The temptation to give into it, to let him have her and to love him for it — it terrified her.
Her need to love people and the desperate desire for them to love her back — she had locked it away. Acceded its place to the coldness of logic, realism, and strategic decisions for the sake of the war. She'd shoved it down into a hole where she wouldn't feel it. Wouldn't miss it.
But Draco had dragged it up from the well where she'd hidden it, uncovered it, and set himself to picking the lock. She could almost feel his fingers turning the dial, listening to the drop of every tumbler. Lying in wait for a way in.
His own grief and loneliness, his attention and unwavering constance, and that way he looked at her, the way he touched her; it was slipping through her defenses and coiling around her heart as surely as she had wound around his.
She tried to slide out of the bed before he woke, but his eyes snapped open the instant she shifted. His hold on her tightened, and he pulled her back toward himself for a moment before his expression flickered, and he let her go.
She stilled and looked up at him.
The sense of terror he had inspired in her a year ago had faded entirely. The danger of him — it was still there, cast in even sharper relief now that she had seen how ruthlessly he could kill. But despite realising just how merciless he could be, it made her feel less frightened of him.
Now she knew how much he was holding back. Despite the heights to which he had vaulted himself within Voldemort's army, he was holding himself back. Wiping out an entire squadron of Death Eaters had barely required effort. He had arrived and killed nearly a hundred people in a matter of minutes.
She studied his face, and he stared back at her. His expression was shuttered. Whatever he might be feeling was carefully concealed. But his eyes—
The way he looked at her was enough to stop her heart.
“I shouldn't have come,” she finally said.
He didn't look hurt or surprised by the words.
“You needed someone. I just happened to be available. You don't need to worry, it's not going to complicate things for you,” he said, looking away from her, his fingers playing lightly along her wrist. “I didn't expect it to change anything.”
Hermione's breath caught and she swallowed nervously.
She couldn't tell him that that wasn't what she meant. He wasn't just someone. He was — to her he was—
That was the mistake of it.
It must have showed on her face because as he studied her, his eyes suddenly flashed with something that looked like triumph. Before she could draw away or bolt, he pulled her back to him, and his lips descended upon hers.
The moment his mouth was against hers, all her fears and guilt and resolution became lost to her.
All she could think of was how she wanted to be there, being touched by him. He was like fire. He wasn't lying in wait, he'd already burned his way in.
He had seen the cracks in her defenses, and in the same relentless manner he had driven through her occlumency walls, he was breaking his way into her heart.
He dragged her beneath himself. Searing her with his lips as his hands roamed over her body. She clung to him and kissed him back fiercely.
This wasn't like the previous night.
It wasn't comfort.
It was claiming.
His mouth was hot against her lips, along her jaw and her throat and over her shoulders. She tangled her fingers in his hair and held him as she tried not to cry from how desperately she wanted him and how grateful she was that he wasn't going to force her to ask.
His possessive hands trailed over her body, pulling her closer and closer until she was crushed against him. Then he aligned himself and sank inside her with a sharp thrust.
As he moved inside her, he memorised her body under his hands and kissed her until she was gasping for breath. He drove deep inside her.
His hold on her — his touch — she would never forget it.
He was exacting. Determined to prove what they were to her. Ensure she couldn't deny what he made her feel.
He made her come apart under his hands, under his body, twice before he let go. When he surged into her, his control slipped away leaving his expression open for a moment. There wasn't heartbreak on his face now, it was possession—
— and triumph.
“You're mine. You swore yourself to me,” he said in her ear, as he slipped out of her and dragged her tightly against himself. “Now. And after the war. You promised it. I'm going to take care of you. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. You don't have to be lonely. Because you're mine.”
She should go.
But she had lost herself there. She was locked in the dangerous embrace of Draco Malfoy, and it felt like home.
She slept in his arms, nearly dead to the world. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept for more than four hours without Dreamless Sleep potion. She roused briefly to the sensation of his hand sliding along her shoulder. She looked up and found him studying her. She arched into his touch and pressed a kiss over his heart before falling asleep again.