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He stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Profile obscured by shadow with only a glint from the signet ring worn on his left pinky. It was late, past midnight. Survivors filled Grimmauld Place - Harry, Ginny, Neville, Padma, Anthony, Seamus, so many others. Celebrations marched on downstairs, happy voices drifting up through the thin floorboards. She should be down with them, but she was too tired to celebrate. She had excused herself as soon as she could, craving space and silence to contemplate the aftermath.
Moving into the room, he let the door slam shut behind him making her wince as the reverberated down the hall to the drawing room below. Everyone would have seen him leave and now everyone knew where he went.
“Someone might hear you!” Her whisper lingered in the darkness as he prowled towards her. He flipped the hair out of his face, a sign of his annoyance. He started to shed his button-up and shrug out of his trousers in the three steps between the door and her bed.
“I don’t give a fuck who hears me, Granger,” he snarled. “Lay back down.”
She frowned at him, but obeyed. Slices of moonlight peaked through the thin drapes to reflect off his face: angular jaw tight with tension, ice-white hair, all lean muscle and long, smooth curves.
He replaced the blanket covering her with his own body, trapping her head between his elbows as he braced himself against the mattress, knees on either side of her thighs. Hovering above her, she could finally see his face. “They’re going to hear a lot more when I’m done with you.”
She swallowed nervously. Her hands skated up his hips so she could feel his cool skin under her fingertips. He shivered - her hands were cold.
“I thought you didn’t want anyone to know.”
He leaned down and kissed her. He slid his mouth over her own and the warmth almost overwhelmed her. Underneath his steely, moody exterior was a passionate lover, but she had forced herself to focus on urgency, her desperation for distraction. Softness was weakness; weakness would shatter the lines delineated in her head between acceptable pleasure and longing for their intimacy to be fully realized.
His insistence on keeping things quiet between the two of them rankled her in the beginning. After two years fighting by her side, he was the one who was embarrassed to be involved with her? He had been the one to start the whole affair. But it hadn’t been the wrong decision, though she’d never give him the benefit of her agreement. She had used him to blow off steam. She took out her darkest desires and fears on his body, things she hadn’t voiced to anyone but him. She craved freedom from making decisions, blessed silence over strategy. He tore her down to a limp husk of herself, unable to focus on anyone but him, and then cobbled her back together with enough mental fortitude to do whatever the next day required.
He tugged her to a sitting position without releasing her mouth, pulling up her nightshirt to pool it around her neck to allow his hands to run up the length of her torso, touch gentle as feathers. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he slipped his tongue inside her mouth and drew her against him. Her nipples pebbled as they scraped against the ridges of scars running the length of his chest.
“I want everyone to hear you, Granger.” His voice bloomed in tenderness she didn't recognize. He kissed her once, twice, three times. “I want you to be so fucking loud no one will ever question who you belong to.”
They were the words she dreamed up in the long hours after he’d fallen asleep. She tried to make herself focus and to resist the headspace where nothing existed but his body giving her pleasure.
“Why?”
He cupped her face and his voice trembled with emotion. “Because we won. And you’re alive.” He paused. “Please.”
It’s the please that does it. Draco Malfoy rarely asked for anything. He told her once his father considered the word please beneath a Malfoy and had backhanded him when he’d overheard Draco utter the word to a House-elf as a child. When Draco defected to Shell Cottage all of those years ago, please felt like something he wasn’t entitled to. He did what he was told and gave thanks for the privilege. She used to ask him what he wanted from her; whatever it was, he only had to ask. He never did, at least not with his words. He arranged her beneath or above him and allowed the word please to die on his lips as his tongue explored her skin.
A smile spread across her face and she sought sensation with her mouth against his. “Do what you will.”