14

**Warning: this chapter contains explicit sexual content**

Chapter Fourteen

Wednesday 26 February 2003: PM

Hermione ducks her head before stepping gingerly out of Draco's marble-bordered fireplace, untucking her elbows with a sigh of relief. Floo transports are not exactly comfortable – but a vast improvement on flying broomsticks, in her (admittedly biased) opinion.

She takes a moment to gaze about the spacious lounge room. It is painted in a mid-palette cyanic grey, furnished with a three-seater powder-blue lowline couch and two matching retro Danish armchairs in a similar hue. The wall to Hermione's left is mostly high windows, judging by the multiple dark oyster curtains that are currently drawn against the winter gloom.

The opposite wall boasts white floor-to-ceiling bookcases; Hermione's feet are automatically drawn toward the allure of book-crammed shelves when Draco prowls through the open door from the hallway, a white tea towel slung over one shoulder.

"Hi," Hermione greets the tall blond, making a tentative, awkward half-wave with her free hand; the other is clutching her ebony work satchel/overnight bag. "I was just about to –"

Her next words are unceremoniously quelled by Draco's hot mouth devouring her own as he urgently plunges his hands beneath her unbuttoned greatcoat and onto her hips, moving his right palm ceaselessly over the curves of her hipbone and waist as his left hand glides upward to anchor at the base of her braid, holding Hermione's head steady for his plundering lips.

Malfoy pillages her parted mouth with an intoxicating amalgamation of expert control and savage frenzy; Hermione's satchel falls from her nerveless hold without conscious thought. She whimpers in wanton pleasure as she offers the slim column of her throat to Draco, grappling at his biceps and shoulders before her hands find purchase in his silky, pearl-white pelage.

The blazing sensations evoked by Draco's fiery lips and tongue and fingers are all too much, yet not enough; Hermione woozily realizes that her wondrous memories of the epic night she'd spent with Draco were not exaggerated by time and distance. If anything – they were dulled.

Hermione's hands are clawed into the collar of Draco's emerald twill cotton shirt and she is giving serious contemplation to ripping off all the buttons in one fell swoop when Draco's mouth slowly disengages, grazing softer kisses across her jawline and cheekbones, before he pulls away entirely.

"That's the oven timer," Malfoy husks. Dazzled, Hermione is gratified to note that Draco appears almost as titillated as she feels. His dilated pupils and irregular breaths betray his arousal, although he is quickly recovering his customary poise.

"Come – you must be hungry," Draco lithely bends to retrieve Hermione's discarded bag, before guiding her to proceed him out of the lounge room. "I've made Salina chicken casserole with lemony couscous… have you tried it before?".

"Uh… no, no I haven't," Hermione mutters. I really must learn to emulate Malfoy's trick of rapid emotional downshifting before I utterly embarrass myself, she crabs. The now-familiar light pressure of Draco's hand at the small of her back is enough to make her knees waver again. Get a grip, twit.

He leads her past the granite-topped kitchen island to the far end of the room, pulling out one of the Swedish-inspired chairs from the pale ash rectangular wooden table. Hermione silently allows Draco to rid her of her pea coat and plum suit jacket; he folds and drapes them over one of the unused chairs, lodging her satchel on the same seat before returning to nudge her chair closer to the table.

The overhead ribbed fabric white lampshade casts a warm glow across the dining area; the ivory curtains in here are half-drawn, allowing a glimpse of a shadowy, high-walled back garden. Hermione's attention diverts at Draco's yelped oath.

"Merlin's balls!" He clumsily finagles a large Dutch oven onto the stovetop with the stretched white tea towel, before slamming on the cold tap and sticking his burnt right fingertips under the running water. Hermione rushes from her chair to assist.

"Here, let me have a look," she carefully pulls his injured digits into her own hands. The skin on Draco's index and middle fingers is pinkish but unblistered.

"You'll live," Hermione jokes. She impetuously raises his hand to her mouth and imparts a quick kiss to each sore finger, before returning them to the cool stream beneath the tap. "There – all better."

"Keep them under the water until the sting eases," Hermione advises, missing the odd look Draco gives her as she turns to deal with the heavy cast-iron cooking pot. "Serves you right for not using oven mitts, Malfoy," she teases. "Where do you keep them?"

"I don't have any – the tea towels do the job," Draco gruffly maintains. He turns off the tap and wipes his hands dry on a square of paper towel.

"Except for when they don't… like now?" Hermione can't resist baiting. She makes do with wrapping two tea towels around the hot handles and carefully transfers the casserole to the table, settling it on the trivet. Draco follows, placing a bowl of fluffy couscous and a basket of fresh, crusty bread slices on either side. Turning back to her chair, Hermione's momentum is arrested by Draco's featherlight sweep of her braid tail from her neck; he deliberately plants a row of equidistant kisses along the sensitive side of her throat.

"Thank you," Draco breathes into her ear. The kiss and the whisper create a tingle of goosebumps that prickle down to Hermione's toes before zinging back to the crown of her skull. He moves to sit catty-corner beside her, filling her glass, then his, from the jug of water already at table.

"May I serve you?" he formally enquires.

Hermione nods, mutely handing Draco her plain white plate. "Help yourself to the bread and butter," Malfoy adds, indicating with a jut of his sharp chin to the small dish bearing glistening yellow pats. She complies, then props her head on her hands to raptly observe Draco gracefully wielding ladles and tongs to pile her plate high with the citrusy steamed semolina balls, topped with fragrant chicken and vegetable casserole.

The appetizing aroma of baked chicken, aubergines, tomatoes and herbs smells heavenly; Hermione inhales appreciatively as her covetous stomach audibly rumbles.

Draco flashes a quick grin as Hermione apologizes. "Sorry… it's been a long day. And this looks and smells divine," Hermione takes back her heaped plate with relish. "Thank you, Malfoy. You don't have to do this, you know," she adds as a puzzled afterthought.

"Do what? Eat dinner?" Draco retorts. "I beg to differ, Granger." His sly tone advertises his deliberate obtuseness.

"Ha-ha. I meant that you don't need to keep feeding me, of course," Hermione elaborates. "This is the fourth meal you've treated me to since we… met again," she lamely finishes.

"I prefer to think of our reunion as 'Hurricane Hermione' making landfall in St John's Wood," Draco japes, chuckling as her forehead instantly puckers in pique.

He forestalls her tetchy rebuttal. "Pax, Granger – do you hear me complaining? To answer your question… I'm providing you with suitable nourishment to ensure you have sufficient energy for our libidinous activities," Draco purrs suggestively.

Hermione pounces on the conversational opening. "Mmm… is that right? I suppose it does explain Monday morning's Kit Kat… But why did you include the exquisite flowers, Malfoy? And their interesting message?".

That should wipe the smile off your handsome face. Hermione leans back slightly, nipping the inside of her cheeks to keep from displaying her smugness.

Draco unhurriedly raises his water glass, partaking in a lengthy sip. He holds Hermione's eyes as he facilely asks, "Which message? Was the card I included somehow cryptic?". He motions to her temporarily ignored meal. "I thought you were hungry?".

Spiking a pine nut onto her forkful of chicken and aubergine, Hermione chews it with relish, ensuring she has swallowed every morsel before she replies.

"Your note was crystal clear – but my supervisor was kind enough to share her knowledge of floriography with me." Hermione is greatly enjoying this cat-and-mouse dialogue.

"Floriography?' Draco echoes. All innocence, and dove-grey eyes.

As if the word didn't roll off his tongue as smooth as silk.

"The language of flowers. Here's the fascinating part: the bouquet you sent me translates as, 'Your beautiful eyes have cast a spell of flagrant desire on me'. An odd coincidence… wouldn't you agree?".

Hermione doesn't allow Draco to break eye contact; she is determined to overcome his skilled Occlumency in this instance.

Draco holds her stare, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "A mite cheesy, don't you think? Do you honestly believe that is what I intended, Granger?". He snickers softly as he lowers his eyes to concentrate on his food.

"You haven't explained why you sent me the posy," Hermione insists. She is sorely disappointed that she has failed to 'read' Draco again.

"Remember our agreement from Saturday brunch? An answer for a kiss?" Draco prompts.

Hermione scoffs, "You want a kiss for a basic explanation?". Her anger about Malfoy possibly playing veiled emotional games threatens to burble over. She makes a conscious effort to cut her chicken less forcefully.

"No. I want a kiss because I savour the lushness of your sweet mouth beneath mine," Draco surprises her. "And because it satisfies my craving to dominate you.. as it fulfils your unarticulated desire to submit to me. Physically."

Narrowly avoiding choking on her mouthful of couscous, Hermione's eyes dart upward. Draco's expression is ablaze with lascivious yearning, his eyes roaming over her face as though he has been tasked with sculpting it from memory alone.

No one has ever looked at me like this before, Hermione marvels. As though I am the human embodiment of Aphrodite. I could really get used to this.

And as for Malfoy's bold assertion: Hermione is equally thrilled and apprehensive that he is absolutely correct. The explicit, raunchy visuals that have rampaged through her over-active brain since Saturday night storm through her mind. Draco holding her hands captive above her head. Murmuring all manner of hot, filthy intentions (preferably in French) as he maps every inch of her quivering body… excruciatingly slowly. Bending her over the nearest available surface and ruthlessly stripping her of clothing, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers as she eagerly thrusts back for his possession…

"I agree! To giving you a kiss," Hermione sputters, desperate to break the erotic sorcery Draco has magicked with a few evocative sentences. And you call yourself a witch – pathetic. She busies her hands with her cutlery, avoiding Malfoy's discerning regard for as long as possible.

His next words prove bewildering. "I never said you were to bequeath the kisses," Draco corrects. "However, I will collect that kiss a little later."

Frowning, Hermione calls to mind the pertinent negotiation. Damn him, he's right: the extent of their agreed-upon specificity was 'just a kiss for an answer'. You sneaky little ferret.

"I bet you're cursing my craftiness right now," Draco guesses; Hermione gawks at his shrewdness. "But a deal is a deal, ma chérie."

Considering the way you've been eye-shagging me - I believe it's a win/win bargain. Hermione is careful not to let that complacent conclusion exhibit on her face. She swallows a snigger with her next swig of water.

"How was your day, Malfoy?" Hermione artlessly queries. The topic isn't solely misdirection; she is genuinely interested as to what goes on in Draco's mysterious current-day existence.

Draco waits a beat before responding, suspicion flickering across his countenance. Hermione continues to enjoy her meal as she patiently awaits his rejoinder.

"My day was… productive," is all he offers. "How was yours? Is working at the Ministry everything you hoped and dreamed it would be?".

Hermione chooses to ignore the faint taint of mockery inherent in his words. "It's boring," she sighs. "I'm hankering to sink my teeth into something substantial. Something bigger than cross-referencing archaic Wizengamot procedures or rewriting prosecution strategies without a shred of credit for same. Or the worst part – being trotted out like a dancing pony when the Ministry decides it needs to impress visiting dignitaries." She stops, tardily realizing she has revealed more of her discontent than she intended.

"Leave, then. You could have any job you wanted, I'd wager," Draco observes.

"I can't just quit, Malfoy – I've worked towards this career since I left Hogwarts. Besides, I factored in some necessary stagnation in my ten-year plan." That sounded better in my head, Hermione cringes.

"Of course you have a ten-year plan," Draco rolls his eyes ceiling-ward. "And as for 'factoring in some necessary stagnation' – screw that, sideways. You're not a pond. Is this really what you want for your life? Did your eleven-year-old self step off the Hogwarts Express for the first time and build castles in the air about salaried drudgery in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic?". His voice is ripe with nettled scorn.

Stung by the inescapable truth of his accusations, Hermione struggles to mask her hurt. She parts her mouth to defend herself, but Draco's next words have her closing it with a hard snap.

"You deserve so much more than reluctantly assuming the empty role of the Ministry's most famous figurehead. They won't ever cede any real power. They'll keep patting you on the head and promising your day will come."

He leans in until their foreheads are almost touching. "Do whatever makes you happy, Granger. Don't waste your life pleasing other people; they'll never be satisfied, and you'll be lousy with regret and bitterness. It frustrates me beyond belief that the 'Brightest Witch of Her Age' can't see how extraordinary she is."

Draco sharply kicks back his chair and rises, gathering his plate and cutlery in stony silence before he stiffly walks to the sink.

Stunned by his vehemence, Hermione remains motionless in her seat for a handful of beats, watching Draco shuttle between the table, kitchen island and fridge. He packs up the leftover foods with an economy of movement and abundance of grace, working quickly until the only items remaining on the table are her plate, silverware, and tumbler. He hasn't glanced her way since he bent his pallid head to her curly one.

To say he's hit a nerve is an understatement; Hermione had promised herself (not four days past) that she'd stop being a coward and start living a life of her own choosing. To what end? To rot away in her stifling cubicle in an organization that refuses to recognize her capabilities and ambition?

And why does Draco seem personally affronted by my lily-livered blindness? He's as cross as two sticks whenever he talks about my perceived 'unfulfilled potential'.

"How do you manage to turn an insult into a compliment so cleverly, Malfoy?" Hermione muses rhetorically. "Why do you express strong opinions about how I'm apparently 'wasting my life', anyway?". Another thought strikes as her aggravation and tumult surge.

"And you still haven't told me why you sent those ruddy flowers on Monday!" She shoves back her own chair with a satisfying screech, snatching up her tableware and yielding to the childish impulse to clomp over to the sink.

The water sprays wildly as she turns on the tap a shade too vigorously. Hermione bats at the errant droplets on her beige blouse with a shaky hand.

"Leave that, Granger. You're not here to do the dishes," Draco commands. He steps behind to herd her flush against the sink cupboard, her hips buttressed by his lean fingers. Hermione pretends she is unaffected by his proximity, stubbornly clinging to her dirty plate.

"I sent you the bouquet because I walked past a florist in Diagon Alley on Sunday… and they made me think of you," Draco's unusually gravelly tone puffs against her braided hair. He traces the indentation of her waist before skimming up her elbows and upper arms to cup her shoulders, thumbs making half-moons against the fabric of her shirt.

Hermione's head drops forward without conscious volition. Damn his nimble fingers, hard body, and irresistible scent… it's pheromones. It must be pheromones.

"As to your other quizzing point: I despise myself for contributing to your poor self-esteem. I was an utter bastard to you at school… I was a nasty bully and a conceited prat who thought the sun shone out of his own bum, and it wasn't until I experienced being bullied myself that I realized the damage my unrelenting arseholery had effected."

Hermione cannot help herself. "I don't think 'arseholery' is a proper word, Malfoy."

Draco sighs, but his tone is lighter as he admonishes, "Shush, Granger – your pedantry is ruining my lofty apology."

"Oh, is that what that was? Funny, I didn't hear you speak the words 'I' or 'am' or 'sorry'," Hermione snarks back, glad he can't see the chuffed smile on her face.

"I. Am. Sorry." Before Hermione can react, Draco steps back, grips her hips again and smoothly spins her round to face him. His graphite eyes are scintillant with sincerity and remorse. "I'm sorry." He shapes the phrase against her mouth before slanting his lips across hers.

Pushing up eagerly, Hermione matches Draco kiss for hungry kiss. "Are you claiming the reward for your answer, Malfoy?" she manages to exclaim in between heady clinches.

Draco bites open-mouthed caresses down her supple neck, fingers working dexterously to unbutton her blouse. "With interest added, ma trésor," he hums into the hollow of her throat.

"Ooh, yes, that – more French, s'il vous plait," Hermione pants, half-delirious as Draco nips at the now-exposed mounds of her breasts, delicately scraping his teeth across her sensitive skin as he drags her biscotti-coloured bra down until her nipples spring free.

"Bien sûr, ma choupette," Draco croons, his tweaking hands now replacing his mouth on her breasts as he kneels before her to circle her touchy belly button with his tongue.

Giggling helplessly, Hermione protects her navel with her right hand as she wonders aloud, "'Ma choupette'? What does that mean?".

She feels Draco laugh softly against her lower abdomen; he's taken advantage of her ticklishness to unclip and unzip her plum cigarette pants and pull them to her knees. His fingers hook beneath her knickers as he tilts up his head and grins cheekily into her flushed face.

"The English translation is 'my little cabbage'," Draco winks as her knickers unceremoniously join her trousers, bunching around her knees.

"Cabbage?!" Hermione wheezes. "I'm a cabbage?"

Draco glides his hands back up her quavering thighs, making her gasp as he brushes his fingertips along the inner creases of her upper legs.

He strokes Hermione's hypersensitive skin in ever-decreasing rings as he prompts, "Don't you find cruciferous vegetables sexy, Granger?"

"Not particularly," Hermione strengthens her white-knuckled grip on the metal lip of the sink behind her; her knees are as wobbly as blancmange, thanks to Draco's skilled ministrations.

"Unacceptable, Granger," Draco remonstrates, swiftly withdrawing his hands from her person. "I had intended to claim my kiss… here – " he caresses her soft, damp, penny-brown curls with his index finger as she whimpers – "but only if you can list all the Cruciferae you know. I'll translate them to French for you. No extra charge."

He leans back onto his haunches. "Well?"

"Cauliflower!" Hermione practically hollers.

"Choufleur." Malfoy teases with light, exploratory passes of his digits through her sex. "Un début prometteur, continuez. Go on," and he nudges her curls apart with his thumbs.

"Broccoli." Is this technically torture? It is, isn't it? Hermione resentfully decides that she will have her revenge on the cruel, sexy beast before the week is out.

"Brocoli. You'll have to lift your game, Granger." Draco slowly eases his left index finger inside her, hissing in satisfaction as she bears down, moaning deliriously. "More?".

Nodding rapidly, Hermione closes her eyes in bliss as Malfoy slides his fingers up to the special knot of nerves on her inner front wall, rubbing tenderly. He licks a thin stripe through her exposed outer lips as she arches her back, desperate for more contact.

"Brussel sprouts… kale, horseradish, kohlrabi… watercress…" Hermione wails the last as Draco hotly and firmly kisses her quim, sucking and biting ever-so-softly around her clitoris.

She sobs in frustration as Draco briefly pulls away, pupils blown dark with his own arousal as he raggedly translates, "Choux de Bruxelles, chou fries, Raifort, chou-rave, cresson… Excellente, ma petite savante." He fervently returns to mouthing and stroking Hermione to new heights of carnality, increasing the pressure of his mobile lips and teeth and tongue as she abandons herself to pure sensation. Draco's fingers are tunnelling in and out of her now, lingering on that singular band of tissue on every upstroke.

When she comes, she blasts apart like a supernova: a luminous stellar explosion that blows her nerve cells into the stratosphere, flung far from sight and sound and consciousness. Hermione slips back into herself in immeasurable increments, vaguely aware that Draco is caged protectively around her euphoric, stuporous form. He has refastened most of her dishevelled attire at some point and is murmuring quietly in French as he effortlessly hoists her into his arms.

"Allons te coucher, Granger. Tu es épuisé, ma petite lionne. I've got you." Hermione curls her hand around his strong neck as Malfoy walks them out of the kitchen/dining room, turning off the lights for the downstairs areas before he climbs the stairs.

She keeps her eyes closed as Draco lays her down atop his bed, flipping back the covers before he begins to ease off her shoes and clothing. Hermione struggles to sit upright as it dawns on her that she is currently impersonating a sea slug, but with fewer brain cells. Draco benignly pushes her back onto the mattress, ignoring her mumbled protestations as he rapidly divests her of the rest of her garments.

Her ears faintly discern the slithering sound of Draco shucking off his own clothes, before the bed dips and he rolls her into the little spoon position, dragging the bedlinens beneath her chin.

"Doux rêves, Granger."

Draco's warm body folded around her drowsy one sends Hermione to sleep within seconds.

Thursday 27 February: AM

"No – don't – don't –" Hermione is startled awake by Draco's tortured low moan. The townhouse bedroom remains enshrouded in darkness; it must still be night, Hermione fuzzily concludes.

Draco cries out again, a haunting, wordless note that makes her hackles rise in sympathetic fear.

"Malfoy?" Hermione whispers, tentatively stretching out her hand. She encounters only air and linens; Draco must be squeezed onto the farthest edge of the bed or has fallen off it onto the floor. Panicking, Hermione scratches across the bedside chest of drawers until she finally locates the lamp, hurriedly clicking it on.

Her tender heart pinches as she spies Draco, compressed into a shuddering ball with his head jammed against the topmost corner of the bed. Panic turns to horror as she kneels beside him and sees that his right hand is clawing bloody furrows into his left forearm. Targeting the Dark Mark.

"Oh, Malfoy, no – please stop," Hermione battles to keep her voice free of her dread. She slips her small hand around Draco's right wrist, tugging it clear of his bloodied skin with a struggle. His blunt nails are already limned in crimson.

"Malfoy, please wake up. It's just a bad dream, I promise." Hermione hugs his shivering body as best she can, bracketing his left wrist with her spare hand. Draco's skin is ice-cold and dimpled with goosebumps. His suffering is palpable.

Crooning softly, Hermione rubs her cheek against his rigid back in soothing passes. "It's alright – you're OK," she repeats the phrase for interminable moments until she finally senses Draco juddering back to wakefulness. Some of the stiffness leaves his spine and his legs uncurl.

Groggily, Draco turns his head, his eyes widening as Hermione smiles tremulously at his ashen face.

"It's OK, Malfoy. You had a nightmare, but you're alright," Hermione reassures him. His bloodless complexion and terrified eyes are an awful reminder of how Draco had looked back in Sixth year: hunted and hopeless. Burdened. Cursed.

Draco looks down at her hands bracing his wrists; he emits an appalled gasp at the sight of his torn skin and bloodied nails, jolting free of Hermione's light hold and scrambling upright against the padded fabric bedhead. He stares at her in consternation.

"Wait, wait – I'll get a warm flannel and your first aid kit," Hermione slides from the bed and darts into the bathroom, correctly guessing that the kit is stored beneath the vanity.

Grabbing the small plastic box with the red cross emblazoned on its front, she quickly runs a flannel square beneath the hot tap until it is warm, then wrings it down to dampness. Hermione runs back to the bedroom to kneel beside Draco. He rears back as she tries to capture his left arm.

"No, don't - don't touch it! I don't want you to touch it," Draco croaks in a painful whisper.

"I swear I won't hurt you. Please, let me clean and bandage it." Hermione cajoles, winking away tears. Draco's vulnerability is turning her inside out.

Draco shakes his head furiously, sweaty platinum strands whipping his face as he cradles his injured forearm against his bare chest, smearing blood against his heaving sternum. "You should leave. I could have harmed you, Granger." His expression is agonized as he yells, "Get out! Just go!".

Hermione steadfastly ignores his directives, busily sorting through the first aid box to prepare antiseptic lotion, sterile wipes, and gauze.

"No. You're being silly and dramatic, and you can't rid yourself of me that easily, Malfoy," she adopts a firm, no-nonsense tone in response to his turbulent agitation. "Now give me your arm, or I'll Petrify you."

"You wouldn't bloody dare," Draco sullenly mutters. "You don't even have your wand handy."

"What, you think I can't work wandlessly? I'm the Brightest Witch of My Age, and a Golden Girl to boot," Hermione jests. "I can have you clucking like a chicken and roosting on the bedhead before you can crow 'Buff Orpington!'".

"Bullshit, Granger." But Draco unfolds his left arm with a scowl and reluctantly turns it palm-up for her inspection.

Dabbing the damp washer cautiously at the angry red stripes scored down Draco's forearm, Hermione is relieved when the scratches are revealed as primarily superficial, and the blood has already begun to coagulate. Draco stares at his corrupted Dark Mark with revulsed loathing; his fingers twitch in her loose clasp. Hermione finishes cleaning the shallow gouges, drying them with sterile wipes and then applying blobs of antiseptic lotion, before securely wrapping his arm in gauze and fastening the band with a small clip.

Before she releases his limb, Hermione picks up the flannel and swabs the dried bloody smudges from his chest, then uses it to scrub clean the nails of his right hand.

"Thanks," and Draco jerks out of reach, pulling his knees to his chest and fixing his brooding gaze on a microscopic dot of blood marring the pristine white of the bottom sheet.

Hermione sighs. He's reverted to the Stoic Slytherin façade faster than I'd anticipated.

Shivering now that her adrenaline is crashing, Hermione remembers that she is naked; she gave no thought to her nudity during this little crisis.

"I'll just grab a glass of water, Malfoy," and she slips off the bed again, taken aback as Draco pulls her back down.

"I'll get it. You're cold – hop back into bed," and he tugs the duvet over her chilled body before striding to the bathroom in a few lanky steps. The tap runs; Draco returns within the minute, pushing the half-full glass at her as Hermione sits up, bedcovers tucked beneath her armpits.

"Drink," and he holds the glass uncompromisingly to her parched lips.

"Thank you," Hermione cups the glass and sips, grateful for the hydration. She places the glass on his bedside drawers and pats the space beside her.

"Want to tell me what that was all about? Or are you going to try to punt me again?"

"No," Draco clips. "To both."

Hermione eyes him sceptically as he burrows beneath the covers until just the top of his silky blond head is visible; he turns on his side to face away from her.

"Malfoy. You can talk to me. I won't judge you."

"I had a nightmare – big deal," his scathing reply is muffled by layers of fabric. Hermione scooches down the bed and yanks Draco onto his back, draping herself over him as he growls in protest.

"Get off me, woman – you're freezing," Draco grouches.

"You can warm me up," Hermione teases, chafing her feet on his lateral shins.

"Hey!" Draco's arms encircle her as she lays her head against his heart; it is still beating too fast but is stabilizing. Rather than dislodge her, Draco tentatively glides his big hands down her sleek spine.

Hermione's reaction is to pepper closed-mouth kisses along Draco's collarbone; he groans a little, shifting as her caresses stir his manhood to wakefulness. She lifts her head, capturing his intense gaze as she licks delicately at his puckered nipple.

Draco rolls them onto their sides, guiding her head up to his with his right index finger. His lips meet hers sweetly; they swap lazy smooches… giving and receiving comfort in equal measure. Their hips align to float together before drifting apart, notching in all the right places for a slow, dulcet build-up.

They touch each other incessantly, compulsively; butterfly strokes that firm as their breathing quickens. Hermione fancies that their magical cores are flittering around each other, brushing together with tingling wings and shared energies. She smiles against Draco's mouth at her own silliness. Whatever this is, it is synchronous and special and something to be savoured in the moment.

Hermione wraps her left leg around Draco's right hip, urging him into her willing warmth; he needs no further encouragement, pressing deliciously closer. Their eyes open in unison and stay connected as they join together, rocking in an ageless, intimate rhythm. Neither looks away as they leisurely coax each other to their pinnacles. Eyes, lips, hands connect… channelling deep bliss back and forth, under and over their skin and bones until it threatens to spill into the ether.

They tip together, each spasm and pulse triggering a corresponding reaction in the other's body; Hermione doesn't know she is leaking silent, rapturous tears until Draco kisses them from her cheeks. They are both vibrating with aftershock, foreheads gently pressed together, bodies twined.

Contact eventually breaks when Draco slips from Hermione's enervated body with a quiet sigh. He twists onto his side with his back to her again but tows her left hand to curl against his chest. Hermione uncertainly assumes the role of big spoon, gingerly settling closer.

Hand creeping into Draco's satiny silvered hair, Hermione lightly rakes upwards into his skull, stilling as he groans.

"Malfoy… is this alright?" she worries.

Draco waits for a handful of seconds before he acknowledges, "It's tolerable." He exposes his reluctant concession as a glaring falsehood by eagerly pushing his head back against her ruffling fingers. Hermione continues to pet his locks until he falls asleep, his breathing regular and untroubled.

Snuggling closer, Hermione lets her heavy eyelids close.

"Sweeter dreams, Malfoy," she wishes for the complicated man slumbering beside her. The lamp remains lit; she doesn't bother to switch it off.

Let the light chase away the darkness for the rest of the night.

French translations:

ma trésor = my treasure.

s'il vous plait = please.

Bien sûr, ma choupette = Of course, my little cabbage.

Choufleur = Cauliflower.

Un début prometteur, continuez = A promising start, continue.

Brocoli = broccoli.

Choux de Bruxelles, chou fries, Raifort, chou-rave, cresson = Brussels sprouts, kale, horseradish, kohlrabi, watercress.

Excellente, ma petite savante = Excellent, my little scholar.

Allons te coucher, Granger. Tu es épuisé, ma petite lionne = Let's go to bed, Granger. You are exhausted, my little lioness.

Doux rêves = Sweet dreams.