The fire in the Slytherin common room had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the stone floor, but Draco hadn't noticed. He'd been pacing the narrow length of his bedroom for hours — two, maybe more — replaying every second of that damned kiss. And worse, every word that had left his mouth as he pressed it against hers.
"I want to kiss you so badly it makes me feel sick."
"You drive me insane."
"You make me feel like I'm burning alive, Granger."
"I think about you constantly."
Who said things like that?
Draco Malfoy, apparently. Pathetic, lovesick Draco Malfoy.
He dragged a hand through his hair and cursed under his breath. What would people think? His friends, his parents — what did she think?
And gods, the things she had said back.
"I hate the way you talked to me earlier. Filthy and cruel and so — like you wanted to hurt me for how I hurt you. And Godric, Draco, I hated how much I liked it."
His stomach twisted, heart hammering in that awful, persistent rhythm that wouldn't stop.
Hermione Granger. Brilliant, infuriating, impossible Hermione Granger. Who, apparently, had a filthy mouth.
He had kissed her as though it were the last thing he'd ever do, and she had kissed him back as though she wanted more.
And now?
Now he didn't know what the hell they were.
Avoiding each other? Still lingering somewhere in between? Secretly together? Secretly falling apart?
Because she'd said, "I'm halfway in love with you," and it was madness.
Who said that? Who meant that? And what the hell was he supposed to do with it?
It was too soon.
It was too much.
It was not nearly enough.
All of it at once.
He grabbed a jumper — he didn't know where he was going, only that he had to leave — but as he stepped out of his dormitory and into the common room, he found it nearly empty except for Daphne, sitting peacefully on a sofa by the fire, reading.
He walked over and sat down beside her.
Daphne looked up, ready with a quip, but when she saw the raw, unguarded look on his face, she stopped. "You all right?"
"I need to tell you something, but you can't tell anyone."
Daphne blinked. She wasn't used to this version of Draco — the one without armour. No smirk, no cruel glint in his eyes, no posture that said he had something to prove. He just looked… wrecked.
She slowly marked her place in her book and set it down, eyes steady on his. "All right. I won't."
He looked at her for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts, to make sense of what he was about to say. "I said some really awful things today," he finally admitted.
"Awful like hexing first-years, or awful like you finally told Hermione you fancy a snog?"
"Awful like I berated her and she kissed me." He whispered.
Daphne grinned, lifting her hands slightly. "My prayers have been answered — you finally snogged her."
He didn't even have the energy to glare. "I kissed her on New Year's. You're late to the party."
Her grin dropped. "Shut up! Is that why you've both been acting strange?!"
He didn't answer. "She kissed me today. After I was cruel to her. I said some truly terrible things, Daph. Called her Potter's pet. Said he probably thinks she's untouchable. That I'd wager he doesn't know what she sounds like when she's been properly kissed."
Daphne stared at him, mouth slightly open as she tried to process what he was telling her. "You called her Potter's pet, and she still kissed you? You insulted her, you dragged Potter into it, and she still kissed you? You've won at life, Draco, and you're sitting here looking like someone's just killed your owl."
"I was trying to make her angry. Make her hate me again. Because it's easier that way, isn't it?" His voice shook slightly. "If she hates me, then maybe I can go back to pretending I don't care. I was furious about something she'd said to Weasley, and she kept denying it. But I crossed a line, and she looked at me like she wanted to hex me into the next decade. And I thought — I thought that was it. I'd broken everything so badly I could finally move on. But then she grabbed me, Daph. She grabbed me and kissed me."
He was almost breathless. "And then she told me she liked it when I talked to her like that. That it was filthy and cruel and she hated it, but liked it all the same."
He wasn't sure whether he was more ashamed of what he'd said to Hermione or of how badly he'd wanted her afterwards — as though anger and desire were two sides of the same cursed coin.
Daphne held up a hand. "If you keep telling me that Hermione likes to be talked down to, Draco, I'm going to end up teasing her about it. Stop right there if you want me to keep my mouth shut."
Draco shut his mouth immediately.
She blinked, astonished at how quickly he complied. "You really don't want her finding out you're losing your mind over this," she breathed.
"I said some genuinely soppy things afterwards, Daphne. The kind of things someone like — like Potter or Weasley would say. No — they're both too thick to actually say them. The kind of thing Longbottom would say."
Daphne studied Draco for a long moment, eyes narrowing as if weighing the truth of his words. She didn't rush him; she let him process, let him speak. But the look in her eyes shifted, softening.
"And then she said she was halfway in love with me." He added.
Daphne didn't say it aloud, but she did roll her eyes. That much had been obvious — she'd been there when Hermione had first realised she fancied him, and had watched her fall deeper through the months ever since.
"Well," she finally said, once she was certain Draco was done, "you two have been dancing around each other all year. Is it really so hard to believe her feelings run a little deeper than a silly crush?" She chose her words carefully. "Because, Draco, you may not be in love with her, but you are rather… intense about her."
"Halfway isn't love."
"No, it isn't," she agreed. "It's her trying to find the words to say she likes you beyond a passing fancy, but less than being completely mad for someone she hasn't even dated yet."
Draco didn't say anything.
She rolled her eyes. "If you want her — really want her. Like, take-her-home-to-Narcissa want her. Then it shouldn't matter what she said. What should matter is what you're going to say to her, because I sincerely doubt you've had the 'what are we' conversation."
Draco stared into the fire as though it might hold the answer. As though the dancing shadows might arrange themselves into a solution, a future where this wasn't such a mess. He hated that Daphne was being reasonable. He hated more that she was right.
He wasn't in love with Hermione.
He wasn't.
But he also wasn't not.
And that was the problem, wasn't it?
"She doesn't even know me," he said eventually, his voice low, as if saying it louder would make it more true. "She knows the version I've shown her. The parts I've let her see this year — when I'm helping her with Potions, or walking her back to Gryffindor Tower, or pretending I'm not losing my mind every time she bites her lip while she's concentrating."
Daphne nodded slowly. "But she knows how you feel. And you know how she feels."
"I didn't want her to say she's halfway in love with me," he said. "I wanted her to hate me."
"Why?"
His jaw tightened. "Because now I have to do something about it."
As if on cue, the moment was broken by the sharp crackle of the announcement through the castle, sudden and piercing.
"May the sixth years please make their way to the Hospital Wing." Madam Pomfrey's voice echoed through the corridors, cutting through the tension in the room.
Draco didn't move. "Brilliant. Someone else's crisis. Fantastic."
Daphne snorted as she stood. "Let's go."
---
The Hospital Wing had been cleared of its beds, leaving only a half-moon arc of chairs arranged before a conjured whiteboard. The overhead lamps buzzed faintly, and the faint scent of potions and Dittany hung in the air. The Slytherins were already seated along one side of the arc, looking vaguely bored. Pansy twirled a strand of hair around her finger; Daphne flicked through Witch Weekly; Blaise murmured something to Theo that earned a crooked grin. Draco sat at the end of their row, arms crossed, eyes fixed ahead.
On the other side sat Ron and Lavender. Ron looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else, while Lavender, wearing lip gloss far too shiny for the occasion, whispered something in his ear that made him flush bright red.
Harry and Hermione stepped in just as Madam Pomfrey waved her wand, completing a spell that sealed the wing from passersby. The doors shut behind them with an echo that rang a touch too loudly.
Hermione paused, eyes scanning the room. Her brow furrowed.
"Come with me," she whispered to Harry, steering him towards the Slytherin side of the arc.
Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as he followed, Hermione making her way to the empty seat between Pansy and Draco.
Pansy grinned. "There you are. Saved you a seat — figured you wouldn't want to be near Weasley."
Hermione rolled her eyes as she sat down. "Hello to you too, Pansy."
"Hey." Draco spoke first, and Hermione turned quickly to face him, something flickering briefly in her eyes.
She tried to smooth it over, but her response came out far more breathless than she'd intended. "Hi."
The faint tension in his shoulders visibly eased — relief, barely concealed — now that he knew she was still talking to him.
Theo snorted and muttered something to Blaise.
Pansy, for her part, raised an eyebrow at them before turning to Daphne, who was watching carefully.
Harry glanced between Hermione and Draco before looking back at Hermione, his expression broadcasting silently: Well, say something else!
But when neither of them did, Harry cleared his throat. "So — does anyone know what this is actually about?" He asked, attempting to move things along, perhaps with the one subject they all had a passing shared opinion on: his terrible questions.
The group turned to look at him as though he'd grown a second head.
"Hermione didn't tell you?" Theo asked.
Hermione blinked. "Tell him what?"
Pansy looked between Draco and Hermione for a moment before laughing. "You stopped paying attention at the last prefects' meeting when they announced that someone had been caught in the Prefects' Bathroom," she accused Hermione.
Hermione gaped. "I did not! What does that have to do with anything—" She trailed off as the memory of that meeting surfaced.
A soft gasp escaped her as she clapped a hand over her mouth.
Pansy's grin spread wide. "She remembers." She said, delighted. "I was wondering why you didn't ask me to swap seats with you."
Blaise, unhelpfully perceptive, added, "I don't know, Pans — maybe she wants to sit next to him now. Things change. People grow."
Hermione spun in her seat, eyes landing on Draco beside her, hand still pressed over her mouth, expression wide-eyed and panicked.
This was not happening. Of all the days, of all the seats in the room — no, she had sat next to Draco for Hogwarts' newly implemented sex education class. Any other day would have been fine. Truly. Any day except today, when she'd just snogged him outside Potions. When she'd confessed, in not-so-many-words, that the way he talked to her — filthy and provocative — affected her. When they hadn't even had a chance to discuss what on earth was happening between them.
Her brain short-circuited. Sex ed. With Draco Malfoy sitting beside her as though they hadn't just — as though he hadn't just — as though she hadn't practically whimpered when he'd whispered something awful and obscene against her neck less than two hours ago. She was going to die. Right here, in the Hospital Wing. Death by humiliation and hormonal whiplash.
Draco looked down at her, a slight smile on his face, head tilting in a silent question — blissfully unaware of the ordeal that was about to unfold.
For his part, he was doing an impressive job of not kissing the mortification off Hermione's face, even without knowing what it was about. "You all right, Granger?"
She didn't respond. She swallowed thickly, turned away from him, and dragged her hand slowly down her face as she sank low in her chair, wishing for nothing more than to vanish entirely.
She angled herself towards Pansy and pretended to read over her shoulder.
Pansy was already looking at Draco, grinning. "Oh my gods — you don't know either."
Draco raised an eyebrow, waiting for someone to explain.
Harry frowned. "Neither do I, actually, so if anyone would care to share."
Theo didn't bother turning around. "Sex ed," he said lazily.
Draco's expression dropped almost instantly.
He looked from Theo — who had so helpfully supplied the answer — down to Hermione, and the pieces evidently clicked, because he breathed out a sharp, "Oh my god," eyes going wide, face turned firmly to the front.
Pansy snorted. "You two are going to be so entertaining to watch."
"Pansy." Hermione hissed.
Draco was horrified. He had been so satisfied with himself just moments ago — sitting here like an idiot, thinking perhaps they could flirt their way back to something resembling normal. To whatever came after what they had shared. But now he was about to sit through a lecture on magical contraception and wand etiquette beside the girl he had very recently had to stop himself from dragging into a supply cupboard.
Blaise watched him, raising an eyebrow. "Draco Malfoy put off by the mere concept of sex?" He said, as though it were the second coming of Merlin himself. "Someone send an owl to the Prophet."
"Shut up," Draco said, but his ears were tipped red and he kept his eyes closed, trying very hard not to think about the girl seated to his right.
As if to compound Hermione's torment, Harry leaned forward — and she deeply regretted asking him to sit with them, however briefly comforted she had been by the idea that she and Draco might have a witness to keep things civil.
"Bet you wish you were made of stone now," Harry muttered to her, throwing her own words back at her.
Hermione whipped her head around to glare at him, face burning. "I hate you," she hissed.
Harry only grinned — obnoxiously, smugly pleased with himself — before glancing at Draco. "You know, Hermione and I just had a rather fascinating conversation in the library," he said casually. "All about fantasies. Really does suit the occasion, don't you think?"
Draco's eyes snapped open.
He turned to Hermione, who had gone a suspicious shade of scarlet, mouth parted in silent horror. Her entire posture screamed: murder Harry first, die of embarrassment second. She didn't dare look at Draco — not now, not after that.
"Harry." She hissed.
"What conversation?" Draco asked — and oh gods, was that jealousy she could hear in his voice?
Hermione looked at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Nothing," she said, silently pleading with every possible deity that he understood her well enough not to press further — not until they were in private. Or had at least discussed whatever was happening between them.
Draco huffed and turned back to the front, closing his eyes again. He wasn't sure what was worse: the thought of Harry Potter mentioning some fantasy Hermione had shared with him, or the fact that he was now acutely, maddenly curious about what exactly the girl whose tongue had just been tangled with his was fantasising about.
Daphne's blue eyes drifted to Draco, whose posture had gone painfully rigid, arms crossed so tightly it looked as though he was holding himself together by sheer muscle memory. Hermione, meanwhile, looked as though she was one breath away from self-combusting — legs crossed, one foot tapping at a pace that could power a Muggle generator, hands white-knuckled in her lap.
Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat from the front of the room, and everyone sat up straighter — some from guilt, others from fear. She looked entirely too pleased to be standing before a magical whiteboard, a stack of enchanted diagrams floating at her side.
Draco stared at the whiteboard as though, if he focused hard enough, he might set it alight and burn this entire nightmare down with it — just as Madam Pomfrey began to speak.
He shifted in his seat, arms still folded, but his fingers twitched as though they wanted to grip something — her waist, perhaps. Or her neck. Or the back of her head. Gods, he was a mess.
It was a miracle he hadn't disgraced himself entirely, honestly. He deserved an Order of Merlin for having survived snogging Hermione without losing his composure. He had been a breath away from grinding against a corridor wall like a second year, dizzy from the sound of her breath and the way she had looked at him as though she wanted him to ruin her entirely. It had been obscene. It had been perfect.
He could feel Hermione's presence like static — burning at the edges of his awareness. Every twitch of her fingers, every small exhale — he catalogued it all without looking. It was stifling, and Pomfrey had barely started. Hermione's thigh brushed his every so often as she bounced her leg, only to pull away again each time they touched.
Don't think about her mouth. Don't think about her voice. Don't think about the way she gasped when you said—
"Think they'll start with self-gratification?" Harry said casually from behind them.
Hermione was going to kill him. Actually murder him. Right after she dug a hole in the floor with her heel and buried herself in it for all eternity.
Theo, entirely unbothered, added his own contribution. "Do you reckon they'll get to positions? I feel like we're overdue for a visual aid."
"Go watch a dirty magazine then," Daphne said simply, turning the page of her own.
Draco refused to look at any of them, fingers digging into his biceps. From the corner of his eye he could make out the flush on Hermione's cheeks, and gods, it only made everything worse. He could picture it — the way she had blushed when he was kissing her, the press of her body against his. He could still taste her on his tongue.
Her face was a tragic blend of mortified, furious, and very recently snogged. Her lips were still slightly swollen. He should not be noticing that. He should absolutely not be imagining kissing her again. Or pressing her up against the edge of the whiteboard and —
He shifted — not from the discomfort of the situation, that was a lost cause — but because the fabric of his trousers was becoming a particular form of torment.
Hermione sat with her hands in her lap, eyes fixed on the whiteboard, mouth tight, spine perfectly straight.
She caught him glancing at her again and fixed him with a look that said, plainly: Do not speak to me unless you'd like to die where you sit.
He turned away before he could do something catastrophic — like lean in and remind her of what she'd said. Of what she liked. Of everything they hadn't yet had the chance to discuss. Was that what Potter had meant by fantasies? Had she told him what she'd confessed to Draco?
No. No, he wasn't going to think about that.
He shifted again, trying to fix his mind on anything else — Quidditch, Snape's voice, his father's disapproval. The war. Nothing helped.
What the hell are we, Granger? He wanted to ask. Because I can't stop thinking about you and Pomfrey's about to—
His thoughts cut off.
"Right," Pomfrey said briskly, stepping in front of the whiteboard. "Let's begin."
She tapped her wand against the surface. The words SEXUAL HEALTH & MAGICAL BODY EDUCATION scrawled themselves across it in large, glittering pink cursive.
"Oh no," Hermione whispered, barely audible.
Beside her, Draco breathed out a quiet, "Oh, for the love of—"
Then, to both their mutual horror, the word masturbation appeared on the board.
Hermione sank in her seat and closed her eyes. Of all things.
Pomfrey was speaking, but Hermione was scarcely taking it in. Something about stress reduction, improved sleep, and the regulation of magical output.
Rather ironic, she thought, given that it hadn't seemed to help her sleep or her nerves after New Year's. Her thighs pressed together instinctively; she bit her lower lip. She was fairly certain she would never touch herself — or anyone else, for that matter — again after today.
Draco had been trying to pay attention, to push his thoughts aside, but every word Pomfrey said led him back to Hermione. To all those late nights. The early mornings in the shower.
"And, of course, it is entirely natural for young witches as well," Pomfrey added, and Draco's head snapped up.
Hermione was managing rather well at not reacting. She had mostly succeeded in tuning Pomfrey out, but every so often, Draco would look at her, and she had to fight the urge to disappear. She didn't catch each glance directly — she was refusing to look at him — but she felt them.
Once.
Then twice.
The third time, she snapped her head round. "What is wrong with you?" She hissed.
Draco swallowed but didn't answer, turning away quickly, ears pink.
Hermione huffed and faced forward again.
Then, quietly — as if the question had surfaced from somewhere deep and unbidden — he asked, "Do you?" Not turning to face her as the words left his lips.
Hermione, still faintly irritated from his staring, didn't immediately piece together what he was asking.
"Do I what?" She whispered back.
His voice was low, barely audible beneath Pomfrey's steady droning — but Hermione heard every word.
Gods, did Hermione hear it.
"Touch yourself."
The words reached her like a strike — her mouth went slack, her treacherous body warming at once, her heart beating at a thoroughly inconvenient pace.
Pomfrey was now explaining how magical surges in adolescent witches and wizards were often linked to unaddressed physical needs.
Heat unfurled low in Hermione's belly, pulsing downward.
She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, her pulse having found an entirely new place to dwell.
She was imagining this. She had to be. There was no possible world in which Draco Malfoy had just asked her that.
She didn't have to answer. He knew that. It wasn't a taunt.
"Oh my god," she whispered as she felt him look at her again. "I am not answering that."
"Because the answer's yes?"
"Because you shouldn't be asking me in a classroom with Hogwarts' most prolific gossips seated all around us!" She hissed, finally looking at him.
But when he looked back at her, what she saw gave her pause. There was no smugness on his face, no gleam of mockery. Instead, he just looked… curious. Slightly pained. But genuinely, uncomfortably curious. As though he'd been trying to hold the question back, but something Pomfrey had said had broken whatever dam had been keeping it contained.
"Understanding one's own body is critical to understanding consent and sexual health," Pomfrey continued, perfectly unruffled. "It also teaches you what kind of touch feels right for you, so that when you share intimacy with another person, you can communicate your needs."
If he kept looking at her like that, she was terrified she might actually answer. Might say something she could never walk back. Yes, Draco, I do. I lie in bed at night pressing my legs together, teasing myself while your voice replays in my head.
She had to respond, if only to make him stop looking at her that way.
Though some part of her knew perfectly well that answering would only invite more questions — questions she truly did not want to imagine.
Hermione forced herself to stare straight ahead. The whiteboard now displayed a softly pulsing diagram of nerve clusters overlaid with magical core points, glittering lines connecting arousal to magic to emotion. She could still feel his eyes on her — steady, insistent.
She didn't look at him. If she looked at him, she would say something. Not something clever, not something dismissive — something dangerous. Something she couldn't take back.
Draco wasn't being a prat.
That was the problem.
He wasn't smirking, he wasn't goading her, he wasn't trying to get a rise out of her. He looked honest.
Curious, yes, but also conflicted. As though he was trying to understand something — about her, or about himself — and the question, awful and intimate and utterly inappropriate, had simply escaped him before he could stop it.
"Merlin, Hermione," he groaned, turning away and pressing a hand over his face as the images ran unbidden through his mind. Hermione, in bed, curls spread around her head on the pillow, her hand slipping beneath the hem of those short pyjama shorts she owned. He found himself wondering if she made the same sounds she had made when he kissed her.
Hermione screwed her eyes shut. "You're thinking."
"I haven't said anything."
"You groaned."
His face was redder than hers now as he shifted in his seat, trying to look inconspicuous. "I'm not trying to."
"Try harder." She set her jaw, privately deciding that was the last thing she would say to him until tomorrow.
And he tried, genuinely, he did. But when Pomfrey mentioned enhancement charms — the various items that could be employed during such moments — how the mind was the most powerful erogenous organ in the body — he found himself with more questions. Questions he was fighting hard not to ask.
She was clever. She loved learning everything she could get her hands on. What were the chances she had—
No, Draco. No.
His fingers curled tighter around his biceps. It didn't help.
What does she think about?
How often does she?
How does she?
Does she think about me?
He turned to look at her again, and Hermione cursed quietly beneath her breath. Perhaps if she simply refused to look at him, he might stop.
"What do you think about?" He asked.
She swallowed, her pulse thudding between her legs, painfully conscious of her own body now.
Hermione didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, lips parted as if the beginnings of a response had been summoned and then frozen before it could reach the air.
Her body had fully betrayed her — heat curling behind her knees, twisting up her spine. She pressed her thighs together so tightly it verged on painful.
Pomfrey was still speaking. Something about magical energy being most potent during climax, and how an unchannelled release could cause surges or — Merlin help them — spontaneous hex-casting. But Hermione could not concentrate.
Because Draco Malfoy had just asked her what she thought about when she touched herself.
And part of her wanted desperately to answer.
She risked a glance — but he was no longer looking at her, staring instead at the board as though he couldn't quite believe he'd said it.
Just as she was pulling her eyes away, she heard him. "Is it ever me?"
She dragged a hand down her face, as if she could wipe away the warmth from her skin, from her neck, from between her legs where his question had taken root and bloomed like fire.
Is it ever me?
She should have lied. Should have scoffed and shaken her head and said never — don't flatter yourself.
But her hands were trembling.
And her mouth wouldn't open.
She wasn't looking at him directly, but she could see the way he sat — the subtle tension in his jaw, the way he stared straight ahead while every part of him seemed to lean towards her.
"Stop talking," she whispered, barely holding her composure. "Just — stop existing for five minutes." Every nerve in her body felt as though it were braced for impact.
She caught just a glimpse of him — legs slightly apart, head tipped back, hands raking through his hair like he deeply regretted opening his mouth — and her traitorous mind produced a question she immediately refused to acknowledge. If she looked down, would she find him anywhere near as desperate as she was?
Hermione pressed her palm flat to her forehead and tried to breathe.
Draco had squeezed his eyes shut. "I shouldn't have — I mean, I did, but not like — " He exhaled roughly. "I don't know what's happening between us, and it's — it's messing with my head, all right?"
He licked his lips. "It was out of line. Stupid questions. I didn't mean to — I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," he said, voice low and frantic in that quiet way of someone trying not to unravel. "I swear I didn't mean it like that."
Still no answer.
He breathed out, closed his eyes, and tried once more.
"I'll move seats," he offered. "If you want. I'll go sit with Blaise — or, Merlin, I'll sit next to Weasley if that's what you need."
Hermione remained still, back pressed against her chair, breathing shallow and unsteady. She wasn't certain if she was listening because she wanted an explanation, or simply because she was waiting for him to say something — anything — that would make this less unbearable.
She was angry. Angry because she understood him. Because hadn't she just been wondering whether he ever thought of her when he — no, she was not going to think about that. She didn't know what they were; they hadn't had the chance to talk about it, and perhaps that was the real problem. Perhaps if they had discussed what happened between them, she wouldn't feel as though she was coming apart at the seams.
"If the kiss…" His voice cracked, then settled again — low and raw. "If it didn't mean what I thought it meant — if I was wrong — I'll drop it. I'll drop all of it. You won't have to worry about me staring at you, or asking questions, or being —" He let out a short, sharp exhale. "— me."
Hermione's heart hammered. No, gods, no, Draco.
"I just — god, I just wanted to know. So badly. But I shouldn't have asked. Not like that. I'm sorry." His voice had gone quiet and desperate.
Hermione turned around in the stall, reaching for the latch, and paused.
He waited.
It meant something, she wanted to say. She wanted to open the door and tell him. But she was rooted to the spot — a sorry excuse for a Gryffindor, terrified of a boy who made her feel as though she were on fire.
He counted to ten in his head.
Then counted again.
And when the silence remained, thick and final, he gave a small nod. "All right. Got it. It didn't mean anything." His voice was barely there, swallowing down the hurt. "I'll leave you alone."
A pause. "I'll send Daphne in to check on you."
And then he was gone.
The air shifted — colder in his absence.
She unlatched the stall door.
She stood there for a moment, eyes closed, willing herself to collect her composure. But it felt as though she had let something slip through her fingers — something that mattered.
That frightened her far more than her feelings for Draco did, and with a steadying breath, she walked back to the Hospital Wing.
Draco had moved to a different seat — Blaise's original place beside Theo — and Hermione crossed the room, stopping in front of Theo.
"Move."
Theo raised his eyebrows. "What?"
"I said move." Her voice left no room for argument.
Theo glanced at Draco, offering him a silent good luck, mate, before sliding down two seats.
Hermione swallowed as she dropped into the seat. She didn't look at Draco once.
Her arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes fixed straight ahead — cheeks still flushed, jaw set.
And then —
"I do."
Draco turned to face her. Blinked. Once. Twice.
"You do what?" He asked, staring at her.
Hermione's eyes didn't move. Not to him, not to anyone. They remained fixed ahead, arms locked tight as though, if she let go, she would come undone entirely.
"I — I do." She repeated, swallowing. She closed her eyes as the next words left her lips, barely above a whisper. "Touch myself."
He stared at her.
For a moment, Draco couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
He wasn't certain he'd heard her correctly — but her voice was still ringing in his ears. Soft, embarrassed, and absolutely devastating.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Hermione kept going. "Not often." A pause. "Not as often as I think about it, at least."
He was terrified to move, to speak, to do anything that might shatter whatever fragile thing she had just placed in his hands. It was as though she had been running the words through her mind for hours and had to get them out now or not at all.
She stared ahead, ignoring every bone in her body urging her to look at him. "Recently?" She wasn't truly asking — only working through his earlier questions in her mind.
What do you think about?
"The way you kissed me on New Year's. The way I — I ground against your thigh. The noises I made. The noises you made." Her face burned deeper. "What we might have done if the Fat Lady hadn't interrupted us."
Her leg had started bouncing again; she crossed it, then uncrossed it when she remembered Draco had noticed earlier.
Draco's throat worked around nothing. He was staring at her as though he'd never seen her before. In a way, he hadn't.
Hermione Granger — brilliant, stubborn, infuriating — was sitting beside him, cheeks aflame, arms braced like armour, giving him a truth so intimate it made his hands shake.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands fell to her lap, then she jerked them away as if she'd burned herself. Gods — why would she put her hands there?
She swallowed, opening her eyes. "So yes. I think about you. Not always. Almost always, recently."
She still didn't look at him. Her voice was nearly trembling, but not from nerves — from adrenaline. From something clawing its way free as though it had been buried alive.
"I thought about you last night. And this morning. And after we snogged in the corridor today. I thought about your mouth. I thought about that corner of your voice that goes low when you say something filthy."
Draco looked as though she had just set him on fire.
Her face could have rivalled a Gryffindor banner.
She still didn't look at him.
But her voice was steady now.
"I've tried a spell or two before." That was his fourth question, wasn't it?
This wasn't what he had expected at all. He'd wanted to clear the air between them — and now he was drowning in everything she was giving him. The raw honesty of it. The vulnerability. It made him feel as though he were standing too close to a flame, but he couldn't step back.
Her brow furrowed slightly, as if she was determined to see this through regardless of what it cost her. "I wanted to know whether it would feel different than just my —" She cut herself off with a sharp inhale. "My fingers."
Draco made a sound low in his throat but didn't interrupt, afraid that if he did, this fragile, extraordinary thing she was offering would simply cease to exist.
Hermione crossed her legs, biting her lip, trying to ignore the ache that intensified at that sound.
"And I liked it when you kissed my neck. The way you whispered against my ear." Her voice faltered only slightly, but she didn't let herself stop — not now, not when she was already bleeding out every humiliating, scorching, desperate thing she'd kept locked away behind logic and pride and fear. "You didn't ask, but you were looking at me like you wanted to know."
She tugged at the hem of her skirt. "And — and I'm certain my legs had been shaking when you kissed me. I didn't realise it until you mentioned it today."
She felt him glance down at her legs as she pressed her thighs together at the thought.
He had called her out on it earlier.
"Oh my god," he had breathed, as though it were the most startling discovery of his life.
"You've been squeezing your thighs this entire time." She could have died when he said it.
She looked down at her hands. "I don't know when I started doing it," she whispered. "Squeezing my thighs like — it was instinct. I didn't know. I thought I couldn't sit still because you were being irritating, or because the chairs were uncomfortable, or — I didn't realise it was… I wasn't doing it on purpose. I'm surrounded by people."
His pulse was in his throat, his ears, the base of his spine. The only thought repeating itself was: she thought about me. She thinks about me. Over and over, like a spell he hadn't known he needed.
"And if you ever stare at my chest again, I swear I'll hex you, Malfoy." She hissed. "But yes — if you're genuinely wondering — every look you give me sets me on fire."
She was rambling now. "And I don't know if I'd say I prefer it, but I do enjoy touching my —"
Draco groaned. Actually groaned.
"And when I ground against your leg that night, I didn't mean to — but I couldn't help myself. I'd thought about it, and I just had to know."
Hermione drew a shaky breath. "And I'm — I've been aching since you said that thing in the corridor when we were meant to be in Potions."
She turned to face him at last, and she nearly made a sound she would never recover from. He looked absolutely undone. "You asked me if the kiss meant something, and I couldn't answer you then, but it did. I kissed you today because I wanted to. And I am going completely mad sitting here with you having asked me all of those things — so. There. I've answered them." She exhaled. "Is there anything else you need to know?"
Draco blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
He was trying — genuinely trying — to hold himself together, to behave like a rational person, to breathe normally. But everything inside him had buckled under the weight of her. Her words. Her honesty. Her need — the same need that had been tearing through him like a fever for weeks.
His mouth parted slightly. Nothing came out. He felt slightly dizzy.
Then — "Merlin."
It left him in a whisper, like a prayer.
She looked at him a moment longer before closing her eyes. "You weren't even asking to be cruel," she whispered. "That's what makes this so… difficult. You weren't smirking. You just asked, like you genuinely wanted to know."
He didn't say anything for a long moment.
She pressed her lips together, nodding as she turned away. "Right. Okay." She breathed.
"I don't —" His voice cracked. He cleared it. "I don't want to say the wrong thing."
"Saying nothing is the wrong thing." She murmured.
Pomfrey's voice drifted on, resuming the lesson with maddening composure. "Now, magical stimulation — whether self-induced or partnered — can produce a surge of core energy. For those with particularly responsive magical systems, this can create a build-up that must be released or redirected. If left unaddressed, it may result in disruptions to magical output. Mood irregularities. Accidental castings. In certain cases, even spontaneous hexing."
Brilliant, Hermione thought, trying not to scream. So if I hex someone into the ceiling, it's because I'm repressed. Not because I just humiliated myself for no reason.
Draco exhaled. Slowly. Through his nose.
Then, too quietly for anyone else to hear, "Do you ever lose control of your magic when you —"
Hermione turned her head so fast her neck cracked.
His eyes flicked to hers. She had said silence was the wrong choice — but he didn't know what to say, only that more questions kept surfacing.
She didn't answer. She only stared at him. Incredulous. A little furious. A little terrified.
And then she nodded.
Draco's mouth parted. A breath left him as if she'd forced it out.
She didn't look away.
"I blew out the lamp on my nightstand," she whispered.
He blinked slowly. "You're so — composed — all the time. Just knowing that there's something you lose control of when you're —"
"Don't finish that sentence," she said, cheeks flaring. "Are you quite done, or do you have more questions?"
"I have more questions."
Hermione was certain she was going to expire on the spot.
"Can I take you to dinner sometime?" Draco began.
The embarrassment seemed to drain from Hermione's expression, replaced by something that looked — painfully — like disappointment, as she turned away and sank lower in her chair without a word.
Draco's stomach dropped.
That was not the reaction he had expected.
"Granger —"
"I just told you I think about you when I touch myself, and you ask me to dinner?" She whispered.
Draco went very still. "What did you want me to ask?"
"You don't get to ask me to dinner after I've just humiliated myself answering your questions!" She hissed, turning to face him, her expression strained. "I don't need you to pretend to want to court me. I know exactly how badly I've got it, Draco."
Something moved through Draco's eyes. "You think I'm pretending?" He asked. "To do what? Be kind?"
Hermione blinked. His tone wasn't cruel. It was genuinely shocked.
"That I feel sorry for you?" He asked.
"I hate that you get to ask me things like that," she hissed, low and fast. "Like you can just ask — without warning — and I can't even think clearly enough to form a sentence, let alone ask anything in return."
"I asked because I'm hopeless, Granger. Because I needed to know if you ever —" He trailed off, studying her for a moment before settling on what he wanted to say. "Do you want to ask me something?"
Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
Did she?
Of course she did.
A thousand questions were clamouring at the back of her throat. Some petty. Some profound. Some dangerous. Some desperate.
But her pride was a living thing — feral and coiled, wrapping itself around her voice and making her think twice.
Sensing her hesitation, Draco leaned towards her, his voice coming out absolutely wrecked. "Ask it, Granger."
It was almost as though she'd been waiting for permission. She turned in her seat to face him. "Do you?"
He blinked. "Do I what?"
She opened her mouth. Paused. Then: "Touch yourself."
His breath caught. She watched the tips of his ears go pink — but he answered anyway. "Yes."
"To me?" It was quieter that time.
He groaned softly. "Constantly."
She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and nodded, turning away, her voice slightly higher, as though she'd only just registered what she was asking. "Okay." But she couldn't stop her legs from pressing together at the thought, even as she tried to ignore it.
Draco glanced down at her trembling thighs. "Ask me what I think about."
Her face was red as she shook her head. "Why?"
"Why?" He breathed. "Because you're already thinking about it, and I want to tell you."
She was fisting the fabric of her skirt now. "What do you think about?"
"You. Everything about you. I think about you when you bite your lip while you're reading. I think about you when you argue with me because you get this little crease right here —" He pointed between his brows, but didn't touch her. "— and it makes me want to smooth it away. I wonder if it'd appear when I'm —" His jaw tightened. "When I'm with you."
Hermione's thighs clenched. Her breath caught.
"I think about you when you're angry. When you're happy. When you're scribbling notes as though you're going to save the entire world with your handwriting," Draco said, voice growing rougher. "I think about what you'd sound like saying my name."
Hermione made a small, broken sound in her throat — quickly stifled.
"I think about how you tasted. How you sounded. I think about the way you were grinding against my leg that night and I didn't let myself touch you, and I've been going mad wondering what it would have been like if I had." His voice had gone hoarse. "But it isn't only that. I think about things from before I kissed you. How you'd say something brilliant, or funny. How you sat on the kitchen counter while I baked, and I wanted to step between your legs and kiss you. How you looked with that sugar quill in your mouth — you have no idea how thoroughly that one ruined me. How you called me Professor once, and it —" He stopped. "It did things to me."
His eyes darkened when she bit her lip. "I think about that look a great deal. When you're determined. Too stubborn. Too proud. How I want to watch it come apart."
Hermione swallowed hard, her heart hammering. Every word peeled something open — exposed things she hadn't known she'd been hiding.
Her fingers twisted tighter in the hem of her skirt.
Her thighs pressed together so hard it nearly hurt.
He looked down again.
"And your thighs," he said hoarsely. "I'd never thought about them — before. But now, Granger, I can't not notice. Every time you press them together, it makes me lose my mind."
Hermione let out a shaky breath and immediately drew another, so she wouldn't make some humiliating sound.
"And the way you blush," he said, almost reverently. "The way you fight so hard to stay composed, but your body gives you away. It drives me absolutely insane."
She dared a glance at him.
And it wrecked her.
He was leaning towards her — hands clenched into fists on his knees, jaw tight, his eyes hungry. Not smugly hungry. Desperately hungry. Like he was one wrong word from pulling her into his lap.
"And your neck," he rasped. "I think about your neck often."
"Your neck?" She breathed.
Draco gave a ragged nod. "How soft it felt. How your pulse jumped when I kissed it. How you tilted your head back for me without thinking." His hands twitched, as though restraining themselves by sheer will. "I think about marking it."
Hermione made a sound in the back of her throat — something between a gasp and a whimper.
She turned away, but she was no longer gripping her skirt. Instead, her palms moved slowly against her thighs, the way one might to warm up after a long day out in the cold. She hadn't been in the cold. She could feel every nerve ending in her legs, and she was trying desperately to make them stop.
Pomfrey's voice droned somewhere distant, but the world had narrowed to the few inches between them — to the pressure building like a dam about to give.
Draco watched her, practically shaking with the effort not to reach over. Not to touch her. Not to drag her into his lap and let her feel exactly how undone he was.
She was breathing in small, shallow pulls she probably thought he couldn't hear.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to something only she could catch beneath Pomfrey's lecture.
"You're doing it again," he murmured.
Hermione went rigid, pressing her knees tightly together as though that might somehow conceal it.
He exhaled — almost a groan.
"You're pressing your thighs together," he breathed, as though it were the most devastating discovery all over again. His hand twitched at his side. "Thinking about me biting your neck?"
She nodded. Barely. But it was enough.
He made a sound — low, guttural, barely held in.
"Hermione," he said, and it was the first time he had used her name like that — stripped bare, nothing behind it except want.
She whispered, "What else?"
She didn't know where the words came from.
She wasn't certain she even wanted the answer. But she couldn't stop herself.
A long, agonising pause.
Then —
"I think about what it would sound like," Draco said, voice dropped so low it was practically a vibration, "when you come because of me."
Hermione's whole body jolted.
She slammed her knees together, face burning so fiercely she thought she might combust.
"Merlin, Granger," Draco muttered under his breath, catching the movement, catching everything. His voice fractured around the next words, completely undone. "Tell me to stop. Please. Before I say something I can't take back."
Hermione's head was spinning. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Her voice trembled — but her words were clear.
"Don't stop."
Draco looked at her as though she'd struck him.
And then, almost unbearably soft, like a secret neither of them was supposed to have, he whispered, "After today — after today, I'll think about you sitting here. Shaking. Breathless. Biting your lip. So desperate you can't sit still. I'll imagine you begging me."
Hermione made a choked sound, pressing her thighs even harder together, her whole body aching.
She was unravelling — splintering at the seams — and he hadn't even touched her.
Her eyes squeezed shut.
"Look at me," he said hoarsely.
She shook her head, her whole body trembling.
"Granger," he rasped.
Slowly, painfully, she turned her head.
She met his gaze — pupils blown, cheeks aflame, lips parted with the effort of simply breathing.
"I'm thinking about how wet you are right now," he said, voice barely holding together. "About sliding my hand beneath your skirt. Finding out if you're as desperate as I imagine. I think about making you come on my fingers while everyone around us sits pretending nothing's happening." His eyes locked on hers as though she was the only thing in the room. "I want to know what you'd sound like with my hand between your thighs right now."
"I think about your breathing," Draco continued, each word burning hotter, dragging across her skin like a live wire. "About the way it quickens. The way you bite your lip. The way your hips move without you meaning to."
Hermione's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"About how you've been sitting here trying to look like the diligent student everyone expects you to be, while you're desperate to touch yourself. You're pressing your thighs together as though it actually helps — and you're rocking in your chair."
Hermione whimpered — an actual, desperate sound that slipped free before she could stop it.
She bit down hard on her lower lip, the sting sharp on her tongue. Her hips rocked forward in small, frantic motions, grinding against the edge of the chair. Shame burned through her, tangled with something sharper and more urgent. She squeezed her eyes shut, a tear slipping free, and chased the pressure with a helpless whimper. She couldn't believe how far gone she was — but the friction was maddening, and she couldn't stop.
Draco leaned even closer, and it wasn't fair, the way his voice dropped, the way he kept pushing, unravelling her with nothing but words.
"You're so wound up," he murmured, voice rough velvet. "You're aching, aren't you?"
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, mortified at the way she instinctively nodded.
He exhaled — a shuddering sound that hit her square in the stomach — his hands twitching against his knees.
She shifted, grinding down just slightly — and immediately regretted it. Heat slammed through her, mortifying and irresistible.
Beside her, Draco's breath caught — sharp and audible.
"If you keep doing that," he said, voice low and wrecked, "I'm going to lose whatever shred of decency I have left."
Hermione whimpered again, a pitiful sound she barely recognised as her own.
She was drowning in it — in him — in the terrible, sweet ache that had taken over her entirely.
And Draco was wrecked.
Fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Chest rising and falling with shallow, desperate breaths. His eyes — Merlin, his eyes — locked on her as though he was starving.
And still he held himself back.
Barely.
Painfully.
As though it physically cost him not to touch her.
"Gods, and you don't even know —" He exhaled. "I'd have you shaking against my mouth," he whispered. "Gripping my hair. Begging me not to stop."
Hermione bit down harder, the taste of blood sharp on her tongue. Her thighs trembled with the effort to stay seated, to stay quiet, to stay sane beneath the weight of his words.
Draco's breathing had gone ragged. He raked a hand through his hair, dragging at the strands.
"You're thinking about it now, aren't you?" He sounded starving.
Hermione gasped — ragged and desperate, impossible to hold back — and her thighs clenched again, rocking helplessly against the chair. She pressed a fist to her mouth. The heat was unbearable now, almost painful. She nodded, frantic, no longer trusting her voice.
Draco caught it. His breath stuttered.
"Merlin, Hermione," he whispered. "You're going to make me lose it entirely if you keep doing that."
Her head snapped up, shocked and mortified.
"All I've done is talk to you," he breathed. "Answer what you asked me."
Something inside her snapped. Her pride, perhaps.
"You're going to make yourself come just from pressing your thighs together, aren't you?"
Yes. Definitely her pride.
Hermione let out a small, shattered sound into her fist, her whole body trembling — but she nodded.
She nodded.
"I don't want to." The words came out desperate, barely audible. She wasn't certain she'd said them aloud at all.
But she still pressed tighter, tighter — hips tilting almost imperceptibly, breath hitching into small, desperate gasps.
He dragged a hand over his face, cursing low. "You don't want to, but you can't help it, can you?"
"Please just —" She ducked her head, shaking it, every muscle in her body trembling.
"Do you want me to stop?"
She shook her head no — and a raw, undone sound tore from Draco, his gaze darkening. "What do you want? You want my hand under your skirt? You want me to make you come while you sit there looking so perfectly composed?"
"I want to know how desperate you are. So wet you're probably soaking through your knickers, and still trying so hard to look like nothing's happening."
Hermione's eyes fluttered closed, another whimper escaping her as she pressed her thighs harder.
"If you slipped your hand beneath your skirt right now," he whispered, voice shaking, "gods, Hermione — I'd be so good to you. I could be. I'd take my time. I'd tease you until you were crying for more."
"Tell me," he whispered roughly. "Tell me how badly you need it."
Hermione's lips parted — but no sound came. Only desperate, broken breathing. And she knew, in her bones, that if he touched her right now, she wouldn't stop him. Not for a second.
"Tell me," he rasped again, pleading and commanding all at once. "Tell me you need me. If it were my thigh between yours right now, I'd let you. I'd let you use me. I'd hold you there until you made a mess of us both."
Her cheeks burned, her eyes squeezed shut — but it didn't stop the pulse between her legs, didn't stop the small, helpless shift of her hips.
"You're rubbing against the chair like a desperate little thing. I'd make you ride it out. Make you take it."
Her thighs trembled. Her whole body trembled.
And still, he didn't touch her.
He just watched her.
Hermione was moments away from doing something entirely reckless — when he moved.
Beneath the table, hidden from sight, his knee nudged gently against hers. A silent question.
Hermione jolted slightly, heart hammering — but she didn't pull away.
Draco's breath caught. He pressed a little firmer. Careful. Seeking.
She exhaled shakily, tipping her knee toward his, just slightly.
His fist unclenched. His hand dropped to her knee — fingers skimming the skin, light and reverent — before sliding higher, inch by torturous inch. Not far enough to do anything. Just there.
"Good girl," Draco murmured, so soft and wrecked it sent a fresh jolt through her — but he didn't move, barely grazing her skin, stopping just beneath the hem of her skirt, fingers tracing slow, burning circles against the soft skin of her inner thigh.
Higher, higher, until the hem of her skirt met his wrist and he nudged it up slightly, just enough to brush bare skin.
Hermione gasped again — her body jerking, thighs parting instinctively before clamping shut around his hand.
He groaned at the pressure. "Steady — if you keep that up —"
She looked at him then, fire in her eyes as though she wanted to scream at him.
For a moment, he genuinely thought she might hex him where he sat. He began to pull his hand away — but in a sudden panic at the loss of contact, Hermione's hand flew down and caught his wrist, stopping him.
Her eyes went wide at her own reaction, darting quickly around the room — but no one seemed to be watching.
Her hand trembled around his wrist as she drew it back to where it had been between her thighs.
She was looking down, chest heaving with shallow breaths, thighs still trembling. But what undid him — what absolutely ruined him — was the look on her face.
Wide-eyed. Flushed. Aching. Needing.
Needing him.
Not just his touch.
Him.
His stomach twisted sharply — a rush of heat and something deeper, something that frightened him — flooding through him all at once.
Gods, he wanted her. So badly it ached.
But not just like this.
Not only this.
Not a desperate, stolen moment beneath a desk while she trembled from wanting him.
He wanted more.
Dates. Dinners. Making her laugh somewhere they didn't have to hide. Her hand in his as they walked through the castle. Kissing her somewhere open — anywhere open — without concealment.
He wanted her to know he wanted all of it. Not just the heat of it.
He must have been going mental. If Blaise or Theo — Merlin, if Pansy — knew what he was about to decline, they'd have looked at him as though he'd confessed to being a Squib.
His fingers flexed against her skin, thumb sweeping a slow, agonising circle against her inner thigh.
"I could touch you. If you asked me to, I would." He said quietly. "But, Granger — I'm not going to."
Hermione let out a soft, desperate sound, tightening her grip on his wrist as if she didn't believe him — or simply didn't care to.
His thumb traced slow, searing circles against the soft skin of her thigh — higher, higher — but never quite reaching where she needed him. "I want to take you out. Properly. You deserve to be spoiled. I want to buy you books you don't need and sweets you'll pretend you're too sensible for."
She bit down on her fist.
He drew a slow line just inside her thigh — barely there, almost a tease — and her hips jerked toward him helplessly.
"You deserve me taking my time with you," he said, voice cracking. "Worshipping you. Learning every sound you make when I touch you. Making you come with my mouth, my hands, however you want — over and over until you can't even glare at me properly."
Hermione whimpered into her fist, her hips shifting towards his hand again — raw and desperate and aching — and she thought she might actually cry from it.
His knuckles grazed the damp fabric of her knickers. Just the faintest whisper of contact.
Hermione went very still — but she didn't pull away.
Draco's breath hitched violently. His hand clenched instinctively against her thigh, and Hermione gasped.
"Merlin," he breathed, sounding as though he was in actual pain. "Granger, you're —"
He broke off, squeezing his eyes shut with the last shred of self-control he possessed.
Hermione whimpered — desperate, wrecked — and let her head fall forward onto the desk, hiding her face.
"You're soaked." It came out rough and undone, and she wanted to sink through the floor.
But even through the mortification of his words, she moved — tiny, frantic motions — a helpless shift that matched her racing pulse.
Her whole body felt as though it was unravelling. The shame was hopelessly tangled with how badly she needed the pressure, how addictive it was to let herself take it from him.
She whimpered again, the sound muffled against her sleeve. Her hips rocked once more — instinctive, frantic — chasing what she so desperately needed.
Draco's knuckles barely grazed the damp heat of her knickers again — so light it was almost cruel — and still, he held back.
He let her.
He simply sat there, hand steady, fingers faintly trembling where they rested against her thigh, letting her take what she needed.
Every muscle in his body was rigid with restraint, but he didn't pull away.
He couldn't.
Not when she was like this — wrecked, shaking, trusting him.
"That's it," he rasped, voice so low it was barely more than a vibration. His thumb traced slow, careful circles against the tender inside of her thigh. "Use me if you need to, sweetheart. Take what you need."
She buried her face in the crook of her arm, body shuddering with the effort to stay quiet, to stay still, even as her hips rocked.
Sweetheart.
It broke something in her.
He shifted slightly — just enough to let his hand relax, his knuckles pressing just a fraction more firmly against her — giving her the tiniest bit more pressure, but still not truly touching her. "That's it," he whispered, voice dark and ruined. "Just like that."
Her hips rocked again — shameless, frantic — and Draco let out a strangled groan so quiet only she could hear it.
"Gods, Hermione — if you'll let me, I'll take you to Hogsmeade. Tell Pansy to get you all dressed up, and I'll take you somewhere as lovely as you are."
Hermione whimpered, hips stuttering as she ground against him — small, frantic, helpless.
"You're close, aren't you?" Draco whispered, barely able to breathe. "So close you can't think straight."
Hermione's body shook. She couldn't answer, couldn't do anything but nod against her arm, another whimper tearing from her lips.
His thumb traced soft, slow circles higher on her thigh — barely moving, still not truly touching her — letting her work herself against the side of his hand.
She ground down against him helplessly, riding the wave — thighs clamped around his wrist, breath stuttering into a series of broken, desperate gasps.
"Easy, love. I've got you." He murmured.
She came — quiet, devastating, and completely undone — against the knuckles of his hand.
And Draco —
Draco nearly came himself from the feeling of her trembling around him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard, his free hand fisting in his lap.
Hermione went limp against the desk — trembling, tears slipping silently down her cheeks from the force of it.
Draco sat there, shaking with the effort not to gather her up and kiss every inch of her ruined, beautiful face.
Instead, he slid his hand slowly — so gently it drew another whimper from her — back down her thigh. He smoothed the hem of her skirt back into place, careful and reverent, as though he were handling something sacred.
He stroked her thigh slowly — grounding her through the aftershocks — murmuring low and steady, just for her. "Good girl. Such a good girl. So beautiful. So perfect. You're all right. Gods, you're all right, I promise. I've got you. I've got you —"
Hermione shuddered, still hiding her face.
"You're safe, Granger. You're good — you're so good. I swear it. No one saw. Just breathe for me, sweetheart. Just like that." He was still running his fingers along the sensitive skin of her thigh in slow, soothing strokes.
Each sweep sent tiny shivers up her spine — not lust now, but something deeper. Something raw and terrifying.
Safe.
Good.
Perfect.
Sweetheart.
The words wound through her, sinking into places she hadn't known were vulnerable.
Tears burned behind her closed eyelids, slipping silently onto the sleeve she was hiding her face against. She wasn't entirely sure what they were for. Shame, perhaps. Relief. Something larger and messier than either.
He had whispered about taking her out. Buying her books. Making her laugh. Making her his. And Godric help her, she had already been undone before he started saying any of it.
Shame curled hot and tight in her chest, fighting with the slow, aching warmth still radiating through her limbs.
She hadn't meant to lose control like that.
Hadn't meant to let him see how badly she needed him. How desperate she truly was. It was mortifying. It was terrifying.
And Draco's hand never stopped, his quiet words never faltered.
"I mean it," he whispered, so quietly she almost missed it beneath the pounding of her own heart. "I want to take you out, Hermione. Properly. I want all of it. Not just this."
She didn't trust herself to speak. Didn't trust herself to lift her head and look at him. So, like the absolute fool she was, she gave him a thumbs up from beneath the arm she was hiding her face in.
Draco stared at her for a long moment of absolute incredulous awe, then leaned his head back with a soft laugh.
"A thumbs up?" He asked. "That's what I get?"
She switched it to her middle finger.
"Only you would tell me to go to hell after I just —"
"What in Merlin's name is wrong with you two?" Theo snorted, wandering over after Pomfrey dismissed them, entirely oblivious to what had just transpired.
Draco gave Hermione's thigh one last gentle squeeze beneath the table before withdrawing his hand. "What do you mean?"
Theo looked between them, raising an eyebrow. "Hermione — you going to lift your head?"
Pansy snorted as she approached. "Leave her alone, Theo. I'm sure she's just processing all the vital information we've just received."
"They don't cover the birds and bees in Muggle schools?" Blaise asked.
Hermione was going to scream. Slowly, she lifted her head, praying to everything decent and good in the world that she wasn't still flushed, that her lip wasn't visibly bitten, that there were no tear tracks on her cheeks.
She pushed back her chair and stood, running a hand through her hair to battle the frizz, deliberately ignoring the faint tremor in her legs. "I'm fine. Desperately tired of Pomfrey explaining intimacy, and in serious need of a nap."
Draco watched her with a carefully neutral expression, his gaze flickering briefly to his lap as he wiped his palm discreetly on his trousers before standing and sweeping his robes into place.
Hermione's eyes widened slightly — a silent Are you completely mad?
He paused. "Or not."
She was going to hex him and then kiss him the next time she saw him. She was absolutely certain of it.
Theo narrowed his eyes. "And you two are strange again."
"We're fine." They said together.
Hermione looked back at Draco. "I think I'll have finished that book you lent me by Saturday. If you wanted it back."
She was silently pleading with him to catch her meaning.
Draco looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before the smallest smile curved his lips. He didn't acknowledge the others, who were still watching the two of them like they were deciphering a particularly baffling cipher.
"Saturday," he repeated, his voice low and steady, as if the word meant something else entirely. "I'll come and collect it."