Draco was silent but for his gasps and occasional stifled almost-moans, his body heavy over hers and his fingers were digging hard enough into her hip to leave bruises. It wasn't slow, gentle, tender lovemaking like Hermione had imagined she and Ron would have had if they had ever... It was completely different, and in a way Hermione was glad of that. This was Draco. This was them, and what they had, and it might not be perfect or loving or guaranteed to end happily, but it wasn't just a pleasant lie. It was the truth, and it was rough and intense and jagged, and hurt in a way that Hermione clung to. It was them, and she didn't want to ever have to give that up. Oh god, she didn't want to.