Archive of Our Own

August 19, 2002

1:23 PM

Last Week of Camp Black Lake

“No, you’re wrong. That's not what it is.”

“Yes it is,” another voice hisses. “My sister told me. She’s actually done it, you know.”

The voices are muffled, but Hermione looks up from Magical Maladies and Mutable Medicines, and sees three sets of campers bobbing along in the deep water near the camp’s main dock. It’s been an aggressively warm summer, the thick haze clinging to their bodies as the last weeks of the season refuse to give way to an early autumn. The lake is the only bearable place to be. She’s cast a charm to alert her if any camper remains under the water for longer than 30 seconds, but she didn’t expect them to be so, well, loquacious.

“Your sister is a twat.”

“Hey!” She is up now, securing a gold and crimson towel around her mid-section. She walks forcefully to the end of the dock, her sturdy gait causing the wood to creak in places. “What is all this commotion? Aren’t you meant to be treading water?”

“Thank you, Hermione, I can’t handle them yammering on like that.”

“I’ll handle it, McLaggen.” She narrows her eyes at her fellow Camp Black Lake lifeguard. She’d be shocked if he glanced even once at their campers since she started reading.

He sits up there on his wooden perch and pretends to be important. He’s charmed his sunglasses extra dark, and she can’t be sure his eyes aren’t doing something licentious beneath the frames. Whenever another female counsellor visits the dock, she’s happy to excuse him from his duties.

It isn’t that she hates him; no, that sentiment has certainly passed. It’s more like her limited bullshit tolerance has expired, and she really has no space in her brain for him at all. Unfortunately, they are scheduled for afternoon shifts together most camp days.

“More treading, less talking, yeah?” She instructs. “You’re meant to do fifteen minutes this week. That’s the acceptable goal for your age bracket.”

Her tone is clinical, dispassionate. It’s practised, and effective, and she has no reason to amend it.

“Yes, Hermione,” one of the girls agrees, rolling her eyes and treading in a circle, kicking up ripples of water from the lake's murky bottom.

Hermione returns to her post, feeling somehow that she’s mismanaged the whole situation.

“What a prude,” whispers a head bobbing in the water.

“Not like she’d know what a rainbow kiss is anyway,” another snickers, and she pretends not to hear Cormac stifle a laugh as well.

She huffs as she lifts the book to cover her face. It’s obviously a bead of sweat running into her eyes and not tears. That would be ridiculous. She used to be a terrifying thirteen-year-old, and she can handle whatever barbs they can throw at her. She wants to work with children after all. Doesn’t she? She certainly thought that was her goal.

“Merciless,” a voice clips from behind her. “To think you used to be that scary.”

She lifts the two finger salute, and buries her head deeper into Chapter Three: Dark Magic, Artefacts, and Charms, wondering if a Protego Diabolica could take out both McLaggen, and the insufferable wizard behind her.

***

She is well aware of how inexperienced she is. Well, in sex, at least. She is, by all other accounts, an accomplished witch. First Order of Merlin, top of her graduating class from Hogwarts, and currently accepted for an upcoming St. Mungo’s residency programme.

Still, she can’t balance all of that against what most witches ages thirteen to thirty think about on a daily basis, or at the very least, the milestones leading up to it.

It’s not that she doesn’t think about it. She does. She has. She’s just had other priorities. Life-threatening ones, familial ones, academic ones.

Time has passed quite quickly since the war, and it wasn’t her intention to be so fastidious about all those other goals and leave this area completely unexplored.

She is untouched, and woefully unprepared about how to navigate that. She thinks about hugging Harry, about fleeting kisses with Ronald, about holding hands with Viktor. Sweet and ephemeral.

Sure, she knows she should fantasize about what it would feel like to melt against someone's fingers. Slot perfectly against someone’s lips. She’s twenty-three and has never felt a hardened cock. Oh, medically she knows her way around a wizard’s body. That isn’t a problem. She aced her Anatomy finals last semester. But she hasn’t touched one or been touched.

Hermione hangs her legs off the edge of the dock and watches the sun dip down below the tree line on the other side of the shore. She’s not on duty for dinner tonight and that allows her certain freedom. Water streams between her toes as she kicks her feet back and forth sending ripples out into the vast lake water. Sections of it have been magically quartered off for different swim levels. Her design, and a project she took great pride in creating.

The quiet lapping of the water against the dock is lulling. Hogwarts is peaceful like this.

She didn’t think she’d like this job, and parts of it she truly does despise, but St. Mungo’s requires her to have 200 hours of non-hospital interaction with young witches and wizards before she can qualify for the Pediatric Mediwitch program. It was either this, or hustling around a shop on Diagon, listening to kids whinge about Weasley products or Florean give ill-fated history lessons while doling out flavours at Fortescue’s.

This seemed like an obvious choice.

Hogwarts is still Hogwarts, but Galleons were funneled into the rebuild, and with it came a full-time magical summer camp for all students, including Muggleborns. Post-war relations between the Muggle and Magical worlds were still recovering, and many on the Board of Governors and the Wizengamot thought it best to provide some kind of magical programming for their youth.

It’s been a success, and she’s happy to be a part of it. She can’t deny it feels nice to be surrounded by nature, and out of the anesthetised hospital setting for a few weeks.

She sometimes feels it’s odd to be back here without Harry and Ron, but she can’t picture them here now. Occasionally, she’ll hear the ghosts of their past selves, but mostly, she tries to separate this life from that one. In many ways, she’s an entirely different person.

The water laps so effectively against the dock that she doesn’t hear him approach until his foot scuffs the wood beside her.

She looks up at him, preparing to be annoyed, but the feeling never quite materialises.

Draco glances down at her. “Still sulking out here, I see.”

She pulls her legs up from the water and crosses them on the edge of the dock. Near-constant sun exposure has brought out her freckles, and she notices the sudden contrast between her darker skin, and his translucently pale thighs as he takes a seat next to her.

“I’m not sulking,” she mumbles, as she feels the warmth of his body settle in closer.

It’s not an unwelcome feeling, but it’s extemporaneous, and the novelty of it makes her feel a rush.

“Don’t be too hard on those witches. If I recall the stories, you once set a professor’s robes on fire.”

“Allegedly,” she says, holding out the book she’s been contemplating for the last hour. “I was reading, if you must know.”

He takes the tome, examining it. “Looks to me like you’ve been reading chapter three since before lunch.”

She doesn’t dignify it with a response and he chuckles.

His fingers rest next to hers against the rough wood of the dock. The water laps higher, and she thinks she can feel her body willing their fingers closer on a cellular level.

“Any lifesaving today?” His loafers are discarded on the dock and he drops his toes into the lake, kicking up the water again.

“Had I carried out my plans of drowning McLaggen I certainly would have saved him before the Merpeople descended."

“How honourable of you, Granger.”

“I thought so.”

“What was really going on with those fourth years earlier?” he asks. “Are they giving you a hard time?”

“It was nothing.” She drops her legs again, and the two sets of feet work in tandem to churn up the brackish water.

He’s quiet. That’s what is so disconcerting about him.

It’s been like this since Eighth Year. Grey eyes look into the very soul of her and just when she thinks they’re going to instigate, they apologise. When she expects his eyes to convey cold disregard, they rile and provoke and challenge. When she expects dismissal, they lure her in.

“I hope you know I am on my best behaviour,” he pushes the fringe from his eyes. He wears it more relaxed now, and she can see it go through stages as the day progresses. Bedhead in the morning, mused up from sport and Quidditch, slicked back and wet when he runs to the end of the dock and jumps into the lake. Wind often picks pieces up and deposits them in his eyes, and he shakes them back. It’s utterly distracting.

He’s softened now. The day has taken its wear on his face. Sun kisses his cheeks and forehead where he’s forgotten to reapply a charm or lotion.

“Why would that be?” she asks.

“I don't think you’ll be as quick to save me, that’s all.”

“I know for a fact you’re a perfectly adequate swimmer, Malfoy."

“Yes, but I'm still a bit miffed McLaggen can hold that lifeguard test over my head.”

“How were we to know his Uncle Tiberius demanded he take swim lessons most of his life. Not the norm for most Purebloods.” She laughs.

“Certainly not,” Malfoy agrees. “Lucius was quite emphatic about it, and I thought I was special.”

“Not special enough, it seems. Besides, you’ve been stationed at Sports. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Right,” he says, but his face is angled away from her. “I’m the first to examine injuries.”

Two weeks ago, she may have weaponised her jealousy over him getting a preferred position. Now, she’s overwhelmed by how much he shares with her.

“If I could stomach watching Quidditch all day, I’d be over there too.”

“You’ve watched it plenty, if I recall.”

“Being dragged by Harry, Ronald, and Ginny is different.”

The sun makes its final descent, and Hermione feels an instant chill. She’s already pulled on a soft pair of shorts, but her upper body is still exposed in a crimson swimming costume. His legs are much larger, and even sitting criss-crossed, his knee rests heavily on her thigh, giving her a small contact high.

For a short moment, she feels like they may be the only two people here at camp. They’re not, but sitting alone with him on the dock gives her an impression that the rest of the world has faded into oblivion along with the setting sun.

“You’re shivering, you know,” he says.

She looks up at him to find stormy eyes narrowed under the thick cover of pale blonde lashes.

“I’m fine,” she assures him, but she lifts her feet from the water a final time, and casts a quick drying spell on her legs. The gooseflesh is still prominently visible on her arms and legs.

“Last week of camp,” he mentions, as if that’s pertinent to the topic they were just discussing. Hermione is unfortunately distracted by him reaching over his head to pull at the neck of his jumper. His grey t-shirt pulls up with the movement, and she’s privy for a moment to where else the sun has kissed his skin today. She wonders how his skin reacts. How sensitive he is. It’s a curiosity derived from forming a medical opinion. She has no doubt.

He frees his arms and holds the jumper out to her. His expression is blank, but that could be attributed to any number of explanations, including the precedent that he’s just offering to be a nicer version of Draco Malfoy than he once endeavoured to be.

She can’t possibly take it, but his hand stays staunchly presented like an offering, and although he hasn’t made any intentions clear, she feels the warmth from her blush creeping up her neck. She’s not sure that she’s chilly anymore.

“It’s odd, isn’t it.”

This? Us? she thinks.

She begs her body to cooperate as she stifles a moan, and pulls the warm Scottish wool over her torso, slipping her arms through the oversized sleeves. Merlin, it smells like him. Like grass, and the mints he sucks on between meals, and expensive sun-repelling lotion he no doubt bought in bulk while vacationing in Wizarding Côte d'Azur.

“This is our first proper summer here,” he finally says.

“Oh, right,” she agrees. Turning her head and discreetly smelling the jumper again. Stop it, Hermione.

“I never had any desire to stay here past the end of term,” he offers, and she agrees, nodding before hugging her bent knees to her chest, and resting her head on the soft fabric.

“But to have all this,” she motions behind them. “These kids will have so much more than we had.”

“I’m glad for it.”

It was his money that paid for it. Well, his and a number of other Pureblood families.

Reparations were meant to be specific, and when she, Harry, and Ron stood up on behalf of the Slytherins in court, Hermione presented a sixteen-point plan. They couldn’t just throw money at the problem and slink away. The trio argued that getting their hands in the reconstruction would act as a rehabilitation of sorts. Make them accountable for the new world they were all hoping to create, and they’d be less likely to look back to their bigoted and close-minded ways.

Some fell in line much quicker than others. Azkaban was readily available for any witch or wizard unwilling to use their time, Galleons, or wand to rebuild a better Wizarding Britain.

Hermione’s stomach makes a traitorous gargle, and she hides her face in her knees.

“Dinner will close soon,” he says, standing up before she can retort. She doesn’t have a retort, but she could have formulated a decent one, she’s sure.

She’s suddenly all too aware of the fact that he’s going to leave, and it’s the last thing she wants.

Reluctantly, she moves to lift the jumper up, and he turns to walk backward along the length of the dock.

“Keep it,” he urges.

Good, she thinks, watching him retreat off the far end of the dock. In the last few minutes she’s formed an attachment to the woven threads, and it would have broken her heart to give it back. It’s like a piece of him is still there, and even though the lake is dark, and the camp behind her is filled with terrorising albeit adolescent witches and wizards, she feels safe with it on. Comforted. It’s better than any warming charm she could have conjured.

***

It’s back in her cabin, campers of Bunk #3: Abraxans asleep after lights out, that she casts a dull Lumos and tackles the problem head on.

She is inexperienced. There is really no other rationalisation to be had.

If this was a setback she was addressing for one of her courses, she’d make an action plan, a study rubric, and sit herself in the library until she felt well enough acquainted with the material at hand. In her internship at St. Mungo’s she relies on hands-on experimentation and shadowing veteran healers.

Ginny has asked her about her sex life before. She’s quite certain a few of her friends have. It is somewhat hard to avoid when said “best” friend is shagging her other “best” friend in a house that Hermione occasionally takes up residence at. When pressed, Hermione has pivoted the conversation back to Ginny, or Lavender, or Parvati. In larger groups it’s easier to cover for herself. She asks a lot of questions, and nods when she deems it appropriate, and has managed to let everyone come to their own conclusions.

It helps when Harry and Ron whinge, inevitably making some excuse about not wanting to hear about Hermione’s snogging. She’ll often rely on their responses to steer the conversation away from herself.

Here at Camp Black Lake, it’s much the same. Terry Boot asked her out the very first day after his group arrived for swim lessons. She politely declined. Justin Finch-Fletchley played guitar for her at one of the counsellor bonfires. She listened to an absolutely horrific acoustic rendition of Praise You before she excused herself and never came back. Cormac has proven to be a man whore. No one is going to dispute that. She’s done an admirable job at denying his advances, but apparently, she’s been too effective.

What a prude.

There was no mistaking that remark, and Cormac, and possibly (probably) Malfoy heard it too.

How could her campers possibly know that? Gossip here spreads faster than Dragon pox, which is fast, considering Hermione knows that a patient has precisely twenty-four hours after contamination before they can expect 1000 to 5000 small, itchy, fluid-filled red spots to cover their skin.

She suddenly feels inclined to rectify the situation. She’s never seen her prudishness as a fault, never really considered herself to be one. She certainly didn’t consider it anyone’s business. The wizarding world had already exploited her personal life on so many levels. Was nothing sacred?

When she thinks about snogging, or sex, her mind goes mostly blank. There have been recent events to the contrary, but she keeps those thoughts small for now.

She jots down a precise course of action. She keeps it simple and concise. She wants to get this accomplished by Friday evening. She’s interested in the action mostly, well, and the response. Preferably cataloging both parties.

Formalities in Untrammelled Consensual Knowledge (Sexual):

1. Snog someone and inspect for jugular abnormalities, elevated heart rate
2. Assess bodily behaviors when touching a wizard’s cock (aka handjob), scan for tenderness and sensation in said extremity
3. Give/receive oral and measure changing respiratory rates
4. Have sexual intercourse, assess range of motion, pain, high sensitivity in endogenous areas
5. Record findings

Now armed with her F.U.C.K.(S) list, she feels prepared to tackle the next day, and hopefully, get it all completed by the week’s end.

***

The sound of the girls rustling through the cabin wakes her up with a start. She shares the bunk with Associate Professor Penelope Clearwater who is already readying the fourth and fifth years to play a flying game of capture the flag, which means Hermione can stay in bed until her shift at the lake starts at nine.

She inhales deeply to find the scents of freshly mowed grass, mint, and luxury sun-tanned skin. It smells like…Malfoy.

“Oh gods,” she groans into the sleeve of his Aran which inexplicably wrapped itself around her body as she slept.

He smells so delicious. She’s known this for three weeks. What started as tentative ribbing turned into curious conversations, and has now evolved into tenuous friendship.

Cowokers who tolerate each other, at the very least.

If she’s being honest, they were most recently classmates who oscillated between cooperation and competition. They called a truce sometime last Fall before they almost duelled over emergency room clearance rates. They’d tied, and quarreled, and the Head Healer on staff had banished them from the Emergency Affliction Floor for a week of rounds.

It’s not that she didn’t notice him at Mungo’s. She had. He was not the type of wizard one could ignore. He was the only one who could make vibrant green Healer robes look desirable. The robes were one thing. She’d think back on the robes later. It was here, at camp, that proved to be far more distracting.

She put her nose back to the fabric and groaned. Fucking Malfoy was utterly, impossibly, and perfectly distracting.

***

“What’s with you tonight?”

It’s a fair question. She pulls her attention from the dancing flames of the bonfire. She’s been quite antisocial tonight, even for her. She can feel the list burning a hole in her pocket, as if someone set it to Incendio upon his arrival.

“Nothing,” she huffs. She looks up at him – he’s immeasurably patient – as she shoves down the log to make space.

“I don’t believe you, Granger,” he sighs.

“It’s noth-”

“Try again.”

“Well,” she takes a deep breath, “If you must know, I am conducting an experiment and recording my findings.”

“For the residency?” His curiosity is a jolt to her souring mood. It’s one of the things she admires most about him. He’s taken to healing with a staggering aptitude, and he’s curious about everyone, every patient, even sometimes, her.

“No,” she scoffs, “you’d obviously know about that. No, this is something for me.”

Justin starts a horrendously off-key version of Crash Into Me and Draco rolls his eyes.

“He’s staring at you again,” he whispers. “No, don’t look at the wanker. Thinks he can woo you with that pitiful attempt on the guitar.”

“He’s not so bad,” she relents, but he’s not the person she thinks about when she runs through the list again in her head.

“You’re not still thinking about those bloody fourth years, are you? Hermione, they’re children. Who cares what they think?”

“No, no, it’s not just that.” She looks up and the light from the fire is cascading oranges and yellows across his face. Shadows from the forest loom in from behind him. “It’s well, oh gods, I can’t look at you. Face away from me.”

Time is slipping through her fingers. June has dissolved into July, and now August, and she can’t remember wanting anything so much. It’s a kiss, maybe he’ll just be okay with the kiss if she asks him. Oh, Merlin, she’s petrified to ask him.

“What is it?” He asks, but she’s already pushing at his bicep and shoulder until he’s turned round the other direction.

“Ihaveasexlistandineedyourhelp.”

“Granger.”

“Stay facing away,” she demands. “Malfoy, this is embarrassing as it is.”

“You’re making it worse with all of these theatrics.”

“No, I don’t think so.” She shakes her head, squeezing her hands together in her lap. She takes a breath, holding the exhale out just a little longer as her heart rate settles.

“I have a list. I’m asking, well, I need help completing it.”

“A list?”

“Of sorts,” she confesses.

She hasn’t noticed he’s turned around again and she blurts it as quickly as possible. It’s unfortunate she stares directly into his eyes as she does it.

“I have a sex list.”

“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, eyes glazed over as his brows furrow together.

“A sex list,” she clarifies, “For sex.”

“Right, no, I heard it those two times. And you want me to, what, exactly?”

“Well, I was reviewing some activities, as it were, and I figured there were certain biological responses a body experienced when, erm, conducting said activities.”

“Okay,” he nods.

“I want to do those things,” she admits, “with someone.”

“Granger, if you need help talking to Finch-Fletchley,” his cheeks burn hot with adorable red splotches. She’d comment on it if she didn't feel the same affliction herself.

“Oh gods, this is a nightmare.” She is quite certain her palms are sweating, leaving tiny pools of embarrassment on her linen shorts.

“Granger.”

His legs shift, and the pointy end of his knee knocks into her, sending her slightly off balance.

“When you said you wanted my help, did you mean, you want me to be a resource? You can always ask me questions.”

Of course he’s more experienced than her. She has no doubt of that.

“Questions would be good,” she nods. She’s running out of benevolent hope that she’ll be able to ask for exactly what she needs. Perhaps she should have brewed Liquid Luck?

“No, it’s more, isn’t it?”

His legs drift open, causing hers to slot inside the gap between them. It’s comforting for a moment and she relaxes into him.

“Oh, love. Are you asking to use me?”

Love. Love. Love.

The endearment rattles around until her brain.

His eyes appear darker than before, the grey now muting into his pupils as they expand.

If he keeps looking at her like that, she’ll surely catch fire. She is sitting here, with him, having one of the most embarrassing conversations a person can have, and his knees are framing her body, holding her universe in place. She can’t account for how they got here, and she wishes it would have happened sooner.

“Come out of your head a moment,” he coaxes, finding her hand in her lap and drawing it onto his. His fingers loop around hers, intertwining and melting skin against skin.

“If I were examining you for signs of heightened arousal, what might I find?”

“Draco,” she demures.

“Tell me, Granger. What would I look for?”

“There would be, um, psychological and physical changes,” she says.

“That’s right,” he agrees, rubbing his hand gently over her knee. Her skin feels warmer to the touch where his hand meets her thigh than when she was sitting next to the fire.

“Diff-difficuly concentrating, increased heart rate, trouble breathing,” she stammers out.

“That’s so good,” he coaxes again. “And where might the blood be flowing, Granger?”

“For witches, it may include the clitoris, labia, and vaginal walls. For wizards, the penis and testicles.”

She sighs audibly, embarrassingly, as his fingers dip lower between her thighs.

“We’re Healers,” he soothes. “Would you like to say cock?”

“What?”

“We’re not at Mungo’s, you can say cock if you want.”

“Cock,” she giggles, feeling supported by his praise, and the crackling of the fire now camouflaging their conversation.

“Is this okay?” he asks, resting his fingers at the hem of her shorts.

“Yes,” she rasps.

“What about your eyes, Granger?”

“Pupils would dilate,” she hums, closing her eyes the same instant she responds.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and the soft, urgent tone in his voice causes her eyes to snap open again.

“So confident in class, so sure of yourself in your job. And yet look at you here, Granger.”

He tuts, and she would feel rage at his blithe assertions about her if they weren’t all so true.

“Which one of us, do you think, is possibly experiencing those certain psychological and physical changes right now, hmm?” His fingers tease further up her leg, dipping below the fabric.

Me, she screams to herself. It’s obviously me.

“I don’t need to know what’s on that list,” he coaxes up further, “unless you absolutely can’t live with yourself unless you tell me.”

She slumps, processing his words, along with the feeling of his fingers touching skin that only her fingers have caressed. Lust floods her veins.

His other hand comes up to cradle her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

She leans in, just that much closer, and she can’t help but anticipate his lips on hers. She can no longer deny how badly she wants it. How badly she wants him.

“You have no idea all the things I want to do with you,” Draco purrs.

She watches his throat bob, and his thumb rubs below her lower lip.

“Half the counsellors are still awake,” he sighs. “Do you care if they see this?”

“See what?”

“I’m going to snog you stupid in front of everyone here. And when I’m done, I’m going to walk you back, and snog you against the wall of that shitty cabin. All the nerves will be gone, I suspect.”

“Malfoy,” she breathes.

“It’s me, love. I’m the one feeling it all. Do you know what you look like in that little red number, strutting down the docks all day? I have to charm my cock to keep it in check.”

She wants to react but all she can think about is his cock. It’s his fault really. She can’t possibly fathom him thinking about her, but she also can't deny it’s exactly the confession she was hoping for.

“I wanted to ask you out end of Eighth but then we both got put at Mungo’s and I thought, fuck, I don’t know what I thought, but I didn’t want to ruin whatever I’d done to get you to finally tolerate me.”

His confessions trigger a change in the night. The air is charged. She can feel it changing and she wonders how anyone else isn’t remarking on it. She feels electric.

Untrammelled. Hadn’t she named it that for a reason?

“Do it,” she requests.

“Do what?” He’s the one who seems nervous now, words laid bare between them, and he’s almost shy as he cups her cheek.

“Snog me stupid, Draco Malfoy.”

He looks for a moment as if he doesn’t believe her, but he leans in, eyes looking down at her lips, then eyes, and back again. “As you wish.”

Suddenly she’s aware of every little thing. The string of a guitar, the crack of a log, the flapping of a bat’s wings as it retreats into the tree above their heads. The heat from the fire burns at a single patch of skin on her arm but she won’t dare move it.

His lips. Oh, gods, his lips as they move to kiss her cheeks, and her jaw, and finally her mouth.

Has she ever noticed a wizard’s lips before? She can’t recall.

They’re soft and warm, and she tips her head back to give him better access.

He’s being so cautious, like he’s afraid to give in. Like she’ll run off if he takes too much. She reaches up to pull at the soft hair on the base of his neck because she really and truly wants this, and he gasps into a new kiss, his weight shifting as he arches up on the log, giving him leverage above her.

Her heart races as both of his hands cup her neck and jaw. She feels like they’re running to the end of the dock, about to plunge into the cold water. She doesn't want to come up for air.

Hesitantly, his tongue touches hers, and she opens her mouth just enough for him to enter it.

He’s mint, and campfire, and she has the strongest urge to climb into his lap.

She’s never felt like this before. A dangerous kind of want floods her body and she grabs at his neck, pulling him closer.

“Draco,” she moans, and she doesn’t even know where it comes from. His name escapes her mouth without an ounce of forethought.

She could kiss him all night. She wants to. She’s plotting the necessary ways to make it happen when someone in the distance yells, “Five minutes until the counsellor lights out.”

He pulls away, and she gets a good look at his lips, now bruised with overuse.

“Fuck, tell me I don’t have to say goodnight.”

He kisses her forehead, pulling her in tighter.

“You do,” she laughs.

“Can we do more of the list tomorrow? What haven’t you done? I want to do it all.”

She stands, looking up at him in the light that remains from the fledging fire. Every single time she confesses something, it feels like she’s falling off a cliff. The fire is charmed, and the smoke passes between, causing them to cough and retreat down the path to the cabins.

Other counsellors pass by them in a haze as he takes her hand and leads her back to Bunk #3.

He pushes her gently against the wood. All she can smell is mint and campfire before his lips are on hers again.

This time she pulls away breathless.

“I haven’t done anything,” she admits.

His eyes narrow briefly before expanding with awareness.

“Oh, gods, I can’t leave now,” he murmurs, cupping her jaw.

“You have to,” she begs. She’s quite certain it will take her ages to get to sleep.

“Hex me, and I’ll leave.” he smiles into a kiss, peppering light pecks around her lips and cheek.

“Draco, go.”

“One more kiss,” he asks, pulling her face into his. “I love it when you call me Draco, you know.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Not like this,” he shakes his head into the kiss, and she can feel his smile opening against her mouth.

She can hear faint giggling and she wonders who can see them. She barely cares as his arms wrap themselves around her body.

“Thank you for telling me about this,” he sighs into the top of her head. “Trusting me.”

She has, hasn’t she? She breathes in his scent one more time before pushing firmly on his chest.

“Good night, Draco,” she giggles as he pulls at her hand a little longer before being forced to break the contact.

“Good night, Hermione.”

***

They’ve been snogging for three days straight. The morning before shifts, behind the Quidditch stands at lunch. At dinner. After dinner. She’s barely come up for air.

“Aren’t you supposed to be repressed?” she laughs, biting her lip when he sucks hard on her neck.

“Shh,” he murmurs, coaxing her behind the canoes until he can prop her up on the lowest rung. “Let’s take one out.”

They both have the afternoon free, and Hermione holds the sides of the boat as he pushes her into the water and jumps into the bow, rocking it back and forth on the placid water until he finds a steady rowing pace.

His arms glisten in the sunlight, and she catches a whiff of the lotion she can smell in her dreams now. It’s nearly worn off the Aran she keeps tucked next to her pillow, but she siphons it off his skin the moment he’s in range of her.

He looks out onto the lake, and she can’t help but wonder what’s occupying him. His eyes appear far away.

“I was repressed,” he responds, looking back at her. “But I always thought of you, even when I didn’t understand why. Even when it made no sense to.”

She watches his long strokes, the oar dipping in and out of the water. When they reach the middle of the lake she can’t help but pounce on him.

He flips her with ease, one hand cradling her body against the seat as the other fidgets with the button on her jean shorts.

“Explain to me how no one has ever touched you like this,” he breathes, kissing her neck softly as she squirms, giving him access and her explicit consent. “How is that possible?”

“Too busy,” she murmurs. It’s what she always thought was true. She knows now that she’s never felt an emotional connection like this one.

It’s not just that she made the list, it’s that she made the list with him in mind. For the first time she could actually envision herself having these experiences and feeling enough of an emotional attachment to a wizard to feel a sexual attraction. She knew the signs by the book, now she was finally feeling them with Draco.

She melts when he touches her cunt for the first time. His long, nimble fingers eliciting gasps that echo over the water.

“Silence me,” she pants, before her first orgasm overtakes her entire body. Chills sweep up her arms and shoot down her legs. She shakes, violently, as her arousal leaks out onto his fingers.

“On the list, love?” he smiles, examining his sticky, ruined fingers and holding them up for her to examine. She’s mesmerised watching him lick her off, nearly gasping when he kisses her directly after.

She adjusts her shorts, and sits up. “I was anticipating touching the wizar-”

“Touching me?” he interrupts, taking up the seat next to her instead of in front.

“Yes, you.”

“Because you had me in mind when you made that filthy little list, didn’t you?” He moves her blouse over and kisses her shoulder, her neck, anything he can get access to.

“Draco,” she laughs softly, wondering how it’s possible to still feel so aroused when she’s just had the most (and only) partnered orgasm she’s ever experienced.

“I told you I’d give you more than a list. I’ll give you everything,” he promises, cupping her breast before reaching under her bra to go skin to skin.

She’d be blushing about how good this feels if she wasn’t so concerned with how his body is reacting. She can see the bulge in his swimming trunks, and she wants to feel it, to make him feel.

“Do you want another one?” he teases, kissing the pulse point on her neck.

“I want to give you one,” she whispers, grabbing at the vicinity she knows his cock will be and rubbing it. She feels it grow in her hand and she shrieks gently, hiding her head in the crux of his shoulder.

“You feel what you do to me? Hmm?” He withdrawals from her shirt and holds her hand down on his cock, rubbing along with her.

“Sweetheart, you’ll be so good. I have no doubt.”

“I want to touch it now, Draco,” she meets his gaze, and she can see a fire in his eyes.

“Oh, you will. But I nearly came just watching you scream for me.” He pushes her hand away, spreading her legs with his knees.

“You don’t regret this?” His voice is smaller now, vulnerable, and she picks up his hand, kissing each one of his fingers before positioning him at the zipper of her jeans so he can pull it down slowly.

“Not even a little.” She’s in this now, whatever this is.

“We’re coworkers," he whispers, moving the fabric away again until his thumb rests on the ball of nerves above her cunt. He barely needed to touch it before, but now every fibre of her being is screaming at him to move, to touch her more, deeper.

“I don’t care,” she replies, leaning up to kiss his bottom lip.

“They’ll talk when we get back to Mungo’s.” He spreads her open with his fingers, using her arousal to circle her clit.

She takes his wrist in her hands, following the motion as he begins to circle faster, harder.

“Can we go to the forest tomorrow?” she asks, pushing his finger deeper inside her.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he laughs, gazing down at her like he’s never really seen her before.

She likes this feeling. Likes the uncontrollable thrill of her body reacting to his words, and mouth, and fingers. She likes to watch his face turn awe-struck. It’s like he’s experiencing it all again for the first time and that makes her feel powerful, like she’s not behind.

It’s never felt like this for her before, and maybe, possibly, she thinks, it hasn’t for him either.

“Oh Draco,” she gasps, as he hits a spot deep inside her. She reaches up to hold his neck in place as she kisses him through her second orgasm.

He takes a deep breath, slowly pulling out his fingers and watching in awe as she puts them up to her mouth. She’s always been curious about how she tastes, and she knows it’s only a matter of time before she tastes him too.

He whimpers at the sight of her sucking his fingers clean.

“You’re a deviant waiting to be let free.”

***

“Oh, fuck,” he chants, his voice echoing off the nearby trees.

“Shh,” she pleads, popping her head off his perfect cock. She’s actually had nothing to compare it to, but she’s seen texts, of course, and she’s obviously aware of what the average size and girth of a penis consists of. Draco’s, in her medical opinion, is very pretty.

Her knees rub against the brush of the forest floor. They’re out of sight, but she’s well aware how sound echoes over the water.

“What were you hoping to, oh fuck, ascertain here?” He gasps, as she licks up the underside and pauses to kiss the tip.

He shudders violently, and she smiles at every little reaction she’s able to conjure with only the pressure of her mouth. She was hoping to ascertain every single reaction he has given her and more.

She loses focus watching it bob in her hands. She wasn’t aware that cocks move like this, almost constantly. It stays hard, of course, but it also jumps, and strains. It’s quite fascinating.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “I think your reactions are better than mine.”

“Not possible,” she smiles. Saliva floods her mouth, and she considers seeing how far back she can get the tip to touch before she can no longer breathe comfortably.

Everything. This is another thing she knows she wants as she takes him deeper.

“Sweetheart, fuck,” he moans. “Such an overachiever.”

She smiles around the girth of him, saliva now leaking from the sides of her lips as she moves back and forth. His fingers grip her hair a little tighter and she lets him, relaxing into his embrace. He never moves too quickly, or too harsh. He lets her find a rhythm.

“Oh, baby, oh fuck,” he chants again, and she can tell he’s close. “I’m going to come,” he warns, pushing at her shoulders. She sucks harder until she feels the hot liquid hit the back of her throat, and she swallows him down.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he shudders, sucking in air.

He appears well satisfied, and honestly, so is she. She mentally checks off another item on the list.

***

They start to frequent the same places. Hands and mouths fumbling to rip off wet clothes. counsellor uniforms provide easy access.

She has to carry various texts around with her just to distract herself from thinking of him and getting too excited. Her skin feels sensitive under the thin straps of her swimming costume. She dives into the lake more than once a day. The kids love it, and she uses it as an excuse. She knows he’s just reduced her to a horny, needy mess.

She supposes most of her peers got this out of their systems during Eighth Year. She tries not to feel like the late bloomer. She’s fumbling off the edge of inexperience and she loves the feeling of it.

They never stay too close to the camp, but they don’t need to. The vast lands of Hogwarts’ grounds become their place to explore.

They’re both in possession of exquisite cloaking charms, and Hermione only feels moderately guilty about defiling the boat house, or the unity garden.

Then again, she never had these moments inside the castle. It feels like a rite of passage she’s finally getting to experience.

Draco can’t keep his hands off of her. Which is new and quite thrilling. It’s only sex, she knows. She understands the chemistry of lust. Still, she has no idea why it feels so exceptional.

“Why does this feel so exciting?” She hitches her leg further up as he kisses her neck. He has her pressed up against the glass of one of the greenhouses. Her bra and knickers are off, and she’s quite sure she’s leaving an impression on the reflective surface.

“We never got to be foolish like this,” he counters, sucking the lobe of her ear into his mouth until she moans.

“Do you think this is foolish?” she asks. She doesn't, but lately she feels a swooping kind of nervousness every time they're together.

“No,” he laughs against her neck. “It’s the farthest fucking thing.”

He’s so close to that spot that makes her whole body limp, and he nuzzles against her curls gently before finding it, and sucking hard.

“Oh gods, Draco, are you reading my mind?”

She reaches down to cup his cock in her hands and rub the bulge.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he whispers. “Feel it, Hermione. I want to be inside you.”

Her pulse races, a strong weightless feeling makes her body go limp.

“Me, too,” she swallows hard as she considers the final item. “Tomorrow?” she says brightly, grabbing his neck and ensuring their bodies are touching in every conceivable place.

“I can wait until then,” he nods. “You waited for me.”

She pulls away. “I didn’t wait for you,” she corrects.

“Let me pretend.” His hand grabs her hip, rubbing her up and down the glass until she can no longer control her screaming.

He strokes her neck, praising her.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers against her hairline. “How can you be so perfect?”

***

She’s in the water with the campers when a horn sounds from the grounds. Something in her gut tells her to run. She’s up and out of the water in minutes, throwing her whistle at Cormac and running down the docks.

By the time she gets to the Quidditch pitch she’s missed them taking Draco to the infirmary.

“What happened?” she gasps, filling her lungs with air before she attempts to sprint all the way inside.

The Headmistress intercepts her before she can take off again.

“Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy was knocked from his broom by an unruly bludger. He is stable and under the care of Madame Pomfrey. I suggest you go back and check on your campers and close down the swimming area before heading inside.”

“Thank you, Headmistress.”

She waits, hesitantly, in case there is more.

“I will have someone cover your shift for tomorrow,” she replies, before turning to speak with the students who witnessed the accident.

Hermione is baffled by how McGonagall could have known anything had transpired between her and Draco, but then again, she suspects they’ve covered a wide berth of territory around the grounds.

She runs back to her cabin, shucking her wet clothes and changing into a soft pair of linen pants and the Slytherin jumper he left there two nights ago. She’s collecting an array of his clothing, and she holds it against her chest, pushing back the intrusive thoughts. She’s not giving any of it back.

The castle feels empty and cold. Lifeless, even, compared to the jubilance of the camp atmosphere just down the grounds.

She suddenly feels very old, like the enormity of her twenty-three years have somehow caught up to her. All that she’s accomplished, all that she’s survived, rushing before her like small firsties chasing after each other down the corridors.

She enters the infirmary, and tiptoes over to his bedside.

Pomfrey gives her a look of concern before reluctantly passing his chart to Hermione. Her eyes pass over the pertinent information as fast as she can, and she looks up to investigate the charms and runes working in tandem across his body.

“We’re meant to be mending the children, not fixing you,” she whispers.

He looks peaceful, but there’s a furrow of his brow she is dying to swipe over with her thumb.

A soft chuckle evolves into a hacking cough and she thinks she’s about to be reprimanded by Pomfrey.

“It’s empty in here, Granger,” he croaks out.

“I’m aware of that, Malfoy. We’re very good at putting children back together.”

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he asks, and it’s clear any filter for discretion was knocked out of him upon impact with the ground.

“Poppy, you can head in for the night. I can take care of him.”

“I can see that,” Pomfrey smiles knowingly at her. “Good night, Healer Granger.”

She waits to hear the click of the doors, before she lifts the blankets and scoots her body as close to his as possible.

“The amount of times I considered faking an injury just to get your hands on me,” he laughs again. His eyes are still closed but she can feel the tiny wiggle of his fingers reaching for hers. She takes his hand and squeezes gently.

“Hush. Sleep,” she instructs.

The light from the sconces above his bed cast a warm glow on his face. She lets herself look as long as she wants.

Her eyes drift closed for only a moment before he shifts again, making more room for her.

“The St. Mungo’s break room beds won’t be very comfortable either, you know.”

“Do you expect we’ll need them?” She hasn’t let herself think that far ahead.

“All the time,” he laughs. “Sex is great stress relief for long shifts.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be here.”

He begins coughing in the middle of the night and she’s quick to start a new round of diagnostic spells.

“You’re still here.” His voice is clipped, but warm, and she runs her hand across his feverish head, pushing the hair off his face.

“I’m here, Draco. I wouldn't leave.”

“I wanted to sleep with you, before sleeping with you,” he sighs.

She can’t quite breathe.

“You have a fever.”

“You’re just barreling to get this list done, aren’t you. I’m thinking of the little things.”

“I stopped caring about that,” she lies. She hasn’t forgotten about it completely. It’s an unfinished goal, and those are hard to absolve herself of.

“Maybe,” he hums. “Maybe, you may have. I’m not tracking a list. Like I said, I want everything with you.”

She settles for making new lists in her head. Future lists. Important lists.

***

She sleeps in his infirmary bed every night. Being on lifeguard duty is quite dull without him walking over to bug her every day, but she passes the time by teaching five of her campers life resuscitation spells, and when that tires she hexes Cormac to fall off his guard post and into the lake. She keeps busy, she supposes.

The last day of camp passes by in a blur, and she thanks the faculty and staff for the opportunity to be a part of the Hogwarts summer experience before helping Draco apparate back to his flat in London.

She has a mind to encourage Kingsley to double their budget. She’s almost positive there is a Pureblood or two she can approach for the funds.

She may very well have one in her possession right now.

She audibly sighs at the simple extravagance of it all. She adores it. Of course, she does.

He nods at her with a pompous look of satisfaction. She wants to hit him, but his ribs are still bruised and also she may love him, so she stays preternaturally still until she can calm her nervous system.

He walks over to her and she melts. She never thought they’d get this far, but he apparently has, and he tells her so.

“To be clear, I gave you my jumper, and you cared for me while I was ill. We’re officially courting.”

She can add courting rituals to her lists, she supposes.

She did not have a line item for interior design-induced arousal. She wonders if her pupils go wide taking in the 17th century chaise lounge.

He’s smug and beautiful, and she feels all-together cared for, even though she’s the one who has been doing the caring.

“I know what you need now,” he sighs, and she has no reason to doubt him.

He pulls her into a kiss that starts on Friday evening and doesn't end until Sunday morning.

***

The crisp autumn breeze blows freely through the open terrace doors as Hermione pulls on an Aran jumper. It may have once belonged to him, but now it smells like both of them.

The flat has pieces of her in it now, just because. It started by accident. She would leave curl cream or a textbook after a long weekend, and before she knew it, garment bags turned into his and her sides of the wardrobe.

It’s rare for them to share a night off, and she stores their wands in a place that’s close enough that they’ll hear an alert, but far enough not to have to glance at them every second.

She helps him make dinner, and he lights a fire in the hearth he transfigured not long after they returned from camp.

Draco places his hands on her hips, swaying and lulling her gently as the noodles boil. She cancels the charms just as he nips at her neck, eager for more than just their dinner.

She’s satiated on so many levels, she feels almost guilty for how this summer has changed everything. She went there for professional development, and to help children for Merlin’s sake. She wasn’t prepared for a summer fling. Certainly wasn’t prepared for something that has turned into so much more.

She knows herself a little better, and she can reluctantly admit, he knows her too.

She turns in his arms, biting her lower lip as he continues to kiss along the neck of her jumper. “We’ll ruin the dinner,” she hums, tightening her grip around his neck.

“Don’t care,” he says, pulling her as he walks backwards into the sitting room. She feels safe as he wraps himself around her, guiding her to the floor.

No one has ever touched her like this. She doesn’t want anyone else to.

Most nights they’re both exhausted from shifts; tonight she feels like she’ll die if he doesn’t touch every part of her.

Draco’s fingers curl around her, hands fumbling to squeeze her breasts over the fabric. She needs to feel him on her skin; she wants to feel wholly possessed by him.

Hermione giggles as he pulls her into his lap. He teases her under the fabric now, lifting the jumper just enough for him to push her bra aside, and tweak her nipples between his fingers.

Her head falls back against his shoulder as he caresses the peaks.

“More,” she whispers.

Everything, she wants to say.

The flames dance and lick up around the stone frame, and she holds onto his forearms for purchase, wiggling down onto his lap until he grunts.

His lips are on her neck, and she pushes back a little further, hoping to elicit a response. She knows what to look for; she is a Healer, after all.

“I like it when your skin smells like a campfire,” he kisses against her neck. “I quite suspect it's in my amortentia.

“You’re in mine,” she sighs, feeling him grow hard against her as she starts to move up and down on his lap.

The sun-repelling lotion she smelt all summer has been replaced by his cologne. It’s the scent she sniffs deeply from his pillows after he leaves their bed to shower, and it lingers on her Healer robes well into midday.

She reaches behind, finding his hard cock in his trousers, and rubbing it in her hand.

His breath hitches, and she can imagine what comes next. She loves watching it happen every time. Pupils blow wide, heart rate elevates, and a faint blush creeps up his neck and colours his cheeks.

He moves her hair to one side, sucking the skin at her pulse point. She’ll bruise, but she doesn't care. She wants to remember the feeling of his lips on her skin.

“You like this, baby?” he asks, holding her jaw in one hand, and pushing her down on his straining cock with the other.

She moans, and he shushes her.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. She can feel her arousal building just from these tiny movements.

More. Everything.

He removes his hands, shucking his shirt, and throwing it onto the sofa. She can feel the heat from his skin against her back.

“You want me?”

“Yes,” she huffs. A small, stubborn voice tells her to deny it, but how can she? She’s a needy mess in his lap, and it would be a lie.

“Say it again?” he asks.

“I want,” she says, voice trailing off as he licks up her spine.

Hermione focuses on the fire to keep her eyes from rolling back as his tongue moves around her vertebrae.

She folds forward, letting him pull her lounge pants around her knees, the short hairs of the 17th century Persian rug gently irritating the skin of her calves as he pulls them off. Her knickers slide down next and she feels the exact moment he slots himself against her. She’s impossibly wet already, probably since she got home from Pilates to find him attempting to cook Pad See Ew in their eat-in kitchen.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, as she slowly seats herself on him.

He pulls up the jumper and tosses it behind him, eagerly grabbing at her neck and exposed breasts like he’s impossibly excited to find her at that level of undress.

She braces herself on his thighs, squeezing as she leans forward and back, finding a rhythm.

“Draco,” she gasps. She can’t be quiet. She doesn’t want to be.

“Use me, love,” he instructs, pulling her jaw to the side until he can reach her mouth. Lips fold into each other, and her breath hitches.

Each kiss is chased after and earned.

He moans, and he can’t seem to help gripping her hips as she writhes in his lap. He reduces her to desperate gasps of “yes” and “harder.” They tumble from her lips in quick successive beats.

She didn’t know sex could feel like this, and she suspects it wouldn’t feel like this with anyone else.

“I’m so close,” she whines, looking back to admire the wrecked look on his face. He holds her down, muscles tense as he thrusts into her.

“Fuck, you’ve ruined me,” he gasps, reaching around to touch her clit. His fingers barely need to graze her before she’s moaning.

“Come, sweetheart,” he grits out. “Come with me.”

His voice brings her to the edge, and she tips over, melting into a blur of heat and devotion.

She collapses back, as if the thought of holding herself up is simply too difficult a position to maneuver.

Their bodies are warm pressed together, and he hums contently into her ear.

She feels completely spent, and peckish, as Draco lifts her just enough to turn her around on his lap. He scoops her hair off her neck and shoulders, ignoring the sweat she’s positive is lingering around her hairline.

“That was,” she sighs, content that she can’t express the sensations accurately.

“I’ve rendered you speechless,” he laughs softly. “I’ll cross it off my list.”

He’s entirely too smug about it all. She wants to smack him, but he scoops up her hands, bringing them tight against his chest.

He holds her like he’s hesitant to let her go, like every moment between them is singular.

Draco looks at her with a reverence that would scare her if she didn’t think her face mirrored the same sentiments. His fingers gently release her, reaching up to stroke her hair. She can feel the places down her back where the fire has made her warm to the touch.

He kisses her gently, his lips caressing her mouth, cheeks, and jaw.

She should get up to use the loo, to check on the dinner that has undoubtedly spoiled, but she can’t remove herself just yet. She can still feel him inside her, and part of her is almost tempted to move, to see if she can bring them both off again.

It wouldn’t take much, but she likes staying just like this.

She didn’t think this side of her would ever come forward, and now she can’t help the thoughts from tumbling into her brain. Sex with Draco is a mind, body and soul connection. Part of her knew that may be something she was waiting for.

“Hermione, I,” he whispers, mouth soft against her ear. She shivers, feeling the pause in his words.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she grabs his jaw so she can kiss him again properly.

“I want everything,” she says firmly, pulling back so she can watch the way his smile twists upwards, and overtakes his face.

She sighs with the simple and complete satisfaction of knowing he’s thinking it too.