It didn’t make sense. The loathing she had for Draco Malfoy was real and most assuredly mutual. But so was the lust in her dreams. Maybe it was the stress she was under or a repressed part of her consciousness–a desire to be punished. It had all started when she clumsily fell against him that day outside her room. She could still remember her hands pressed against his warm chest, the way his fingers caressed her side through the thin fabric of her night shirt. It felt so wrong; their bodies fused together with hatred and yet–  enough. 