Mistaken Identities

Draco stared at the dark ceiling and wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake. He had just painted a target on his chest with no promises of protection. Or a life for that matter. He'd just signed up to spend copious amounts of time with a bunch of Gryffyndors and... Merlin's Robe... Bumbledore. Draco closed his eyes and put his hand over his eyes as visions of lemon drops and hordes of Weasleys danced in his head.

*It's not too late to back out.* A small, nasty voice whispered to him at the back of his mind.

If this impromptu plan worked out, Voldemort would fall. His father would... magically vanish. He'd be a hero, and in a decade and a half he'd be a powerful political figure in the wizarding world. If the plan failed his father would find him and slowly dismember him. Or Voldemort would kill Harry and then his father would slowly dismember him. Or, worse, Harry would win but Draco would get killed by some stray Aveda Kedavra. And then his father would dismember him. There was one way this could work out and a hundred different ways it could fail. On the other hand, if he stayed with Voldemort' he'd either end up dead in the war, in Azkaban, or torturing people for the rest of his life. Those options were even less appealing. As far as he could tell, he was trouble either way.

He shot a resentful look at the peacefully slumbering Hermione. He was mildly surprised she'd fallen asleep so quickly with him in the room. He was wandless but he could still physically overpower her. Draco paused at the thought. *Could I?* He mentally reviewed the new set of muscles she was sporting and thought it might be a mistake to be so confident.

He heard her move and controlled his urge to reach for his wand. Then she was on top of him, arm cutting off his oxygen supply.

"What did he say?" She hissed at him. Draco tried not to squirm as spots of white formed and floated at the edges of his vision.

"What?" He managed to choke out. What the hell was she talking about?

“The Death Eater who freed us. What did he say!” Her arm pressed against his throat and he panicked, a crystal clear vision of his father's face if he found out what he had done that night. The word came out of his mouth before he could censor himself.

“Ince,” h,” he whispered.

“Damn it all!” She cursed and then she was kissing him. It was soft and sweet and a little desperate. It was the most honest kiss he'd ever had in his entire life and he felt something in him melt and catch fire. This time it wasn't hard and fast. Or even slow and langourous. Somehow, it seemed like both. Every touch felt agonizingly slow, so slow it would never end and so intense he felt he was falling. He wanted it to end and never stop at the same time. It was as if he'd never touched anything so soft in his life and the velvet of her skin, the curve of her breast, the heat of her sex nearly drove him mad. When her orgasm hit she let out a small, quivering sound that went right through him and his own orgasm followed in a fit of trembling.

Without a word, she spooned up behind him and the two fell asleep.