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The Language of Touch

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Sharp fingertips bite into the swell of her hips, and she barely has time to cast a Silencio before her hands are digging into the rough stone walls and he’s bunching her skirt in impatient fists. It’s been a few months since their trysts began, and though it’s not a game, her heart was never meant to be played with, yet she’s offered it up on the table alongside her virtue to the last person she’d ever expected to claim them both. 

 

“I’ve missed you.” 

 

It’s as honest as his touch, and Hermione knows Draco struggles with things like sincerity. She wants to let him know that he’s not alone. 

 

“I’ve missed you, too.” 

 

He was raised in a stifling environment where a kiss on the cheek was perfunctory at best and affection was considered uncouth. She thinks she can wait for his words to match his actions, for his truths to take form in silly things like promises. She thinks she knows enough right now by the conviction in each kiss to believe he’s as honest as he knows how to be. 

 

“We don’t have much time,” she breathes, and his fingers trace the line of her hip as he grinds against her.

 

Blunt teeth scrape the column of her neck and she shivers when he whispers, “Then we’d better be quick.” 

 

If the walls of this alcove could talk, they’d tell tales of stolen moments in the middle of their patrols. They’ve seen her in various states of undress in this very spot more often than not lately, but thankfully, they don’t. The stones are silent as she curls her fingers around them, and their secret is still safe.

 

Deft fingers pull her plain knickers to the side and she reaches back to ground herself, pressing her nails into his still-covered thigh. Hermione used to think he cared for things like lacy knickers and matching sets, but she’d been wrong, and he’d told her so as he peeled those too-expensive pieces off her body with a sense of reverence that made her toes curl. 

 

He’s mumbling something against the curve of her neck, and she pretends she doesn’t know what he means. He’s making promises he can’t keep, and her heart thumps hard in her chest as his fingers work her into a state of frenzy. The buckle of his belt clinks as he rips it open. 

 

Minutes could have passed, or hours, maybe even days, but time doesn’t matter when she feels him prod her already slippery entrance. Her body welcomes him like a missing piece, and she can barely even breathe when his free hand tugs on the tie still wrapped around her neck. When they’re alone, he takes his time, and she thinks there’s room for that, too, but it’s in these hurried moments that she takes pleasure in knowing he’s just as desperate as she is to feel if this is still real. 

 

It feels awfully real as he grunts into her shoulder. It feels more real still when he grips her hip and tugs on her tie again.

 

So much has changed over the last year and she knows no one made it out of the war the same. The evidence of their losses mar the walls of this very castle, and they’re both marked with scars that they’ll carry for the rest of their days. But she thinks that might be why they fit so well together now, why his hips feel as though they were made to slot against her own. Maybe in their basest form, broken and shattered and barely beginning to heal, they fit in some strange way they never could before. 

 

Draco’s getting close, she can tell by the way his breath quickens and the snap of his hips begins to beat just a little off rhythm. Those long, lean fingers tug her skirt above her hips and slide to circle her clit as she presses her eyes shut and focuses on the feel of him. It’s in these seconds when they’re both half-mad with want and seeking their release that she feels the closest to him. Her pulse is racing and she knows he can feel it with each kiss he sucks into her skin. He likes to mark her in these moments, to brand her as his, and she’ll never admit she stares at the evidence in the hours and days that follow. It’s a reminder seared into her skin that this happened, that it keeps happening, and she wants something tangible to remind her just how real this can be.

 

“So close,” he mumbles.

 

When his teeth dig into her shoulder and she feels his bite though the robes he didn’t even bother to shed in his haste to have her, she knows she’s dangerously close to falling off that cliff and sinking into bliss. Curling her fingers just a little more, pulling him as close as physically possible, she feels those three little words she longs to say threatening to slip through her parted lips. Her mouth opens and she’s certain they’ll force their way out, but this time, it’s his name. Broken and half-strangled, she drags out the simple syllables in a low moan as she feels herself pulse around him. 

 

With one, two, three more snaps of his hips, he succumbs to his own release, and she knows by the way his chest heaves against her back that he’s just as affected by the intimacy of their coupling as she is. His arms are wrapped around her possessively, holding her as though she’s fragile and with an ounce less pressure, she might crumble to pieces right there in his arms. But he knows she won't. He, in fact, is one of the few who lets her know just how strong she is in those quiet moments she finds herself questioning whether winning the war was worth the loss of her childhood. He doesn’t wear his mask of indifference when he’s with her, and she thinks to see the man he truly is beneath it is a privilege very few have ever had. 

 

In these twilight moments of affection when he’s kissing his way up the column of her throat and his breath is skating the curve of her jaw, she knows this isn’t some passing fancy. 

 

It takes her a few moments to catch her breath. When his hand falls from beneath her skirt, she turns to face him and loops her arms around his neck. 

 

This time it’s not his name that slips between her lips. It’s not the silly ‘thank you’ she’d accidentally said the first time they’d been together and subsequently blushed about every time he teased her for nearly a month after. It’s a promise she’s ready and willing to keep and something real and true she hopes he appreciates. 

 

Hermione rushes to add, “You don’t have to say it ba—” but he silences her with a searing kiss. 

 

For a man who grew into himself in the midst of the war’s turmoil, she knows he’s as open with her as he’s ever been with anyone else, and for now, that’s more than enough. His kiss speaks louder than any whispered confessions ever could.