Draco was at her side in an instant. He ordered chamomile and a sleeping draught to be brought to her room, and brushed off her questions with a "Not now, Granger." He walked her there with a hand on her back and forced her to go to bed with the promise that they would work on the tattoos first thing in the morning.

Hermione threw herself into research for the next few days, burning through her disgust. Quincy Parkinson was simply another person to add to her list of people who were going to pay. Draco met her every morning and left with her every evening. The first two days, they made excellent progress. She was three-quarters of the way through Tolbrette's journal; he was two-thirds through with his. But as the week dragged on, his attention became less and less focused. She found his gaze on her often, trailing over her face or dragging down her legs before flitting away. He asked her to repeat questions, and she got the sense that he wasn't really listening when she spoke. He had to take more breaks, stretching and strolling through the library stacks. Perhaps he'd grown sick of helping her.

It wasn't until Tuesday, when Hermione woke from a very pleasant dream, that she sharply realized the meaning behind the burning in his eyes.

He was randy.

She blinked at herself in the mirror several minutes later, toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. She'd been so preoccupied, so consumed by her research, that she hadn't thought once about what happened before they went to Nott Manor. But maybe it wasn't far from his mind. She thought back to the way he would walk her back to her bedroom at the end of each day, the way he'd watch her lips close around the rim of her coffee mug. The way he'd find little reasons to touch her — his hand on her waist as he moved around her in the stacks, his fingers against hers as he passed her his notes.

Abruptly, her body remembered his fingers in her knickers, her hand against his erection, his breath in her ear, the sounds from his throat as he came.

It wasn't that she didn't want to… again. She did. She'd just been… busy.

Hermione cleaned the toothpaste from her mouth, washed her flushed face, and opened the cabinets. The Contraceptive Potions stared back at her. One a month. She and Draco wouldn't be… Not yet. But there was no reason to be stubborn about it. She drank a potion and dressed quickly before hurrying to meet him downstairs.

He was wearing the cobalt jumper, and her eyes lingered on the way it stretched across his chest.

She joined him at the large table, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe. His long fingers flipped a page, and his eyebrows drew together in confusion. She watched him read for a few moments, feeling her blood begin to hum with the caffeine and her own nerves.