two of them entangled in the sheets, as alcohol so often did with him, or would he be left to burn?

"I can move if you'd like to sit by the fire," he offered. A stupid thing to say, offering hospitality to the owner of the home, but at least it broke her trance.

Granger glanced toward the stairs, hesitating. "I should get back," she said quietly after having thought it over.

"Stay," he heard himself saying. He wondered idly if she had felt a similar wave of emotion when she had uttered the same world earlier. He couldn't stop his mind wishing for a different time, different circumstances.

"I truly don't believe that would be a good idea," she told him firmly. "You and I both know what's likely to happen if I stayed."

I know, Draco thought. That's why I want you to stay.

He pushed the blanket off his legs, then stood up and lingered beside the sofa. He stared directly into her eyes, swirls of various shades of brown in the shadows of moonlight and firelight. He felt certain he could detect a longing there, one he hoped he wasn't simply projecting. He walked until he stood a few centimeters from her. He valiantly fought the need to close the gap and kiss her.

"Go on," she murmured. Perhaps she had read his mind.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He leaned closer. So close their noses nearly touched. Granger met him the rest of the way, lacing their fingers as they kissed.

In that moment he could no longer deny the fact that he fancied Hermione Granger. He may well even love her. Maybe he already had, far longer than he knew.

He felt his heartbeat accelerate. Wait, that was hers. He kissed her lightly, expecting her to pull away at any second. She didn't. He kissed her again, more firmly. Then his thoughts caught up with him and he stepped back, hit full force with it as if a physical force had torn him from the moment.

"What's wrong?" she fretted, looking up at him through hooded lashes.

"You punched me earlier today."

"Can you blame me? You had just revealed some highly sensitive information."

He pushed forward and kissed her, enveloped suddenly by the knowledge that he could. That she would let him. The soft fullness of her lips, the warmth of her tongue against his. They pulled one another closer as if they could meld into one single being. He could feel his knees going weak, so he adapted by guiding her to his makeshift bed on the pull-out sofa. She hesitated for a moment that lasted two blinks, then allowed him to bring her down to lay comfortably on top of him. For all the fire and fury churning inside her capable mind, she felt lighter than he had expected, less take charge and more open. In a matter of minutes her expression phased from contemplative to resolute. He caught the exact second she decided to lower her guard and be fully in the moment with him.

Then Granger was kissing him. Not expertly, but just the sight of her on top of him made every movement heightened, every inch of her that much more.

Their bodies moved and slid and danced, above and below and against and beside one another. Moonlight washed the room with a pale brightness underscored by the orange hues cast off by the dying fire. She was beautiful like this: hair wild, eyes screwed shut tight or wide and disbelieving in turns, lips and cheeks and throat all an inviting shade of pink. He caught her eye and purposefully slid his hand down to the waistband of her plaid pyjama pants. She took in a rough intake of air before nodding.

He tucked his fingers beneath the waistband, ran his thumb across the skin just above her knickers. She groaned at him, her own hands scrambling to push his shirt up and his trousers down in the same move.

"We know magic, Granger, if you'd like to hurry this part along." He couldn't resist teasing her.

"For Christ's sake. We're about to sleep together," she chided as she removed her pyjama top. "At least have the decency to call me by my given name."

Draco chuckled, gladly taking in the skin being revealed to him. "As you wish, Hermione."

Her entire body shuddered as he playfully growled her name. He tucked that bit of information into his mind for later use.

"Good. Now take off your clothes. I'll get the supplies."

Draco laughed aloud. "Supplies? Need I remind you, yet again, that we are beings with magic at our disposal?"

"Better safe than sorry," the witch argued primly. "Do you want to have sex or not?"

Draco stood once she had safely gotten to her feet. "I'm quite certain you're the one who jumped me. But in answer to your question, I would be an idiot to say anything other than yes."

Hermione scoffed derisively, but the corners of her mouth held the beginnings of a smile. "You're an utter prat."

"Who am I to deny the truth?" he replied with an idle shrug. "Now who's stalling?"

That drew a real smile out of her. "You'd best be nude when I return." Then she dashed up the staircase before he could respond.

True to his word, he lay sprawled across the quilt when she returned, nude as the day he'd been born into the world. He was pleased to see she had ditched her clothing as well.

She sat down beside him. He took the moment to admire her fully, shafts of stray moonlight emphasizing her curves. Did she know how enchanting she was?

"I cast the relevant spells," she told him, "but we'll still be employing a muggle condom," she paused to show him the object, "and lubricant if it becomes needed."

Draco looked at both items skeptically - were anti-conception spells and contraceptive potions not effective enough for her liking? - but nodded his agreement all the same.

She returned the nod, primly setting down the lube on the coffee table along with the small foil packet. The next moment she pounced on him; there was no other word for the voracity of it. The professional vibe from a minute before vanished into thin air as he returned her ministrations with an animalistic fierceness of his own.

They kissed for what felt like hours, vacillating between long, languorous movements and short bursts that covered throats and collarbones and mouths. Eventually Draco's hands took up a plan of their own. His fingers spanned her waist, roamed the planes of her back, dipped down to her thighs pressed tightly against his. Each touched opened her up to more. Soft sighs turned into bitten off moans.

After a while Hermione pushed him back against the lumpy mattress. He let her control their pace, because he knew he would finish much too quickly any other way. She may be a virgin, or maybe she wasn't, but the things she was doing to him sent continuous waves of electric shocks surging through him, like that muggle myth about a man who had studied lightning with a key tied to a kite.

Her free hand, seeing as the other was currently wrapped loosely around a fistful of hair, drifted down his throat, past his sternum and over his ribs; then she skimmed across one hipbone and finally rested her palm just above where his length protruded proudly and expectantly between them.

He almost asked her if she was okay, if she needed a moment to gather herself. The larger portion of his mind said that was stupid and unnecessary. In this particular case, he decided to put all logical thought aside. He said nothing as the smooth skin of her palm, the soft skin of her fingertips, dragged across and over and around his shaft. Said nothing as he felt his muscles tense beneath her exploring touch. When she rolled her thumb over the head, a short moan left his lips unbidden. At that moment she paused, smiled down at him with a smug look he associated with their Hogwarts rivalry years.

"Shut it, Granger."

He only just managed to keep a straight face as she retorted, "Make me, Malfoy."

"With pleasure." In a heartbeat he reversed their positions, his hands tight on her waist as a surprised puff of air left her lips and brushed against his chin. His lips sealed over hers before she could offer a rebuttal.

Their hands tangled in his haste to touch her everywhere he could reach, eventually joining together in a mutual effort to jerk him off between their steaming skin. He lifted off her a bit to get a better angle, groaning at the feel of it.

She set a languid pace, each stroke topped off with a flick of her wrist. Draco, torn between pleasure and impatience, lost himself for all of a minute before demanding more. She indulged him, smirking all the while. That just wouldn't do.

He picked up the tempo until she followed suit, sneaking his free hand between their bodies until his fingertips brushed against the delicately trimmed patch of hair laying at the apex of her thighs. He gave a smirk of his own when a sudden burst of air left her lips at the touch.

The witch's surprise quickly morphed to a look of challenge. Even in this intimate situation it seemed they wouldn't be able to escape their natural urge to antagonize one another. Which, honestly, served only to ratchet Draco's desire up another level. He could be soft with her some other time. If her expression was any indication, she had a similar idea in mind.

She slowed her hand's rhythm, pressing against the vein running along the underside of his cock. Head tilted, part question and part taunt. When he didn't move in response, she halted her movements all together. Draco internally mourned the loss of such delicious friction. But he was smart enough to take the hint.

He locked eyes with Granger, ensuring he wouldn't miss a single facial expression while he pleasured her. He would catalog the data for future reference.

Once he felt certain she wouldn't look away, he teasingly swiped his finger between her folds. The simple gesture garnered a moan. He couldn't help smiling slyly at the wetness now coating his pointer finger.

"Wet for me already, I see."

She merely clenched her thighs around him, rolling her eyes. "Get on with it already."

Draco nodded, mockingly polite, immensely enjoying her obvious eagerness. He slipped his finger deftly between her labia, sighing happily as the digit became engulfed in Granger's heat. The witch groaned in appreciation, a muttered "finally" reaching his ears. He watched as her eyes clenched shut with each consecutive stroke. Watched the way her mouth parted, lips plump and dark from biting kisses. Felt the muscles of her core stretch to accommodate him as he added a second finger.

"More," she said after a few pant-filled minutes.

He obliged, adding a third finger with a generous amount of lubrication coating all three digits. He continued to work her over, fascinated by how she looked overwhelmed with pleasure. All those years of seeing her from a distance, unflattering uniform clothes or overly impersonal outfits with a mess of hair atop her head, could never have prepared him for the sight before him now. If he didn't know better, he'd think her to be someone else. Wouldn't rule out the possibility of a vengeful ex under the guise of polyjuice.

Her eyes opened in that moment, breaking him from his train of thought. Those eyes nearly glowed in the dim firelight permeating the room. Draco belatedly realized how decidedly romantic this would be in any other circumstance. If it had been two lovers on a staycation getaway, rather than two schoolyard rivals assuaging their loneliness with one another's company.

"I'm ready."

Draco, with his mother's various lectures flowing through his mind's eye, felt compelled to ask, "Are you sure?"

Granger looked at him intently. He felt keenly as if she were looking through him. "Oddly enough, I haven't been this certain of something in a long while."

He contemplated pondering over the deeper implications of her statement, but his mind - or perhaps his other head - proclaimed that idea stupid and unnecessary. He could try to analyze her motives another time. A time when there wasn't a warm willing witch lying beneath him.

"Alright." He wanted to say more, perhaps something to rile her up again, but found his brain too occupied with the thought of what he was about to do. I'm going to fuck Hermione Granger, he told himself. Even lying there in bed with her, skin touching skin, he couldn't believe it was happening. Eleven year old Draco would have had an apoplectic fit.

She brushed her hand against his forearm, fingers drifting down to touch his. "Draco?"

He realized he'd been blankly staring at her, lost in thoughts she couldn't hear. He reached out to take the condom from the table, tearing it open without moving his gaze from her. Soft, vulnerable, open. Not words he'd ever thought to associate with The Brightest Witch of Her Age.

Granger took the condom from his grasp, replacing it with the bottle of lube. He obediently slicked himself after she rolled the condom onto him. They both adjusted their bodies to a more comfortable position with Hermione placing her hands on his shoulders, looking down at where his cock pressed gently against her entrance and then back up at his eyes. He used his left hand to grip her left hip, the other hand lightly gripping her waist. He looked at her, unable to form words. Tension blanketed the air around them, pushing against Draco's shoulders and telling him to move. He waited until Granger nodded at him before pushing past the first bit of resistance to enter her fully.

Moans left them simultaneously once he seated himself entirely within her. Her blunt manicured nails dug into his shoulders when he pulled back slowly and carefully. He found himself caring for her comfort, wondering if she preferred rough strokes or lazy thrusts. He repeated the motion a few times, acutely aware of her vaginal walls moving to make room for him. Aware of each breath, each moan.

Eventually her hips matched his and met each of his thrusts halfway, a wordless encouragement for more. He gave it to her, finally losing his previous hesitation and increasing his pace. Slowly he could feel himself growing tense with building anticipation of release. His hand moved of its own accord to caress first one breast and then the other, his free hand holding firm at her hip and keeping her grounded.

Granger arched up into him, soft whines leaving her throat. Her chest heaved in tandem with his. Her hands scrambled from his shoulders to his chest to his arms, searching wildly for a hold to anchor herself in the throes of the moment. Her blatant arousal sent a spike of heat down his spine.

"You're beautiful like this," he murmured. To Hades with the consequences or the aftermath. "Lying beneath me like a lioness uncaged." She groaned at his words. "Open your eyes, Granger. I want you to look at me when you come on my cock."

Her eyes blinked open, pupils wide enough to nearly overtake her brown irises entirely. She looked up at him through her lust glazed eyes and Draco assumed he looked much the same as he gazed down at her.

"I'm close," she whispered.

Draco gave a powerful thrust, angling toward the spot he'd been told by previous witches caused the most intense waves of pleasure.

Granger gasped beneath him, proving his aim rang true. He bent fully over her, her breath tickling his chin as he nuzzled her hair. He kept up hitting her most sensitive spot with each thrust, adding enough strength that each subsequent push drove a gasp from her.

He felt his orgasm curling around the base of his cock, felt the weight of it creeping in on him. "I'm close," he warned. Granger bit out the words "yes do it," giving all the encouragement he needed.

He kissed her hard, biting her bottom lip when he pushed into her what he hoped to be the final time. He made sure he brushed against her clit on the way in, pegged her g-spot with unnerving accuracy, while his free hand pinched the abused nipple he'd paid lavish attention to previously. Within seconds of multiple points of stimulation, Granger hit her climax. Her body fluttered around and beneath him, the pure heat exuding from her pores and the additional pressure around his cock together finally pushing him over the edge. Her given name flew from his open mouth into hers, like a prayer, as he filled the condom.

They laid together silently, both nearly boneless following such an intense orgasm. He inhaled and a piece of her now disheveled hair fluttered between them. He vaguely recognized her hand moving to soothingly massage the dip of his spine.

Eventually the need to clean themselves off overcame the desire to never move again. Draco moved to slide free, grimacing at the resulting squelch.

With a flick of his wand he disposed of the condom and any residual fluids left on their bodies. He stood up to redress, turning back to look at Granger. He couldn't ever remember a time when he had seen her so quiet and so unassuming.

"Would you like to get dressed?" he asked, part mocking and part genuinely curious to her state of mind. It felt wrong to distance himself from her. He resisted the urge to immediately join her reclining on the mattress.

"Ron slipped away after the war," she said. She didn't look at him, instead watching flakes of snow drifting on the air outside the window. "I couldn't wait for him anymore. I didn't know how."

"He's missing out on quite the prize."

She turned to him then. "What do you mean?"

"I have scars too."

She didn't say anything. Neither of them had answered the question posed to them, but somehow each knew exactly what the other was trying to convey.

Draco returned to her side, an unspoken question in his eyes. She leaned up on one elbow and traced one of the long, worn scars littering his chest. Then she kissed him.

He allowed himself to fall into it, into her inexplicable allure, and kissed her. He would stay as long as she let him, giving himself permission to let his body convey all the emotion he feared to voice aloud.

He didn't know what would happen between them. If they would ever speak of this shared moment. But for now they were lovers. He would worry about tomorrow when it arrived.