They only had so much time and Draco didn't know how long that would be. And he most likely couldn't give Hermione marriage, or children – certainly not any sort of future deserving of her – not even if they won the war. So he did the only thing he could do; he led her back to the bed and silently helped her strip off her clothes and she his, their mouths meeting and mingling. And then they were naked and entwined and still kissing and moving together, worn down and hurt, each being gentle, slow, tender with the other. Hermione's cheeks seemed wet when she tucked her face into the crook of his neck, and Draco thought maybe she was quietly crying but he didn't want to think too hard about that.