It had been almost a month—by Draco’s calculations—since he had pulled his mother out of that madhouse and approached the Order of the Phoenix, asking them for sanctuary.

He’d known that Potter would not turn him away, but the rest of the Order had proved less welcoming than he’d hoped. He’d offered them information and a willing wand in return for his mother’s safety. They’d taken his information and given him two connecting cells in the attic of 12 Grimmauld Place, with—besides three decent meals a day—a chess set, a handful of books, and a skylight through which, when he did his daily pull-ups, hanging from the window frame, he could sometimes catch a glimpse of Muggle London.

Every morning, Hermione Granger came into his cell, unsealed the connecting door, and allowed his mother to join him; every night, she ushered his mother back through the same door, re-sealed it, and closed and warded his own door from the outside.

...

He watches her seal his mother’s door as usual, and it’s a moment or two before he realises that she’s casting an additional spell—a soundproofing charm—and his body prepares for fight or flight.

She’s tiny, but she has a wand, and he knows how quick and fierce she is. He remembers the times he’s taunted her, the names he’s called her, and he remembers how angrily she once lashed out at him, and how, with a single punch, she left him sprawling on the ground.

He looks from the skylight to the door, and back again, and he knows that he has no chance, but he doubts that she’ll harm his mother.

He braces himself.

“I want to ask you a favour,” she says.

To his relief, she has lowered her wand hand.

He waits.

“Malfoy?”

“What?”

“Can I ask you a favour?”

“What can I do, locked up in here?”

He notices that her hand has started trembling.

“The thing is,” she begins. Then she sighs, and starts again. “I’m seventeen,” she says, “and we’re fighting a war, and I’ve never...” She stops, and tries a third time. “Everyone says that you...”

He frowns, unable to make any sense of her babbling, until she says, clearly but oh so quietly, “Will you have sex with me, Malfoy?”

Sex?

She turns, and he can see that she’s trying to meet his gaze but failing, and it’s hard to believe that anybody’s face can be so red, but that’s enough to convince him that she’s completely serious. And it’s been months since he’s had a shag, so his body’s shouting, Yes, yes, yes, even with Granger! But he’s not as confident as he used to be, and his head’s urging caution.

He stares at her, dumbfounded.

“Well then,” she says, and he thinks he sees tears in her eyes, “I suppose that answers that!” She flounces towards the door.

“Granger!” He still has Seeker’s hands, and he catches her, and whirls her round. “Why?” he demands.

“I’ve already said!” she snaps.

“What? That you’re seventeen—”

“No! That you’re supposed to be—”

“What?”

She doesn’t answer.

“What?”

“Good at it!” she bellows. “A bloody expert!”

He laughs.

She throws his hands off, and tries to leave again, but he grabs her round the waist and, pulling her back, accidentally crushes her against his growing erection.

A shudder ripples through her entire body, and he’s surprised how much it intrigues him. “All right,” he says. “I’ll do it for you.”

...

He leads her to his bed and, holding her at arm’s length, he considers his options.

If he were to throw her on her face, and shag her doggy style, it wouldn’t be anything more than she deserves, with her fucking, insulting Will you do me a favour crap, would it?

But he has a reputation for being good in bed, and this is her first time, so she’s bound to remember it—shit, she’ll probably tell people about it. And, besides, he has—sometimes—wondered what it would be like to shag the little mudblood princess, and he has to admit that she’s really not that bad looking when she’s not squirming about with her hand in the air, sucking up to some teacher.

So he leans in, and he kisses her—nothing fancy, no tongue—just a thorough and (he thinks) quite satisfying kiss.

There is absolutely no response.

She stands rigid, with her hands at her sides, like a bloody statue.

“Granger!” He pushes her away, absolutely furious. She begged him for it, and now she’s rejecting his fucking charity? “Go and find Weasley,” he yells. “Or Potter. Because this won’t work if you don’t make any fucking effort.”

She’s horrified. “I could never do it with Harry...”

“Why not? Why not fucking Weasley?”

“I want you!”

“You don’t like me! You don’t even like me kissing you!”

“I don’t like anyone kissing me!”

He frowns, thoroughly confused.

“Can I undress you now?” she asks, as though the last minute had never happened.

He stares at her. She’s fucking crazy—so crazy, it must be fucking catching, because he lets her move in and, before he knows what he’s doing, he’s lifting his arms to give her better access. She unbuttons his shirt and slides the fabric over his chest, and he feels her fingers exploring his muscles, and that’s when he realises that she’s enjoying herself.

Of course, she’s still got her learning hat on—she’s still using him to learn about ‘sex’—but, even so, it’s obvious that Granger really does fancy him.

In fact, she’s bloody drooling over him.

And he’s not sure how he feels about that, but his cock is certainly happy with it.

She unbuckles his belt, and starts unbuttoning his fly, and he puts his hands on his hips, and braces his legs and, closing his eyes, he wonders, with a smirk, what she’ll do when she actually sees his cock, because he seriously doubts that she’s ever seen a hard-on before.

Then she pulls his trousers open, and his cock springs free, and he hears her sharp intake of breath and grins...

But not for long.

Because something warm and wet and unbearably soft touches it, then presses a kiss to it, and then fucking engulfs it. “Granger!” he shrieks, grasping her head, and pulling away from her in shock. “I thought this was your first time!”

She frowns up at him. (She’s on her knees, for Merlin’s sake!) “It is.”

“Then how do you know...?” Fucking hell. “You read it up.”

“Of course I did.”

Of course she did. I’m one of her bloody projects.

“So you know what will happen if you carry on like that,” he says, and he’s annoyed that, because of his anger, he sounds so breathless.

“Of course I do. Don’t you want me to?” She looks disappointed.

He swallows hard. “This is supposed to be about your virginity,” he says, as calmly as he can. “I’m supposed to be fucking you.” He drags her back to her feet.

“You can do that after,” she argues.

“I’m not spending all night on this!”

“Why not? Aren’t I better than your hand?”

For a moment, he’s speechless. Then, “You read too fucking much, Granger.”

She steps right up to him and, stretching herself to her full height, she hisses in his face, “All right then. Fuck me now.”

...

He pulls her shirt open and tries to kiss her breasts—which, he’s surprised to find, are really quite nice—but she doesn’t seem interested in that, even when he pulls her bra aside and sucks at her nipples; and when he slides his finger between her legs and touches her there, she just wriggles and laughs, as though he’s tickling her. So, in desperation, he settles himself between her thighs and, telling her to guide him in, he presses his cock against her pussy.

To his amazement, she sighs then, with unmistakable pleasure, and—to his double amazement—he finds that she’s already soaking wet.

“It will hurt,” he says.

“I know,” she answers. “Do it fast.”

More bloody book-learning.

He slides his hands beneath her, grasps her waist, and steadies himself. He really wants to close his eyes, because he knows that she’ll be watching him, but—somehow—that seems wrong, so he looks down at her, even though being on the receiving end of that determined gaze is almost more than he can bear.

Now, she mouths.

He thrusts, hard and deep.

And the scream that’s ripped out of her is something primal; it’s worse than an unforgivable curse; it’s terrifying. But, when he tries to pull out of her, her little hands grab his arse, and hold him in.

“No,” she growls, “I’m all right. And you promised!”

“I did not promise!”

“You said. You said you would, Malfoy.”

He feels sick.

And he can only thank Merlin that she cast that soundproofing charm or his mother would be banging on the door, and Potter would running up the stairs, preparing a killing curse. It should be enough to make a man wilt, but Granger’s hands are working on his buttocks and, instead of softening, he’s amazed to feel himself getting harder.

“Please,” she murmurs.

And then she smiles up at him, and it’s the sexiest, most perverted thing he’s ever seen.

Fuck.

His mouth is dry.

He doesn’t stand a chance.

He closes his eyes—he’s earned that much—and, lifting himself up on his hands, he withdraws a little, and thrusts.

“Oh!” She sounds surprised.

He does it again, trying to keep it slow, and as gentle as he can.

“Oh, that’s...” Her hands grasp his hips, and guide him. “Yes, Malfoy... Like that... But harder...”

A few more thrusts, and she’s gasping and moaning—all hot and tight and blissfully responsive—and he’s really starting to enjoy himself.

“Look at me, Malfoy,” she whispers. “Please...”

So he opens his eyes, and he immediately regrets it, because what he sees makes his heart twist in his chest.

She’s beautiful.

Her eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are flushed, her damned bushy hair is spread out all over his pillow, her tits are fucking gorgeous, and she’s gazing up at him like he’s some sort of hero...

And all these stupid feelings burst from his heart and shoot right down into his balls.

He stops, abruptly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I just need to rest for a minute.”

Her little forehead creases—maybe she’s making a mental note—but it’s so pretty, he can’t help leaning down and kissing her nose, and then kissing her mouth.

And she wraps her arms around his neck and, this time, she kisses him back.

...

After that, it’s real.

He gathers her up, and they make love.

He gently takes control, shifting them from one position to the next as she tells him, at first in halting whispers, what she needs. She makes him feel powerful, but tender, and when, at last, she climaxes, she’s so beautiful, and he’s so proud—of her, and of himself—that he knows that nothing will ever be the same again.

...

They play kiss or tell, sharing the biscuits he was saving for tomorrow, and he lets her give him a blow job—which, he has to admit, is thoroughly amazing—and he makes love to her a second time—which is also amazing, because there are times when their bodies seem to move together as one—and she agrees to call him Draco, but only when they’re ‘intimate’—and then he slides back inside her, and he realises that, between them, they’ve discovered her deepest, darkest secret.

Hermione Granger loves cock.

“Your cock,” she corrects, still blushing when she says the c-word.

He laughs.

He’s pretty big, and she’s small, but she pushes herself down on him, and squeezes herself around him, and he’s convinced that she would take his entire body inside her if that were remotely possible.

She tells him it’s the best feeling in the world.

“Better than coming?” he asks.

She thinks about it. “You can always come by yourself,” she says, shyly.

Then she rises up and, straddling him, she gently rocks her hips back and forth, just enough to let him feel how their bodies are interlocked, and she’s so warm, and so tight, and so velvety that he’s forced to agree with her.

...

Later, when the sun is rising, he leans over her, and watches her sleep.

He knows it’s time to wake her—he knows that she must leave him now, and go downstairs so that she can come back up, and unseal the doors, and let his mother out, and make it look as though nothing has happened between them—and he just can’t bring himself to do it.

After hours of turning it over in his mind, he can’t see any way forward—either Voldemort will win, and he and Granger will be dead, or Potter will win, and he will probably be in Azkaban.

They have no future.

And he so wants them to have a future.

“What’s wrong?” she sighs, and it startles him, because she’s managed to wake up without him noticing.

“Nothing.”

She knows he’s lying, but she runs her thumb across his chin and says, “You need a shave.” She’s looking at him as if growing a beard is something exceptionally clever, and it almost breaks his heart.

So he tells her the truth. “I’ve been wondering where we go from here,” he says.

“Well,” she answers, smiling as she slides her arms around his neck, “I have to go for now, but,”—she brushes her lips across his bristly cheek—“I’ll be back tonight.”

She lets him hug her for a moment, then she breaks away, gets out of bed, cleans and dresses herself, and leaves, pausing at the door to blow him a final kiss.

When she’s gone, he leans back on his pillow and, with arms folded behind his head, he thinks some more.

It doesn’t take him long to decide that she’s right.

Of course.

Why worry about some unknown future when you can have ‘tonight’? Why worry, when—if you’re lucky—you’ll have another ‘tonight’ tomorrow, and another the day after that, and then another, and another, and another...

He turns onto his side and, glowing with anticipation, he settles down for a nap. With all those ‘tonights’ coming up, he’d better get some rest.