And suddenly, the idea of telling Draco that she would soon be on a Contraceptive Potion was ten times as embarrassing as any discussion she'd had with Lucius or Narcissa. She felt a blush spreading across her cheekbones, and decided that with her body pressed to his — with his hands rubbing sensuous circles on her waist — it wasn't the time to mention sex.

"He… he wanted to introduce me to the house-elves. And bore me with knowledge of the portrait curation in the west wing." She laughed.

Draco's brows furrowed. "Really?"

"Really. I think it was just an excuse to nag me about us snogging on his chaise. Oh, and he asked what we were studying."

"Maybe he was trying to distract you." Draco looked over at the door, as if he could suss out his father's intentions. "What did you tell him?"

"That you're helping me translate an ancient Egyptian scroll. Speaking of distractions," Hermione said, sliding out of his embrace and turning to the books. "I'd like to get some things done today."

He leaned over her, pressing his front to her backside and reaching for a book in the center of the table. "How am I supposed to get anything done when you're wearing these shorts," he whispered.

She shivered and suppressed a grin. "You could always transfigure them into something less distracting."

His lips ran over her ear as he murmured, "Not a chance."

~*~

Having Lucius home had renewed Hermione's sense of urgency. There was no guarantee he wouldn't storm in at any moment and shut their research down in the blink of an eye. The thought terrified her.

Lucius had been unable to attend dinner last night, so Hermione and Draco had worked late into the night — truly working. Draco had been particularly grumpy when they finally turned in, but agreed to meet her at eight o'clock the next morning nonetheless.

Two hours into their morning, Hermione was curled up next to him on the loveseat, halfway finished with skimming her eighth book, and still no closer to finding the language source of the seventh cluster of runes.

She shifted and leaned forward, taking a long sip of coffee. Her stomach twisted with anxiety. There had to be a shortcut. Even if she did locate the source, they were still looking at months, if not years, to translate a single journal. The Order didn't have that luxury.

She pressed her lips together and set down her coffee cup. "How is Theo?"

Draco looked up from the translation he had been working on for the past week — still on the first paragraph of a Scourer journal — and rubbed his eyes in a bleary, kittenish way that made her stomach flip.

"You'll remember," his deep voice grumbled, "that I don't give a fuck about Theo. How am I supposed to know?"

Hermione closed her book and turned to face him. There was no point in being coy. "I need to speak with him."