Proof and Puzzles

Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB. Summary comes from the late Jeff Buckley's "Everybody Here Wants You."


Don’t you see, don’t you see?
You’re just the torch to put the flame to all our guilt and shame
And I’ll rise like an ember in your name
- 'Everybody Here Wants You', Jeff Buckley

Everything is covered by a thick blanket of snow, a blanket that grows thicker by the minute as white flakes continue to fall from the sky at a rapid rate. It isn't a light or gentle snowfall; it's heavy and brutal. There is a strong wind and that only makes matters worse; it both makes the snow drift and cuts right through anyone foolish to be out in such nasty weather.

Hermione isn't a foolish woman by any stretch of the imagination, but she is out in this nasty weather in the middle of the night (or in the wee hours of the morning, depending upon what one considers half-four to be), standing on the curb in front of Three Broomsticks. Behind her, she can hear the faint sounds of party-goers and music and she has half a mind to turn round and march right back in there to her friends and the warmth of the fireplace. But she doesn't. Instead, she flips the cowl of her cloak up around her face and shuffles out into the street.

He couldn't have gone far, she reasons. It's bitter cold and he's a bit knackered - which complicate Apparating enough on their own, but could really bugger things up when the factors are combined - so he wouldn't have Apparated. Perhaps he stumbled up the street and is taking refuge from the storm inside the Post Office; the small vestibule, lined with private Owl Boxes, is open at all hours.

Squinting against snow and wind, Hermione looks to the right, toward downtown Hogsmeade. She doesn't see any footprints in the snow. He had only left Three Broomsticks no more than two minutes ago; surely his tracks wouldn't have been covered up so quickly? Drawing her cloak more tightly around her frame, she battles the wind for the right to turn to the left, a battle that is seemingly of the wills. It is a struggle, but she manages to reposition herself, now facing the direction of Hogsmeade station. There aren't any footprints in the snow this way, but there are tracks there. Lorry tracks.

No, Hermione decides, moving closer to them. Not lorry tracks; they're much too big. Besides, Muggles don't know of Hogsmeade's existence and none of the wizards celebrating the holidays inside Three Broomsticks would have taken official Ministry conveyance to the party. The only thing to which these tracks could possibly belong is the Knight Bus.

At that realisation, Hermione nearly laughs. The Knight Bus. Oh, of all the things! He was a rather crafty one, wasn't he? Never in a million years would anyone dare think he would take common public conveyance. It was quite brilliant of him, actually. She had discerned from his somewhat dramatic exit from the party that he did not wish for company or to be followed, and the sight of the Knight Bus tracks only reiterated that wish.

Most wizards and witches, were they to find themselves in Hermione's current situation, would come to this conclusion about the state of things and promptly turn on his or her heel to leave a person be and return to camaraderie, holiday cheer, and the comforts of a warm pub. But Hermione isn't like most wizards or witches and quite often defies rules and convention, especially when it serves her purpose or she expects she is doing something for the Greater Good. As such, she does not promptly turn on her heel to go back to Three Broomsticks.

She sticks out her wand hand.

In an instant, there is a loud BANG and she has to screw her eyes shut tight against bright, blinding headlights as the Knight Bus skids to a stop in front of her. When the screeching of the brakes finally cease, Hermione opens her eyes and waits for the conductor to step outside and give his canned speech. The hinges squeak as the door opens and a bundled-up bloke begins to talk. Her mind begins to wander, thinking back on the events that had transpired earlier that night inside Three Broomsticks.

Ron hadn't meant anything by it.

Well, all right. So he had. While Hermione had rolled her eyes and given him a bit of a glare for announcing loudly to everyone gathered round their table that Draco Malfoy 'is a great big arse who doesn't know he's got a good thing when it's sittin' right next to him,' she had secretly agreed with Ron.

Over the last year or so, she and Draco had been spending an awful lot of time together. At first their meetings could be blamed on work - he was employed in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, while she worked for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. A great deal of the time their cases overlapped, as Hermione so often found herself out in the field, tracking stolen or illegal Magical Creatures, while Draco's focus was on locating and shutting down illegal Magical Creature fights and Magical Creature mills, where wizards would mass breed dangerous animals to sell or trade on the black market.

After working on a few cases together, their Department Heads assigned them to be liaisons between departments, which was essentially the same thing as making them partners. Eventually they became so consumed with work that it spilt over into off-hours; they would take dinner together after a long day out tracking creatures and shady wizards, strategising and plotting their next movements over wine and several courses.

Initially Hermione had been very business-oriented and straight-laced during these dinners, but eventually she couldn't help but to warm up to Draco. The war was long over, by-gones were by-gones, and she had changed. So had he. For the better, she thought. Oh, he was still smarmy and confident and sarcastic, but there was something about him that was so much more alive now. While his tongue was as sharp as ever, it was no longer hateful and cruel. While he had never outright apologised to her for tormenting her when she was younger and calling her Mudblood, she knew that he was sorry. Plenty of people who were not Purebloods had helped him during and directly after the war, he had said to her once, and he would never forget that kindness they had afforded him. That was all he had said to her in over eighteen months of partnership regarding the purity of blood and she was disinclined to raise the topic again.

"'Choo lookin' at?"

A loud voice interrupts her reverie and she shakes her head. A baby-face dotted with pimples and framed by overly-large ears comes into focus. Stan Shunpike.

"Nothing," she says quickly.

"I bin pard'ned. Quicher gogglin'!" he says indignantly, and Hermione waves her hand impatiently.

"Did you just pick up a passenger here not long ago?"

"We 'ave," Stan nods. "Paid 'nuff money for the lot, 'e did. For eleven Sickles you go anywhere you like - on land. For fifteen, you get 'ot chocolate an' a 'ot water bottle an' more, an' this bloke coulda had our 'tire stock of 'ot chocolate an' 'ot water bottles an' toofbrushes in e'ry colour o' the rainbow but-"

"Where did he ask to go?" Hermione cuts in.

"Tower Bridge." Stan leans in and holds a hand up to his mouth before speaking to her in a conspiratorial whisper, "Muggle Place. Dinna take 'im for no Muggle-born, that one. Said 'is name was David Granger, though, an' that sounds Muggle 'nuff, eh?"

"Tower Bridge," Hermione repeats faintly, so surprised by the destination that she barely musters up the energy to be further surprised by what name Draco had given the conductor.

"That's whut I said." He gives her an expectant look while casting a Warming Charm on himself.

Hermione withdraws several coins out of a cloak pocket and presses them into his hand. "Take me there. Don't worry about the change. That's for you, because you've been so helpful."

"'elpful? Me?" Stan grins from ear-to-ear and preens a bit before opening the door to usher her inside. As she settles down onto one of the bedsteads near a curtained window at the front of the bus, she hears him say, "Take 'er away, Ern," and they're off.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione watches as buildings and a few cars - barely any traffic due to the holiday - squeeze themselves out of the Knight Bus's way, lurching forward on her bedstead as Ern pulls on the break and the bus skids to a halt right in the middle of Tower Bridge. Stan catches her by the elbow and helps her to the door, prattling on about what a sour fare Mr David Granger had been. She smiles and nods absently as he leads her down the steps onto the pavement.

"'appy Christmas," Stan calls as the doors begin to close.

"Happy--" Before she can get the words out, there is another loud BANG and the bus is gone.

Whether or not Draco is actually here remains to be seen, but at least the weather is much less severe in London than it is in Hogsmeade. While it is snowing, it's more of a light, gentle dusting than a blizzard. For this, Hermione is grateful.

The bus dropped her off right in the centre of the bridge; she is standing directly over where the bascules meet. Slowly she turns round in a circle, looking for any sign of him. She then investigates the base of one tower, moving slowly around each side, and then the other. He is nowhere to be found, but there is a niggling feeling inside her that she cannot shake; she is certain he is here.

It's late and she's tired, definitely in no mood to search all night for him. Tipping her face back so snow flutters down atop her cheeks to leave little tingles of alert and cold on her skin, her eyes inadvertently focus on the high-level walkways overhead.

Of course.

She doesn't know why she didn't think to look there in the first place.

After a well-placed spell or two, Hermione gains entry into the north tower. It's dark and she really doesn't want to draw attention to her presence there, as breaking and entering is rather illegal, but she needs a bit of wand light, so she reluctantly whispers, "Lumos." The tip of her wand illuminates and shows her the way to the lift. Once the button is pressed and she is well on her way up the tower, she extinguishes the light, all the while hoping that she isn't wrong about all of this - about Draco being here, about coming after him, about her thoughts regarding Ron's observation.

Once the lift stops and she steps into the small room where a film about the Tower Bridge's history plays on loop during the day, she sees that she isn't wrong. At least, she isn't wrong about Draco being here. Judging by the way the door to the eastern walkway is ajar, he must have just left this room.

Cautiously, she sets her hand on the door and slowly pushes it open, getting a clear view of the eastern walkway. There is no one there, but the door to the opposite tower is also ajar. Anticipation tingles just below her skin and she quickens her pace, cutting quickly across the walkway. Taking a deep breath, she pulls on the knob and slips inside the door. The tingling sensation dissipates; he isn't in this tower either.

Frowning, she walks to one of the windows and looks out, unable to appreciate the view. She was sure he was here. Could he have Apparated? No, that didn't seem likely. It takes several hours for alcohol to clear the system and, knowing Draco, he would not Apparate until the very minute he was completely flushed of all prohibitors.

Sighing, she pivots and presses her back against the stone window sill. It is at this precise moment, when back meets stone, that she notices a second door, also ajar.

Immediately Hermione feels very daft; she'd completely forgot about the western walkway!

Lowering the cowl of her cloak, Hermione enters the western walkway, stopping several metres away from Draco, who is staring blankly out one of the windows toward the north bank of the Thames, where the Tower of London stands.

"Hello," she says softly, not wanting to startle him.

He doesn't jump or stiffen up at the sound of her voice; he simply continues to stare out the window. "Go home, Granger." His voice is weary, tired, and she can't remember if she's ever heard him sound like that.

No, she decides, she hasn't. Not even when they'd been trailing Olaf Bondarenko for days, trying to catch him with an illegal stock of mutated hippocampuses, and they hadn't slept for seventy-two hours or eaten much more than a handful of oyster crackers.

"I'll be doing nothing of the sort." His shoulders stiffen at that and she scowls. If he thinks he can bully and bluster her into going home, he has another thought coming. "I know what you're going to say, Draco," she says crisply, "and you can save your breath right now. I decide when and where I go, and for now I choose to be here."

He doesn't reply, not that she was expecting him to do so. She knows him well enough to know that he is well aware when to back down from an impending argument, just as she is well aware of the very same thing with him. One doesn't spend nearly all his or her waking hours with a person for eighteen months without learning a thing or two.

Hermione watches as Draco presses his hands on either side of the window, leaning his weight forward. His cloak is long discarded, draped neatly over a display computer. The sleeves of his shirt are turned up, cuffed just below the elbows. Around his neck, his tie hangs loosely, the ends just skimming the top of his waistcoat. His trousers are decidedly rumpled, and Hermione smiles at the sight. A sober Draco Malfoy would be incredibly horrified by this current dishevelled state.

"You're missing a good party," she says finally.

"You are." He shrugs noncommittally. "They're probably wondering where you are."

"I probably am," she agrees, "but I don't think they're wondering where I am, Draco."

She isn't prepared for the venom in his tone or that old sneer, the one that she hadn't seen since they were schoolmates. "Why is that?"

"You're angry," she says flatly, refusing to look away from his eyes, which are stormy and guarded.

"So what if I am?" The venom gives way to defensiveness, but it isn't a belligerent sort of defensiveness, for which Hermione is glad.

Maybe it isn't meant to be a sign to continue, but Hermione chooses to take it as one, so she presses on. "Are you angry because Ron took the mickey out of you in front of the lot or are you angry because he was right?"

"Weasley's an ineloquent arse who has no concept of class and manners," Draco sniffs, and Hermione cannot stop a small smile from curving her lips.

"So you're angry because he was right."

Again, he doesn't answer. She can see his jaw set and his eyes narrow, and he shifts his weight once more. Trousers slip down low on his hips, so low on one side that a shirttail hung out and Hermione could see the band of his shorts he was wearing underneath them. Oh. Her blood warms considerably at the sight and she is sure her cheeks coloured, but there isn't anything she can do about it. Not that she wants to do anything about it. While she hasn't outright admitted it to Ron or Harry, or fully come to terms with it herself, she knows she is attracted to him, and has been attracted to him for several months. There have been times when she thought he may reciprocate her feelings, but as soon as the thought would cross her mind, she would retract it as daft and pointless. Tonight, though. Tonight she doesn't think he reciprocates her feelings. She knows he does. Never before had Draco ever backed down or from defending himself against Ron, never before tonight. There was absolutely no reason for Draco to leave and give Ron the upper hand in their never-ending struggle for one-upmanship. No reason at all, unless what Ron said was true and Draco just couldn't bring himself to either admit to it or attempt to disguise the truth.

Grey eyes lock with hers suddenly and Draco looks almost uneasy and almost vulnerable. "I'm not angry."

He may not be angry, but he is certainly conflicted and Hermione doesn't like this. She studies him searchingly, trying to figure out how this Draco standing before her fits with the Draco she has come to know, and her mind begins to drift back to Hogwarts, back to the War, back to the Trials.

A face and a name, both belonging to a person she hadn't thought of in years, comes to the surface of her mind. What if...?

Perhaps.

As a test, she takes a step closer to Draco and whispers a name under her breath as she leans against a space on the wall next to him. "Pansy Parkinson."

The reaction is instantaneous; his shoulders wrack and he seems to fold into himself. A beat in which he regains control of his senses, then he is back to being stiff and straight as a board.

"Is that what this is about?" she asks quietly, reaching out to catch his wrist. "About her?"

Draco starts at her touch but she doesn't let up; she tightens her grip. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says sharply, and Hermione detects a tinge of malaise in his voice. The sound of it pulls at her and she lightly brushes her thumb along the underside of his wrist, trying to soothe any unpleasantness that may be welling up in him. His eyes drop to her hand and he tugs at his arm, but she will not let him pull away. Not now.

"You do know what I'm talking about. Just like you know what Ron was talking about." Maybe she shouldn't have mentioned Ron again, at least not so soon, but the words had already left her mouth and there wasn't anything she could do about it. She wouldn't want to anyway, because they earned a rather telling reaction from Draco: he nods once, just once, his mouth setting into a thin line while his eyes suddenly refuse to meet Hermione's. "Pansy is dead, Draco." It turns Hermione's stomach to be so callous and cruel, but there it is. Pansy has been dead for years; she died in the War.

Draco's face takes on a pinched, pale appearance and his body radiates a cold fury that chills Hermione right down to the bone, more intense and bitter than any blizzard could. "I know that, Hermione. I know that better than anyone."

Despite herself, Hermione shivers.

Yes, Draco does know that, and he would know that better than anyone. Pansy had sacrificed herself to save Draco from his own father's Killing Curse. Hermione and Ron had seen it happen just before they had to fend off Fenrir Greyback and another Death Eater, holding off the pass so Harry could pursue Voldemort.

His expression becomes less rough, his lips parting slightly as he takes time to choose his next words fastidiously. Hermione watches, transfixed, as his tongue darts out to run along his lower lip. She wonders if he knows, really knows, how attractive he is - not just physically, but intellectually as well. "This isn't about her."

"It isn't." She still has a hold on his wrist, and she tugs on it with the slightest amount of pressure, pulling Draco toward her. If this isn't about Pansy at all, about any guilt he might still be harbouring about her death, then it can't be about anything but Hermione. "It's about me."

Draco's brows lift, but that is the only show of confusion he affords her.

"You're rather confident, Granger," he says, mouth twisting. "While such confidence is appreciated in the professional aspect of our partnership, it is not needed is the social aspect."

The words would have sent Hermione's temperature rising, but she was very aware that Draco had made no move to back away from her. In fact, he had even just leaned in a bit closer during that little diatribe. Briefly she wonders if he responds to others who confront him like this and decides that he doesn’t. Draco would not deign to give anyone he considers a nuisance the time of day, much less allow them to invade his personal space while he invades theirs right back in turn. She lets this realisation wash over her for one glorious moment before persisting.

"You always did have a silver tongue, Draco." His sneer becomes more pronounced, yet he says nothing. "But I have learnt to not be swayed by such things and look past the fripperies to get to the heart of the matter. You're afraid."

Ah, now that gets a reaction out of him. "Afraid?" he sputters. "Of what?"

"Of what you feel for me," Hermione says almost casually, releasing her hold on his wrist and taking a small step back.

"I feel nothing for you, nothing of the sort you're implying," he says through gritted teeth, and she feels warmth and smooth skin encircling her fingers.

She looks down to her hand, the one that had been about his wrist. His own is covering it; he had reached out just now when she pulled away a moment ago.

"Nothing?" she asks, looking pointedly from his hand on hers to his eyes.

"Nothing," he says petulantly, dropping her hand as though it burnt him.

Oh, but Hermione loves a challenge. She always has. While she had gobbled up volumes upon volumes of tomes at Hogwarts, it wasn't the reading that gave her the most joy. Reading was simply soaking up knowledge, which she liked well enough. But what she truly loved were things such as puzzles and runes and chess, things that required strategy and logic, and practical use of said knowledge, to best the challenge. Perhaps strategy and logic will be useful here.

"I'm going to prove you wrong, Draco Malfoy," she says matter-of-factly, moving closer to him. As though it is natural instinct, Draco leans in slightly to her, and she has to bite her lower lip to prevent a smug smile from forming. He probably doesn't even realise that he's done so, and she surely isn't going to alert him to his actions.

Hermione rises to the balls of her feet and hesitates for the briefest of moments before curling the fingers of one hand lightly around the nape of Draco's neck, heart pounding madly in her chest. If she is wrong about all of this, she will be ruining a brilliant working relationship and a pleasant, and sometimes lovely, friendship that took quite a long time to build. I'm a Gryffindor, she reminds herself sternly. She nods once, imperceptibly, to herself, and brushes her lips once, just once, lightly against Draco's.

Although it is a struggle not to close them, Hermione manages to keep her eyes open; she wants to see his reaction. His own close immediately and she smiles against his mouth, fingers pressing against the warm, smooth skin at the back of his neck.

"What are you doing?" he murmurs, his lids fluttering open.

"I thought that should be obvious," she returns, pulling back, her free hand grabbing hold of the loosened tie about his neck.

His hand covers hers and she nearly gasps when his fingers squeeze hers hard. "Don't do this."

She never was one to stop doing something just because someone told her not to do it. Besides, she doubts he actually wants her to stop. He isn't pulling away, berating her, or brandishing her wand at her, so Hermione pushes forward.

It won't be long before he admits defeat.

Hermione doesn't bother to counter his request with words. As fond as she is of words, sometimes actions speak louder than words, and she wants very much to be heard.

While she had not rushed the first kiss, that seems to be the case when compared to what she does now. She starts at his ear, her breath puffing against the sensitive shell as she simply hovers there for a moment before taking the lobe between her lips, teeth gently scraping over the skin, her tongue smoothing over any sting left by the teeth. Draco presses his chest against hers; she can feel the rate of his breathing increase. Encouraged, she moves to the top of his jaw, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there, and trails her lips along the jaw line, letting them slowly work their way down to the column of his throat. She lowers herself from the balls of her feet, a hand loosening the tie completely and pushing his shirt collar out of the way so that her lips can claim a path from the curve of his neck down to the base. Lips and tongue explore almost teasingly, working over skin, pressing against muscles, flicking at the pulse point. Beneath her ministrations, Draco's frame is quivering and he places a hand on her shoulder. It simply rests there, and Hermione nearly laughs; he probably cannot decide whether he ought to give in and pull her more tightly against him or save face and push her away.

"Still wish for me to stop?" she asks as she straightens, somehow managing to sound calm, as though she is is simply discussing casework papers that needed to be filed.

Draco's hand moves up along the slope of her shoulder to settle against the back of her neck, fingers sliding up and twisting into her hair. "As though you would ever take heed," he says, his voice oddly tight.

Well, well. This is an interesting turn of events. He had the chance to tell her to stop, which she probably would have done had he insisted, yet he didn't take it. This is very much an opportunity. Some might even consider it an invitation, and Hermione will not turn it down.

"You've learnt a thing or two over the course of our partnership." She smiles lightly at him before moving in for the kill; hands resting on his waist, fingertips brushing over the top of the waistband of the shorts poking out above the trousers, her mouth covering his. Hermione presses her lips against his but doesn't move; she wants him to be the one to initiate things this time. But he doesn't move, either. He is seemingly frozen and she screws her eyes shut tightly, willing him to do it. Move.

In the space between two heartbeats, move he does. His tongue runs along her lower lip, urging it to part, so she allows her lips to open under his and suddenly their tongues are stroking one another. Involuntarily, she lets out a soft moan, which he echoes as her hands skate along the curve of his waist back to his bum, of which she takes a handful and squeezes. His fingers tighten their grip on her hair and she gasps, then glides her tongue into his mouth, sweeping along the ridges of the roof, caressing his tongue, tasting him before moving to trace the outline of his lips.

He grunts, pushing against her, and her knees buckle at the feel of him, hard and hot along her thigh and, oh, her entire body is thrumming with want.

She shifts so she can both cup him and grab his arse, her mouth thoroughly assaulting his, sucking on his tongue, taking his breath for her own. Draco gives as well as he receives and that thrumming pulls itself in, situating between her thighs. It's hot and electric and alive, and she isn't sure she can restrain herself for much longer. This had been about proving him wrong, about making him see that he wants her, and she never thought to factor herself into all of this. She never thought about it but she is very much a part of this equation, this problem, this puzzle that needs solving.

Draco rocks his hips against her more firmly but she pulls her hand away; she needs him to put the last piece of the puzzle in place.

"Tell me what you want."

His eyes narrow, a hand smoothes back his tussled hair, and he gives Hermione a calculating look. She gets the distinct feeling that she is being assessed, but she doesn't shy away. If anything, she puts herself on display, removing her cloak to drape it over his, revealing the flattering chocolate dress robes he had complimented her on earlier that evening.

Just when she is about to repeat her request, Draco jerks his chin toward her.

"You," he says, as a very large, very satisfied, very 'I told you so' smile lights up her face. "I want you."

Hermione closes the gap between them, the one she had put there in the first place, placing a hand at the small of his back, sliding her fingers beneath the elastic waistband of his shorts. The other resumes its place at the front of his trousers, applying the smallest bit of pressure with the heel of her palm to the unmistakable bulge there. She can feel him grow harder still beneath her hand and the fabric, and she bites back a whimper, her teeth digging so hard into the soft flesh of her lip that she draws her own blood.

"God." Draco's thumb presses against her lip, then feathers out to her cheek. She can feel a warm wetness on her skin, under the soft pad of his finger, and she can only imagine what she must look like, all flushed and breathing heavily with crimson, her blood, spread from her lip to her cheek. Wanton. Farther from bookish than she ever thought she would be.

Brilliant.

"Not God," she manages, wrapping her lips around his thumb and sucking it in her mouth. "Hermione."

"Granger," he says, covering her hand with his, guiding it to stroke him. "Hermione."

She releases his thumb with a pop and kisses him again, letting him taste the metallic tang of her blood, staining his lips with her life.

When the need to breathe becomes a matter of life or death, she parts from him, inhaling and exhaling and nuzzling his neck. "I'm different. You're different. The past is the past; we've enough guilt and shame between us to last several lifetimes." Her voice is soft and her words quick. The last thing she wants to do just then is stop to have some sort of discussion, but she feels it is important to let him know where she stands as far as their history is concerned.

"Let's stop living in the past, then," Draco murmurs, canting his hips back and forth, pushing himself into their joined hands as though his life depends on that little bit of contact.

"Stop," Hermione breathes, repositioning her hands so that one is at the centre of his chest while the other works on the closures of his fly. He looks down at her, shock of white-blond hair falling in her eyes, and she smiles up at him for a moment before shoving him back against the wall and window, snaking her hand inside his trousers. Draco makes a contented noise low in his throat, making Hermione want very much to hear all the other sorts of sounds he is capable of producing. Determined to hear them and hear them as quickly as possible, she gives up all pretence of restraint and tugs both his trousers and shorts down about his ankles. Her hands skate up over his calves and knees, then rest on his thighs. She watches his cock bob slightly for a moment, then urges his thighs to fall apart by digging the heel of her palm against him. His legs open and she nibbles her way up his inner thighs, ignoring the insistent tugging of his hands in her hair. "Hermione...." Draco's voice is breathy and needy, which she has never heard until now but is certain it will be her undoing. She's wet for him already, the ache between her legs is unbearable, but she will not touch herself. If she does, she'll come and then they would have to put the puzzle together again starting from the very first piece. She would rather complete this puzzle then start anew, so instead of touching herself to dull the desire, she tends to Draco. As her mouth creates suction against that delicious spot where leg and pelvis meet, her hand cups one of his balls in her palm. The skin is velvety-soft and hot, and she cannot help kneading and rolling it gently.

A hiss escapes Draco's lips, which Hermione takes as a sign of approval while she takes both balls in her mouth. The hand in her hair clenches tightly; Draco writhes beneath her. She scoots closer to him, working her tongue over every last centimetre of them, lapping at them, tonguing the little dip between them. Each swipe of her tongue earns her another hiss, and she would very much like that hiss to become a moan, so she lets the balls slip out of her mouth to flick her tongue against the head of his cock.

Unbidden, Draco's legs move more widely apart, and Hermione runs her nails up along the musculature there before curling around the base of Draco's cock, holding it in place while she takes him in her mouth and sucks forcefully. The hissing turns into moaning instantly and Draco arches upward while Hermione moves up and down the musky length of his shaft, teeth occasionally grazing and tongue swirling and stroking and tracing. The hand in her hair lets up, sliding down to brush fingertips over her cheek. She hums in appreciation of his touch, which draws a long moan from Draco.

The moan cuts off abruptly. Concerned, Hermione stills her motions to glance up at him. The hand on her cheek resumes its earlier position at her shoulder and squeezes. "Up," he gasps, so Hermione gets up, working her sore jaw to the left and then the right.

"What--?"

Her question dies on her lips when he pulls her body hard against his and reverses their positions. They collide against the wall and window, Draco's body hot and firm next to hers. Hermione moans herself, surprised and incredibly turned on, the sound quickly swallowed up by Draco's mouth.

His hands begin to roam all over her, moving along the line of her hip, blazing a trail along the underside of her breasts, slipping beneath the low décolletage of her gown to skim over the tops of her breasts, hoisting up her skirts. His frame fits between her legs as though it was meant to be there, his chest creating a maddening heat as it brushes against her nipples on each exhalation. Through the thin fabric of her knickers she can feel his cock, ready and wanting, against her belly. Her eyes screw shut and she thinks about that cock piercing her, filling her, and she cries out when his fingers slip under the knickers elastic to stroke her centre. If his fingers alone earn that sort of reaction from her, his cock may very well be her undoing.

"Draco," she says hoarsely, head bumping roughly against glass as his fingers part her skin, moving back and forth in an excruciatingly slow manner before finding the hard nub of her clit.

"Move," he orders, and she obeys. His thumb flicks and moves in circles over her clit while his fingers push inside her, thrusting and plunging and curving, and her hands latch on to his forearms, fingernails digging into the skin, marking him, branding him. Hers.

Just as she begins to drag her nails down the length of his forearms, he scrapes a nail over her clit and she shatters. She shatters, stills, and arches toward him, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as she clenches around his fingers.

Just as quickly as it hit her, it is over, and his fingers are gone. She whimpers in protest, jerking her body against his. On an upward arc of her frame, one of his hands dips down to curl under her knee, drawing it up toward his waist. Hermione is a clever witch, so she gets the hint and hooks her heel around him, digging it into his arse and hauling him closer. He rewards her with a smirk as he grasps his cock, slicking it with her wetness, and enters her fully in one slow, hard thrust. A beat, then they move together, arching and bucking and fucking, and Hermione fucks his mouth with her tongue while his cock drives into her again and again.

When she feels her second orgasm begin to crest, her hips jerk erratically, then Draco starts thrusting with abandon and together they fall over the edge. Wet heat pools between them and she wraps her arms around Draco, holding him against her as they catch their breath.

For a long while, the only sounds are those of their breathing. Hermione doesn't mind the near-silence so much. She concentrates on inhaling and exhaling and moving the tips of her fingers in small, slow circles on Draco's back. Things feel complete now, as though the challenge has been figured out, knowledge has been properly applied, and she-

"Look," Draco says suddenly.

Hermione blinks, shifting slightly in his arms to see what the fuss is about.

"Oh," she whispers, leaning back against him.

The view outside the window they had just shagged against is spectacular; a beautiful sunrise – all amber and gold and pink and violet – is bursting over the horizon. The sunlight glints off the snow-covered Tower of London and other buildings dotting the bank of Thames, lending an ethereal look to London as far as the eye can see.

"That's why I came here," Draco says, resting his chin on Hermione's shoulder.

"I was wondering about that," she admits, glancing back at him.

"I remembered what you said about this place, and it seemed a better option than the manor."

"You gave my name. On the Knight Bus."

Draco grows quiet, disentangling himself from Hermione.

"I did," he nods, handing Hermione her cloak before tending to his own clothing.

"Why?"

"Because it's a good name."

She meets Draco's eyes, her own shining. She had mentioned Tower Bridge only once to him, nearly a year ago. It hadn’t even been the focus of a conversation; she had mentioned it an off-handed manner, noting that sunrises and sunsets were spectacular from this particular vantage point on Tower Bridge. For him to remember that and come here because of her...that said something. Something meaningful.

Maybe Ron was wrong.

Maybe Draco had known all along what a good thing he had with the likes of Hermione Granger.