This story was inspired by a dark interpretation of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah. While there's some fluff in here, there's a lot of angst and a version of Hermione that may not be some peoples' cup of tea.

This story has three pre-written chapters.

Infinite thanks to GracefulLioness and MsMerlin for Alpha/Beta work.

Hermione sat on a precipice, teetering on the verge of inevitability. How had it come to this? How had her life taken this turn?

Of course, she knew precisely what led her to this exact moment—a moment bathed in inevitability and pale moonlight. She had done years of waiting, planning, and plotting. She had sat in this exact spot countless times before. She had watched him sleep countless times—startled from the stressful dreams that so often filled her head at night, she took comfort in watching him breathe. Even now, her eyes were drawn to his bare chest as it rose and fell every few seconds in the soft rhythm of sleep's embrace.

Her husband had no idea that she would watch him slumber during her sleepless nights. He always woke each morning completely unaware of her restlessness and the tormented thoughts raging in her head.

There was a lot that her husband didn't know. That he wasn't aware of. Because yes, they were husband and wife, but their relationship was so much more complicated than that. It was far more misleading than her husband could imagine.

Hermione adjusted her posture as she sat poised on the edge of her bed with its crisp, white sheets. In her hand, she fiddled with her wand, a nervous tic she had developed years ago that she never could shake.

After all, it had been years ago that this whole farce of a life had begun.

"Granger, I'd like to see you alone," Kingsley muttered to her at the end of another depressing Order meeting.

For nearly seven years now, the world had been at war. Thousands of innocent people, magical and Muggle alike, had been caught in the crossfire. Kingsley Shacklebolt ran the Order of the Phoenix with as much courage and conviction that he could muster, but years of fighting were beginning to show. Scars criss-crossed his hands and deep lines grew across his face. He may have been battle-worn, but the people still trusted him. The Order trusted him. Most importantly, Hermione trusted him.

She nodded and followed him past the long table where Order members were still lingering, discussing their latest plans in hushed tones. No one was in a rush to leave. Hermione wasn't particularly surprised. What with the gloomy February sky that hung just outside and the permanent stench of death that constantly seemed to permeate the air these days, no one was keen to go home.

Hermione filed past her friends—Ginny, Neville, and George—toward a back room that Kingsley used as a makeshift office. Some of her other friends, Ron and Harry included, were out in the field. Others, like Luna, were dead. The war had brought on many changes as it raged on around them—through them—and the deaths of so many friends and acquaintances was always what gave Hermione the most pause.

But year after year of watching friends die or go missing, of saying goodbye to people and not knowing if she would ever see them again, of waiting for the inevitability of her own demise, she had gone numb. Her body still carried her forward, but her mind had detached long ago from the notion that her life might ever carry some semblance of normalcy.

After closing and warding the door, Kingsley moved a few dusty books from the chair on the far side of his desk and motioned for Hermione to take a seat.

"What can I do for you, sir?" she asked after seating herself on the edge of the musty chair.

The older man leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and and clasping his hands together. "I have a mission for you."

Hermione didn't blink. "I was expecting as much. What details can you give me?"

"This mission is unlike anything you have been assigned in the past. In fact, it is unlike any mission assigned to anyone before now."

This was of no surprise. Hermione was often called upon for unusual missions—ones with problems that others couldn't quite figure out, ones that involved more cunning than wand waving. She raised her eyebrows. "You've... piqued my interest. Go on."

Kingsley cleared his throat. "As you know, there is a hierarchy among You-Know-Who's followers. The greater your power, the more You-Know-Who places his trust in you."

Hermione nodded along, but kept her mouth closed. Kingsley continued.

"His most trusted Death Eater is a powerful wizard. So powerful, in fact, that none of our members have ever survived a duel with him."

"And do you expect me to join that list?" Hermione scoffed, crossing her legs and leaning back in the chair.

KIngsley frowned. "Not at all, Miss Granger. The fact is, we need to know why he is so powerful. Until about two years ago, he was low in the ranks. An unknown, really. Then suddenly, he climbed to the top. We don't know if he's drinking a special potion or under the Imperius Curse. He's able to do things that a normal wizard shouldn't. He's killed countless people, magical and Muggle, and needs to be taken down."

"Just so we're clear," said Hermione, leaning forward so her elbows rested on her knees as she stared at Kingsley, "We're talking about Draco Malfoy, correct?"

"The very same."

Hermione grunted, lips turned downward.

"I see."

Hermione's eyes drifted away from Kingsley for a moment as she let her mind wander back to a place it didn't venture too often—Hogwarts. She hadn't seen Draco since her Hogwarts days. Not really, anyway. She had seen his name and face in The Daily Prophet as well as on Wanted posters. She had heard tales of his magical prowess from scarce survivors of encounters with him. But to her, at least in his most concrete form, Draco Malfoy remained a cowardly, sneering petulant child. No matter how powerful he was rumoured to be, in her mind's eye, he was still that transfigured, panicked ferret.

"So what precisely would my mission be?" Her eyes re-focused on Kingsley, who hadn't moved an inch at his desk.

"Your mission would be to act as a spy for the Order."

"Like reconnaissance?" Hermione asked. When Kingsley didn't reply right away, she chuckled darkly. "Clearly not, or you wouldn't have warded the door so tightly."

Hermione watched the corners of Kingsley's mouth to see if perhaps they would turn up slightly, but they didn't budge. Not even a millimeter.

"This mission is far more dangerous and far more exposed than any missions we have sent someone on before. It's unclear how long it could last or the personal toll it will take on you."

Hermione felt her stomach drop slightly as Kinglsey's tone only grew more serious.

"What exactly would you have me do?"

"Gain his trust. Find the source of his power. Destroy it. And him, if you must."

Discretion was key in this mission, so asking around about Draco Malfoy proved to be nearly impossible. Hermione ended up resorting to Polyjuice consumption in order to eavesdrop in local pubs. It was a risky approach, yes, but this whole damn mission was risky. It took a few weeks and a handful of drunken conversations with low-level Death Eater scum, but Hermione eventually got the answers she was looking for.

It turned out that Malfoy liked to frequent only one establishment. And he only ever made an appearance after midnight.

"Likes to keep to himself," one of the drunk Death Eaters had mumbled in a particularly seedy pub. " 'E never talks to any of us. Never talks to anyone 'cept the Dark Lord. 'finks 'e's better than the lot of us, 'e does."

That suited her just fine. She'd rather not make a public mess of this job.

Hermione began frequenting Malfoy's preferred pub after that, but only came much earlier in the evening. From the information she could glean there, mostly from the barman, Malfoy often drank two or three tumblers of the most expensive Firewhisky and left with a woman on his arm. A different woman every time.

That was it, then.

Kingsley gave his curt approval in the stillness of that same back office. It seemed he wasn't too fond of her method of choice, but he accepted it with few questions.

She was going to seduce Draco Malfoy, not under the influence of Polyjuice, but as herself.

He wouldn't spill all his secrets to his stranger. But to an old acquaintance, she might stand a chance. Malfoy had always gloated about knowing the right people—in making connections. He might just loosen his tongue if she caught him in a weak moment. And her intention was to make him very weak, indeed.

Hermione had long forgotten what it felt like to wear lovely clothes. Her wardrobe mainly consisted of threadbare jumpers, trousers with patches in the knees, and slightly stretched-out undergarments. But for this mission, she took her time getting dressed. An slightly-tattered shirt became a strappy black silk dress; a pair of scuffed boots turned to heels that she placed an anti-wobble charm on. And her worn knickers? Black silk. It seemed a touch superfluous for her tastes, but it wasn't for her. It was for him.

She felt a strange stirring as she examined herself in the mirror. Scars hidden beneath glamours, she actually looked… normal. Like she was going out for a night on the town with her girlfriends. Or out on a date. She barked out a single, solitary laugh at the thought. How long had it been since she had gone on a date? Since something so sleek and luxurious had rippled across her skin? She allowed herself a few precious seconds to savour the feel of the fabric on her torso and against her thighs before settling her shoulders back and steeling her gaze.

Hermione strode into The Whyte Wyvern just after midnight, head held high. She wanted to ensure he would already be there when she arrived so he couldn't spot her in his way in and make a hasty retreat.

Just as planned, Malfoy was there when she arrived. He was sitting at the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid held nimbly in his pale, elegant hands. The sight of his bored, haughty face instantly brought long-buried rage and pain clawing to the surface, but Hermione managed to push any sign of discomfort far below her skin.

Hermione settled herself in plain sight in a booth directly across from Malfoy. She wanted to be seen. She wanted Malfoy to know that she wanted to be seen. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his body stiffen, could sense that he had his hand wrapped around his wand, clumsily stored in a pocket.

She smirked into her drink menu.

Malfoy continued to watch her as she ordered a gin and tonic and pulled out a novel she had stashed in her beaded bag. She had to appear harmless. Approachable. Carefully, deliberately, she shifted her body so her dress rode up her thigh ever so slightly.

She wanted to—no—needed to get a reaction out of him. Anything to get him to come over and talk to her.

After several long minutes of sipping her drink and pretending to read about the life of Margaret Garner, the movement of a particular blond figure caught her eye. He grew closer and closer until he slipped into the booth across from her.

"Granger."

Her eyes flicked up from the pages of the book to his pale face.

"Malfoy."

Hermione noticed that his hands were wrapped around a new glass, this one quite full. How many drinks had he had? Surely, he had screwed up his courage at least a little bit to come over here.

"You're looking surprisingly well." Malfoy's tone held no malice, but it was a little too casual for Hermione's comfort. She had half expected him to spit out suspicious accusations.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She could play polite if she wanted to. For now. "I could say the same for you."

Hermione watched how he sat, legs crossed, leaning backward as though relaxed. But she also saw the way his foot bobbed, a tic that gave away his unease. It was almost as if he were channeling his nerves through that movement.

She made him uneasy.

"What brings you here?" he asked, inclining his head slightly.

"Oh, just out for a drink." She shrugged, trying to remain casual. Her free hand sat on her thigh, inches away from the wand hiding in a holster underneath. "Thought I could use some stress relief."

"Hmm." Malfoy chuckled darkly, inclining his tumbler slightly. "I'll drink to that."

The war didn't come up as they sat together in the booth, sipping at their drinks. In fact, they hardly spoke at all as they made their way through multiple tumblers of this and that. Instead, they simply looked at each other, hardly blinking for what felt like a lifetime. Hermione sensed that Draco was sizing her up. His eyes traced her from head to toe.

"So why are you really here, Granger?" he drawled after almost an hour of near-silence. "Come to off me?"

Hermione snorted slightly. "Hardly. Like I said, I came in to relieve stress. Life isn't exactly easy these days, and I thought I could find something… someone to take the edge off." As she spoke, she leaned forward, letting the neckline of her dress drape low so he could get an eyeful of the tops of her breasts.

Malfoy merely blinked downward for half a second before returning to his fourth drink.

Damn. Clearly, he wouldn't be swayed by the show of some skin or suggestive tone. She'd have to change tactics. Shifting herself back again, she sighed.

"It just takes a lot out of you, you know? I hardly feel like the same person I was before this whole bloody war started. I hardly even remember who that person was." Though Hermione swirled her gin and tonic around her glass and slumped in defeat, she remained keenly aware of Malfoy's every moment. The way his own chest heaved with a sigh; how his eyes flicked to his pocket, where his wand sat. "Can you remember who you were, Malfoy?"

He sniffed, looking stiffly at his drink. "Not really, no. I…I prefer not to remember."

Was that some sort of sadness in his tone? She could work with sadness.

"I suppose that makes sense. All the things we've seen… all the things we've done… sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it."

Malfoy raised his head, surprise etched in his wide eyes. "Bloody hell, Granger. That's the last thing I'd expect to come out of your mouth. Here I thought you were self-righteous about your cause."

Hermione drained her glass before motioning for another drink. "I still believe in my cause, but I suppose I'm beginning to wonder if winning is worth the cost. Are we doing too much?" She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She had to be very careful in her word choice in order to lure him in. She didn't want to make him feel defensive. "I just feel so… lost. Do you know what I mean?"

Hermione half expected Malfoy to pull his wand on her then and there. She was practically accusing him of disloyalty to his cause. If the tables were turned, she would have long grown suspicious. But he didn't seem suspicious. Nor did he pull his wand out. Instead, he heaved a sigh and downed his Firewhisky in one shot.

"Why do you think I came in here, Granger? Why do you think I come here as often as I can?"

"How should I know? I haven't seen you in years," she interjected lightly as the alcohol took control of her tongue. "To get a witch into your bed, I'd imagine. There can't be too many appealing options at work."

Malfoy smirked. "Cheeky."

The corners of her mouth lifted.

Malfoy cleared his throat after signaling for another glass. "I don't know what rumours you've heard, but my job isn't exactly fairy dust and pixies, Granger."

"And what exactly is your job?" Hermione asked innocently.

"What's yours?" Malfoy countered.

"Touché."

The server arrived with new glasses for each of them, and they sipped for several long moments before speaking again.

"I come to this bloody pub to escape. Just for a little bit. If I've got some Firewhisky in me and a woman on my bed, I can pretend, for a few hours at least, that my life hasn't gone to utter shite." Malfoy swirled his Firewhisky around his tumbler as he spoke, his voice growing more cynical with each word. "And by the sound of it, your life can't be much less shittier than mine."

Hermione raised her glass. "To our shitty, shitty lives."

Malfoy's glass joined hers, the amber liquid sloshing against the edge. "Here, here."

They both drank until their tumblers were empty.

"You said you can't remember what you were like when you were younger. Well, I can." Malfoy set his glass down on the well-worn wooden table with a thunk. His grey eyes bore into her chocolate ones. "You were loud and bossy. Not exactly hard to pinpoint. So tell me, Granger. Are you still loud and bossy?"

A thrill ran through Hermione, though she did her best to keep her exterior cool. She knew this was her chance to steer the conversation.

"Depends on the context," she answered, trying to keep her tone light. Once more, she leaned forward, exposing the expanse of skin across her chest.

"Oh?" Malfoy raised a single eyebrow. "What context?"

"I'm certainly quiet when I need to be." She didn't need to elaborate. They were both living through a war. "But I've found that I can be quite loud when I'm feeling… inspired."

Hermione tucked an errant curl behind her ear and then dropped her hand down her neck, fingers catching the strap of her dress. The flimsy little thing slipped down her shoulder, exposing even more skin. She couldn't have asked for better timing, because she watched Draco swallow, his chest moving rapidly. He licked his lips.

"And are you still bossy, Granger?"

Hermione smirked. "I'm always bossy. Always." She made a point not to break eye contact as she dragged her index finger around the rim of her glass and bit her lip in what she hoped was an alluring way.

With a swell of satisfaction, Hermione watched as Malfoy sucked in his breath, his adam's apple bobbing as his eyebrow twitched. Her confidence surged.

"Do you like a bossy woman?" Malfoy brought his tumbler up to his mouth, the rim kissing his lower lip. "Or do you prefer to the one in charge?" Hermione reached out and snatched the tumbler with her fingers, bringing it to her own lips. "Because I'm… flexible."

She took a gamble on the last line, but it seemed to do the trick. Malfoy's gaze turned predatory as his Firewhisky burned her throat. When she had drunk the last drop, she replaced the glass on the table, the ghost of her lipstick haunting the rim. Malfoy's eyes flicked down to the glass and then back to her face. Hermione watched as he seemed to wage an internal battle. Though she wasn't well-versed in Legilimency, he could practically hear the thoughts racing through his head. He was clearly torn.

"What do you want, Granger?" His voice cracked as he spoke, shattering any sort of facade that he was anything but putty in her hands.

"I want to forget. I want to feel in control of my life. Even if just for a little while." Reaching under the table and placing a hand on his knee. She felt a shiver go through him. "Isn't that what you want, too?"

He swallowed.

"Why me?"

Hermione's lips parted as her fingers traced small circles in his trouser leg. "Because you and I… we're the same. We can use each other to forget. I sure as hell wouldn't want to tell anyone about this. Would you? It could be… simple."

Her hand traveled higher.

His breathing grew ragged.

"Simple," he panted, his grey eyes staring into hers. Without breathing another word, Malfoy tossed a few coins onto the table, grabbed Hermione around the middle, and tugged her toward the door. She had no idea where he would Apparate her, but she needed him to trust her. She needed to let him believe that he was in charge—that he was the one calling all the shots.

They were only left exposed to the elements for the briefest of moments before he Apparated them to a bedroom. Hermione had only seconds to get her bearings: the room was generic—too generic to be his actual bedroom. A fire burned in the grate. This had to be a room at an inn of some sort. Perhaps the place he took all his women.

But before Hermione could take in any more, Malfoy's lips had crashed into hers, hard and needy. His mouth moved with a sort of desperation she hadn't expected. She knew he wouldn't be gentle, but this… she hadn't been kissed like this, well, ever.

It felt wicked.

She shouldn't want to kiss Malfoy. It shouldn't feel this good. She needed to focus on her mission, but when his hands pulled her flush against the hard lines of his body, her mind went fuzzy. His hands trailed down her thighs, toying with the hem of her dress before they settled on her arse. He wasted no time gripping her steadily, lifting her until her legs wrapped around his waist.

Malfoy assaulted her senses with his presence. His lips traveled to her neck as he began to suck on her pulse point with a possessive zeal. She tilted her head back as he shifted her in his arms to sweep her hair out of the way.

"Fucking hair," he growled into her skin between nips. Malfoy took practised steps toward the bed without a single misstep. He must have done this so many times before. How many women had he brought to this place? How many women's necks had he kissed like this?

For some reason, the thought ignited a flame within Hermione. She was in charge of this situation. She was the one who should be calling the shots.

Her next acts were clearly not in his plan… his little formula.

With her legs still wrapped around his waist, she pushed her hips forward, pressing her core directly into his bulge. Malfoy clearly hadn't expected this. He hissed, pulling his lips from her neck. Chest heaving, he looked into her eyes, pupils dilated with need.

"I don't think you understood me properly," she began, grinding her center into him. "You seem to be under the pretense that you're in charge tonight. We might be using each other, but let's be clear about one thing."

Hermione unwrapped herself from his grasp, sinking back down onto the rug-covered floor.

"I'm—"

She backed Malfoy onto the bed.

"—the—"

She pushed him onto the mattress.

"—boss."

Hermione shimmied out of her knickers and reached under her dress, helping them to pool at her ankles. Without breaking his gaze, Hermione unzipped her dress and let the strappy thing fall to the floor in a heap. Though she was completely exposed, she had never felt a surge of power crackle across her skin.

She watched as Malfoy's breath stuttered, his eyes traveling the length of her body with the sort of hunger that couldn't be easily sated.

Climbing over Malfoy's prone body, Hermione began to undo the button on the front of his trousers. He watched, as if in a daze, as she freed his cock from its confines. It stood proudly, and Malfoy groaned as Hermione pumped him experimentally two or three times before settling herself over him. He kicked his trousers off behind her—she could feel his legs kicking furiously. Hermione pulled Malfoy's torso up so they sat facing each other. With one great tug, Hermione managed to get his shirt off, and their chests collided in a heated frenzy. The feel of skin against skin ignited a primal need deep within Hermione, and for a moment, she forgot all about the mission, allowing herself to pleasure instead of pain, if only for this once.

"Are you on the potion?" Malfoy rasped, his forehead pressed against hers.

"Yes," Hermione bit out, her impatience growing.

It was a dance as old as time itself, and she and Malfoy knew it well. Reaching between them, she brought his cock right to her entrance, pausing for the briefest of seconds before sinking down on him.

Both parties moaned as Hermione rocked back and forth with urgency. There was no tenderness in the act, no emotion. Pure, carnal need ripped through Hermione as Malfoy began to meet each thrust as his hips pistoned off of the mattress.

The friction both inside and out drove Hermione closer and closer to the edge of pleasure, and as their rhythm grew more and more frantic she teetered on a precipice she hadn't felt with another person in a long time. Her pleasure crested, and his followed shortly after with a series of grunts.

Even after he fell back on the pillows, panting and covered in sweat, she didn't move. Her thighs kept him trapped within her grasp. He didn't seem to mind or even notice, though. Instead, his eyes were closed as he came down.

Hermione studied him from her position on top of him. He was so vulnerable right now. So easily taken advantage of. She could clearly see the Dark Mark burned into his forearm from this angle. Years later, the brand still set her insides aflame with anger. If she wanted to, she could easily immobilize him completely and interrogate him until he talked.

Her mission would be done quickly and without a fuss, and she'd never have to see Malfoy again.

And then he opened his eyes. Grey pierced brown and for half a second, Hermione forgot that there was even a mission to begin with. There was something about the way he looked at her. It was a way that no man had looked at her in so many long, difficult years. She didn't consider herself weak, especially around men. No one had made her melt or her knees quake since she was a young teenager, and even then, no one had ever looked at her like this: as though she could make the sun rise and the stars shine.

As quickly as the look came, it disappeared, and Malfoy pushed himself out of Hermione's grasp.

"Well, Granger, I have to say that was fun." He reached for his trousers and pulled them up. Hermione watched as his flaccid cock disappeared behind dark fabric. "I didn't know you had it in you to be such a good shag."

Hermione felt a little balloon of pride swell within her, though she schooled her features. Pursing her lips, she looked his half-naked form up and down before responding. "Hm. It was alright, I suppose. I've had better."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Hermione watched his grip on the shirt in his hands intensify. "Oh?"

Hermione hummed. "But don't get me wrong. It was… lovely."

If she thought she had seen fire in Malfoy's eyes earlier, but that look paled in comparison to the expression in them now.

The corner of Hermione's lips twitched.

Excellent. She wanted to goad him on.

"I can show you better than lovely."

It was Hermione's turn to raise her eyebrows. "Oh, can you now?"

Malfoy pulled his shirt on, and when his head emerged, he reached forward and pulled Hermione forward into a searing kiss. The pressure of his lips made her toes curl and lit every nerve in her body on fire.

Malfoy broke the kiss abruptly. He stood, walking past Hermione until he reached the spot where he had kicked off his shoes. Swooping down to grab them, he turned back to Hermione.

"I'll see you again soon, Granger," he whispered before waving his wand and Apparating away with a 'pop.'

Hermione stood in the middle of the nondescript bedroom, naked as the day she was born. And as soon as she was alone, a sly grin crept across her face.

"See you, Malfoy."

Hermione reached forward. Her fingers nimbly traced the outline of her husband's torso. She knew him by heart at this point. How often had she seen his body in all these years?

She would miss his body terribly when they could no longer be together. They were like magnets, helplessly drawn to each other no matter the distance between them. When Hermione had returned to that pub the very next night, he was sitting, not at the bar, but in the booth. The same booth as the night before—the very one that would become their booth.

They had hardly spoken a word before he Apparated them back to that same nondescript bedroom. This time, she led his face to the apex of her thighs, and he had feasted on her as though she were his final meal.

They kept meeting night after night in their booth until soon, Hermione didn't even bother to set foot in the pub. Instead, she met Malfoy outside their pub. He'd Apparate them to their room, and they would claim each other on their bed.

It all would have seemed so intimate if it weren't for the ever-present mission in the forefront of Hermione's mind.

Though the objective hadn't changed after all these years, her method had shifted. Instead of merely seducing Malfoy and making him physically vulnerable, she needed to make him emotionally vulnerable. She needed to exploit his loneliness and dissatisfaction with his life and provide him with something he clearly craved: intimacy.

Looking at her husband now, curled up on their marriage bed, wedding ring gleaming in the moonlight, Hermione knew, at the very least, that their relationship had indeed grown intimate.

"What are we exactly?" Hermione asked one night in mid-April after another one of their late-night trysts. She laid beside Malfoy, her palm splayed across his naked chest, breasts pressed into him. He had one arm wrapped around her shoulders, fingers trailing across her spine. "I'd hardly call us 'friends with benefits'."

Malfoy snorted. "We were never friends, so that's definitely out."

"Fuck buddies?" Hermione suggested, twisting herself to look up at him.

"That's just crude." Malfoy shook his head.

Hermione drew a breath. "Lovers?"

It was a loaded term, of course. What they were… what they could be… it was not something that was allowed to get jumbled in her head. She had promised Kingsley, after all. Everything she did was for the Order. Even in the throes of passion, pressed intimately into their mattress, him seated firmly between her thighs, her mission was always in the back of her mind.

Gain his trust. Find the source of his power. Destroy it. And him if you must.

But to Malfoy, this thing they had was real. She watched the way his eyes filled with something deeper than lust as they joined together in the most primal, most intimate way—it felt as though he slowly became less frenzied and possessive and more gentle.

It was almost too easy—making Malfoy fall for her. Like a fly to honey, she knew his weakness would be his demise.

She waited for Malfoy to take the bait.

Malfoy licked his lips, his eyes searching hers as his head barely shook. "We couldn't—we can't."

"Who says we can't?" Hermione demanded, sitting up and looking down at him. "We've been meeting without anyone knowing all these weeks. Surely, it wouldn't be all that different."

"But what about simple?" Malfoy sat up as well, his eyes narrowed in concern. "Our arrangement as it stands is simple. I wouldn't want to—to jeopardize what we have."

Hermione leaned forward, tucking her fingers gently under his chin. Their eyes met, and Hermione felt her breath hitch. "And what is it that we have, Draco?"

His eyes grew wide as his given name spilled from her lips, his expression becoming even softer.

"I… I don't really know, honestly. Is it awful of me to want to find out? I just… I never thought… never dreamed…" Malfoy—Draco stammered.

"What didn't you dream?" Hermione nudged.

Draco turned his body to face her, fully exposed in the moonlight. He looked beautiful like this, open and vulnerable. A far cry from the pointy face boy she knew from their youth.

"I didn't dream that I could have this with anyone. My life has been complicated to say the least. Yes, there have been women, but none of them did anything for me. Not really." Draco paused here, looking down as if the words he wanted to say were painted on the bed linens. "But you—you,Hermione Granger of all people—you walked into that bloody pub and I finally found something that's almost like happiness when we're together. And I don't want to bugger it up by being your lover or some shite."

Hermione frowned. "Then what do you want to be?"

Draco hesitated, fear shining in his eyes. He shook his head. "I can't say it. Not out loud. It's not something I should want."

Reaching her hands out once more, Hermione cradled Draco's face in her palms. "You're allowed to want things, Draco. You're human. And maybe what you want isn't so… forbidden. Maybe someone else wants it too." The lie flew from her mouth easily, and she found it didn't taste nearly as bitter on her tongue as she thought it might. "Please, tell me."

Draco looked at her, eyes shining with emotion. What he said next sent a shiver right through her.

"I don't want to meet you for quick shags or find you in dark alleyways. I don't want to taste firewhisky everytime we kiss. I want to walk with you on my arm—show the world the woman you are. I want to be your everything."

That was how Draco Malfoy became her everything. And she became his.

That's what she led him to believe, at least.

Their relationship was far from typical. They both had their own lives. Hermione spent long hours with the Order, continually facing the fear of losing her friends. Draco, she assumed, spent his days with other Death Eaters. She didn't really know. They never talked about the war when they were together.

Instead, they did their best to avoid the topic altogether. They surrounded themselves with places that didn't remind them of bloodshed, or even of magic at all. Their dates always happened in Muggle parts of the city. Parks. Restaurants. Museums. Sporting events. Draco explained the secret magical histories of historical objects and castles while Hermione interpreted football for him.

It felt almost… normal to be with him. Spend time with him. Hold his hand. Press kisses to his cheek in public.

Kingsley knew none of this, of course. She kept the details of her reports to a bare minimum. Was she making progress? Sure. How close was she to finding out his secret? Moderately. But she needed more time.

That was all The Minister cared about. He didn't need to know more.

Kingsley probably wouldn't like that Hermione had begun to grow fond of her time spent with Draco. Gone was the impulse to strangle or curse him, instead replaced by a warm glow in her chest whenever they met.

Spending time with Draco—really spending time with him, outside of a bedroom—Hermione felt as though she were peeling away at layers to him. He was a complex man with a complex past, and getting him to open up happened at a flobberworm's pace.

Still, he offered her bits and bobs.

Sometimes, he talked about happy memories from his childhood. His face always lit up when he described chasing peacocks through his mother's garden or flying his toy broom through the library, which had, apparently, gotten him into a great deal of trouble. He only brought up his parents very rarely, and when he did, his smile fell away.

Narcissa had been killed a year prior in a raid. Lucius, mad with grief, hadn't emerged from Malfoy Manor since.

This was widely-known intel.

But hearing the hollowness in Draco's voice as he talked about missing his mother brought an aching pain to news that might have otherwise made Hermione breathe a sigh of relief. Seeing how much agony Draco really was in, shed a light that exposed parts of him that no one else had seen before.

Seeing Draco this way, he was far more vulnerable in these moments—far more naked and exposed than when they laid in bed together.

It was almost enough to forget that she had an objective. Sitting beside her fake boyfriend, rubbing gentle circles in his back as he confessed his exhaustion, her heart felt as though it extended past her own chest, reaching forward to offer comfort and compassion in any way possible.

She almost forgot about the awful things he had done.

She almost let herself forget.

Almost.

Hermione rose from the bed. At this late hour, she should have been wearing one of her soft, silky nightgowns. She should have been curled beside her husband, head nuzzled into his chest like she usually did.

That had always been her spot. Even during their first few months of dating, she found a solid sort of solace nestled in the planes of his chest. She tucked herself there during the walks they took in Muggle parks in May, while they watched a scary movie in the theatre in June, and when they went stargazing one night in the height of July. Curled into his side, Hermione felt safe. There was no other way to say it. Despite all she knew about what those arms were capable of—what they had done—when Draco had his arms around her, she felt a sense of peace settle over her like someone laying a blanket over her.

But now, knowing what she knew—what she now must do—his arms didn't feel as safe as they once did.

Had she known all she now knew, would she have still made the choice to move in together? Then, it had been a matter of convenience—of access. Hermione found herself craving his company, especially on the nights they couldn't meet.

It had been an easy enough conversation. Draco hadn't resisted the idea at all. In fact, he embraced the idea of moving in together from the moment the words left her lips.

Hermione didn't have many possessions. Nor, it seemed, did Draco. The war had diminished her need for things. They didn't talk about it, but she assumed that Draco felt similarly when he showed up at the flat with a single box of robes and a second one filled with books.

Her heart stuttered as she watched him sort their books onto a set of shelves in the living room. He knelt on the carpet in front of the shelf, carefully considering each title before shelving it according to topic and author name. It wasn't exactly how she would have organized the books if given the chance, but she figured that he should be allowed some sense of agency.

Even now, years later, the bookshelves in their cottage were arranged in the same fashion.

"I haven't seen you in a while, Granger," Kingsley commented one chilly October morning as Hermione sat down stiffly in the same musty chair across from him in his makeshift office. "How are things proceeding?"

Hermione considered her answer, her face remaining stony.

How were things proceeding?

Certainly, she didn't feel it was appropriate to tell Kingsley about the twenty minutes Draco had spent buried between her thighs when they woke up that morning. Nor did it seem quite right to share the affectionate words he had whispered in her ear before Apparating away for the day.

"Well," Hermione reported, wiping her sweaty palms on her knees. "It's going well."

Kingsley nodded, reclining in his chair. He rubbed his temple with his fingers and closed his eyes. "Is there anything else you can add?" he asked after a minute of tense silence. "Anything specific you can tell me about your progress?"

Hermione felt the muscles in her face twitch.

"S-specific?" she asked, clearing her throat. Schooling her expression, she stared cooly at Kingsley. "I wasn't aware you wanted to know specifics."

"I didn't. And I still don't. Not really. But you've been working with the asset for almost eight months and we still don't have any answers."

The asset.

Not Draco.

Not even Malfoy.

Hermione felt guilt wash over her. She was supposed to be on a mission for the Order, not fulfill some sort of silly childlike fantasy of what a picturesque life could look like.

"I apologize," stammered Hermione, picking at her nails. "He's a tough nut to crack. I feel as though I've gotten closer to him in order to get the answers we're looking for, but I'm not quite there yet."

Kingsley sighed. "How long do you anticipate your mission taking?"

Hermione grimaced. Her mind buzzed as she considered the simultaneous relief and agony of both cutting her mission short and of allowing it to stretch on and on.

"I'm not sure," she answered truthfully. "Like I said, I feel like I'm getting somewhere, but it will take time."

Kingsley leaned forward, elbows on the edge of his desk. "I—I know you haven't been able to come to as many meetings recently, so I don't know how much you're aware of, but—" He paused and sighed again, burying his face in his hands. "—but Draco Malfoy has been on the move recently. Just two days ago he murdered a Muggle couple at a revel in broad daylight."

Hermione's blood ran cold.

Two days ago?

They had ordered take away two days ago… watched a movie, and cuddled on the couch well into the evening. He seemed so calm—so normal. Had he actually committed murder so easily and then simply come home like nothing had happened?

A chill that had nothing to do with the season rippled across her skin, making her hair stand on end. Her jaw trembled as her mind attempted to come to terms with this news.

A murderer.

Draco was a murderer.

He was the asset and this was a job. Nothing more.

"I—I didn't know that," Hermione admitted, looking just past Kingsley at a blank stretch of wall behind his head.

"I figured as much. That's why I asked about your progress. The longer you take with your mission, the more people will die. It's as simple as that."

Hermione wasn't quite sure what to say, so she remained silent, the reality of so many deaths suddenly weighing heavily on her shoulders.

"I'm going to need you to take this job incredibly seriously, Granger. I take it you've gained his trust?" He straightened a pile of parchment on his desk.

"I have."

"Then find a way to exploit it. I picked you for this assignment for a reason, Granger. You're my best. You always get the job done, and you've always been willing to go farther than anyone else." Kingsley paused here, his dark eyes more serious than Hermione had ever seen them before. "I need you to do whatever it takes to get that information. No limits." The order wasn't particularly detailed, but it was explicit.

That night, before Draco got home, Hermione paced back and forth in their bedroom. She needed to complete the mission at all costs. The stakes were high—much higher than on any mission she'd been on in years. If she didn't succeed, well, like Kingsley said: people would die.

And as safe as Draco made her feel wrapped in his arms, she had other things to consider now. A bigger picture.

Whatever it took.

Exploit his trust.

She needed to make Draco more vulnerable—the most vulnerable he had ever been before. Hermione thought of the stories he had told of Narcissa, who had died trying to defend her son.

She then thought of her own parents, still tucked safely away in Australia. If they knew the danger she had lived through in the last eight years, they would be horror-struck.

Hermione thought of all the parents who made sacrifices for their children in this war—who would do anything, say anything to protect their sons and daughters.

It seemed like such a simple idea.

So simple to execute, yet far more complex than she cared to picture at this moment.

That was the night that she vanished her contraception potion.

I told you that you might not like Hermione.

I will update once a week.

Let me know your thoughts!

Come follow me on tumblr biscuitsforpotter