Back rub
She knew it would turn into more.
It always turned into more.
She'd approach him with a bottle of lotion, usually jasmine or vanilla, and complain of some imaginary knot in her shoulder or lower back. He'd oblige the complaint but watch with hunger in those silvery eyes as she'd slip the shirt over her head and lay on her stomach on the bed.
Draco worked his own brand of magic on her, deft fingers working on each muscle, freeing her of tension weighing her down. He knew which parts needed more pressure and which only wanted a feather-light touch. While many people admired her mind, this was the worship of her body, every freckle, every scar, every patch of skin perfect or imperfect.
It's when she felt loved, genuinely adored by him in all ways.
Inevitably she'd feel his length grow hard against her arse, and his lips would plant kisses down her spine then back up. She'd flip over and position her legs to bracket his hips. This was when they made love, with gentle touches and long breath-stealing kisses. His name became a chant on her lips until she couldn't form words. He'd hold her close and pour into her, shaking from the high chasing through his veins.
It seemed a simple thing, a backrub, but to Hermione it was so much more.