"Mm. Me neither. Getting my throat slit is worth the privacy it's afforded us," Draco agreed, fingers trailing up and down Hermione's spine, thinking of his dank cellar shared with the Bulgarians, and always being interrupted by Potter, the nosey little fucker. It was far more pleasant here, in this little Healer's room, far removed from everything that always pressed inexorably in on them. Here, the war, his father, his mother – none of it had to exist if they just didn't think about it.