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Hermione was fairly certain that Draco Malfoy had made it his personal mission to ruin her life. 

Given the way he had treated her growing up, maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. But when he had sought her out to offer his gratitude for her testifying on his behalf, he had made a point to offer apologies as well. She had thought that boded well for them maintaining at least a civil working relationship at the Ministry.

After finishing her NEWTs via correspondence course, she had been overjoyed to find out that she had been accepted for an internship in the Department for Educational Reform. Both the History of Magic and Muggle Studies courses at Hogwarts were under scrutiny for improvement, and Hermione couldn’t agree more that better education was the first step in preventing another war based on prejudice.

While her enthusiasm had been somewhat lessened by learning that she would be working with a former Death Eater and school bully, Hermione had been willing to let Malfoy demonstrate all of the personal growth he’d undoubtedly undergone during his year of house arrest.

But apparently, that was too much to hope for. More than a year into their respective internships, he was still her harshest critic. The first to call attention to her mistakes. The one pointing out weaknesses in all of her proposals. The one positively gagging to ask the most complicated and difficult questions during her presentations. 

When she finally realised what his game was, she was furious that she hadn’t spotted it sooner.

He was after her job.

Well, not her job, technically. Not yet. But certainly the job that she deserved far more than he did.

Opportunities for advancement within the Department were limited, and if anyone was going to be brought on permanently after the end of their internship, surely it should be the candidate who had been involved in efforts for social justice and reform since the age of thirteen!

Hermione seethed as she stared at the bane of her existence across the conference room. She couldn’t stand the way he casually scrawled his notes in an impossibly elegant script. Nor the infuriating way the perfectly tailored fit of his robes seemed to allow him to take up just the right amount of space in a room—those broad shoulders somehow commanding attention without being imposing. And Hermione especially hated the way the sunlight from the artificial window behind her seemed to be obsessed with playing off the impeccable bone structure of his face. As if she needed to be blinded by the jaunty glimmer of his irritatingly high cheekbones while she was trying to pay attention to... whatever this meeting was about.

Merlin, that was just so like him; willing to stoop to any level to sabotage her. Even going so far as to absently twist his signet ring in such an annoying manner that no one could possibly help but have their focus pulled to the long and seemingly strong, yet supple fingers of his fine hands—

Ugh! She was surprised no one had submitted a formal complaint yet. She would never allow anyone under her supervision to engage in such brazen and scandalous displays of... themselves in the workplace. 

With an indignant sniff, Hermione crossed her legs beneath the table and shifted her focus back to the front of the room where Ignacio Dippet, her department head, was speaking.

“And we’ll be needing representation for three days at the IMEF in Berlin in two weeks if anyone would like to volunteer.”

Hermione’s hand hit the air like lightning. Attending the International Magical Education Forum would be an incredible opportunity for both learning and networking. While she hadn’t given much thought to the latter before now, it wouldn’t hurt to broaden her horizons if Malfoy was intent on muscling her out.

Her eyes narrowed in outrage as she realised that there was another hand in the air. And it was wearing a signet ring.

Where did he get the nerve? Hermione gritted her teeth as she stared at that little gold M. A tiny mocking reminder that even with the reparations his family had paid for their role in the war, Draco Malfoy, and likely any of his descendants, did not need to work. No, he wanted the position she coveted so dearly just for the satisfaction of taking it away from her. 

Well, Hermione Granger had not survived interrogation and torture on the floor of his ancestral home just to be bent over the conference table and—she flushed furiously at that unbidden image—rather, she had not done all of that just to be gamely defeated in this new arena.

“Sir,” she began at once, entirely willing to battle it out in front of the entire department. But she didn’t get the chance. 

“Great,” Dippett announced. “Granger and Malfoy will be our two attendees.”

He spoke to the assistant seated at his right, who quickly made note of it on their parchment.

Hermione’s hand sank slowly back down to her side as her boss’s boss briefly explained the logistics for their transportation and lodging. Malfoy’s quill was scratching quickly over his notepad, and for the first time, Hermione was glad to see it. She couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in her ears.

Three days. Alone with Malfoy. In a foreign country.

If either of them returned unscathed it would be a miracle.

Two weeks later

When Hermione reached the Department of International Magical Cooperation on the evening of the trip, she spotted Malfoy approaching the Portkey Office from the opposite direction. He only carried the same bag he normally did for work, and Hermione assumed his luggage must be stowed inside under a shrinking charm as hers was. She had waffled a bit on what exactly to pack, having never attended this type of conference before, but really how far wrong could she go with her usual work wardrobe—

Hermione stopped in her tracks. Malfoy had reached the door first and was currently holding it open for her. She stared up at him, face screwed up in sheer astonishment. He returned her look for a moment, and then his expression fell into one of light confusion as she stubbornly remained in place. It wasn’t until his features shifted that Hermione realised they had been arranged into something approximating a smile. 

What the hell was he playing at?

“Granger?” he said after another moment. It was probably meant as an acknowledgement if not an outright greeting, but there was a distinct lift on the second syllable as if questioning whether she was going to proceed through the door anytime this century.

“Malfoy.” 

Her tone was curt as she swept past him, trying to regain the upper hand. She didn’t know where he got off opening doors and nearly smiling at her, but if he was going to treat this trip as a big joke, she didn’t want any part of it.

“Good evening,” she said to the receptionist behind the desk. “We have a—”

“6:34 portkey to the Mercure Hotel in Berlin?” he interrupted in a bored tone.

“That’s correct.”

He produced a red stapler from a drawer and set it gingerly in front of her. 

“Please take hold of this and step into the departure area. You will arrive in the lobby, and this same portkey will bring you back here at your scheduled return time.”

Hermione nodded her thanks and picked up the stapler. When she turned toward the area the receptionist had indicated—a cleared space demarcated by a white circle on the carpet—she saw that Malfoy had already taken his place inside. Hermione stepped in and held the stapler out to him. He took hold of it, and they stood there, likely looking a bit ridiculous, avoiding each other’s eyes as they waited. 

With one minute to spare—according to the clock above the reception desk—the stapler began to emit a faint blue glow. Hermione took a deep breath and swallowed heavily, preparing for the unpleasant sensation of being yanked through space by the stomach.

The light strengthened steadily, pulsing brightly once before she felt the signature tug of the portkey activating. The room around them blurred into a haze of movement as they were pulled across the continent. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath as they spun. Suddenly, her feet hit hard, marble tile and her knees buckled. She careened into Malfoy and probably would have gone to the ground if not for his quick, tight grip on her shoulders. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, grabbing his upper arm for a moment as her heels slipped over the polished floor.

“No problem,” he said flatly, dropping his hands. The hard muscle beneath her palm flexed with the movement and she snatched her hand away at once.

She cleared her throat and stowed the portkey as Malfoy straightened his jacket and tie. They both took a moment to glance around the room they had landed in. The lobby of the Mercure was spacious, boasting a high glass ceiling that let in the lingering glow of the evening sun.

“Looks nice,” Malfoy mused.

Hermione nodded her agreement before she remembered that Malfoy was not in the habit of sharing his personal opinions on inconsequential things with her. She glanced up at him, but he simply gestured toward the reception desk.

“After you.”

Any further consideration of what he was up to was immediately chased from Hermione’s mind by anxiety over the prospect of checking in. While she had always prided herself on being a quick study, foreign languages was one of the few subjects that just didn’t come naturally to her. She was armed with a memorised list of common terms and phrases for travelling, but if she needed to deviate at all from her prepared script, her ineptitude would be readily apparent. 

She was painfully aware of Malfoy’s presence slightly behind her shoulder. As critical as he was of her in situations where she was perfectly competent, she didn’t think she would be able to stand the level of gloating he would surely engage in if she embarrassed herself in an attempt at basic conversation.

A clerk behind the counter looked up at their approach, and Hermione pasted on a polite smile. You can do this, she assured herself. 

“Guten Abend,” he greeted them brightly. “Willkommen im Mercure Hotel.”

“Danke,” Hermione said confidently. She paused for a breath. Now, just tell him you have reservations.

“Wir haben Reservierungen für Granger und Malfoy,” Hermione continued, sounding stilted but getting it out.

“Perfekt,” the clerk responded with a nod, turning his wand and his attention to a ledger book on the desk in front of him.

Hermione glanced sideways at Malfoy in spite of herself, but his expression was blank as he watched the interaction. She wondered if he had even bothered to prepare for this at all or if he had just planned to let her do all the work.

The clerk spoke again, drawing her attention back. “Hier, bitteschön,” he said in acknowledgement of the small envelope he was holding out.

“Danke,” Hermione repeated as she took it, glancing inside to find two key cards. The first was marked 1104.

Then, the clerk spoke a long sentence during which Hermione was fairly certain she caught the words for lift and to your left. Luckily, he had also raised an arm to gesture, and Hermione could clearly see the lifts at the end of the long room.

“Danke,” she said again, not wanting to push her luck.

The clerk nodded, smiling again, and said, “Genieße Sie Ihren Aufenthalt.”

It felt like a dismissal and didn’t sound like a question, so Hermione said, “Danke,” for the third time, feeling like a robot and praying that he had said something along the lines of, “Have a good night.”

She turned for the lifts, slightly pink in the cheeks, but overall, relieved.

Malfoy was silent as they proceeded to the eleventh floor.

When they arrived in front of 1104, Hermione took out the two key cards.

“Oh, bugger,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s given us two keys to the same room,” Hermione explained, checking that, yes, indeed, both keys worked to unlock the door. “I’m sorry, I should have checked both of them while we were down there.”

Malfoy just shrugged. “No matter. We can call down to the front desk in here.”

“Okay.” Hermione nodded, and he followed her into the room.

Her eyes widened as she took in the space. It was much more lavish than what she had expected for accommodations through the Ministry. The carpets were thick and plush, the walls adorned with expensive-looking art. They passed a door leading into an enormous bathroom in gleaming white marble. It was outfitted with a shower, clawfoot tub, and his and hers sinks.

Hermione’s gaze slid over the vast expanse of downy white linens covering the bed and then quickly away. She cleared her throat as she dropped her bag next to the desk and sat down to make her call.

The line only rang once before the front desk clerk answered. “Hallo, wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?”

Hermione froze. She hadn’t thought at all about what she was going to try to say.

“Hallo?” he repeated through the phone.

“Erm, yes, hallo,” she said, face flushing. “There’s been a mistake—erm—ein Fehler. With our...” she blanked on the word for rooms, “... our Schlafplatz.” She cringed. Sleep place? Merlin help her.

She heard the noise of Malfoy shifting slightly behind her, but she steeled herself not to glance back. If she caught sight of that stupid smirk, there was no way she could maintain what little composure she had left. She hated being so bad at something. And in front of Malfoy, no less.

The clerk made a small sympathetic noise. “Ein Fehler?”

“Yes, er, ja. We need two—zwei.” She realised she was holding up two fingers despite the fact that he couldn’t see her and quickly snatched her hand out of the air. “Granger and Malfoy: zwei.”

“Ah, ja!” he answered enthusiastically. “Two guests. Zimmer 1104.”

Ah, fuck, that’s right. ‘Zimmer’ was room.

“No, no, nein,” Hermione said quickly. “Two guests, two rooms. Zwei zimmer.” She waited for a moment before remembering her manners. “Bitte,” she added belatedly.

“Hm,” the clerk hummed in a distinctly discouraging manner. “Ich entschuldige mich...”

Hermione’s heart stalled. No, no, don’t apologise, she pleaded silently. Apologies could only mean one thing...

“Das Hotel ist ausgebucht.”

The hotel is fully booked.

“Fully?” she repeated weakly, praying she’d mistranslated.

He spoke another long sentence and Hermione tightened her death grip on the phone. Despite the language barrier, she got the message loud and clear: no more rooms.

“Bitte.” The plea slipped out as barely more than a whimper. A desperate final bid. Please, please, please, let there be something.

The line was painfully silent.

Hermione’s palms were sweating. She racked her brain for a way to make him understand the gravity of the situation.

“There’s only one bed,” she whispered.

The clerk cleared his throat, but he repeated the same apology from before. He went on after a moment, and Hermione was able to catch the gist that with the conference beginning tomorrow, all of the accommodations in the area were booked to capacity.

“O-Okay,” was all she could get out. She actually felt quite faint. Distantly, she registered the man telling her to call back if they needed anything else.

“Danke,” she murmured as she slowly lowered the receiver from her ear. It clicked back into its cradle with a deafening finality.

Hermione stared down at the dark wood of the desk, blinking in disbelief. Malfoy shifted behind her again.

“Well,” she started, trying for a matter-of-fact tone, “I assume you were able to follow that well enough.”

“We’re not getting another room.”

“No. We aren’t,” she agreed.

Malfoy heaved a sigh, and Hermione finally turned in the chair to look at him. Her eyes narrowed at his distinctly put upon expression. As if he was being inconvenienced by having to share with her!

“You’ve done a bang-up job of making the reservations,” she seethed, her panic giving way at once to burning anger.

“Obviously there was a miscommunication,” he drawled, looking down his nose at her. Then, his lip curled ever-so-slightly in amusement. “Surely you of all people can understand how it could happen.”

Mingled rage and humiliation flashed red-hot over her skin. “I must have missed the part where you did any better!” she shot back.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Calm down. You did fine. It seems it would have been a moot point even if I could have helped.”

“I was not fine!” Hermione snapped, getting to her feet. Somehow him patronising her was even worse than his gloating. “And don’t tell me to calm down! This is—”

She broke off, waving her hands in a frantic gesture at the offending room. She couldn’t think of a descriptor severe enough to cover the circumstances.

It was a disaster. A nightmare. A catastrophic calamity of cataclysmic proportions.

“It’s fine.”

Her head snapped back to Malfoy. Fine? FINE?! Of all the things it was, fine was the absolute last on the list. 

But as she looked at him with his face impassive and his hands settled casually in his pockets, something about his calm demeanour permeated the haze of her spiral. She supposed more than anything, the situation was unavoidable. She would need a level head to handle it maturely.

“Yes,” she agreed after far too long. “It will be fine.”

Malfoy looked sceptical at her sudden change of heart but merely shrugged the bag he still held off his shoulder. She watched silently as he removed a suitcase from inside and enlarged it with his wand. He placed them both on a little bench at the end of the bed and opened his case.

Hermione quickly appraised the bench as a potential secondary sleeping location, but it was barely a meter long. Her eyes raked over the rest of the furniture with little real hope. Other than the desk, there was a small round table in a sitting area, flanked by two leather armchairs. Neither one alone would be suitable for sleeping, but perhaps if she pushed them together she could curl up across the cushions? Her eyes flicked to Malfoy again. At what she estimated was nearly thirty centimeters taller than her, there was no hope of him fitting anywhere other than the bed. Or the floor. While that thought was distinctly gratifying, she dismissed it quickly. Something told her Malfoys did not sleep on floors.

Continuing her perusal for no other reason than to distract herself from the looming king-sized monstrosity in the center of the room, she looked over the other décor. A handsome bureau and wardrobe in dark wood matching the desk sat across from the bed. The bureau was topped with all of the necessary accoutrements for a full tea service, and next to it was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Hermione regarded it quizzically; she had never seen bookshelves in a hotel room before. Each one was lined with what looked like a mixture of novels and non-fiction. She wondered what kept people from taking the books. Although, it was undoubtedly the nicest hotel room she had ever stayed in; she didn’t know what it had cost, but maybe the price of a complimentary book or two was included. Feeling a distinct prickle of excitement at the thought, she walked over for a closer inspection.

“Have you eaten?”

Hermione stopped in front of the bookcase and glanced back at the sudden question.

“Eaten?” she repeated, entirely caught off guard.

“Dinner,” Malfoy clarified, though his tone suggested he thought it should have been obvious.

“Oh, erm, yes, I did. At home. Before heading to the Ministry.”

He nodded and went back to organising a small pile of his clothing into one of the bureau’s drawers.

“Have you?” Hermione asked.

He looked up and gave her a small smile. “Yes.”

She nodded, not knowing what else to say, and turned back to the books in front of her. So, he wasn’t hungry. He had just wanted to know if she was? Did he think her incapable of handling her basic needs? What did it matter to him if she was? And why had he smiled like that? It was only polite of her to return his question.

Hermione ran her fingers over the assorted spines in front of her as she pondered. Her finger stopped over a book on the history of magical Berlin, and she pulled it gingerly from the shelf. It might be nice to learn more about the city while she was there. She thumbed briefly through the table of contents as she crossed the room. It would do well for bedtime reading. 

Setting the book down on one of the nightstands—effectively claiming the right side of the bed for herself, dear Christ—Hermione switched on the lamp and went to toe off her shoes.

“Do you fancy getting a beer?”

Her head snapped up again.

“A beer?” she said before she could think better of it.

Malfoy’s expression was pained, as though he was wondering whether she intended to ask for clarification on every single simple question he posed to her. Annoyance flickered through her again. It’s not as though she was used to interacting with him in an informal setting. Though they were technically colleagues, her supervisor primarily focused on reforms to Muggle Studies, while his was tasked with improvements to History of Magic. The entire department collaborated on both subjects, of course, but their primary communication took the form of written critiques of each other’s work. Leaving aside the occasional memo or quick announcement, they really only spoke to each other during meetings. They didn’t chat in hallways, and they certainly didn’t join each other for a beer.

Malfoy held up several slips of paper from an assortment of brochures on the desk. “There are some… coupons for a brewery nearby.”

“Oh.” Hermione shifted, adjusting her foot in the heel she’d been about to remove. “Erm, no, thank you. I think I’d like to do some more prep before the first session tomorrow.”

He smirked. “What a surprise.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounded like, Granger. I am in no way shocked that you would prefer to do homework than go for a drink.”

“Then why did you ask?” she snapped, rather wishing she could have several drinks right about now.

He shrugged in that same lazy way. “I thought you might be a ‘when in Rome’ type.”

“We’re not in Rome,” she said petulantly.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t suggest prosecco.”

Hermione gritted her teeth. She didn’t know if she could take three days of this constant sniping at each other.

Potentially, a similar thought had just occurred to Malfoy because his demeanour seemed to soften slightly. “I just meant that beer is a large part of German culture, and apparently, this brewery is historic. I thought that might interest you.”

Oh, bloody fuck. That did interest her. Greatly. She actually really liked beer. The complicated brewing process reminded her of potions. And hadn’t she just selected a book for the purpose of discovering more about the city’s history? But now she’d all but bitten his head off about it.

“It’s late,” she said, realising belatedly that it was barely past eight. And with the time difference, it was barely past seven at home.

Malfoy regarded her pityingly as if she was two hundred years old. “Of course.” He turned back to the desk, and she resisted the urge to chuck her book at the back of his head.

Deciding that outward displays of violence were unlikely to improve the prickly situation between them, Hermione sank down onto the duvet with a huff. She kicked off her heels and swung her legs up onto the bed.

Malfoy glanced over at the noise, and his eyes seemed to snag on the sight of her bare stockinged feet. She quickly tucked them up under her legs, feeling inordinately shy. He blinked at their sudden disappearance and then looked up to her face.

Hermione’s stomach twisted as an uncomfortable silence draped over the room. She was kicking herself for not taking the offer to go for a beer. At least then they would have something to do. Something other than being in this room alone together for hours until they went to sleep.

Sleep. 

Sweet Merlin. She was going to have to get ready for bed with him there. And then get into said bed with him in it. Her breath rattled in her chest as her heart began to pound. She needed a distraction and fast. Pulling her wand, she Summoned her bag from where she’d left it by the desk. It zoomed across the room and slammed into her chest with the force of her agitated magic. She let out an involuntary grunt.

Malfoy seemed to be biting back a smirk.

Cursing him silently, Hermione tore open the bag and pulled out the documents she’d organised to prepare for the conference. She set about formulating a schedule of the most important sessions for her to attend, trusting the tedious nature of the task to keep Malfoy and his smirk far from her mind.

***

The trouble was, in such close quarters, there was a hard limit to exactly how far from her mind he could possibly be. 

He engaged in various activities while she worked: continuing transferring his clothes to the bureau, arranging his toiletries in the bathroom, even sitting down at the desk and working on some preparation of his own if her eyes served her well. 

And to his credit, he seemed to do all of these things with a certain level of quiet care as though attempting not to disturb her. She appreciated the effort even though she still found her eyes pulled to him as he moved about the room. It was such an odd experience to see him performing these mundane domestic tasks. If she’d been forced to consider it before, she supposed she would have pegged him as the sort of person to unpack their suitcase as soon as they arrived even for such a short trip. But now she knew for sure.

He caught her watching him as he turned away from the wardrobe, three freshly pressed suits now hanging inside.

“There’s plenty of room,” he said, misreading the reason for her looking. “If you need it.”

“Oh, right, thanks,” she said, latching onto the excuse.

He nodded and then looked down at his watch. 

“I was thinking of getting ready for…” The word bed seemed to stick in his throat. “Well, ready to…” He seemed to struggle with sleep as well. His ears pinked slightly which pleased her greatly.

Not so smug now, are you?

“I’m not sure what your schedule is,” he finished, abandoning the old thread completely. 

Hermione realised it was already half eleven. She wasn’t exactly tired, but they’d lost an hour and the first session began at 8:30 the following morning. 

“Erm, yeah, I should wrap this up,” she said, closing her notebook. “Feel free to…” She waved a hand at the bathroom, indicating that he was welcome to use it first. 

“All right.”

She looked back down, watching peripherally as he collected his sleep clothes and entered the bathroom.

The sound of the tap turning on filtered underneath the closed door as she flipped back through the packet of session listings one more time. There was a talk on the erasure of abuses against house elves from modern history texts at the same time as one on an experimental magical primary school for Muggleborn children based in Geneva. While Hermione knew that she needed to attend the latter, it broke her heart to have to miss such an important discussion regarding her first-ever cause. Maybe she could figure out a way to—

Her eyes flicked up as the bathroom door opened, and then every train of thought came to a screeching halt in her mind.

Malfoy stepped out into the room wearing a pair of grey joggers and a tight white t-shirt. Hermione forgot how to breathe as she took in the shape of his long legs now covered in a soft heather fabric that clung to his body in a way that even the best-tailored suit trousers could only dream of. He was distracted with folding up the clothes he’d removed as he crossed the room in front of her, and in its oxygen-deprived state, her brain provided her with the highly inconvenient realisation that if his thighs and arse hadn’t been hidden beneath a table during the meetings they shared, she would have been fired for incompetence a long time ago.

As it was, the image of him in a t-shirt was going to be permanently seared into her memory. It wasn’t even that the shirt was particularly tight, it was just so much tighter than anything she’d seen him in before. Logically it made sense that those hands should be attached to arms that looked like that—the veins had to lead somewhere after all, but Merlin—

“I’m sorry.”

Hermione jerked out of her trance at his words.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he said, looking abashed. “If it bothers you, I can—I can cover it.”

Hermione stared at him, blinking compulsively as though excessive eye moisture would somehow help her comprehend what the hell he was talking about.

“Erm,” she started, completely nonplussed. Then, she noticed the way he was holding his left arm—tucked across his front, shielding the underside from view. 

Her stomach plummeted. He thought she’d been staring at his Dark Mark. She was so mortified to have been caught staring at all that she was tempted to go along with his misconception, but one look at his face immediately quelled that urge. How could she let him think that she was bothered by that scar of his past when she’d actually been drooling over his physique. It was unconscionable. Especially when he was offering to… to what? Sleep in a button-down? For her comfort?

“No, no,” she said quickly, flushing crimson. “It’s no problem. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

“I don’t blame you,” he replied, his expression earnest. “It must have been a shock.”

“Oh, no, not really,” she said, trying to play the whole thing off. “I mean, I know it’s there all the time. Even if it’s covered.”

To her surprise, his face fell at that. “Of course,” he said, his voice hard enough to sound brittle. “How could you forget?”

Her brow wrinkled in confusion as Malfoy abruptly turned his back on her. The mattress shifted as he sat on the opposite side of the bed, facing the wall, and Hermione quickly got up to perform her own nighttime routine.

She removed her shrunken suitcase from her bag and carried it with her into the bathroom. It wasn’t until she had washed her face and was halfway through brushing her teeth that she realised what had upset him. Her statement came out sounding like she was thinking about the Dark Mark on him all the time. Like she was always aware of it. Which couldn’t be further from the truth. She hadn’t really thought about it since the first and only time she had seen it: when he was forced to expose it during his trial. 

Her curls wrapped stubbornly around her fingers as she coaxed them into a plait for sleeping. She had no idea what to say to Malfoy to correct his impression. Part of her was shocked that he cared about her opinion at all. But then, if she was forced to wear any of her past mistakes as a brand on her skin, she would probably be quite sensitive about it, as well.

Of course, she had never made the mistake of being a prejudiced bigot—

Hermione shook her head quickly as she stripped off her clothes. She had left that anger behind a long time ago, and there was no use dredging it up now. Especially when Malfoy’s remorse was so obvious. As she dug through her luggage and found what she had packed for pyjamas, she was rudely reminded that she had much more recent motivations for disliking him. Like the fact that he was about to see her in a tiny pair of silk shorts and a flimsy camisole because he couldn’t be bothered to make their sodding hotel reservations properly. Her jaw clenched as she stepped into the sleepwear. If she had ever seen a better example of instant karma she couldn’t remember it; that’s what she got for objectifying him so thoroughly only moments before. 

She grimaced as she took in her reflection. Though she preferred to sleep in a room that was slightly chilly—as long as she had sufficiently warm blankets—the temperature was making her nipples hard. She glanced around the bathroom for one of those fluffy white dressing gowns that luxury places usually had, but there was nothing. She heaved a sigh, betting anything that there was one in that lovely antique wardrobe sitting entirely out of reach. She only briefly considered Summoning it to her. Undoubtedly, the heavy wooden doors would slam open as it flew out only drawing more attention to the situation.

Steeling herself like the mature, capable witch that she was, Hermione opened the door and stepped out into the room. 

As it turned out, her fears were for naught. Malfoy was already laying under the covers on his side, his back still to her. She padded quietly over the carpet, coming to stand beside the bed. 

There was something about a grown man laying covered by blankets that had always seemed intensely vulnerable to her. She could tell that Malfoy’s legs were together, his knees slightly bent, giving the impression of a caterpillar in a cocoon rather than the intimidating figure he usually cut. That, coupled with the tense line of his back, inspired her to make some effort at explaining the earlier miscommunication.

She drew in a breath to speak—

“I’m not going to attack you, Granger,” he spat suddenly, still unmoving.

Her chest collapsed in surprise. “I’m not worried about that,” she snapped. Gods, he couldn't let her get one friendly word out, could he?

He remained stock-still, and she rolled her eyes as she yanked back her side of the bedclothes. Flopping unceremoniously down onto the mattress, she switched off the lamp and huffed as she tried to get comfortable.

The pillows were too fluffy and her neck was bent awkwardly. She rolled onto her side and tried to smush them down. That was worse and she let out a frustrated little groan as she propped one of the pillows up against the headboard and scooted further down the bed.

“Any time you’d like to quit moving around would be fine by me,” Malfoy’s voice drawled out of the darkness.

“Just think,” Hermione seethed in response, kicking at the foot of the bed where the sheets were tucked too tightly, “if you hadn’t fucked this up, then you would be in your own room right now.”

“If only.”

She rolled onto her back again, crossing her arms over her chest and letting out another heavy sigh.

“Do you insist on breathing like that?”

“Do you insist on breathing at all?” 

Malfoy rolled over quickly, tugging at the blankets covering her. “It’s not my fault that—”

“Just stay on your side,” she snapped, dragging them roughly back.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She heard the sound of him fumbling for something on his nightstand and then a muttered multiplying charm. Suddenly, he shoved two pillows lengthwise into the space between them, separating the bed from head to foot.

“There,” he proclaimed sarcastically. 

“Good.”

“Good,” he mocked her tone.

“Fine!” she said, determined to have the last word.

He rolled back onto his side.

And then, “Goodnight, Granger.”

Hermione was so stunned by the one-eighty in the conversation that she mumbled back.

“Goodnight, Malfoy.”

***

Hermione woke the following morning with absolutely no idea where she was. The linens were unfamiliar in scent and texture, and the mattress was just this side of too firm. 

Most worryingly though, she couldn’t feel her hand. She blinked drowsily, reaching across her body and following the length of her arm to where she knew the appendage should have been attached. When her other hand was forced to snake under a pillow to find it, Hermione went rigid with shock and understanding. 

She was in a bed with Draco Malfoy. She had breached the barrier between them. He was laying on top of her hand.

She wiggled her wrist gently in a vain attempt to free it without waking him, but it was wedged firmly beneath the weight of his chest. She pursed her lips in annoyance as she realised she would have to tug quite hard to remove it. Why did he have to have the density of a dying star?

Before she could come up with another plan of action, his wand suddenly began emitting a shrill chiming noise. Malfoy jolted upright, and Hermione snatched her arm away before he could realise that she’d been trespassing on his space.

“Merlin’s balls,” he muttered gruffly, silencing the alarm.

She couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment as she dragged the hand that wasn’t currently experiencing pins and needles over her rumpled face and disastrous hair. Malfoy sank back down onto the bed, pulling one of the pillows over his face against the sunlight invading the room. Hermione quickly decided to take advantage of his obstructed vision and dashed into the bathroom.

***

A sort of muted civility seemed to have descended upon them during the night. They were quiet as they each prepared for the day, but it was a calm, easy silence rather than the tension that had permeated between bouts of bickering the day before. They made amicable small talk as they partook in the hotel-provided breakfast, and Hermione had high hopes for the situation as they went their separate ways down the corridor of conference rooms off the main lobby.

“Have a good morning,” she said genuinely, hugging her packet and notes to her chest. 

“Likewise,” Malfoy responded with a small smile.

She returned it before stepping past him toward her first session. 

The next few hours passed quickly, and Hermione’s hand was cramping from the copious notes she had taken thus far. She was shaking out her wrist as she settled in for the last presentation before lunch when Malfoy appeared beside her.

“May I?” he asked in reference to the empty seat at her left.

“Sure,” she said brightly, moving her bag out of the way as he sat. “How was—”

She broke off as the speaker was introduced, giving Malfoy an apologetic look. 

“It was fine,” he whispered, flipping through his own stack of notes in demonstration.

She smiled at him before turning to a fresh page and focusing on the front of the room. 

The presenter was a barrel-chested man with tufty white hair and moustache. They both quivered dramatically as he spoke which was slightly distracting, but Hermione appreciated that his voice reached easily to the back of the room. He launched into the explanation of his institution’s innovative practice of a combined history and Muggle studies course, and Hermione listened intently. Until—

“That is why we have a strict policy of only allowing Pureblood staff members to teach this class.”

Her head snapped up. Malfoy tensed beside her.

She couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Her eyes narrowed as the speaker continued his talk as though he hadn’t just admitted to prejudicial hiring practices in a room full of witnesses.

When the question and answer period began, Hermione shot to her feet. The presenter called on her at once.

“Could you clarify something for me?” she began. “Is it correct that you only allow Pureblood staff members to teach this class?”

“That’s right,” he puffed. “We find that our Pureblood students are much more receptive to information conveyed by one of their own.”

“I see,” Hermione said through clenched teeth. “So you feel that catering to the comfort of your most privileged students outweighs the benefits of having someone raised in the Muggle world teach a course on Muggles.”

A ripple of mutters spread across the room as those who had been looking at her shifted their attention back to the front.

“Well.” The man straightened his tie, moustache wavering as he vacillated on how to respond. “Surely you agree that someone raised in the magical world would be better suited to teaching magical history?”

“I think that any qualified Muggleborn staff member would be equally suited to learning about magical history as any Pureblood would be to learning about Muggle culture.”

The rapidly rising volume of murmurs turned distinctly in the direction of agreement at this statement, and Hermione continued on.

“And if you were actually concerned with having a professor with first-hand experience in both areas, surely a half-blood of Muggle and magical parentage would best suit your needs?”

The presenter grumbled something inaudible, thumbing back through his notes as if he’d jotted down a better rationale for his racism somewhere and simply forgotten it.

“Furthermore,” she continued as nearly every attendee in the room turned their full attention to her. “As I’m sure you are aware, Muggleborns make up 25% of the magical population worldwide but account for only 5% of professorships at esteemed institutions of learning. So, in addition to contributing to bias by having Purebloods solely responsible for teaching magical children about Muggles, you have a strict policy against working to rectify this underrepresentation of the most marginalised community in leadership roles.”

The speaker’s face had gone tomato red under its white trimmings, making him look rather like a Father Christmas hat.

“Who are you?” he bit out through gritted teeth.

Malfoy gave a snort of laughter from beside her, and Hermione glanced down at him. He was wearing a wicked grin, and at her look, he waved his hand toward the front of the room in a gesture that clearly said, let him have it.

While Hermione normally hated receiving any preferential treatment based on her name alone, she knew she was going to enjoy this. 

She straightened her shoulders. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

The audience broke into an almost ridiculous mixture of stunned gasps, cries of support, and even some scattered applause.

The presenter was clearing his throat in a desperate bid to regain control of the scene, but Hermione had heard enough.

Malfoy seemed to be of a similar mind because he stood up next to her and scowled at the wizard at the front of the room. Then, he bent to retrieve her bag before saying loudly, “Let’s go.”

She followed him gladly out of the door.

“Pillock!” Malfoy burst out as they reached the hallway.

“Truly,” Hermione agreed, hot on his heels. “To think that he was invited to speak on something innovative—thank you,” she said, taking her bag from his hands. “Had any of the organisers even looked at his material?”

“Absolutely ridiculous,” Malfoy said as they hit the street in front of the hotel. “If there’s one class Purebloods have no business teaching—”

“Exactly!” she agreed again, her outrage propelling her forward in an even match with his longer stride. “To give Purebloods preference in staffing for anything at all—”

“What they should do,” Malfoy said as he held the door to another building open for her, “is give the syllabus of every past Pureblood instructor of that course to a new Muggleborn hire so they know where to begin in correcting whatever bullshit has been parroted to those kids.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” she proclaimed as a hostess led them to a table. 

“Or better yet,” Malfoy continued as they settled across from each other on the long wooden benches, “Have a Muggleborn in charge of overseeing the lesson plans of every subject taught by a Pureblood. History of Magic is notoriously bad for bias, of course, but there’s no reason that a Charms or Potions professor can’t emphasise the ways that Muggles have developed clever methods for achieving the same effects as many spells.”

Hermione gaped at him. “Y-Yes, well,” she stammered. “I mean, yes, that’s—” 

She didn’t get a chance to say what it was because a witch appeared next to their table and asked what they would like to drink. Malfoy requested another minute, looking coy, and Hermione blinked, taking in her surroundings for the first time. What looked like miles of copper tubing, burnished to a high shine, snaked across the back of the room in a complicated pattern. Centered in the middle of the maze were several gigantic fermentation vats of oak wood strapped by iron bands.

When she looked back at Malfoy, he produced the coupons from their hotel room from an inner pocket of his jacket.

“May I buy a beer for the Golden Girl?” he asked with a smirk at her wide-eyed expression.

“Please don’t call me that,” she said even as her own face split into a grin.

He held up his hands in good-natured surrender. “I just wanted to say it once.”

***

The beer was delicious, and once the waitress had realised how interested Hermione was in the history of the brewery, they’d been unable to talk her out of waking her great-grandfather up from his nap to come visit with them. 

The ancient wizard had tottered down the stairs from his loft above the dining room and plopped himself at their table, plying them with samples and with stories from the last two centuries. They ate and they drank and they soaked in as much as they could, but before too long, Malfoy was dragging her out the door with only five minutes until the start of the next session. 

“Isn’t it fascinating how pieces of history are just all around us all the time?” Hermione mused as Malfoy towed her up the street.

“Indeed.”

“I mean, to think that ten generations ago someone in that building was adapting the brewing process for Amortentia from beer.” She shook her head dazedly. “Beer!” she repeated in case he hadn’t heard.

“It’s remarkable,” he said, voice wavering slightly as though with amusement. She got the feeling he was indulging her.

“The similarity makes sense,” she went on with a slight giggle. “The effects of too much good beer being what they are.”

“How do you mean?”

Hermione turned her gaze up at him, realising for the first time that he was holding her tightly by the elbow as she stumbled over the uneven pavement. It felt so nice, being held by him. The wind was blowing his hair all about, leaving it pleasantly tousled in a way that made her fingers itch to touch it. Her mouth went suddenly dry at the thought that she’d just implied that getting her tipsy was akin to dosing her with a love potion. And now she was staring at his pink cheeks and full lips like she had never seen anything so delicious. She really hadn’t, but surely that was the beer talking. 

“Granger?” he asked, regarding her quizzically as they finally reached the hotel again.

“Oh! N-Nothing,” she said quickly, remembering she hadn’t answered his question. “Don’t mind me.”

“All right,” he said, sounding unconvinced.

They arrived at the conference corridor without a moment to spare.

“Well, I’ll see you back at the room?” he asked, already starting down the hall. “After the afternoon sessions?”

“Sure, okay,” Hermione said, pulling out her schedule to find the room number for her next talk.

“Oh, here. I almost forgot.” Malfoy retrieved a stack of pages from his bag and shoved them into her hands before turning away and hurrying off at a near-jog.

Hermione stared down at the first line on the top sheet.

The Erasure of Abuses Against House Elves from Modern History Texts

The parchment was filled with what she recognised as the bright blue ink of a transcription quill. 

He had recorded the entire presentation for her. 

Flipping numbly through the stack, she saw another two pages at the end, covered with commentary in that elegant script she had tried to convince herself she hated so much. 

Her belly was full of schnitzel and her cheeks were heated with hefeweizen and her thoughts seemed to be moving through molasses, but as she finally tore her eyes away from the parchment and gazed down the hallway after him, she was nearly certain that it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever thought to do for her.

***

The afternoon passed in a blur. Hermione attended her sessions and words appeared in her notebook, but the only conscious thought she had was Malfoy.  

She’d been so worked up after the confrontation with that awful speaker that she hadn’t been preoccupied with worrying about the fact that Malfoy hated her. She had just gone through lunch as though that was something they could enjoy together. And they had. 

The fact that she couldn’t wait for the last session to end so that she could see him again was an entirely foreign state of affairs. She tried to rationalise that she was just eager to thank him for the notes on the house elf talk, but her inadvertent lunchtime buzz had worn off enough for her to see the truth of it. 

After the final speaker wrapped up, Hermione nipped into the loo before heading back to their room. When she emerged back into the lobby, however, she spotted Malfoy approaching the hotel’s front desk. She changed course to go to him, but was stopped dead in her tracks when his voice rang out loud and clear across the empty space.

He was speaking German. Fluently.

Her mouth fell open as she listened to him converse with the clerk on duty.

He was asking again about getting another room. The clerk was insisting that Malfoy had specifically requested only one room. And Malfoy wasn’t arguing that point. He had only requested one room.

Hermione’s head was spinning. He wasn’t after a second room, he wanted a different room. A room with two beds. The clerk was apologising again. The hotel was actually full.

Malfoy ran his hands roughly through his hair, looking stressed. She watched helplessly as he crossed the lobby and entered a lift, and she didn’t breathe again until the doors slid shut, obscuring him from view. 

She didn’t know how long she stood there, reeling in the wake of these revelations, but it must have been a few minutes at least.

When she pushed open the door to their room, Malfoy was standing in front of the bookshelves with a cup and saucer in his hand.

He turned to face her, smiling warmly. “Tea?” he offered, holding it out to her.

Fury lanced through her like lightning at the sight. She flung out her hand and sent the delicate china smashing into the opposite wall in a burst of wandless magic. 

She had been so stupid to think he might actually care for her. This was all just some kind of game to him.

“You set this up,” she snarled, fists clenched at her sides.

Malfoy’s face went slack with shock.

“You only booked one room, didn’t you?”

She watched his throat bob with a swallow before he answered.

“Yes.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“I just… I just wanted to spend some time with you. Outside of the office.”

“And tricking me into bed with you was just a bonus?!” she yelled.

“No,” he said, looking genuinely pained. “Merlin, no. There really was a miscommunication. There were supposed to be two beds.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I understand why you wouldn’t.” He sounded thoroughly depressed. “I never should have gone about it like this, but I just thought if I could get a little time…” 

Hermione’s heart was pounding. He seemed so sincere. She certainly would have been less uncomfortable if there had been two beds. 

He was looking at her beseechingly. Like she held the fate of his entire world in her hands. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Because I like being nice to you.” He shook his head. “But you make it so difficult sometimes.”

“I make it difficult?” she shot back, advancing on him. “You’ve spent a year treating me like… like—like how you’ve been treating me, and then we get here and suddenly it’s opening doors and going for a beer and smiling and you took notes for me.” Her voice broke. “You stood up for me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I will never not stand up for you again.”

“Why?” she repeated.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

All of the air went out of the room. Hermione felt like she’d run face-first into a brick wall. 

She rushed forward on impulse, thinking she might hit Malfoy for saying something so ridiculous.

What she actually did was commit potentially the most grievous sin of her life thus far. She stepped onto the books on the lowest shelf in her haste to climb him like a fucking tree.

She smashed their lips together in a kiss that was more punishment than anything else. He gave a muffled mmnf of surprise as he hit shelves behind him, but his arms came around her at once. His mouth was hot and greedy, opening immediately to return her kiss. She gladly poured a year’s worth of bitter frustration into it.

“How dare you,” she breathed, her teeth tearing at his soft lips. “How dare you say that.”

He turned on the spot, slamming her back into the bookcase. “It’s true.”

She gave a groan of disbelief, but she yanked his lips back to hers. “I don’t believe you.”

His hands slid down to clutch her arse through her skirt, holding her against him, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. “I’m in love with you,” he repeated roughly.

Gods that sounded good. And he felt fucking incredible. He kissed her like it was the last thing he would ever do. She gripped either side of his jaw in her hands, sliding her tongue against his with reckless abandon. 

“I thought… you hated me,” she panted as he dropped his mouth to the side of her neck and licked hard. A rush of anticipation flooded through her core.

“Why did you think that?” he murmured, tongue rolling against her pulse point.

“Oh, my god,” she moaned, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “Because you’re such a dick.”

His mouth left her throat with a distinct pop as he drew back to look at her. “What do you mean?”

She gaped at him. He looked genuinely confused. 

“What do I mean?!” she repeated, shoving him hard in the chest so that he dropped her back onto her feet. She reached up and tore his shirt open, yanking it down off his arms.

“Jesus Christ,” she sighed, taking in the sight of his naked torso. 

He clapped his right hand over the Dark Mark at once. “I can leave my shirt on—”

“Absolutely not.” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

He lifted her again, pressing her back against the shelves, and she wished she’d had the foresight to remove her own shirt. She wanted to feel his skin on hers.

“If it bothers you—” he tried again.

“It doesn’t,” she gasped as his hands slid up onto her back. Her chest was heaving as every inch of her body came alive under his touch. “I wasn’t even looking at it last night. When you saw me, I was—fuck—I was checking you out.”

He pulled back to look at her again. “Really?” He seemed dumbfounded.

“Yes, you idiot,” she snapped, squeezing shamelessly as his biceps. “Look at you.”

His face split into a grin and she rolled her eyes, jerking him forward and kissing it away. He stepped back from the wall, turning as he carried her, and then dropped her onto the bed.

She reached down at once and pulled her blouse off over her head, leaving her in a lacy white bra. Malfoy’s face went slack again. His fingertips were lingering on her hips as he leaned over her, and Hermione grabbed his wrists, sliding his hands up her body and over her breasts.

“Fuck, Granger,” he panted, palming them gingerly. Then, he fell forward on top of her, burying his face below her ribs and kissing over the smooth skin of her stomach.

“Oh, gods,” she moaned, carding her fingers into his hair. “What was I saying before?”

He nipped sharply at her skin, and she remembered. “Oh, yes. You were such a dick.”

He hummed distractedly into her cleavage.

“You eviscerated every one of my proposals,” she started, her hips rolling against his abdomen as he teased over the cups of her bra. “Made me look like a—oh, fuck—a fool during meetings.” He flicked the tip of his tongue against her nipple, and she tightened her grip in his hair with a cry. “You critiqued my every godsdamned move.”

Malfoy leaned back and looked up at her again. “I was doing that for you.”

Hermione froze, her hands halfway behind her back in the process of unclasping her bra. “For me?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said seriously. “You said that you hated feeling like people agreed with your ideas just because of who you were. That you worried you would never get honest feedback and when the sparkle of your reputation faded, you would be overlooked in favour of those who had been helped to improve.”

Her mouth fell open in shock. “When did I say that?”

“Second week of last July,” he answered at once. “A little while after we started. I overheard you talking to MacMillan in the cafeteria.”

Hermione could only blink at him.

“I just wanted you to know that I respected you enough to be critical of you. You work harder than anyone else in the department, and Merlin knows you’re the smartest. You deserve to feel that when you achieve something, it happened because you earned it.”

“I thought you were trying to sabotage me getting a job offer,” she said in a tiny voice. 

Malfoy shook his head with a sigh. “Granger, if they ask me to stay on instead of you, I will quit on the spot. I’ll quit tomorrow if you want.”

Her eyes burned suddenly with the threat of tears as she thought back on the interactions they’d had. He was hard on her, but he had never really been unfair. She had let her assumptions about him colour her perception of his intentions. His comments were harsh, but they were never malicious or personal in nature. And as much as she would have been loath to admit it even yesterday, she knew her work had been greatly improved through his feedback. 

She had fallen victim to the very thing she feared, seeing the only person who treated her fairly as an enemy.

The realisation must have shown on her face because he was smiling at her. She reached up and touched the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

“You’re really in love with me?” she asked tentatively.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss against her palm. “I really am.”

Her heart swelled in her chest. “That’s… really good to know.”

Malfoy huffed a laugh against her hand. She couldn’t get over the way he was looking at her. It made her feel like a lit-up Christmas tree, every nerve-ending burning bright.

But she hesitated. She was feeling a lot of things—happy, relieved, hopeful, so turned on she might die—but she wasn’t feeling love. Not on such short notice.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “I’m not—I mean, I don’t—”

He caught the hand she was withdrawing from his face and brought it back up to his lips. “It’s okay,” he told her, kissing over her knuckles. “I didn’t expect—” he broke off as his eyes dropped to their half-undressed states. “Well, I didn’t expect this.” When he looked back up at her, his face was solemn. “I know you don’t love me, and that’s fine, I can wait. But what I can’t do is say no to you, so if you don’t think you ever could, I’m begging you not to let this go any further.”

Well, if she wasn’t sure before, she certainly was now. Hermione pulled with the hand he still held, reaching down with the other to his arm and guiding him up over her. His eyes flicked between both of hers as she moved to cup his face again, drawing his lips down to hers once more. 

She filled this kiss with gratitude rather than frustration, and slowly, he sank into it. His weight pressed down onto her, leaving them both breathless when she finally pulled away enough to tell him, “I could love you.”

His eyes shone as he stared down at her, his thumb ghosting along her cheek. “Yeah?” he whispered as though he was almost afraid to hear her answer. 

She nodded, and as he kissed her again, she thought that falling in love with Draco Malfoy might be the easiest thing she ever had to do. She might have been halfway there since noon. 

“I could definitely love you,” she said as his hips shifted against hers and his mouth drifted lower. “Even though you said my first proposal was so disorganised that it was nearly impossible to follow.”

He groaned with his forehead against her chest. “Granger, it was a mess—”

“I know, I know,” she admitted, fingers back in his hair. “But Godric, that was rough.”

His chuckle vibrated through her, and she squeezed her thighs against his sides. 

“And I could love you in spite of that time you asked me about the third amendment to the Statute of Secrecy in front of all the interns and I had to look it up.”

He hummed as he tugged her bra below her breasts. “Surely you remember what happened when Dippett asked you the same question at the following week’s staff meeting?”

Her head pressed back into the mattress as his mouth closed over her nipple. “I—oh, gods—I recited it from memory.”

“Exactly.”

She could feel the smirk against her skin even as his tongue curled around the peaked flesh, and she raked her nails over his back. 

“You looked so fucking smug, I wanted to smack you.”

He laughed again, and she moaned in spite of herself as his hips ground against her. 

“I was smug on your behalf, witch. Dippett was gobsmacked.”

Hermione’s eyes popped open. When had she closed them? “Oh… that actually makes a lot of sense.”

His head shook as he smoothed his hands up her sides. “Such a mystery why I’ve had trouble getting close to you.”

She shoved at his shoulder, pushing him off and rolling to straddle his waist. She pulled off her bra before plunging her hand into his hair and tugging hard, baring his throat. 

“And you let me think you didn’t know German.”

Not an ounce of remorse showed on his face as she ducked down and latched onto his neck. 

“You did so well though—ah!” He cried out as she bit down hard. 

“Another word and I will end you.”

Her skirt had ridden up to her waist, and he chuckled as he squeezed her arse, rocking her over him. “Fair enough.”

She stifled a moan into his shoulder as she felt him hard against her center. Her knickers were damp with want, and she knew that soon, he would be able to feel it even through his clothes. 

“How many languages do you speak?” she asked after a moment, figuring she might as well know for future reference. 

“Five.”

“Ugh!“ She bit him again. “Fuck you, that’s hot.”

His hands slipped beneath the fabric of her knickers, sliding slowly down between her legs, and he pressed his lips against her ear as his fingertips grazed the edge of her slit. “Merci beaucoup, mon amour.”

“Oh, gods, please don’t do that,” she begged as her clit throbbed—actually throbbed—at the sound of those words.

He breathed a laugh over her ear, and she shuddered. “Very well,” he said, the smirk plainly evident in his voice. “May I do this instead?”

His hand crept incrementally lower, barely teasing along her entrance.

She turned his face toward her again and kissed him hard. “Yes. Please, yes.”

His tongue slid into her mouth at the same time his finger pressed inside her, and she felt his groan throughout her entire body.

“Gods,” he breathed against her lips. “Non posso credere a quanto sei fantastica.”

She gasped as her cunt clenched around him. Was that fucking Italian? “I said not to do that!” she chided. 

“Oh, my mistake,” he whispered sinfully. “I thought you meant not to speak French.”

“No, you didn’t, you… absolute… prat.” She panted as he stroked, and something about the angle or the way he was grabbing her arse or the fact that one of those fingers she’d admired for so long was finally inside her was making her head swim.

“Well, what did you say?” she asked against her better judgement. 

He smiled into her lips as he withdrew his finger and then pressed it back in slowly, savouring the sensation.

“I can’t believe how amazing you feel.”

She whined. Warmth pulsed through her as she rubbed her clit over his erection in time with the movement of his hand. Each press of his finger pushed her higher until the graze of her nipples over his chest was nearly enough to wreck her. She pulled his lip between her teeth as the temptation to just give in washed through her. But she couldn’t always come more than once, and she definitely wanted to come on his cock. He had said that he loved her, so she figured there would be time for all sorts of orgasms later.

She realised suddenly that she was teetering right on the edge. “Wait! Stop!”

Malfoy froze beneath her. His eyes flew open and his hands fell away from her body. He looked on the verge of trying to Apparate away.

“Sorry, not stop,” she said, flushing with embarrassment. “I just want to do something different.”

He swallowed, his entire body rigid with worry. “Different?”

She shifted over him again, feeling heartened by the way it made his eyelids flutter. Mustering her courage, she leaned down to whisper, “I don’t want to come without you inside me.”

The tension immediately evaporated from him, and his arms closed around her like a bear trap.

“Merlin, witch,” he complained as he rolled back on top of her. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” she said again, though the sentiment was half-hearted as she watched him stand and remove his trousers. She couldn’t truly be sorry for any action that led to the reveal of that glorious bulge in his boxers. Another wave of arousal burned through her as he palmed it, squeezing himself through the thin fabric. She was desperate to finally see it, and her eyes went wide at the realisation that she had imagined what it might look like before now. Circe, she’d been stupid. 

“Well,” the sound of Malfoy’s voice forced her eyes up to his face, “I would ask if you’re sure, but…”

She flushed again at his smirk. She must have been looking at his crotch like it contained a four-course meal. 

Not to be outdone, she laid back on the bed and slipped out of her skirt. Then, she watched his eyes widen appreciatively as she pulled off her knickers and planted her feet on the mattress.

He just stared for a moment, so she reached a hand down and ran her fingers along her slick folds. “I’m sure.”

Her voice seemed to rouse him, as his had done for her, and he quickly stepped out of his boxers before coming to kneel between her legs.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said reverently, his hand gliding up her thigh and along her side as he laid over her again.

“So are you,” she replied easily. She wrapped a tentative hand around his length, pumping slowly when his eyes dropped close on a groan. She could feel herself growing wetter as she admired the beauty in her palm—it was almost annoyingly perfect, like the rest of him—and as her thumb grazed over the satin-soft skin of his head, she smiled to herself. Yes, she could definitely learn to love this cock.

He ducked down to kiss over her breasts again, and she arched up into his mouth. A whimper tumbled off of her lips as he pressed his tongue against her nipple. The sensation shot straight to her clit, and pleasure was tightening between her hips as he licked and sucked and—

“Draco—”

His head snapped up to look at her, nudging his cock against her entrance with the movement. She shifted her hips at once, her cunt quivering as she tried to sink onto it.

He took the hint, reaching down to replace her hand with his own and notch himself inside her. But she pressed a hand against his shoulder before he could move. 

“This—” she broke off, suddenly shy again. “This won’t take long.”

He stared down at her for a long moment as though he couldn’t believe she was real, and then he laughed. “Honestly, Granger,” he said, dropping his forehead to rest against hers, “with how long I’ve waited for this, that’s probably a really good thing.”

She only had a moment to smile before he captured her lips again. He kissed her hard as he sank into her, hitting deep in the back of her cunt. She keened at the stretch, her fingers digging into his back. 

“Fuck,” he groaned against her cheek. “Eres mucho mejor de lo que imaginaba.”

A guttural moan tore out of her throat. And Spanish makes five.  

“Gods, you’re the worst,” she griped as he began to thrust. 

“And you’re even better than I imagined.”

She whimpered at the translation, thinking how true it was for her, too. She wished she could say something lovely in return, but she just drew her knees up alongside him, clinging to him as he moved. His lips were everywhere—on her cheek, her jaw, her throat. He grunted through the kisses, his hips meeting hers again and again. Her eyes squeezed shut as he slid between her walls, every withdrawal marking a promise to be filled again. The pleasure built sharply within her, like she knew it would, and after barely more than a handful of thrusts, Hermione was clutching at his arse and crying out. 

“Oh, fuck, like that.”

He kept up the same pace, letting her pull him forward, but his head fell onto the pillow next to hers. “I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to feel you come for me, Hermione.”

She broke.

Ecstasy exploded through her, sweeping out from her core in wrenching waves. He fucked her through it, even as every contraction left her more boneless than the last. Her arms draped heavy and useless over his back as he murmured into her hair that she was beautiful and incredible and something else in French—godsdamn him. She didn’t stand a chance.

It wasn’t until he stilled above her that she realised her orgasm had been so intense, she hadn’t even registered his.

“Wow. That really didn’t take long,” he mused, smoothing the hair back from her face.

“I told you,” she sighed, too content to feel embarrassed.

He chuckled, kissing her gently one more time before rolling off.

“So, what now?” he asked when he’d settled next to her.

Hermione drew in another deep breath. “Well, first...” She dropped her palm onto her abdomen and cast a wandless contraceptive charm. “We’re definitely going to do that again.”

“Definitely,” Draco agreed.

“And then once my legs start working, I’ll be needing some food.”

Draco turned onto his side, propping his head on one hand so he could look at her. “I promise to feed you,” he said fondly, “but I actually meant... what happens when we get home?”

Hermione’s heart gave a painful tug at his expression. Was he worried that this was just a fling for her? Something that happened ‘when in Berlin’? 

While she was deeply disappointed that they had wasted their first night in this gorgeous hotel with pillows stuffed between them—dear Merlin—she was certain that this wasn’t about being on a trip, and that nothing would ever be the same again.

She smiled as she thought of a way to bring a bit of the city back with them.

“When we get home, I think you should invite me out for a beer.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but he pursed his lips, feigning hesitance. “Last time you said no.”

Hermione twined her arms around his neck.

“Next time I’ll say yes.”