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Chapter Text

Bodies were pressed arse to tit, heat and sweat facilitating the easy slide of flesh. There was a sea of it, undulating and pulsating as the crowd slipped through reality. The beat was ferocious, burning up his senses until all he could feel was the bass and the sharp graze of her eyes burning across the dancefloor. Bystanders must feel it, this punishing attention he’d managed to horde all to himself.

Red lights flashed across Astoria's face, but she didn't look nearly as lost - or found. She was painfully present; bright, conscious eyes scanning the room while she chewed her overfilled bottom lip, as uncertain of herself as she was of her surroundings. Draco released a tight sigh, hiding himself behind a mask of concern.

“Do you want another drink, darling?” He murmured against her ear, deriving some pleasure when it elicited a modest squirm. 

She tried her best to look enticing, batting her long eyelashes up at him and transforming the nervous bite of her lip into something sultry. “Champagne, please.” 

Draco threw her a perfectly calibrated smile, placing a lingering kiss along the soft skin of her bare shoulder. “Stay with Goyle,” he said, pushing her gently toward their group. 

She was hesitant to let him go, looking back at the VIP booth where their fellow Slytherins played court and frowning. He wondered sometimes if she could sense it - his apathy toward her. Usually he was a better actor, but sometimes she caught him off guard and he showed his hand.

“Go,” he encouraged, pressing another kiss to the crown of her head. She smelled rich, like ambergris and rose. It was reassuring, knowing there are funds to back-up the prestige of her pureblood name. 

Astoria Greengrass was predictable and boring, but so was her family. They’d managed to stay out of the mess of the war, safeguarding their vast fortune and salvaging their good name by participating in dozens of reconciliation endeavors. They’d even funded the construction of a home for half-blood orphans, and though the institution housed only a dozen whelps and the roof leaked, the Greengrasses had successfully rehabilitated their image.

Paying his way out of Azkaban had required a considerable amount of Draco’s inheritance, stripping him of everything but a manor drenched in dark magic and a sullied name. Of course, Malfoys didn’t do poor, so Draco had been forced to get creative. He’d ventured underground, amassing an empire in black market artifacts and information. Dark magic and secrets were the currency with which he conducted business, but his methods didn’t necessarily ingratiate him to society.

Seducing Astoria, and securing her as the future Mrs. Malfoy, hadn’t been a stroke of luck or a play of fate. Draco had orchestrated every moment, securing photographs of her father’s underage male lover to ensure the coincidence of their repeated run-ins. It had required minimal effort on his part, planning his days around her favorite clubs, restaurants, and boutiques. His charm and good breeding did the rest, ensuring Astoria was utterly infatuated and his to control. He’d recently secured her hand, treating her to a grand proposal that made the front page of the Prophet - check and checkmate.

Yes, Draco Malfoy was well on his way to resurrecting his family’s name. He’d embraced the idea of settling down with his pureblood heiress and breeding her like their ancestors intended, letting his cock wander on the side. 

Unfortunately, his wayward libido kept leading him back to the same exact place.

He could feel her eyes trailing him as he waded through the crowd, heading for the bar. Glancing back, he made sure Astoria had retreated to the booth before he changed direction, weaving his way toward the restrooms at the back of the club. The music faded to a light buzzing in his ear as he entered the dimly lit hall, and eventually the dull clap of his dragonhide boots was joined by the crisp click of stiletto heels. 

She followed him into the men’s restroom, but they both came to an abrupt stop when they found two of the urinals occupied. Draco generally didn’t mind a bit of exhibitionism, but not with her. With her he was greedy. He had no desire to share, or for anyone to know where the infamous Malfoy scion buried his pride: right at the feet of the fucking Golden Girl. 

“Leave,” Hermione said coolly. The taller of the two wizards physically recoiled at her tone, incensed that a witch would even dare. His pale face reddened, lips pressing firmly together to form the distinctive ‘b’ in ‘bitch’, but his friend stopped him from making the fatal mistake.

“Oi, don’t you know who that is?” The smaller man hissed, tucking his limp cock hastily back into his pants. His brutish companion quirked his head as his brain struggled to think through the sludge of testosterone and drugs raging through his bloodstream. Eventually her identity clicked in his thick skull and his face turned ashen. Suddenly, he was bashful and apologetic - a terrible look for someone so bloody big. His friend added to the prostrations, chanting “thank you” like it could bring them salvation. 

Their gratitude meant nothing. She’d heard it so often, the words had lost all their weight. With a dismissive flick of her wrist, she sent them scurrying from the room. Draco’s cock was already stirring to attention in his trousers, and he widened his stance to accommodate the growth. Flinging a wandless locking charm at the door, she leaned against the wall, appraising him from the points of his boots to the perfect tousle of his blond hair. 

“Hey, pookie,” she said in a voice dipped in honey, eyes full of stars. 

Draco hated the nickname. Hermione knew he hated the nickname - but for her, that was all the more reason to use it. Her tongue traced the points of her top teeth, the heat of her attention settling on his groin. His traitorous cock jumped, already too eager for her touch. 

“Who’s your friend?” She asked, gesturing back toward the dance floor. Her smile was precise, reeling him in while remaining unattainable. She may be fucked up, but she was always in control. 

“Fiancé,” he corrected, though he knew she had every detail of his courtship documented. 

Her smile deepened. Draco imagined that she liked the messy entanglement. Products of war, neither of them knew how to do easy, and she probably reveled in the idea of ruining him for pureblood cunt. 

“Nice headline,” she remarked. “Skeeter just happened to be passing by the Greengrass’ vineyard when you showed up on a Swedish Short-Snout with a twenty-five karat ring?”

Draco shrugged. Securing the reporter’s presence had been the easy bit. “It just so happens that she's an oenophile.”

Hermione's laugh was more precious than the diamond on Astoria’s finger, and he held his breath so he could better hear it. “What are the odds?” She smiled, beckoning him forward with the curl of her finger.

Draco walked right into the sun, closing the distance between them and crowding into her space. Her hands snaked up into his hair, raking her nails against his scalp and pulling his head back. His body responded without a fight, a well-oiled machine when it came to her rough touch.

“Have you had her yet?” She asked, running her nose along the exposed column of his throat.

“Just a taste,” he answered, relishing how his words provoked her to tighten her hold. 

A breathy chuckle tickled the shell of his ear before she grabbed onto the lobe with her teeth, teasing it with the tip of her tongue. “Just a taste?”

“What’s porridge when I can have filet mignon?” He groaned, pushing his hips forward in search of her heat. His hand groped at her leg, pulling up her dress so she could straddle his hip and allow him access to the juncture of her thighs. 

The introduction of friction hitched her breath, and she dropped her hands onto his shoulders to steady herself. Draco rolled his hips, and she gasped. He wanted to kiss her, to bruise her pretty mouth purple, but he wanted to watch more. Bracing his forehead against hers, he smirked when she had to bite her lip to stifle a moan. His cock was already smearing precum across the inside of his briefs, and he pulled her leg up higher to better target her clit through her damp knickers. 

“I’m hungry, Hermione,” he whispered, eyes never leaving her mouth. A little whine escaped her lips, and then her hands were framing his face and she was slamming them together. 

Draco had never been impressed by much in life. How could he be, when he was raised without knowing want? But the way Hermione kissed him got him every time. She did it with everything she had, like she’d been fighting to deny herself and the dam just broke.

Their lips broke every promise their tongues had ever made, letting arbitrary titles like ‘fiancé’ and ‘husband’ fall to the wayside. Draco shuddered at the power of it, this thing between them that guilt could not constrain. You’d think the high would plateau, or he’d build up a tolerance, but in seven years it had never happened. He was her worst habit, and that fact alone was its own kind of drug.

Draco tore away the front of her flimsy dress, pulling the cups of her bra down so they propped up her breasts. He didn’t even have to look, expertly circling her nipple with the pad of his thumb and fucking her mouth with his tongue. Her body arched right up into his hands, grinding against his hard cock and moaning with abandon. Despite their commitment, their panting derailed the kiss, and she released a frustrated groan. 

“I thought you said you were hungry?” She barked impatiently, ripping open his shirt with her magic and dragging her fingernails down his chest. 

“Starving,” he murmured, leaning forward to scrape his teeth against her pulse. Reaching between them, he popped open the buttons of his trousers and jerked down the zipper. They fell around his hips, and Hermione slid her hand into his briefs, grabbing him by the base. Her fingers tightened, almost to the point of pain, as she stroked his cock to full attention.

Draco didn’t bother to strip her knickers from her, yanking the soaked lace to the side and using his weight to pin her to the wall. “Put me inside of you,” he grunted.

Adjusting her stance, she hooked her leg higher on his waist and shucked her dress up around her hips. Their eyes met as he followed the lead of her hand, notching the head of his cock at her entrance and easing his way into her tight heat. She’d long ago let slip that his length dwarfed Weasley’s, so Draco liked to give it to her slow - so she could truly appreciate the stretch. Hermione’s eyelids pressed closed, her lips outlining a prayer as he fed her each inch, burying himself to the hilt. Kissing her trembling lips, he let her body adjust before he drew back and slammed into her.

Hermione’s nails dug into his shoulders, abandoning his lips so she could throw back her head and moan. Draco adopted a hard rhythm, angling his posture so he could watch her take each stroke. Her thighs were already slick with her juices, the sound of the wet slide of their skin echoing off the tile and complementing the bass from the dancefloor outside. 

“Look at us,” he demanded hoarsely, slowing the roll of his hips so she could see how she glistened for him. Her head fell forward, a whimper escaping her pursed mouth at the sight. Hermione’s hand drifted to where they were joined, collecting the wetness on her fingertips and bringing them to his lips. Draco sucked each one clean, the vibrant taste of her dancing across his tongue as she lifted herself up onto her toes and rode him harder. 

The doorknob jiggled beside them, followed by a cacophony of pounding fists as muffled voices pressed for access. A bolt of excitement shot down his spine when he caught Hermione’s delighted grin, but as the knocking intensified, she threw the door a hostile glare. Extending her arm, she slapped the palm of her hand against the wall and released a wave of fiery red light across its surface. The noise cutoff abruptly, leaving only the low murmur of music and the sound of their hard breathing. Hermione wielded power absently - like it was a fucking afterthought - and it was the sexiest damn thing Draco had ever experienced.

She caught the look on his face, reviving her smirk. “Don’t worry,” she cooed, threading her fingers in his hair. “I didn’t kill them.”

“You’re terrible,” he groaned, dropping his hand between their bodies so his thumb could circle her clit. She bit back a whine, brown eyes wide as he edged them closer to ecstasy. His hips snapped with renewed vigor, chasing the high.

“Right there,” Hermione gasped, purring out his name. “Oh, Draco, don’t stop.”

His muscles tensed, focusing all of his exertion on hitting that perfect spot deep within her. No matter how hard, or how long Weasley loved her, he’d never be able to reach it. Draco owned it outright, along with her heart.

“You feel so good, Hermione. ” he said, voice thick as her core clenched around him and he struggled to delay his own release.

“Inside,” she demanded, nodding frantically. “Come inside me, Draco.”

“Herm—”

“I wanna be full of you.”

His meager protest died on his lips as Hermione came apart, screaming his name and flailing in his arms. Draco followed her over the cliff one second later, legs shaking as he pushed past exhaustion. His orgasm tore from him like a punch to the gut, forcing all the oxygen from his lungs and tunneling his vision. Pleasure flooded every system of his body, and he slumped forward, exhaling a long, jagged moan in the crook of her neck. Through the roaring in his ears, Draco was cognizant that he was still rocking into her, pushing his come deep and fulfilling her request. 

It took him a moment to remember where he was, blinking to refocus his eyes on the white tile and slowly straightening his posture. Hermione stared forward, all the longing she usually hid so well pushed to the surface for a brief moment of truth.

“She isn’t right for you,” she whispered, running a manicured nail along the pearlescent scar that dominated his chest. 

Draco wrapped a hand around her finger, holding it against his skin as the other tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. “Neither are you.”

There was a brief pause, a blink-and-you-miss-it moment in which they silently argued over a thousand impossibilities. But then she was pulling away and Draco’s softened cock was slipping from her warmth. A tense silence descended between them as they stepped apart and adjusted their clothes.

They used to have this argument out loud, before she’d begun her climb up the rungs of power. It had become rehearsed, the same talking points screamed across hotel suites and secluded hideaways. Neither of them were willing to compromise their ambition, and eventually the fight died out. They’d settled into their secrecy, but it didn’t satisfy. Draco never stopped wanting her. It was a hunger that he could not sate, a vacuous ache he would never ease - but he’d take it every day over not having her at all.

“So when’s the wedding?” She asked, gazing at herself in the mirror and blurring the remnants of her lipstick with the pads of her fingers. 

Draco joined her at the sinks, leaning forward to fix the collar of his shirt and run a hand through his hair. “We’re getting married next year.”

“Send an invitation to my office and I’ll get her something nice,” she said. There was an edge to her voice, but her face maintained a learned impassivity. She was an exemplary politician, even in her personal life.

Draco frowned at her in the mirror as he secured his trousers. “Do you think that’s appropriate?”

Hermione scoffed, placing her hands down on the counter and flashing a grin. She pivoted toward him, reaching out to apply the finishing touches and straighten his tie. “If I’ve learned anything from my predecessors, it’s that I make the fucking rules now.”

“How despotic.” 

“You like that?” Her hand cupped his cheek, wiggling her brows before she gave him a light slap and turned back to the mirror. “Besides, you’re marrying her to salvage the Malfoy name, aren’t you? A gift from the Minister for Magic puts an official stamp of approval on the marriage.”

“Should I send you and Weasley an anniversary present then?” He asked, struggling to match her tone. She spoke of his upcoming nuptials with more familiarity than he cared to, as if it wasn’t ripping out her heart to accept another obstacle between them. “What year is it? Paper?”

“Don’t get emotional. You always get emotional.”

“Then good thing I’m not,” he gritted out. 

Hermione stopped combing her fingers through her loose waves, dropping her hands and turning to face him. “This is supposed to be a good thing, Draco. It’s a smart move.”

“I know, that’s why I pursued her,” he responded curtly, tugging his sleeve down to conceal the blurry lines of his Dark Mark. Her hand shot up to stop him, running her thumb along his marred skin. Closing the distance between them, she rested her chin on his shoulder and angled her mouth toward his ear.

“I’m going to go home to my husband now, but it's your come that’s dripping down my thighs,” she said softly. “Your name is written on my soul, Draco - all he has is a piece of paper.”

He tried to find satisfaction in that, but the sentiment fell flat. Hermione was his in every way that mattered, yet Weasley was the one who got to claim her in front of the world. He got to share her life, while Draco was contained to the shadows - scraping together stolen moments that could never fulfill the demands of a lifetime. Pulling her into his arms, he closed his eyes and silently willed her to stay. She probably even considered it. The temptation was always there for both of them, but after a few minutes she stoically stepped away.

Hermione trailed her fingers down his side as she walked past him, stopping in front of the bathroom door and unlocking it with an elegant wave of her hand. The door fell open and the unconscious wizard she’d stunned slumped to the bathroom floor, landing at her feet. Without a second glance, she stepped over the body and disappeared from view.

Chapter Text

“Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined together, speak now or forever hold your peace...”

Draco inhaled through his nose as quiet seconds ticked past, maintaining the gentle expression he’d pasted on his face that morning. He was good at keeping up the pretense, staring contentedly into his blushing bride’s eyes and squeezing her hands reassuringly. He sold the look, but beneath his calm demeanor, Draco’s heart raged. The temperamental muscle thundered in his chest, as if he were climbing a gallows' stairs. It fought him every step down the aisle, whispering intrusive thoughts and begging him to abandon his ambitions and run.

Astoria bit her lip, risking a quick glance at the intimate gathering of family and friends. Draco could name a few of the faces in attendance, but none were his guests. Only Goyle stood by his side, shifting back and forth on his feet as the officiant let the silence linger.

“You can continue,” Draco said, encouraging Astoria with a nod. 

The elderly wizard shook himself to attention, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his crooked nose and grimacing apologetically. “Of course. Do you have the rings?”

Goyle took a step up the altar, thrusting the velvet ring box forward as he spared Draco a look. The extended opportunity for confession hadn’t been a trick of his gossamer sense of guilt, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the old man knew something. His paranoia was rarely unfounded, but he was wired so tightly that the slightest infraction could attract his wrath. Draco already doubted whether the photographer would survive the day.

Astoria reached forward confidently to retrieve his ring, brushing against his fingers as he pulled her platinum band from the same blue satin cushion. Her wedding ring had been designed to nestle perfectly against the one he’d presented to her a year prior, and the metal swirled with protective magic, shimmering faintly in the bright summer light. He would never be able to fulfill the promise of them, but at the very least he could keep her safe.

“The bride and groom have elected to personalize their vows,” the officiant stated. Lowering his voice, he pinned Draco with a saccharine smile. “Right, you’re up first young man.”

Angling his body toward his audience, Draco gave a performance for the ages. His tongue painted a masterpiece of perception, detailing a whirlwind romance and once-in-a-generation love that only his bride had experienced. The crowd ate it up, conned by the trompe l'oeil  he constructed out of pretty words, trite declarations, and a charming anecdote about how she took her tea. Astoria beamed up at him as he declared his heart for her, eyes overflowing with uncompromised adoration and far too much faith. Retrieving the handkerchief from his breast pocket, he dabbed the tears from her face and heard her sister sigh dreamily from the front row. 

Draco could practically feel the winds of public opinion shift around him as everyone bought into the myth that love could conquer all. The wedding band slipped down her finger, clinking against her engagement ring and sounding remarkably like a locking cell. Promising to love and cherish her for all his days, Draco had the fleeting thought that he just might burn in hell. 

Though far less eloquent, Astoria echoed his sentiments. She loved him, of that no one needed convincing; the social fallout was too great for her to be anything but sincere. Her small, sure hands wrapped around his, pushing the cold band of metal past the knuckle and marking him for life. Their lips finalized the vows and Draco’s heart seethed in defeat.

His jaw ached from smiling and his fist was itching to meet the photographer’s face by the time they were done taking pictures. Entering the venue hand in hand, they received a standing ovation from the room. Astoria was incandescent, receiving each guest with an encyclopedic knowledge of their biographies and a list of their connections. She introduced him to dignitaries and renowned scholars, distant cousins and the top brass at the Ministry, whispering little suggestions in his ear that helped move the conversation along. It was exactly what she’d been raised to do, and she fulfilled Draco’s every expectation, placating the hostiles and selling the story of his redemption. In a moment of pure schadenfreude, she even coaxed her father to call him son. 

The hum of whispers spread throughout the hall, foretelling the Minister for Magic’s arrival, but Draco was already painfully aware. He’d felt her the moment she’d Apparated to the venue, slowly making her way into the main room through a sea of supporters. Astoria had sent her an invitation on a lark, one that he’d tried to dissuade. His ability to lie was directly proportional to the distance he kept between them, and he could feel his mask slipping the moment he caught a flash of Weasley’s ridiculous hair across the room. Draco never would have made it through his vows if she’d been there to witness, and he was grateful the she had elected to only attend the reception. He’d choked on his tea when Astoria had read to him Hermione’s response to the invitation, a cheeky note scrawled out in her hurried hand explaining that she “didn’t want to detract from the bride.” 

Astoria bit her lip, face aglow with triumph when she spotted them. Her arm looped around his, pulling him down so she could whisper in his ear. “I can’t believe she actually came! This is exactly what we needed, Draco. I know you three have an unpleasant history, but making amends with the Minister and her husband will do wonders for your image.”

It was Astoria’s understanding that Draco had run afoul of the Golden Trio at Hogwarts because of the actions of his father. That was partially true. She also believed Potter and Weasley had unfairly targeted Draco’s business in their work as Aurors, and that they were biased against him due to their shared past. That assertion could be fairly levied, but the claim fell apart when his criminality was revealed. Weasley had valid reasons for not liking him, none of which were related to Draco fucking his wife, and amends seemed inconsequential when he’d spent nearly a decade worshipping at the altar of Hermione Granger’s perfect cunt.

Together, he and his bride made their way around the room until only one table remained. Astoria had thoughtfully tucked the Minister in a quiet corner where her security detail could better control who gained access, and they were ushered past milling well-wishers by agents dressed in trim black suits. As they approached, Draco indulged himself in the sight of her.

Hermione had exchanged her usual black for the palest summer green, a shimmery floor-length gown that embraced her curves and complemented her coloring. She looked otherworldly, an earthbound goddess radiating verdant light. Hermione always wore her hair down, too proud and defiant to restrain even a single strand, but today it was twisted into an elegant chignon at the base of her long neck. The creamy expanses of her skin glowed with life, the pink flush cresting across her cheeks signifying she was already at least one drink deep. She was trying to tell him something through her choices, and his brain turned the problem around with an obsessiveness only she could inspire.

Milicent Bulstrode stopped them before their final approach, pulling them to the side so Hermione could finish a tense conversation with one of Astoria’s many cousins. Sweat gathered along the middle-aged wizard’s receding hairline, his glasses slipping down his nose as he leaned forward and sneered. His fist cracked against the table in disagreement, and although Hermione didn’t flinch, Draco’s magic sparked to life.

Milicent cocked her head at him as she embraced Astoria, layering on the compliments to buy him time to regain control. As the Minister’s longtime political strategist and right-hand witch, she probably knew more about his relationship with Hermione than he did.

“Congratulations,” she said in a hushed voice, ghosting a kiss on each side of Draco’s face. “I never thought it would happen.”

Astoria gave her a smug smile, pressing her body into his and laying her hand against his heart. “I tend to get what I want.” 

The low murmur of Hermione’s voice stuttered out, but just barely. To anyone else it would sound like a tense breath or the product of dry mouth, but Draco and Milicent’s eyes met knowingly.

“Are you seeing anyone right now, Mili? I know your parents are anxious for you to settle down,”  Astoria asked innocently, slipping her fingers between the buttons of his shirt and stroking the skin beneath. Draco remained perfectly still as she touched him, watching Hermione’s hands tense and release before she folded them in her lap.

“Still quite committed to the whole lesbian thing, unfortunately,” Milicent responded drily, looking back at the table with a frown. 

Astoria removed her hand from his chest, throwing it into the air defensively. “Oh, I don’t judge! You know how mothers talk.”

The Greengrass cousin was getting louder as the conversation progressed, but Hermione seemed uninterested in placating him. Her eyes darted from his angry red face to Milicent with increasing frequency, communicating in a language only the two witches spoke.  

“Excuse me,” Milicent said, bowing slightly as she turned and moved away. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Astoria whispered. Draco murmured something reassuring without even bothering to look at her, all of his attention reserved for the scene playing out and the unanswered disrespect.

Milicent’s hand landed heavily on the wizard’s shoulder, startling him out of his tantrum. Her  nails bit into his flesh, eyes focused on Hermione’s face as she bent over and hissed something in his ear. Suddenly pale, he pulled from her hold and jumped from his seat.

“How dare you!” 

Hermione stopped Milicent from intervening with a glance, leaning back in her chair and nodding at him to continue. Taking a step forward, he loomed over her as his wand hand shook emptily at his side.

“Your time will come, Muggleborn,” he snarled, skirting the slur.

“Benedict, really!” Astoria gasped, clutching at Draco’s arm. His muscles twitched impulsively as he stood by and did nothing, reminding himself of where he was and who they were. Reality didn’t stop him from imagining what it would be like if he had the freedom to act. His mind entertained a thousand scenarios, all of which concluded with the wizard’s appendages stacked neatly at his witch’s feet. Draco’s only solace was the knowledge that she preferred to handle these sorts of outbursts herself.

Hermione’s mouth curved into a smirk. Draping her arm over the back of her chair, she turned to better assess the wizard standing before her and exhaled out a low, unimpressed laugh. “My time is now, Greengrass. You’re the dying breed.”

“How dare you speak to me in that manner, you ungrateful bit—”

“Watch yourself, Benny,” she drawled, clucking her tongue. “You wouldn’t want to jeopardize your standing within the Ministry over such a trivial disagreement.”

His ruddy face turned a shade darker, and he gaped at her like a dying cod. “Trivial! Now see here—”

Hermione raised her hand, silencing him with the gesture. She exuded soft power, certain in her ability to control the situation through sheer will. “Walk away and I’m willing to disregard this entire conversation. I’ll extend to you some grace in the name of our longstanding relationship and the mutual respect we usually carry for one another. There’s no reason for you to ruin your life today, Benedict.”

Her smile was anything but sincere, but the wizard took the lifeline. He nodded, wiping the perspiration from his brow and eyeing the rest of the room as he slowly backed away. 

“Oi, you best step off,” Ronald Weasley called out, running up from behind and thumping two glasses down on the table. The wine sloshed over the rim, staining the tablecloth red as the burly ginger charged toward Benedict Greengrass and grabbed him by the neck.

Weasley had stepped away from his career when Hermione had been elected Minister, assuming a largely symbolic role in her administration that provided few outlets for his aggression. He fought this domestication by bulking up and growing a thick auburn beard - a feat Draco could never achieve. Appointing himself the honorary head of her security team, he obsessively stalked his wife’s schedule, doomed to live forever in her shadow.

“Ron,” Milicent groaned. Hermione’s face settled into a blank expression, but her posture didn’t change. Tightening her fingers around the edge of her chair, she exhaled through her nose.

Draco shouldn’t relish the sight, but watching her disappointment manifest itself so bluntly just did something to him. Weasley was a brute - a hammer when a scalpel was due - perpetually crashing through life and banking on his status as a war hero to see him through. Draco had never met two people less suited for one another, but he understood better than most how youthful choices could fester into regret.

“Put him down, Ronald,” Hermione said, barely moving her lips. Her voice was a cold order, and Weasley winced before dropping the older wizard to the ground.

Benedict wheezed, slamming the palm of his hand against the floor until he could once again control the workings of his windpipe. His reddened eyes whipped to Hermione’s face, throwing her a wild glare before he scrambled to his feet. The air whistled through his lungs as he pushed past Draco and ran from the room.

Hermione angled her head, cracking her neck to dispel the tension he knew she always carried there. She scanned their immediate area, briefly meeting Milicent’s eyes in silent conversation before she stood and glided toward them. Weasley fell into line beside her, mouth cementing into a tight frown as he approached.

“You do us a great honor by attending, Minister,” Astoria said, quick to forget the unpleasantness. She rushed forward to meet them, grasping Hermione’s hands warmly in her own.

Seeing the two women together was a study in contrasts: Astoria’s buttoned up formality to Hermione’s natural grace. While the former had been trained to hold the attention of a room, the latter had been born with the ability. She dripped magic, and possessed a certain je ne sais quoi that had endowed her with a gravitational pull. Astoria could never compete with the sun; she entered Hermione’s orbit and was as lost as the rest of them, staring up at her with obvious admiration.

“I was touched that you thought to invite us,” Hermione responded. Her lips slid into a politician’s inoffensive smile, but her brown eyes locked onto Draco’s face. 

She might as well have punched him in the gut. All of the oxygen rushed from his lungs and he wavered, rocking on his feet before he closed the distance between them and took her hand. “Thank you, Minister,” he said stiffly, bending at the waist to honor her with a bow. It felt unnatural to release her and return to his rightful place, like he was being yanked up by the root.

“Malfoy,” Weasley grunted, extending a calloused paw. Draco accepted the gesture, fighting the urge to roll his eyes when his hand was throttled in a predictable show of force. 

“Weasley,” he nodded, pulling from his grip. “It’s not everyday we’re graced by the presence of a genuine war hero.” Draco delighted in his discomfort as he fidgeted, all too aware of where his laurels rested.

“It’s an honor to have you in attendance as well, Mr. Weasley,” Astoria smiled, taking his hand and sweeping away the awkwardness. “It’s so important that we come together as a community to celebrate happy occasions, don’t you think? Build bridges, as they say.”

Weasley muttered a crass agreement, turning his back to them to retrieve the wine he’d abandoned on the table. He slipped one of the glasses into Hermione’s waiting hand, a pass off that was all muscle memory. Their bodies settled beside each other with a natural intimacy, as if the same fate controlled them both. Jealousy spoiled the contents of Draco’s stomach, a cold burst of hatred ripping down his spine at the privileges Weasley squandered.

“Well said, Ms. Greengrass,” Hermione replied, raising her glass. 

“Oh, Malfoy now,” she corrected gently, lacing her fingers between Draco’s and giving his hand a squeeze. The temperature in the room plunged ten degrees, but he doubted anyone else could feel it. His control was too thin to look up, and he remained focused on their tangled hands as Hermione cleared her throat.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” she said, sounding out each syllable like they were bitter on her tongue. 

“You took his name?” Weasley scoffed into his glass, splashing wine across his lips.

Astoria’s face transformed with firm resolve, and she tilted her chin up to address the slander. “I am proud to be Draco’s wife, Mr. Weasley.”

Draco had a certain amount of affection for his new wife, but a lot of it stemmed from her rabid, albeit misplaced, defense of his character. It was like having his own little attack terrier, and she had an uncanny ability to argue his redemption to the point where even he questioned it. In another life, she would have made a brilliant solicitor. 

“Why didn’t your wife take your name, Weasley?” Draco posed, though he knew he’d pay for it later. 

“Now boys,” Hermione chided, wrapping her hand around her husband’s wrist to stop him from advancing. “We’re meant to be repairing old divisions. Leave these cock-measuring contests in the past.”

Astoria laughed, poking Draco in the ribs until he squirmed and backed away. Though he ultimately didn’t stand down on her account, she got up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Yes, let’s not fight.”

“Shall we get a picture together?” Hermione offered, gesturing at the photographer who’d been trailing her all evening. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if the man’s camera roll was dominated by images of the Minister - It would be fitting, really. 

“What a lovely idea. Thank you, Minister,” Astoria answered, looking quite pleased with herself. An image like that could be leaked to the press, cementing Draco’s rebranding. Although it wasn’t spoken, everyone participating in the photograph was aware of the subterfuge.

Hermione crossed in front of him, grazing her nails against his groin as she slipped into position and beckoned her husband. Weasley rolled his eyes as he joined the line, and Draco gave himself to the count of three to put aside his lust before he opened his eyes and smiled. The camera bulb sparked and the couples broke apart, exchanging polished goodbyes. Just before she turned back toward her table, Hermione tipped her face in his direction. It was a quick look, long gone before anyone could question it, but Draco knew exactly what it meant. There was an unspoken sentiment between them that neither were brave enough to voice. They tiptoed around the words like nervous teenagers, afraid to be the first one to admit that they were compromised. Sometimes Draco imagined what it would be like to hear her say it, or to whisper the promise against her skin and feel her tremble from its power.

“The band is ready for the first dance if you two are,” Goyle said, jolting him from the dream. 

“Ready when you are,” Astoria said, offering Draco her hand. Goyle attempted a reassuring smile, but his gaze kept flickering toward Hermione - expounding upon his nervous mood.

Guiding her toward the dancefloor, Draco made a pass along its periphery to showcase his stunning bride. A wave of applause swept across the room, but a dark storm gathered in the corner. 

Astoria assumed her place in his arms, the music played, and Draco led them in a waltz.

He was dimly aware of the witch in his arms, the familiar tempo and his practiced steps, but it felt like a fog. Draco looked into Astoria’s blue eyes and they immediately drifted from his focus. Every part of him was distracted, and as his view looped around the room he found Hermione’s gaze again and again. She never seemed to blink, branding him with the heat of her eyes.

The ring digging into the flesh of his finger was just a bit of metal, he was already owned. 

Astoria’s father stood, grumpily tossing his napkin on the table, and slowly made his way to the floor to receive his daughter for their own dance. Draco passed her off like he’d never really held her, giving a quick bow before he retreated to the sidelines. He made a beeline for Goyle, catching him by surprise when he dragged him forward by the arm. 

“I need to see her - now.”

Goyle inhaled a sharp breath, finding Hermione across the room and swallowing hard. “It’s your wedding, mate.”

“I don’t care. Talk to Milicent. Make it happen,” Draco snarled, pushing him away. “And find out where Benedict Greengrass ran off to.” 

Goyle chewed his lip, watching Astoria sail across the floor in her father’s faithless arms. He had stated his reservations before, but his qualms had begun to surface with an alarming frequency. Where was this conscience when he was sliding his knife between the first and second rib, smothering his victim’s screams with his bare hand?

“Just do it,” Draco hissed. 

Goyle hesitated, but eventually moved, weaving between clusters of enraptured guests as he made his way to the table Hermione haunted.

Draco scanned the faces around him for interlopers, but the attention of the room was wholly owned by his charismatic bride. She was a beautiful dancer, graceful and precise as she floated on air. Her expertise came from a lifetime of lessons, but there was an innate sensuality about her movements that imparted her passion. 

He didn’t even know if Hermione knew how to waltz, and it dawned on him that there would come a time when he knew more about Astoria simply because he would always have the ability to ask.

Draco made for the bar just outside the main room, exhaling out his relief when he found it empty aside from a single bored bartender. “Scotch,” he said, clearing his throat when his voice snagged on the request. “Please.”

The wizard snapped to attention, wringing his hands on his apron as he struggled to gather the few necessary supplies. He didn’t ask about a label or how it should be served, far too much ice ended up in the glass and it wasn’t even Draco’s brand, but he accepted it gratefully. The liquor wasn’t even chilled when he downed the contents.

“Another,” he said, sliding the glass down to where the bartender had mistakenly retreated.

“Yes sir!” 

Draco took advantage of the solitude to take a deep breath and rebuild his control brick by brick. He was ninety-nine percent sure he was about to do something reckless - or at the very least distasteful. Purebloods regularly stepped outside of their marriage, and plenty of Sacred Twenty-Eight heirs looked nothing like their fathers, but how many of them negotiated secret rendezvous at the wedding venue? He told himself that he just wanted to see her face, to touch her with intention and not hide the way his hands had memorized every inch of her skin, but as he threw back his second glass of scotch, Draco knew exactly what he was about.

Goyle emerged from the main room and gestured for him to follow, lumbering toward a side door and playing the unwilling guide. Draco cracked the piece of ice he’d been chewing between his molars and dropped his glass to the counter. Nodding to the bartender, he crossed the room.

“Draco?” Astoria’s breathless call stopped him in his tracks, and he spun on his heels to face her. She bounced on her feet, full of energy as she skipped toward him and grabbed his hands. “Come dance with me.”

“I have a bit of business I need to attend to, darling,” he said, pressing a kiss to her damp temple. Her cheeks sported a fetching blush from her recent exertion and she smiled exuberantly with all her teeth. 

“Hurry back,” she giggled, forcing his head down so she could kiss his lips. Draco put a little effort into matching her ardor, but he was borrowing the passion from the only source he’d ever known. 

Her face was free of doubt as she twirled in his arms and bounded back toward the crowded dancefloor. This trust was one of the reasons Draco had chosen her for his wife. Her father had been able to maintain an entire roster of young men under the pretense of ‘business’, but she was fundamentally unable to see past the lie. Her love and her loyalty made her blind, the quintessential example of how even goodness could be corrupted.

“Astoria doesn’t deserve this, Draco,” Goyle said quietly, holding the door open for him to pass through.

“I know that,” he muttered.

“You don’t deserve this.”

Draco scoffed at the claim. “That’s debatable.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, following a long hallway past empty storage rooms and supplementary parlors the venue rented out for smaller events. Coming up short before a nondescript door, Goyle angled his head. 

“I’ll track down that Greengrass you're after,” he mumbled. 

Draco rested his hand on the cold metal doorknob and offered his friend a fragile smile. “When you find the witch you’re meant to be with, do yourself a favor and make sure she’s attainable.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and then there was only her. 

“Hermione—”

Her lips crashed against his, cutting off whatever he had planned to say after her name. She devoured his startled gasp, kissing him fast and rough. It had all the elements of a claiming, and her tongue invaded his mouth with designs to never leave. Hooking her fingers in the waistband of his trousers, she maneuvered him backward until his calves knocked against the sofa and she pushed him down.

Her fingertips walked down her dress, slowly lifting up the hem - baring herself to him. As she pulled it over her head, Hermione released her chignon and her curls tumbled loose, obstructing his view of her exquisite breasts. The gown dropped from her hand and pooled on the floor, leaving her in nothing but a pair of heels. 

Draco drank in the view, wetting his bottom lip and sinking further into the cushions as she fell to her knees. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she’d prepared for this exact scenario, and he breathed out a chuckle as she began to crawl. 

“If they could see you now.” 

Settling between his legs, she grasped his knees and pushed them apart. “Only for you, pookie,” she smirked, nuzzling her face against the erection tenting his trousers. Her nails raked along his thighs and she dipped her tongue in the wetness gathering in the fabric.

Hermione expertly undid the buckle of his belt, pulling the leather through with a satisfying thwack. Her index finger drifted down the enclosure of his trousers, popping open buttons and guiding down the zipper with her magic. Draco shivered as it hummed against his skin, hips thrusting upward toward her touch. He hissed out a breath when she released his cock from the confines of his briefs, holding him by the base and licking a long stripe up the underside. It throbbed in her hand as she repeated the act, pausing at the tip to envelop it with her hot mouth.

Draco’s head draped over the back of the sofa as he groaned, his eyes pinching closed as he fought the urge to immediately plough deeper. His hands clutched ineffectually at the cushions, trying to find an anchor as she swirled her tongue around the head and sucked at the slit until he was grinding his teeth.

Jerking his head up, he buried his hands in her hair and wrapped the curls around his fist, carefully pulling them back from her face. “Deeper, love,” he rasped, guiding her downward.

She opened her throat for him, sending vibrations down his length as she moaned. When her face was nestled against his pubic bone he paused, running the pads of his fingers along her mouth to catch the spit beading at the corners.

“Is this my wedding present, Minister?” 

Hermione looked up at him through her damp lashes, eyes bright with the unique excitement that came from being both carnal and cruel. He pulled at her hair, slowly moving her mouth up and revealing his spit-glazed skin.

“Or are you preparing me for the real thing?” 

Draco pushed her head back down, setting a punishing rhythm as she choked and moaned, closing her eyes and submitting to his needs. She took everything he gave her, mapping out the veins of his cock with her throat and cupping his balls like they were something fine.

He should get married more often, if this was her response. 

His heavy breathing and the wet glide of her mouth were the only sounds as he fed her his cock and fucked her face. When her nails dug into the meat of his thigh he gave her a reprieve, guiding her upwards until the head rested against her swollen bottom lip. Spit was smeared across her chin and she wiped at it with the back of her hand, using the moment to gulp down mouthfuls of air.

“Can you take more?” He asked, tracing the outline of her glossy lips.

With a determined little sniff, she stuck out her tongue and lapped at the pre-come dripping down the side of his length. Her cheeks hollowed as she swallowed him down, exploring the sensitive skin beneath the head. The barest touch of teeth sent a bolt of electricity up his spine and he dragged her off of him again. Draco had no intention of spilling himself anywhere but deep inside her, within range of her heart. 

“Get on top,” he ordered gruffly, adjusting his position so she could straddle his thighs.

Wrapping her hands around the back of his damp neck, she climbed onto his lap. His cock brushed against her clit and they swayed together, releasing a pair of gasping moans. 

“I wanted to make sure I had you first tonight,” Hermione whispered, slipping her hand between them to steady his twitching member. She rubbed herself against it, coating him with her essence to ease the slide. “So you have something to compare her to.”

Draco shook his head. “There’s no comparison.”

She hummed low in her throat, arching her back as she slowly sank down on his length. Draco’s body curled around her, cradling her breasts and chanting her name against her skin like it was the word of god. When she was fully seated, Hermione rolled her hips to adjust to the stretch. 

“You’re so tight, love. Take your time,” he murmured, running his tongue up the long line of her throat. Draco wasn’t at all surprised when she did the exact opposite, lifting herself up until only the tip of him remained and then slamming back down. 

Her body bowed as she threw back her head, releasing a low, guttural moan. Wrapping his hands in her hair, he forced her face up and swallowed the sound. The sweetness of her mouth was balanced by the demanding way she kissed, and her fingers locked behind his head to keep them pressed together. Tongues and teeth battled for dominance, soothing bites and smothering whimpers as they aired their grievances and apologized in one single act.

Hermione rode him methodically, spreading her legs far apart so she could take him deeper. With each drop of her hips, Draco filled her to the brim, lost in the delicious friction and the radiant heat from her skin. Moans passed between their lips like they were sharing the same breath, their heartbeats syncopating in an endless thrum of life.

“You ride me so good, love,” he groaned. Lowering his face, he sealed his lips around a pert nipple and held it in place with his teeth. His tongue feathered across the surface, matching the tempo of her hips.

“You belong to me,” she panted in his ear, her voice cracking with desperation as she repeated the assertion with every thrust of his hips. Draco cupped the globes of her ass, guiding her faster and harder - sure they could come to some sort of resolution if he could just satiate their greed. But it was an endless demand he would never satisfy, no matter how hard he fucked her or how much they came. 

The sounds of their primal joining drowned out the world, Hermione’s needy sobs echoing through the room as her movements degraded into a frantic bounce. Draco reached between them, swiping his thumb over her clit until she mewled. Desperate to get them over the edge, Draco tangled his fingers in her hair and jerked her head back. Hermione’s spine contorted into a perfect arch and she cried out his name. Her cunt gripped him like a vice as she came, but he just fucked her harder - pushing her through her first orgasm until a second came into view. 

“Again,” he demanded, pounding into her from below. His movements became animalistic, pulling her down on his cock every time he raised his hips. “Again, Hermione.”

Smacking his hand away from her clit, she took over its ministrations, playing herself like a finely tuned violin. Draco’s balls tightened, an almost painful sensation that seared his veins with fire and stilled his heart. Closing his eyes, he slammed them together one last time as they came apart. Hermione spasmed around him, babbling out strangled words and slumping forward against his chest. Her hand dropped down between them, massaging his balls so her demanding cunt could drain him dry.

Buried deep within her, time was a construct and space a fuzzy feeling, but eventually she began to stir and he opened his eyes. “Hermione—”

She lifted her finger to his lips, pressing down until the words dispersed across his tongue. “You did well today,” she said in a low voice, stroking the sides of his face. 

They were together. It didn’t matter the circumstances or constraints, their connection was undeniable and their joining was pure magic. Draco leaned into her touch, resting his forehead against hers and luxuriating in her warmth - the only home he knew.

Her fingers slipped around his neck, embedding her nails deep enough to redirect his head upwards. “But you shouldn’t have antagonized him.”

“Who?” 

She quirked her head, attempting to frown. “You know who.”

“Oh, yes. The great war hero.”

“I’m a war hero too, you know?” She scoffed, resting her hands on his shoulders.

He dropped his head to her décolletage, kissing every freckle he could reach. “But that’s not all you are.”

“You’re right, I’m the Minister for Magic. I’ve worked my entire life to get to where I am, Draco, and I won’t allow you to jeopardize my career. Being elected the first Muggleborn Minister means too much to too many people - it means too much to me.”

Draco lifted his gaze, watching the emotions play out across her face. Sometimes she needed to remind herself of why they didn’t just leave the world behind, but neither of them could ever accept the quiet life that decision would require. Hermione wasn’t the only one with ambition. Though Draco had fallen into his lifestyle, he had long since embraced it. His history made it impossible for him to achieve the same level of success on the right side of the law, and at this point he didn’t even want to. Though marrying Astoria would clean up his image, he had no intention of mending his ways. He liked power too much, and he was thoroughly addicted to the fear his presence could provoke in the back rooms and seedy warehouses of the wizarding world. 

“We don’t change for each other, remember? I see you, and you see me.”

“I know,” he recited from their dogeared script.

She searched his eyes before leaning forward and slowly pressing her lips to his. Draco’s breath stuttered at the grief such a simple act could convey, the desperate ache inherent in its chasteness. Hermione would reign above, and he would continue to rule below. Like Persephone and Hades, forever living off scraps of borrowed time.

Chapter Text

Draco had a pressing matter to attend to that evening. He’d tired out his little wife (an unsatisfying and easy feat) and tucked her into bed, Apparating a block away from his destination. The street he landed on was empty, tall brick residentials creating a canyon for sound as his boots cracked against the pavement. Walking toward the lone streetlamp, he caught Goyle’s keen eyes in the yellow light.

“You’ve confirmed he’s there?” Draco asked, skimming their surroundings. The night was fresh in his nose, the scent of petrichor and summer blossoms whispering through the humid air. A fox bayed in the distance, echoing down the hard planes of the street, but they were otherwise alone.

“I’ve already been inside. He’s there,” Goyle said. He looked more nervous than usual, gaze darting to the ground as he contended with some burdensome truth. Despite his hulking presence, he had the uncanny ability to channel the sad ethos of an abused dog. 

“Out with it,” Draco sighed.

“It’s just… wouldn’t it be better if I did it?”

“How so?”

“Well, I’m not related to the wizard, first off. And I thought we were cleaning up your image - I thought that was the whole point of marrying Astoria, but you’re acting as if nothing has changed. Let me do this for you, Draco. I’ll make it as painful as you want, and we can pop to the pub before close.”

“I want to do it,” Draco assured, clapping him on the shoulder and placating him with a smile.

“But—”

His hand tightened, fingers digging into tense muscle. “I want to handle this personally , Goyle.” 

“Well… can I at least help?” 

At some point after the war, Draco’s dull-witted crony had matured into a questioning, perpetually concerned peer. Crabbe’s death had affected them both, but it had turned Goyle into a fretful mother hen - constantly nagging Draco to stop and think, or championing his better angels. He was one of the few people who genuinely cared, and it was a uniquely painful experience. 

Squinting up at his friend’s apprehensive face, Draco cocked an eyebrow at his watery determination. “Think I’ve lost my touch - do you?”

“Bloody hell,” Goyle scoffed, releasing the sound from deep in his throat. “I’m just saying there’s only so much luck floating around. Why risk it?”

Things had been going particularly well for Draco of late. His reputation was under new management, and thanks to a glowing profile in The Profit, wizarding society appeared willing to give him a second chance. Once he’d paid his way, of course. His schedule was dominated by functions, luncheons, and soirees, and in the last month he’d supported such worthy causes as habit restoration for dementors and music therapy for Hogwarts’ anxious portraits. Redemption was pricey, but it was nothing compared to keeping his wife. Following their decadent wedding and a honeymoon in the Maldives, Draco had bought Astoria a lavish home near her family’s estate and she’d promptly filled it with stuff. He would say it was a stark difference from his bachelor lifestyle, but there was nothing stark about the way Mrs. Malfoy spent money. From the elegant to the mundane, he now seemed to be in possession of every worldly thing. 

Draco had learned the hard way that such material goods could be lost in an instant; everything burned, and only magic held its value when the world was on fire. The business he and Goyle would be visiting that evening was illustrative of that hard truth. Many pureblood families had been stripped of their wealth and lands following the Dark Lord’s defeat, condemned to the outskirts of a society they once ruled with a manicured fist. A population like that was exploitable, and unsavory characters had leveraged their position to entrap members of the fallen class. In the wake of peace, London had exploded with private clubs that advertised pureblood flesh - as well as darker recreations to satiate the victors’ lingering rage.

Benedict Greengrass, lecherous viper that he was, frequented one such establishment. Like most pureblood wizards, he had no qualms straying from the marital bed, but he simply refused to dip his wick in anything that wasn’t equally inbred. Draco hadn’t been aware of this particular club’s existence, but he did know of someone who would pay to see it destroyed. Tonight’s endeavor was thus twofold: kill Benedict Greengrass for the insult that was his continued existence, and eliminate a competitor on the behalf of a wealthy beneficiary. 

“Fine,” Draco muttered, pulling back the sleeve of his suit coat to glance at his watch. “You may accompany me, but Benedict is mine,” 

Goyle nodded like he’d won something, releasing his broad shoulders from their guilty slump. “I’ll hold him down, you just aim,” he grinned, enthusiastically mimicking the impending murder. Draco ignored him, checking his wand holster for the first time that evening. He’d repeat the action twice more before engaging it, a ritual he’d formed to steady his thoughts.

“How many guards?”

“One. I’ll handle him at the door,” Goyle answered, rushing to follow as Draco began the short walk toward their target.

“Bystanders?” 

“I clocked four wizards and five… entertainers ,” he said, spitting the last word out on the ground. “Most of them go straight upstairs, but there might be a few about the bar.”

Draco slowed his advance as they rounded the corner and an unassuming line of townhouses came into view, blending into the surrounding suburban malaise. The windows of thirty-three Rowling Lane glowed with friendly light, but there was something sinister in the air. Everything was just a little too sanitized, the hedges too precise. There wasn’t a twig or leaf out of place, and the uniform brick and shutter combos blurred into endless lines that stretched down the street.

Draco fingered the outline of his wand through his clothes as he entered the shadowed garden, following a curated path to the front steps. “And Benedict?”

“He’ll be with his usual witch, first door at the very top of the stairs,” Goyle said, joining him on the porch. His hand hovered over the knocker as he caught his breath. “The bar is to the right—“

“Yes, I’m familiar with the general layout,” Draco hissed, reaching in front of him to rap on the door. 

The surface shivered as one of the wards protecting the entrance came down, glittering in the lamplight before the magic fell and shattered at their feet. The door yawned open to reveal a stout wizard with a devastating facial scar that bisected the left hemisphere of his face. His ruined eye rolled in the socket as he looked them over, a scowl etched so deeply into his skin it appeared embossed.

“We’re here for a good time,” Goyle said, failing to communicate the necessary enthusiasm. The wizard on the other side of the door merely grunted with contempt.

"Couldn’t stay away?” He asked, revealing a surprisingly posh accent, considering his hard-won looks.

“He wanted to give it a go,” Goyle murmured, tipping his head in Draco’s direction. 

The shorter wizard assessed him heel to crown, scraping his damaged gaze across his finely dressed frame. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Draco answered the inquiry with a smile. “Undoubtedly.” 

“Draco Malfoy,” Goyle provided in a low voice, shifting on his feet. 

The wizard’s response to his name was subtle, but there. His head cocked and his breathing stuttered, a quick stilling of his chest. “Didn’t you just marry into that Greengrass family?” The question was noncommittal, as if he’d just read the society pages and discovered the news, but his good eye betrayed him and roved to the side.

“I did, indeed. My beloved Astoria.” Draco leaned forward, dropping his voice an octave so it tangled with the music emanating from within. “However, my tastes are far more… eclectic than my wife is willing to fulfill.”

The wizard chuckled, displaying jagged teeth that looked as if they frequently cradled a punch. “Pureblood cunt can be awfully proud, can’t it? You’ll have to break her of it, or it will—”

“I’ll have you keep any notions of my wife far from your thoughts,” Draco said curtly, making every word a sharp rebuke. Unfocused magic cracked in the air and his fingertips tingled with the desire to give it purpose. No matter his feelings on Astoria, she was still his to protect. His alone to hurt.

“Oi, what’s with the inquisition?” Goyle grunted. “We want quim, you got quim.”

“Not everyday we get deposed pureblood royalty. Not at the front door, at least,” the wizard sneered.

“As I said, my desires trend toward the exotic,” Draco responded, adjusting his demeanor to mollify the changing mood. Feigning apologetic airs, he laid the palm of his hand over his heart and ensured the presence of his wand for the third and final time. 

“They always do with you lot,” he said with a sniff. Draco did not bother to point out that he was the one indulging them, but Goyle had no such qualms. 

“You’re selling it,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

The wizard’s disorganized smile peeked from behind his thin lips, the heat of aggression striking his single usable eye as he cocked his head. “You’re welcome.”

“Please, gentlemen,” Draco interjected, grabbing Goyle by the arm and roughing him up. “I’m simply here to fuck.”

It took him a moment to play along, but eventually Goyle pretended to relax his stance. “Quite right,” he smirked, shrugging out of Draco’s grasp and flicking an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. 

The wizard across from them continued to glare, and Draco briefly considered Plan B, but the tension was broken by his resigned shrug. Pulling his wand from an interior pocket of his jacket, he levitated a satin lined drawer from the cabinet beside the door, pinning it in the air between them. “Wands in the box. You’ll get them back when you leave.”

Draco bit back a snarl, withdrawing his wand from the holster and laying it reverently across the pillow. Goyle threw his down beside it and they watched the drawer float back inside, landing in the wizard’s outstretched hand. With a smug look, he walked to the cabinet and used his own gnarled piece of wood to lock it back in place. The final ward fell almost instantaneously, drifting to the ground like a fog and allowing them full access to the house.

Despite his lack of endurance, Goyle could be surprisingly quick when the need arose. One minute his height was blotting out the lamplight, and the next he was behind the wizard in the entryway. His massive hands wrapped around the smaller man’s biceps, forcing his arms back as Draco grabbed him by the head and pulled. The sound of his neck snapping blended in with the percussion of the music and he slumped forward in Goyle’s arms, hanging like a ragdoll as Draco closed the door behind them.

“Coat check,” he said, staring pointedly at a closet tucked into the corner. 

Goyle levitated the wizard’s body out of his arms and guided it into the small room. There was a melodic jingle when it ran into a rack of unused hangers, followed by a dampened crash as he released it to the ground. 

“Wanker,” Goyle breathed, sporting a mad grin. Crossing to the cabinet, he bit back a yelp when the furniture defended itself by burning his hand. 

“Think before you touch things,” Draco hissed, pushing him to the side. Each drawer was protected by its own ward, but it was insufficient magic and promptly bowed to his experience. His wand flew off the pillow to its rightful place in his practiced grip, but Goyle was slower to reclaim his power, muttering obscenities as he lurched forward and grabbed the hilt of his wand with his blistering right hand. 

“I’ll start with the bar,” he grumbled, stalking toward the first door on the right. He disappeared behind it without a second glance and Draco made his way to the grand staircase farther down the hall. He climbed the stairs two at a time, swinging his body around the newels at each landing to propel his ascent. At the top floor he paused, twirling his wand between his fingers as he took in his surroundings and located the correct door. Prowling forward, he cast a Bombarda and blew it apart.

A feminine scream punctuated the chaos as he stepped into the room and Benedict whipped around to face him. Naked as the day he was born, his erection dropped along with the goblet of wine he’d been holding, priming the floor red. The witch who had been entertaining him didn’t wait for events to unfold as she shot from the bed and ran, reduced to a streak of pale flesh in the corner of Draco’s eye.

“Malfoy?” His surname left Benedict's mouth as a gasp, and he scrambled backward against the bed, attempting to cover his deflating cock with a velvetine throw. The modesty seemed to reinforce his nerves, and his quivering chin raised to look Draco directly in the eye. “What is this about?”

“We have some unfinished business, you and I,” he said in a low voice. Anger had coiled in his belly like a dormant snake since Benedict had made the mistake of insulting Hermione, but now it reared its head and bared its fangs. His wand twitched in his hand, and his heart raced for retribution, but he wasn’t one to prematurely shoot his load. Draco liked to take his time when it came to such personal matters as sex and death.

“Business?” Benedict asked, making a face. “We don’t have any business. Is this about the scene at your wedding? It wasn’t my intention to cause a stir, but that Mud—“ 

Draco tapped his wand in the air, coaxing the shadow beneath Benedict’s weak jaw to form a garrote that had him choking on the slur. His fingers clawed at the crepey flesh of his neck, carving fine lines that smeared blood across his pale skin. Dropping to his knees, rosy splotches bloomed across his face as panic and oxygen deprivation set in. 

Draco sauntered forward, committing the scene to memory in case Hermione wanted a taste. His fingers grasped Benedict’s thinning hair, reveling in the power and the misery he could unleash. “This is where our business lies, Benny,” Draco said, jerking his head back to enjoy the moment his pupils lost focus and his eyelids fluttered closed. 

Releasing him from both the curse and his physical hold, he let his limp body drop to the floor. Benedict startled awake on impact, curving his body into a protective shell and sucking down air. “I— I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry.”

Draco sighed, pulling up his pant legs as he crouched down beside him. “See, I don’t think you are. Though I do think you’ve heard the rumors about me.”

Benedict’s face shot up, eyes wide as his voice struggled to croak out a plea. “Please—  I’m sorry.”

“It would be one thing if you insulted me. Something like that could be resolved in a civilized manner. But you, Benedict Greengrass - you fucked with my witch, and I just cannot let that stand.”

“I’ll apologize to Astoria, give to whatever charity she chooses,” he sniveled, scooting his damp flesh across the wine-stained floor. “I know she’s always been fond of the ancestral home in Wiltshire - consider it hers once my father is dead.”

“Would you kill him yourself to hurry the succession along?” Draco tapped his chin with his wand, mildly curious if there was a line he wouldn’t cross. 

There wasn’t.

“Anything - I’ll do anything!” 

Draco rose gracefully to his feet and took a step back to avoid his desperate grasp. “It’s a tempting offer, but unfortunately for you, I’m not referring to my wife.”

“What? Who—” Benedict’s ruddy face contorted as the words landed and his brain sorted them out. Disdain swept his fear aside when his sluggish thoughts stumbled upon the truth.

“Now you get it,” Draco smirked.

Benedict recoiled, squaring his jaw with the last dregs of his pride. “So you’re the Mudblood Minister’s loyal dog now?”

“I’m whatever she needs me to be.” Lover, liar, traitor, killer, spy - Draco had been it all. There were no principles, or limits, or lines in the sand. All of his beliefs revolved around keeping Hermione safe. 

Shuffling backward, Benedict’s gaze jumped around the room like an animal caught in a trap. “What would your parents say?” He spat, coating his fear with disgust.

“You’ll be seeing them before I do, so feel free to ask,” Draco shrugged, following his prey across the floor until its retreat was stopped by the foot of the bed. 

In a pathetic last stand, Benedict threw some undeveloped wandless magic his way, but it was deflected into the wall with little fanfare. His pulse jumped beneath his sallow skin as the reality of death set in and adrenaline coursed through his veins. “Why should we allow that bitch to have all that power?” He cried, wasting his very last moments of life.

“Because she deserves it more than we do,” Draco answered simply. With a nod, he raised his wand and whispered death. A metallic thread of magic whipped around Benedict Greengrass’ vulnerable throat, decapitating him with one elegant slash. There was a fine misting of blood as his head rolled to Draco’s feet and the rest of him slumped to the floor. 

Breathing through the buzz of the kill, Draco lost himself in the bloody design spreading across the floor. If he valued his morality, this would be the time to consider its loss, but virtue wasn’t an inconvenience he suffered. It wasn’t a notion that had been prioritized in his upbringing - Malfoys simply took. 

Using the same spell, he claimed Benedict’s signet ring, pocketing it finger and all. The music that had been playing downstairs was long gone, and silence emanated from the floors below. When seconds gathered into silent minutes he crossed the room, sweeping through the damaged doorway and bracing himself against the handrail to look below.

“Took you long enough,” Goyle called up from the first floor. He released a deep breath, but continued to frown. “Did you stop and have tea with him first?” 

“Where do we stand?” Draco asked.

Goyle winced, dragging his sleeve across his brow as he threw a look back toward the bar. “Four dead.”

Draco whistled, suddenly dissatisfied with his solitary kill. “All in the bar?” 

“I caught one hiding in the loo,” he admitted, scrubbing the back of his head as he tried to hide his gratification at the sum.

“And the employees?”

“Obliviated and sleeping it off.”

Pulling back his sleeve, Draco glanced at his watch. “Call a few guys over to help and get them out of here, then grab the safe from the office and search everything else. Take anything of interest, but don’t dawdle, I want this place in flames by daybreak.”

“Do you want me to tell the twins when I’m done?” Goyle asked, pulling a Muggle cellphone from his interior coat pocket.

“No, I’ll inform them in the morning,” Draco said, tapping his wand against the polished handrail and thinking through next steps. “There’s a few items I need to discuss with Flora.”

Goyle nodded, but made no moves towards action. Even from a distance, Draco could see his jaw flex. “You’re leaving?”

“I need to make a second stop tonight,” he stated, holstering his wand so he had a reason to look away. 

“This entire situation makes me nervous.”

Draco leaned against the handrail, anticipating the worn arguments Goyle was about to present. “You’ve made that abundantly clear from the start.”

“Well, I keep hoping you’ll listen to me when I tell you that you’re stretching yourself too thin.”

“Your hope is noted,” he sighed.

Goyle stomped his foot, a vestigial gesture of his spoiled boyhood that only surfaced when he was truly annoyed. “You two are playing with fire.”

Pushing off from the handrail, he cast a quick Scourgify on his clothes. “Then I’m happy to burn.”

“Draco—”

“As much as I appreciate your concern, you have work to do and I’m late,” he said, using the acoustics of the stairs to speak over his grumblings. 

The tactic only provoked Goyle’s scowl to deepen, and he pointed up at Draco with a snarl. “Don’t dismiss me. I was there before you loved her, and I’ll be there to clean up the mess when she’s gone.” 

Spinning on his heels, he charged back into the bar and disappeared from view. The departure was followed by a crash as something heavy was thrown against the wall, and Draco could hear him continuing their argument by himself. Despite his stance on their relationship, it had been years since Goyle had fallen under Hermione's spell. His fear for them pervaded his affections, but he could be trusted to protect her with his life. Content with that win, he let his eyes drift closed and made the long Apparition from London to the Irish coast. 

Draco breathed through a wave of nausea, focusing on the cold breeze coming in off the sea. He struggled to find an equilibrium amongst the uneven terrain of the cliffs, and it took a moment for him to center himself in the new, yet familiar locale. When he finally felt present, he walked down the footpath toward the shoreline, winding around a secluded bay. His feet knew the way without having to light his wand, and he found the lone structure beneath a starless sky. 

It could be called a cabin, but that gave the hovel far too much credit. For over a century it had engaged in a losing battle against the ravenous waves of the Irish Sea, watching as its sandstone foundation was dragged out to the deep. The walls sagged, the roof sloped from the persistent wind, and it remained anchored to the shore solely because Hermione willed it. Draco had repeatedly made the argument that they deserved something habitable, but she was partial to its rough contours and the home she’d made within. Opening the lopsided front door, he knocked his boots against the outside wall and accidentally broke off another piece of the salt-bitten stone.

Hermione was perched in her usual moth-eaten chair beside the fireplace, balancing a chipped saucer on her knee as she read and sipped her evening tea. Draco appreciated his witch in her official regalia - all business in black robes and a sharp pencil skirt - but he loved seeing her without the armor. Dressed down in an oversized t-shirt and worn joggers, Hermione would allow him access past all her guards. 

She didn’t bother looking up as he shut the door behind him, lifting a finger from the binding of her book so he wouldn't interrupt. Toeing off his boots, Draco tried to meet her at her level and relax. He wasn’t inclined to believe in safety, even if he knew that the wards protecting this place were his best work. They weren’t able to escape here enough for the leap of faith to get any easier, but the scent of them filled his nostrils and it assuaged his lingering doubt. Every inch of the two room structure was painted with memories, from the absurdly small kitchen to the lumpy mattress that was impervious to every spell. He wouldn’t be a Malfoy if the floor plan didn’t horrify him, and he’d never get over being able to see his bed from the chair where he ate, but the history contained within these four walls tempered his reaction. 

“You're late,” Hermione called, eyes running through the last sentence on the page. Slamming her book shut, she offloaded her balancing act onto the table beside her and finally looked up. Draco’s soul answered, hauling itself up out of his chest and dragging its heavy chains across the room to seek out its mate. A faint smile pursed her lips as she recognized the significance of the moment. 

“I have something for you,” he stated absently, distracted to the point of inelegance. She committed to a full grin, unfolding her legs and popping up from the chair to meet him around the stained kitchen table. Pulling his prize from the inner pocket of his suit coat, Draco watched her satisfaction bloom.

“Oh, pookie. You shouldn’t have,” Hermione exclaimed, grabbing the finger from his open palm and holding it up to the light so the burnished gold of the signet could shine. Blood had pooled in Benedict’s proud initials, and the red letters were stark in relief. “Poor Benny, he never did learn his place.”

Draco took the finger from her, pulling the ring free from the stiffened flesh. He dropped the appendage to the table with a dull thunk as he cleaned the metal with his shirt. “Ends up he was a terribly indecent fellow,” he said, squinting to assess his work before moving to a new swath of fabric and beginning anew.

“I could have told you that - if you’d bothered to ask.” There was the barest edge to her voice, flushing heat through his veins as anticipation pooled in his gut. The gift was not enough to buy her blanket approval, and he’d need to answer for going over her head.

Hermione summoned a plain wooden box from the bookcase across the room, wandlessly directing it to a soft landing beside Benedict’s dissected finger. The old hinges groaned open to reveal a modest collection of items displayed on a cushion of red velvet: a pair of fangs pried from the gaping maw of Fenrir Greyback, the blood-drenched jailhouse diary of Antonin Dolohov, and the deed to the Parkinson family’s ancestral home were all nestled beside less notable tokens of Hermione’s ambitions. 

“I’m going to need a bigger box,” she remarked. Her hands twitched eagerly as they hovered above the items, reliving the provenance of each one with unfettered glee. She possessed an uncompromising need for vengeance, his witch - as well as the patience to see it done. Even if Draco hadn’t taken it upon himself to immediately kill Benedict Greengrass, time had already begun to slip from the wizard’s grasp. 

Satisfied with the quick cleaning, he nestled the ring beside its new mates. “A chest perhaps?”

“With an extension spell - maybe to an entire room,” she hummed, tapping her fingers against her chin.

“You have the names to fill it.”

Hermione turned toward him, leaning against the table and crossing her arms over her chest.  “I hadn’t anticipated striking this particular name from the list quite so soon.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” he smirked, lowering his voice to a rumble as he closed the distance between them. His breath stirred the hair around her ear as he spoke, and he savored the way she shivered. “He was lucky to live as long as he did.”

Hermione grasped his chin, forcing him to contend with her displeasure. She meant to censure him, but the rougher her touch the more he felt alive. “Don’t interfere with my business, Draco.”

“You are my business,” he countered, licking his lips. She stayed on theme with her expression as her eyes tracked the flick of his tongue.

“Your timing is far from ideal,” Hermione frowned, pushing his face to the side. Turning back toward the table, she compulsively rearranged her collection but kept every item in the same exact place. 

“As if you were going to let his disrespect stand,” Draco scoffed.

Her hands stilled, a long exhale escaping the firm press of her lips. “If I killed everyone that disrespected me, the Ministry floors would be caked with blood and the Wizengamot would be little more than a crypt.” 

“Sounds like an improvement.”

“Where’s the challenge?” Closing the lid over her trophies, she guided the box back to its place on the shelf. “Killing them outright is easy, I want to beat them at their own game.” 

“I like the fear,” he snickered, running the backs of his fingers along the exposed skin of her arm.

“I prefer the resignation that comes after I’ve stripped them of hope.”

Draco groaned, lifting her wrist so he could trail his lips along her pulse points and drink in her warm scent. Salazar, the way his witch spoke. She didn’t even need to touch him, words alone could get him off.

“Whose blood is this?” 

Draco froze. The question cut through the haze that was steadily overtaking his faculties as she tugged her arm from his grip. Attacking his clothes, she pulled at his speckled suit coat and tore back the collar of his shirt.

“Hermione, it’s not mine,” he muttered, though he knew she wouldn’t believe him until she saw for herself. Her nails dug into his wrist as she led him into the bathroom, closing the door behind them with a deft flick of her hand. 

Instead of using her magic to disrobe him, she began to unbutton his wrinkled coat herself, clucking her tongue when she pulled it from his shoulders and revealed the pointillist work he’d made of his once crisp white shirt.

“You rushed your Scourgifies again,” she said, tracing the flecks of blood and connecting them into constellations.

“I was running late.”

“Don’t use me as an excuse for sloppy work, Draco,” she chided, tossing the soiled coat into the corner and following it up with his holster and wand.

“I wouldn’t dare, Hermione.”

She gave him a scathing look before continuing her task, slowly working her way down the buttons of his shirt. Pulling the tails out from his trousers, she revealed the smudged remains of his Dark Mark and the marbled contours of his pale chest. 

Hermione always sported a very specific look when she studied the scars that dominated his upper body. Her brow would furrow and she would glower, but it was the emotion roiling beneath the surface that caught his eye. Rage pressed against her flushed skin, restrained by mere cobwebs as her fingertips traced the marks, obsessively mapping out the broken white lines like she was of the mind to cut them into unmarred flesh. If Potter attempted the act today, she’d strike him down without a second thought. Draco couldn’t help the smirk that snuck onto his lips, but it was gone by the time she looked back up.

“Have you been putting on the cream I gave you?” 

“I don’t care for the smell,” he sniffed. “Besides, it’s not going to make it look any better.”

“It’s not for the appearance. The cream will help make the scars more pliable, so they won’t be as prone to splitting.”

“That rarely happens anymore,” he said, unconsciously lifting his chin as her anger transfigured and she bared her teeth.

“Thanks to the cream!” 

Draco grabbed her wrist as she turned to chuck his shirt on top of the discarded suit coat, pulling her into his arms. “You can put all the cream you want on me - after we shower.”

“I just washed my hair,” she scowled, half-heartedly pushing against his chest as he backed her toward their pathetic excuse for a shower. Draco’s teeth grazed her skin, pulling back the neckline of her t-shirt to follow the curve of her throat as he kissed his way up to her pouting mouth. 

“I’ll help you dry it,” he murmured.

“You did that once, and it was a rat’s nest.”

“I’ll be more careful this time.”

“That was you being careful.”

Abandoning his ascent, Draco lifted his head to catch her eyes. “I need two things right now, Hermione: a hot shower and a good fuck. I’m just trying to respect your need to multitask.”

A smile tugged at her full mouth, but she attempted a dry response. “How considerate.”

Draco spun her in his arms, eliciting a squeak as she wiggled against him. Pulling her flush against his chest, he turned them around to face the bathroom mirror. Hermione’s cheeks were already turning a beautiful shade of pink, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts quickening as she met his darkened eyes in their reflection. Trailing his hand down her belly, he slipped beneath the waistband of her joggers and into her knickers. She stopped breathing when his fingers dipped into the wetness gathering between her thighs, swirling it over her clit. Eyes squeezed shut, she jerked against him and moaned.

“Watch, love,” he said, his voice a low command pressed against her heated skin. Her brown eyes sparked as they reopened to meet his challenge, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. Opening her stance to grant him greater access, she directed his free hand to cradle her breast.

Draco’s eyes never left hers as he kneaded her soft flesh, the pad of his thumb brushing against her clit and drawing out contact with each pass. Outlining her entrance with his index finger, he whispered encouragement as he sunk down to the first knuckle. Hermione’s body betrayed her, the determined expression melting from her face as she whimpered. Covering his hands to keep him in place, she ground her arse against his stiffening cock. 

“That’s it, my love,” he groaned, nipping at the lobe of her ear. Her hips bucked, desperate for more as his fingertip thrust shallowly within her. Draco worked her open carefully, adding a second digit only after she could comfortably take all of the first. His thumb continued its ministrations, but when he went to stretch her further she stilled his hand.

“No more. I want to be sore from you,” she said, appeasing Draco’s instinct to leave his mark. Slipping from his grasp, she pulled her t-shirt over her head and unclasped her bra. Her joggers and ruined knickers pooled beside them at her feet, and she stood before him in nothing but a pair of his thick woolen socks.

“Are you planning on keeping those on?” Draco asked, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other reached behind his back to turn on the tap.

Hermione watched him undress, pursuing his maneuvers as he lowered the zipper, hooked his fingers in the waistband, and dragged both his trousers and briefs down to the floor. “Are you?” She countered, pointing to his own covered feet. 

Draco grinned, matching her movements as she braced her leg against her knee and finished undressing. Steam was already billowing in the air when they stood, leaving their clothes in intermingling piles across the tiled floor. Grabbing a clip off the bathroom counter, she gathered her loose waves high up on her head and blew a stray curl from her face. It was a routine action, but Draco often found it was the quiet, simple moments that most provoked him to dream. 

He pulled her along as he backed his way into the shower, pausing briefly to blindly adjust the temperature. Guiding them into the small stall, he hissed at the searing heat while she groaned in pleasure, leaning against him as water cascaded over their skin. She leaned back to watch his face pinch, a sly smile breaking through her lust as she reached around him to turn down the tap. 

“You’re such a baby.”

“And you're a masochist,” he gritted out. His body slumped against the tile as the temperature evened out, finally assured he would not be boiled alive. 

Hermione clasped her fingers around the back of his neck, draping her slick body over his and pushing herself up onto her toes. She trailed her lips across his damp skin, outlining his bobbing Adam’s apple with her tongue. Grabbing her arse, he used his weight to prop her up in the corner as she wrapped her legs around his hips. 

Her hands stayed around his neck as she kissed him, rubbing herself against him everywhere they touched. Positioning himself at her entrance, he entered her with a slow, deliberate thrust. Inch by inch disappeared into her wet heat until he began to feel resistance and drew back, pushing deeper with a steady insistence that claimed her as his. 

Hermione whined, squirming in his arms until he paused halfway inside of her and met her dissatisfied face. The blush of desire had spread from her cheeks down her chest, the fixture positioned directly over her head crowning her with a halo of light.

“Don’t use me gently,” she rasped, a pleading look to her honeyed eyes. Her words awoke something primal within him, a scratching, fervid need to dominate and own. It dug its talons deep in his chest, propelling his hips forward as he slammed into her with abandon. 

Hermione’s mouth fell open, but no noise came out. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she was forced to take him, his cock pushing against her inner walls and forging its way. Air was punched from her lungs every time he buried himself to the hilt, but it was a sigh of relief, an acknowledgment that only now was she whole. 

“You feel amazing, Hermione,” he growled. “So tight, so perfect, so mine.” 

Pulling him by the hair, she burned a kiss onto his lips and teased them open with the tip of her tongue. “More,” she demanded, panting into his mouth. 

Draco hooked his arms under her knees and spread her wide, pinning her writhing body against the shower wall. “Relax for me, love,” he cooed. 

Slowing the roll of his hips, he traced a half-moon around where she was stretched around his cock, coating his thumb in their essence. Her back arched, a ragged cry torn from her lips as she begged for just a little bit more.

“It’s going to feel like a lot, but I got you,” he reassured her, nudging at slick skin pulled taut. Closing her eyes, she exhaled through her nose, tipping her head up to expose the long, pale line of her throat. His thrusts became indulgent as he tried to sneak a finger in alongside his cock, taking his time to save her from any real pain. The shower reverberated with a chorus of moans when he finally hooked the tip of his thumb and pushed inside. 

“Ohh, fuck — Draco ,” she wailed, scratching at his skin - rendered feral by the intensity. The friction was indescribable, like it was both their first time and so much more. The long drag of his cock against his knuckle had him choking on air, and he hurriedly cast a sticking charm on her when his arms began to shake.

“I’m— I can’t— Hermione,” he gasped, blinking away the stars and oblivion that chased him. It was an excruciating pleasure - his orgasm was simultaneously right at the surface and lightyears away. 

Hermione clenched and pulsed around him, gritting her teeth as she acclimated to the stretch. “Does she let you fuck her like this?”

As if he’d even want to. Deeper sentiments than desire sat between them, and they used each other in a way that was supported by a singular trust.

“I Occlude,” he grunted, glancing down to watch as he lost himself within her again and again. “But my body knows it’s not you. I have to take potions to even get it up.”

Hermione keened, sinking her teeth into his shoulder and biting down until she broke through the skin. The sensation was almost too much - a bright point of pain focusing all of the pleasure in his world. He slipped down her throat as her cunt squeezed around him, an ouroboros of give and take.

“You’re the only one, Hermione,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. The proclamation was carried on the back of a moan as he gave her everything and signed his name in blood. 

“Breed me, Draco,” she commanded, laving her tongue over the mark of ownership she’d carved into his skin.

Salazar, he would if he could, but the words were enough. Fucking up into her hard, Draco pushed his finger in deeper, locating the sensitive place behind her mound and calling her orgasm forward by tipping up his thumb. The effect was electric, and her eyes rolled toward the back of her head as she screamed out his name.

Her release was warmer than the tepid water falling down around them, the contraction of her muscles squeezing slick out around his pistoning cock. Her come eased the slide, and he removed his thumb to focus on hitting her cervix with every stroke. He ached to fulfill the empty gesture, to watch her guide their vicious offspring toward uncompromising greatness, passing on all of her talents and none of his shame. Even as rapturous pleasure consumed him, he held onto that misplaced hope.

Pulling her pelvis flush against him, a desperate cry fled his lips as he filled her to the brim. 

Draco collapsed against her, heaving air in and out of his lungs. Every inch of his body tingled and shook, the sound of his heart hammering in his ear obstructing every other sensation. He didn’t notice the water petering out, nor was he aware of how long they held each other. It could have been a lifetime, and it still wouldn’t be enough. 

When he looked up Hermione was watching him through eyelashes bejeweled with crystalline drops of dew. “Take me to bed,” she said in a hoarse voice, dragging the back of her knuckles along the sharp cut of his jaw. 

Draco gathered his legs beneath him, slowly taking on more of her weight as he stood. He was still inside of her as he turned them around and stepped out into the bathroom, using their discarded clothing to leapfrog his way across the slippery floor. A wall of cold air hit them as his magic opened the door and they shivered in each other’s arms.

“Don’t drop me,” she managed to say around chattering teeth, tightening her grip on him and nuzzling into his warmth.

“When have I ever dropped you?”

Draco moved toward the bed, guiding her legs from around his hips to lay her across the rumpled flannel comforter. Rutting against her one last time, he pulled his softened cock from her cunt and groaned at the sight of their release running down her thighs. With a smirk, Hermione cast a proper Scourgify on them both without calling for her wand. 

“Show off,” he said softly, admiration wrapped up in the exhaustion in his voice.

Throwing him a wink, she shot beneath the covers and burrowed into the uneven mattress, emitting a series of sighs like a contented badger as she warmed up in her makeshift den. Draco extinguished the lights with a snap of his fingers, leaving only the fire to guide him into bed. He struggled to find a tolerable position, but Hermione ceased his tossing when she draped her arm over his stomach and arranged her head over the heart she owned. 

“What does your month look like?” She asked, sleepily tracing runes into his skin.

Draco hesitated, removing the clip from her hair and smoothing the damp tresses down her back before he spoke. “I’m not sure yet. I fear I’m no longer in charge of my own schedule.”

He sensed her mood darken, though there were no physical signs of the change. She remained warm and pliant in his arms, but there was a stifled energy in the air that foretold a storm.

“Whatever she’s doing, it’s working,” Hermione said, hiding her jealousy behind a pragmatic nonchalance. “You were brought up as a viable contractor in one of my meetings today. They want me to sell off some of the Ministry's more innocuous relics.”

Draco wet his lips, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “It’s good to know this has been worth it.”

His comment languished in her silence. It suffocated him, a heavy weight sitting on his chest right alongside her head. There was a flash of bitterness on his tongue when he considered how long he’d toiled in her current state - knowing she slept each night in another man’s arms. Her discontent was like staring in a cracked mirror, but he found his empathy worn thin by the years.

“Do you know how to waltz?” He asked, filling the void before it was overrun by his resentment. The question had lingered amongst his thoughts since he’d considered the idea at his wedding, poking holes and sowing doubt.

“Of course,” Hermione scoffed. “I think you forget sometimes that my parents are rather well off.”

Draco did forget, and he could fill the entire Room of Requirement with all the things he’d never know. Though he saw Hermione clearer than most, the nature of their relationship demanded a separate persona. Who they were with each other was an entirely different person than they showed the world, and he wasn’t always sure which face was honest. Was she her truest self when she was screaming his name, or was he just an excuse to become someone new?

Draco heard her yawn, and her fingers stilled their patterns as she turned her head to the side. “I can’t stay the whole night,” she whispered to the dark. 

He didn’t acknowledge the comment, too busy clinging to the moment - desperately grasping any detail to make it last. Twirling a lock of her hair around his finger, he cut off the circulation until it throbbed. The firelight licked shadows across the ceiling, playing out an eternal war that was echoed within his very soul. His feelings for Hermione were the purest thing he’d ever known, but he committed evil acts to keep her. She was his greatest risk, and he had a nagging feeling that Goyle was right to foresee doom. 

Draco fought the pull of sleep, but exhaustion nipped at his consciousness, pulling them apart and into separate dreams. He knew she was gone before he even opened his eyes. An unnatural chill had climbed into their bed beside him in her absence, wrapping his bones in an icy embrace. The sensation was more familiar than the warmth of her touch, but he still reached for her across the distance. Hermione would be home now, gracing another man’s sheets, but he could sense that she was reaching for him too.

Chapter Text

When Draco had put into motion his plans to marry Astoria Greengrass he hadn’t really thought past getting her down the aisle. He’d never anticipated the daily intricacies of merging his existence with another, or how his wife’s habits and rituals would begin to color his world. He was surprised to find she made a satisfactory companion, and there was an earnestness about her that would break his heart if it wasn't otherwise engaged. Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the process was how normal it began to feel, waking up beside her and sharing her days. His chronic bachelorhood was slowly replaced by a sense of peace that was mundane, but strangely pleasant. He found himself dressing to complement as he escorted her about town, and had been assigned a corner of closet space along with the right side of the bed. 

Draco was just beginning to embrace his fate as a married man when Astoria had broached the subject of children, and it had become a circadian conversation ever since. He could not seem to stop her from bringing it up, nor could he suppress his irritation as they rehashed the same tired points. Though it was a foregone conclusion that they must procreate, Draco had hoped to delay the inevitable fulfillment of the obligation. He was in no hurry to sire her children, his own complicated thoughts on fatherhood aside, and then there was the issue of what Hermione would do when the theoretical became reality. His life had been subdivided into two distinct spheres, each controlled by a completely different witch, but his wife owned his time.

Drowning in the opulence of their lush bedding, Astoria opened her mouth to begin their daily debate. “I want to be a young mum.”

“You will be,” Draco answered briskly, keeping his back to her as he knotted his tie. “We haven’t even been married a year.” 

He could see her pouting in the mirror, a practiced display for any wellborn daughter used to getting her way. Before this issue arose, he doubted she had ever been told no in her life.

“It will be easier to get my body back if we do this soon, Draco,” she huffed, disregarding his sensible request yet again. “You don’t want a fat, middle-aged wife - do you?” 

Draco didn’t want her as a wife at all, but here they were.

A dull thump came from the door, saving him from the need to counterfeit a response. He moved quickly to answer, hopeful that breakfast would be enough to distract his wife from her tedious cause. A silver tray levitated into the room, weighed down by a full pot of coffee, fruit, and various pastries. It deposited itself beside Astoria on the bed, the bespelled pot pouring two steaming cups while the cream and sugar doled themselves out accordingly.

“It took Daphne forever to fall pregnant. I think we should start trying, just in case,” she continued, lifting her hands so a cloth napkin could lay itself across her lap. 

“We have access to all the resources in the world, Stori. If there’s a problem, we have the means to address it,” Draco countered. He was, in fact, banking on purebloods’ notorious infertility to delay his impending fatherhood. His own parents had struggled to conceive, and he believed all the deficiencies they’d contained had been his to inherit. 

Folding his collar back down over his tie, he crossed the room and sat down atop the bed beside her. Cup of coffee nestled in his hand, he watched as she picked at a danish with her manicured fingernails and plotted. These disagreements were generally resolved in one of two ways: Astoria saved the fight for another day, or she doubled her efforts. When her hand slipped between his thighs to caress his uninterested cock he knew she’d chosen the latter. 

Draco wasn’t sure if she believed all men could be controlled thus, or if she just thought he was particularly stupid, but Astoria regularly used sex in an attempt to manipulate him. When she’d wanted a whole new wardrobe for Samhain she’d dropped to her knees faster than a common whore, and when renovations of their new summer home had exhausted their agreed upon budget she’d upped the ante to anal. Though their relationship was happier than most pureblood marriages, the birth of their heir was destined to be as transactional as all the rest.

She wrinkled his freshly pressed trousers pawing at his crotch, but Draco swallowed a tired sigh and angled his hips forward. Despite the temptation Astoria posed, his cock simply wasn’t interested. The loyal bugger dismissed her beauty and enthusiasm, declaring sex with her to be generic and a bore. She was too soft, sweet, easy - where was the challenge when her legs fell open for him whenever he walked into a room? 

Months into this mess Draco still had to outsource his passion, using the excuse of levitating the tray from the bed to sneak a potion to get himself hard. His mind embraced the goal-oriented methodology of Occlusion, and the last true thought he had was that he was glad he’d begun to dose her evening tea.

Smug smile in place, Astoria’s creamy skin disappeared behind her satin pink robe as she flipped her hair over her shoulders. Following their breakfast across the bedroom, she claimed her usual chair beside the fireplace and popped a grape into her mouth. Draco was slower to rise, beckoning his wand from the top of the dresser to press and freshen his clothes as his Occlusion shuddered and fell aside.

“I won’t be home for dinner,” she said over the rim of her cup. “The Aurors want to meet with us about Benedict again. I fear it will be more bad news.”

Draco knew Potter would have nothing of substance to share with the Greengrass family, so he played his part. His expression didn’t deviate from the concerned scowl he’d perfected as he sat down across from her at the small table. “Truly shocking, how a wizard of such renown could simply disappear.” 

The weekend edition of The Prophet was folded beside their spread, and he grabbed it from the tray along with his abandoned cup of coffee. Flipping to the finance section, he resumed his morning routine to the soundtrack of her prattling. 

“I can’t believe it’s already been three months,” Astoria sighed, grasping a serrated knife lightly between her fingers and guiding it through the flaky layers of a danish. “I think Mildred knows something - they always had an unhappy marriage.”

The shining platinum of her wedding ring caught the interest of the sunlight spilling in from the window, casting a glare that had him turning his face. “I hear it’s usually the spouse in these cases,” he sniffed. 

“More the reason to always ensure my happiness,” Astoria said, cocking an eyebrow as she playfully jabbed the air with her knife.

Draco blinked at her, considering all the buried truths their exchange disturbed as he took a sip of coffee. He had every intention of keeping her watered and fed, but happiness, if it was anyway dependent upon honesty, would be less attainable.

“You’ll want for nothing, dear,” he reassured her, stealing a piece of danish off of her plate and giving a slow wink.

Angling the knife across her plate, Astoria took a delicate bite around her grin. “I know, that’s why I picked you.” 

Draco snorted, softening the noise with a fond expression before he raised the paper over his face. Perusing the pages before him, he located Ernest Macmillan's regular column and settled in for an informative, albeit dry read. There was no denying that the former Hufflepuff was a savvy businessman, but an engaging writer he was not. If he wasn't the richest wizard of their age, Draco would skip the article all together.

“It seems like everyone is getting pregnant,” Astoria muttered, cracking her cup against its saucer when she dropped it from her lips.

He squinted at the column’s fine print, rereading Macmillan's astonishing recommendation to invest in the Weasley brothers' newest venture - by far the most interesting thing he'd ever committed to parchment. “Who’s that, dear?” 

“Daphne, Marietta, and now even the Minister is expecting!”

Draco’s entire body flashed cold - all of the oxygen fleeing his lungs as Astoria’s words knocked him around. Jumbled figures and financial terms smeared together, the paper trembling in his hands.

Hermione was pregnant.

His Hermione was pregnant.

Time lost all meaning, but Astoria’s voice faded in and out amongst the roaring in his ears. Her finger pushed the paper toward him as she read the front headline aloud. “The Golden Heir: Minister and Husband Expecting First Child.”

Draco closed his eyes as she continued with the article, but none of the words penetrated the screaming chaos of his brain. Though the sensation was retroactive, he felt another presence in the world that his heart rushed to claim. The eternal beauty of it was rivaled only by the sharp stab of betrayal and the acidic bite of fear. Resurrecting his Occlusion took all his strength, teeth scalping a bit of flesh from his tongue and a flush sneaking across his pale face as his magic strained. The taste of iron flooded his mouth, a shaky exhale escaping the lock of his lips as the mask slammed into place and his emotions muted.   

Slowly, he lowered the paper from his face. Astoria had resumed eating, gazing out the window moodily as if their entire world was not aflame. A ripple of disgust disturbed the forced quiet of his mind, but he set it aside. 

Draco finished his coffee and succinctly refolded the paper before returning it to the tray; standing up seemed to take forever, the feet of his chair catching on the plush fibers of the carpet as if to keep him in place.

“I have some business to attend to,” he said flatly, navigating around the table so he could plant a chaste kiss on Astoria’s brow. Their eyes met briefly as she leaned into his chest, wrapping her fingers around his when he touched her shoulder. 

“I love you,” she hummed, nuzzling close and breathing in his scent.

Draco gagged on the response, his loyal heart beating dark and true. "Love you too," he murmured. The words dripped off his tongue like poison, but every instinct of his body wanted him to spit them at her feet. 

Despite it being Saturday, he knew exactly where to find her.

The Ministry of Magic was quieter than he’d ever seen it, though his tunnel vision could have been blurring passersby from his view. An empty lift opened before him, and he stalked right in, entering his destination with a surety he shouldn’t know. He’d never dared to visit her at the Ministry before, yet all of his movements were automated as if this was some casual, everyday thing. In another life, he could have been bringing her lunch.

The top brass of the Ministry were clustered on level one, a short ride from the floos, and his feet propelled him down a long hallway of office doors locked-up for the weekend. The solitary tapping of a keyboard drew him in, growing louder than the sound of the blood rushing in his ears as he turned down the final stretch of hall. 

“Shite,” Milicent hissed, throwing her chair up against the wall when she shot to her feet. All typing stopped, the busy items working about the room falling to the wayside when he crossed the threshold.

“I know she’s here,” he growled, closing the distance between them until he cast a shadow across the shiny surface of her desk. 

Milicent’s mouth was tightly pressed and her eyes stern, but she had to swallow before she spoke. “The Minister is indisposed at the moment, may I take a message?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Milicent.”

“The Minister is indisposed,” she repeated firmly, stretching out the words as if it were a matter of comprehension. 

Draco slipped around the desk faster than she could anticipate him, pushing a gasp from her lungs when he reappeared far too close. “Don’t forget why you’re here, Milicent. Before you were her friend, you were mine.”

“You asked me to protect her,” she said, the barest tremble in her voice. “That’s what I’m doing.” 

“And I am forever grateful.” His hand moved to her shoulder, as much of a threat as it was a reassurance. “But you don’t protect her from me.”

Milicent nodded, wetting her lips as she reached beneath her desk and pressed a hidden button. The double doors beside her desk clicked as they unlocked, and Draco rescinded his hand from her person.

“Take your lunch.”

“Drac—”

“Take your lunch.” The second time it was a command and she startled, frantically grabbing her belongings from the drawers of her desk. 

Tucking her purse under her arm, Milicent sprinted toward the main doors. “I’ll ward them closed behind me,” she said, throwing the words over her shoulder as she fled.

The moment she disappeared, Draco’s Occlusion cracked - untempered emotion bleeding through until his defenses completely shattered. He wanted to fucking kill her, or do something that would hurt her just the same. It was a self-immolation, balancing his anger with the quiet, anxious joy. Clawing his heart out was tempting when it beat at such a discordant rhythm, his nerve endings buzzing with a thousand impulses to rage and weep. 

Draco couldn’t recall even thinking the spell, but the double doors flew open to reveal Hermione’s inner sanctum. The desk chair swung around to face him as he prowled inside, revealing his witch - unperturbed and glowing. 

Raising a well defined eyebrow, she pursed her lips. “Awfully presumptuous of you.”

“We need to talk,” Draco muttered, crossing the room in a dozen steps. He gripped the back of her chair, pushing it into a reclining position so he could loom above her. “When were you going to tell me?”

Hermione wrapped her fingers around the carved armrests and sat back, seamlessly acclimating to the angle. “You haven’t exactly been around, have you?” 

Draco shook her chair, gritting his teeth to keep the action measured. The anger coursing through his veins would have fueled a brutal death for anyone else, but Hermione’s pupils danced like she loved to risk it. 

A dissatisfied grunt rumbled up his chest and he leaned forward, breathing hard enough to stir the fine hairs that framed her face. “What’s the plan here, Granger?”

“Oh, it’s Granger again, is it?” She folded her arms across her chest, leveling him with a bored glare. “What makes you even think it’s yours?”

Draco stilled, eyes sliding up her face as a hostile silence engulfed them. She remained perfectly calm as he lowered himself, but he could see her pulse ticking at her throat when they were finally eye to eye.

“Because I know you’ve never let any other man fuck you like I do.” His hand hovered over her lower belly, not touching, but still close enough to feel her warmth - possibly even stirrings of life. “This is mine.”

Hermione eyelids fluttered closed and her entire body arched forward, but Draco had no intention of rewarding her. A growl exploded from the back of his throat when he revoked his touch - furious that he had to deny them.

Her eyes opened when he began to pace, the taut look on her face acknowledging that she never thought he could. “I have no intention of losing you to her, Draco,” she said in a low voice, tracking his movements with a predator’s intent.

“And I told you that you never would!”

A wince flickered across her face, darkening her expression as her fingernails dug into the soft leather of the chair. “I will have a piece of you that she cannot touch.”

How was it possible for someone to be so powerful, yet so vulnerable at the same time? She tried valiantly to mask it, but he was fluent in her. He knew her eyes were lined from bitterness, her shoulders slowly bowing under the pride that sowed their discontent. Hermione had hardened herself in response to a society that would never truly see her as belonging. Even after she’d won them a war and secured the Ministry, they tied that success to Potter and threw asterisks behind her name. He silently willed her not to care - but then who would she be?  Hermione was fueled by her resentment, determined to take more than the world was willing to give. It was the same fire that lit his belly and the defining characteristic of their secret union. 

Draco went to her like he always did, falling to his knees and wrapping his hands around hers. All the frustration she carried was written in the indignant furrow of her brow and the way her pale skin stretched translucent over her knuckles. 

“You have all of me, my love,” he whispered. 

Hermione’s nails had dug trenches in the supple leather of her chair and he coaxed her fingers open one at a time, pressing a kiss to each digit until she relinquished her grip. 

“Astoria may be my wife,” he murmured against her skin. “But you are my equal.”

It was enough to haul her back into herself, softening the hard edges that made her so easy for him to read. “We have been careful, Draco,” she said in a low voice. “We have been cautious - our circle is small and we’re safe. Let me give this to you.”

It was almost a plea, though she tried to dress it up as a matter-of-fact.

“This child will be mine by blood alone, Hermione. I will never be able to claim them.” Anguish washed over him, an impossible fact festering in his heart. “To the entire world they will be his.”

“But in our world - the real world - we’ll know the truth,” she said, resting her forehead against his and demanding his gaze. “I will have no child but yours, Draco. You’re the only man worthy of it.”

The statement was sincere, but practiced. 

Hermione released him when he pulled his face from her grasp, studying him as he sat back on his heels and pushed himself to his feet. He took a few steps back, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her in turn. 

“If that child comes out looking anything like me, everything we’ve worked for - every hard choice - will have been for nothing.” 

“My mother’s blonde,” she shrugged.

Draco scoffed, though he was endlessly impressed by her audacity. “Litters of red heads, and now there’s a platinum blond?”

Hermione followed him up to her feet, strolling forward with a certainty he would never understand. “Genetics are wild.” 

Draco didn’t even realize he was retreating until his back hit the wall, knocking a neat stack of books from the shelves. He braced for the bang, but they never hit the floor - Hermione’s magic levitated them to her desk while her full attention remained on his face.

“Exactly how long have you been planning this?” He breathed, letting his hands fall to his sides as his resolve crumbled to her effortless persuasion. 

He felt her hum as she sealed their bodies together, dragging her lips along the cut of his jaw. “That doesn’t matter.”

“We make decisions together,” he said, a new sort of loneliness roughening up his voice.

Hermione exhaled out a quiet laugh, stirring the damp hair at the nape of his neck and loosening a shiver down his spine. “Do we? I don’t remember discussing Benedict Greengrass.”

“This is different.”

She shrugged again, tugging down the collar of his shirt to nip at his pulse. “Consider it a life for a life.”

Looping his arm around her waist, Draco swung them around, careful to take all the impact when her shoulders made contact with the wall. 

“Don’t downplay what you’ve done,” he hissed, rekindling his anger from the ash that was collecting at her feet. He tried to hold onto the feeling, concentrating on the self-righteousness that lit a fire in his gut and kept the more complicated emotions at bay. The truth lurked just beyond the light, circling closer as his resolve sputtered and dimmed.

Hermione’s body relaxed against him. Pivoting tactics, she looked up at him with glassy eyes that robbed him of all his strength. “I know you think I’m being cruel,” she said quietly, voice halting through the admittance. “But I promise you - you’ll never regret them.”

He’d never regretted Hermione, even though he was fated to reside in the margins of her story, and he’d never regret their child. The truth of it ripped a groan from his throat and he sank to his knees before her, running his hands along her hips as he stared at the imperceivable swell of her belly. Despite the hard turn his life had taken, he was still a Malfoy raised with the expectation that he deserved it all. It didn’t matter how many times the world tried to persuade him otherwise.

Hermione’s hands framed his jaw, brushing a stray tear from his cheek when it escaped and wandered down his face. “When the time is right, they’ll know who you are to us.”

“But Weasley—”

“Will protect them with his life. I know you don’t have a high opinion of him—”

“Neither do you,” he glowered.

Hermione tilted her head, a quiet huff of air escaping the press of her lips as she regarded him. It was a familiar look - a silent condemnation of his surly temperament. Under normal circumstances he respected her ability to check him, but her actions had led them into uncharted waters. She may have forced him to his knees, but the cinders of his rage still smoldered and her slight remained unanswered.

“I am aware of Ron’s limitations,” she corrected, spinning the words with a politician’s guile. “I love him in my own way.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, but his muscles had been trained beneath her touch and the pads of her fingers smoothed away the tension, dissolving the acid gathering at the back of his throat. “Even if Ron found out, he isn’t capable of cruelty,” she murmured.

He’s not like us.

She didn’t say it, but Draco knew. They were two sides of the same coin: born hungry and turned mean by a world they felt entitled to own. Weasley didn’t regard wizarding society by what he believed himself to be owed, and any resentment he harbored was due to his inability to play martyr. Perhaps it was for the best that their child’s nature would be tempered by his meekness and nurtured by his hope. He was the last person Draco could imagine sheltering his progeny and safeguarding them against harm, but he was uniquely positioned to give them the cover to thrive. Maybe between the three of them they could produce someone truly great. 

The bump now seemed obvious, and his hand trembled hovering over the gentle incline until she ushered him closer. Hermione’s fingers laced together, locking him in place and covering the scars that marred his skin. He felt everything: adoration, obligation, claustrophobic and limitless. His legitimate children would always live in the shadow of the Malfoy name, but this one could be free. 

“Everything will be alright,” Hermione assured him, giving his hand a squeeze. 

Draco didn’t possess the hope to believe her, but he would move mountains to make it so for this one, singular being. He thought of every protective spell he knew, tying them to his dreams and prayers to weave a primal magic that millions of fathers had conjured before him. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward and chanted them over their joined hands and the soul awakening beneath. 

Hermione gasped and all the warmth snapped from his bones, following his magic out of his body and dissolving into her skin where they touched. 

“Oh, Draco - it’s beautiful,” she whispered, but he didn’t open his eyes to look. He’d never beckoned such magic before, but he’d always known it was within his birthright to do so; just as his father had done for him, summoning all the ancestors long lost to memory to protect and serve. Considering the fate of Lucius Malfoy, Draco wasn’t sure how readily the spirits interceded on their behalf, but he’d give his children every available advantage. 

When the transfer was complete he wobbled on his knees, feeling infinitely older and somehow more terrified than he’d ever been in his troubled life. 

“That was very generous,” Hermione said, words heavy with wonder.

Draco breathed through his nose, groaning at the ache that bloomed in his joints as he stiffly rescinded his hand. “I’m like that when I have a choice,” he rasped.

She didn’t answer, but he heard her heels shuffle against the wood floor and it was enough of a response.

“Astoria asked that we start trying for a baby,” he continued, opening his eyes to observe how the statement would impact her expression.

It didn’t.  

“So start trying. That was always the expectation,” she said dismissively. There was a distance in her voice that was clinical, as if they were discussing some material thing - as if she hadn’t been motivated to secure his child first. All the times he spilled himself within her, all the times she begged him to, had been in preparation. Hermione’s commitment was enviable, but it didn’t absolve her of punishment.

Draco lifted a shaky hand, trailing it down her skirt and burning through the stitching until it fell from her hips. She squirmed under the intensity of his gaze, covering her black knickers with her hands and shifting her thighs. 

“Draco,” she warned, a note of uncertainty sweetening the sound of his name. 

He wasn’t like this with her often. Draco respected her need to maintain control, but she’d robbed him of his and needed a reminder of how that felt. He swept her up in his arms when he rose to his feet, gentle but intentional with his movements as he crossed the room. With a sweep of his hand the assorted items cluttering her desktop were thrown to the ground in a flurry of parchment. Her writhing body replaced them, restraints peeling up from the polished wood to encircle her wrists and pin her arms in place.

Draco grabbed the back of her chair and swung it around so he could take a seat. She was beautiful like this, furiously sparking magic and hissing at him like a feral cat. 

“Those are very important documents!” She snarled, turning her body to the side to view the mess and locking her legs together tight against her chest.

“Have you been fucked in this room before, Hermione?” He asked, rolling the chair closer. “I just was, and I’d love to return the favor.”

Draco grasped her thighs, rotating her onto her back and dragging her forward so her arse hung over the edge. 

“Open your legs.”

Hermione fought the command, blowing strands of hair from her face and muttering rebellion under her breath. She scowled when her thighs fell open, skin slapping against the hard wood surface as if she had needed to force them apart herself.

“That’s my good girl,” Draco cooed. And just because he knew she’d hate it, he disappeared her knickers with a wink. Rolling her chair toward the juncture of her thighs, he appraised his feast.

It was a wondrous sight, the vaunted Minister for Magic laid out across her desk like a meal. He slid his thumb lightly down the seam of her folds, holding his breath so he could catch when her breathing stuttered. His fingers gently pulled her apart, blowing a stream of air across her clit and making her hips dance. Casting a sticking charm to keep her legs open and body pressed to the desk, he dropped his hands back down to the armrests and continued to tease her with his breath. Each exhale pebbled her skin, thighs trembling as her essence ran from her entrance down the face of her desk. 

“You’re already so wet for me, love,” Draco whispered. He watched the tortured state of her face, catching her feverish gaze before he licked his lips and scooted the chair closer. His mouth was already watering when he took his first taste, humming against her as her heady flavor danced across his tongue. Draco was never one to romanticize the machinations of human biology, but Hermione’s cunt was a culinary experience. The perfect blend of salt and musk, with just enough tang to remind him of why he was dining. Sucking her clit into his mouth, he feathered his tongue against the swollen flesh until she was sobbing his name. 

“You like that, pookie?” He drew back to sneer.

“I… need. Please, Draco, touch me.”

He laughed at the request, nuzzling his face against her cunt but keeping his hands firmly gripping the arms of the chair. She tried to push her pelvis forward to increase the friction, but he backed away before she found any satisfaction. “You’ll get what I deign to give you.”

“But I’m so empty Draco, please— fill me.”

“I believe I already did that,” he said sharply, biting the softest point of her inner thigh. She yelped into the side of her arm, gritting her teeth to mitigate the pain.

Draco countered the censure with a broad lick of his tongue, dipping the tip inside her before swirling it around her clit again and again. The pitch of her moan changed when he sucked her between his lips and he immediately sat back - leaving a long aching distance between them. 

Red splotches had bloomed along Hermione’s neck and thighs, the disgruntled buzz of her magic charging the air. “You better fucking finish,” she gritted out, jerking against the constraints he’d placed on her wrists. Little crescents of reddened flesh dotted her palms where her fingernails had found purchase and her brown eyes were electric with rage.

Draco cupped her cunt, groaning at the wet heat he burned to lose himself in. “You decide when I become a father - I decide when you get to come.”

Her expression faltered as a ragged whine ran up the tense line of her throat. The back of her head thumped against the face of her desk and she stared up at the ceiling, taking long drags of air through her nose as she accepted her fate.

Without another word, Draco returned to his task. He followed the same template: first teasing her with his breath, and then with his tongue until her orgasm was just within reach. He never touched her -  never filled her, letting his mouth express the hurt and pain her decision had caused. Occasionally, he would allow her to grind her cunt against his face as he haplessly rutted into the bottom of the desk, but that was as close to coming as he allowed.

In total, Draco brought Hermione to the verge of climax three times - one for every month she lied. Each time he left her there at the brink, casting a silencing spell on her office so he could savor her frustrated screams. Her apology, when it finally came, was a desperate gasp. She begged him for forgiveness, for absolution - for release. If it was a smaller thing he would give it to her, but her crimes required a gradual rebuilding of trust.

“Please, Draco, please. I’ll do anything - please let me come,” she mourned, calling to him as he rolled the chair back after her final near-release. He used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe her juices from his face, taking in the willing sacrifice of her body. Her immaculate curls were a messy tangle from lurching her head to and fro, a mixture of sweat and tears staining the collar of her shirt. She looked completely undone, grasping for words, air, friction - anything to quell the fire he’d set between her shaking thighs. She’d give him anything but the one thing he’d already decided to take.

Hermione whimpered hopefully when he stood and moved between her legs, placing his hand over the dark curls that covered her mound. He didn’t need to touch her to cast the spell, but he wanted to give her hope. Closing his eyes, Draco mouthed the words he’d learned to wield with a spiteful proficiency in the Slytherin dorms. Back then, it was a cruel joke - cursing teenage boys with the inability to find release while battling insatiable hormones - but today it offered justice. She bucked impotently against his magic, sensing his intent, but the charm took hold with practiced ease. 

Hermione snarled his name, angling her head down to view the faint black M that had formed on her hip, an alluring symbol of possession that almost had him deserting his plan. He took a deliberate step backward to ease the temptation and released her from his restraints. She was up in an instant, rubbing at her clit and spitting venom when it had no effect. Her gaze darted about like an animal caught in a snare, desperate for the miracle that would spare her from chewing off her own foot. 

“How long?” She hissed, showcasing the peaks of her teeth.

Draco got close enough so he could cradle her cheek, swiping the pad of his thumb across her bite-swollen lips and collecting her tears like dew. “Take your punishment, Hermione. Show me that you can.”

She smacked his hand away and growled, “how long?” 

“Three months seems fitting,” he shrugged, mimicking her earlier nonchalance.

Every muscle in her body tensed, the unmistakable threat of death glinting in her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

“Dare? Oh, my love, I should dare to do much worse to you after today. Just because I have accepted the decision you made for us does not mean I’m happy, and it certainly doesn’t free you from paying my price.”

“I said I was sorry,” she spat, crouching along the edge of the desk as if to jump him. 

“Now show me you are.” 

Draco turned toward the door, tearing down his and Milicent’s wards with a flick of his hand. He didn’t look back as he walked through the waiting room and entered the hall, the sound of crashing furniture echoing behind him as he made his way back to the floos.

Chapter Text

Astoria hid a yawn behind her hand, giving her wristwatch a sly glance. “Well, I’m off to bed.” Curling back the page of Witch Weekly she’d been reading, she returned it to the wood table beside her.

Draco’s wife had carved a space for herself in his office through little things: stacks of fashion magazines, a tube of tinted lip balm, and a spare cardigan tossed over the back of the couch where she regularly sat. It no longer bothered him, this slow invasion. She conquered him one day at a time, and watching her stretch out her limbs as she stood, he even had the thought that she looked lovely in the firelight. The soft glow suited her - as would a softer man. 

Astoria moved around his desk to stand beside him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, lightly pulling his head up so she could study his face. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

Ok? Draco would kill to be ok. It would be a paradise compared to the state he’d resided in since learning he was to become a father. 

“Just tired,” he said, reassuring her with a weak smile.

She cocked her head, expression deepening into a full scowl. “You’ve been acting funny for weeks, Draco.” Her hand fell to his shoulder and she gave it a comforting squeeze, lowering her voice, “Is this because you’re nervous about us trying for a baby?”

Laughter threatened to burst from his chest, the locus of his unsurmountable mood. His capitulation on the issue of children had been prompted by the one who got there first. The decision no longer felt momentous when his entire spirit was preoccupied by the child he wanted more. 

Just as she intended.

He patted Astoria’s hand and sat up from his mopey lounging, forging another smile. “It’s a business thing. Nothing to worry about.” 

“So you’ll come with me to the fertility counselor on Tuesday?”

Draco huffed out a quiet breath. “I told you I would, Stori.”

“I was just checking,” she murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss against his lips. “Thank you.”

She moved away before he could recoil, dragging her fingernails around the edge of his desk as she walked toward the door. “I think I might take a quick bath, care to join me?” She asked over her shoulder, peering at him through lowered lashes.

Hermione loathed baths, frequently referring to them as ‘people soup’. He’d tried pulling that move early into their affair, inviting her to an exotic locale and attempting to woo her with an opulent soak. She’d humored him, but from then on they exclusively fucked in the shower. The memory tugged a true smile onto his lips while he shook his head at his wife. 

“I’m rather tired, darling.”

Astoria shrugged, turning back toward the door. “Your loss.” Her hips swayed as she crossed the room, the light thrown out by the fire accentuating her curves and the glossy sheen of her hair. Draco felt nothing. Less than nothing - a hollowness where lust should reside. He imagined it was similar to the realization one had when they discovered they were gay. Draco knew himself in the same way, unable to find attraction in anyone but the one he’d been destined to love. 

The door clicked closed behind her and he released a long hiss of air. Hiding himself from her was getting more difficult. Draco had grown accustomed to her steady presence and care, but familiarity was destined to breed discontent. He struggled to camouflage himself in empty affection and stolen sentiment, while Astoria had already made out his shape. 

Pushing back from his desk, Draco wound his way around the couch and coffee table, ambling towards the bar cart tucked against the wall. He nearly dropped the glass he pulled from the lower shelf, spitting expletives at his distracted hands as they spilled firewhiskey over his fingers when he poured himself a drink. Balling a cocktail napkin in his fist, Draco shuffled toward the couch, taking a long swig from his glass to lower it to a respectable level. A cloud of Astoria’s perfume engulfed him when he dropped down onto the cushions, and he placed his drink down just long enough to throw her cardigan across the room. 

Like everyday since he’d learned of Hermione’s pregnancy, he found himself caricaturing the brooding pose and contemplative furrow of a poet. A glass of firewhiskey resting on his knee, he traced the etchings with the pad of his thumb and lost himself in the fire. His mind and heart waged a useless civil war: would he accept the inevitable today or drag his depression into another sunrise? So far, the prideful parts of his heart continued to win the melee, but it left him feeling surly and confined. 

It had been nearly a month, but he would not go to Hermione - nor would she beg. It was to be a war of attrition, as all their conflicts were. Their egos didn’t know how to communicate any other way.

Draco loved Hermione - he was a devoted follower of her reason and intellect - but he didn’t always like her choices. All of the parts of himself that frightened and disturbed were present in her character, and it was a self-reflective act to watch her manipulate the world around them. They used everyone, but that begged the question, could such calculating creatures bring a child into the world and not use them for their own gains? Could they love without demanding everything for themselves?     

Hermione’s mother and father loved her without condition, but they’d raised a daughter who placed that pressure upon herself. Draco knew intimately what it was like to have parents who cared for him under stipulation, the ghost of their approval haunting every decision he ever made. He didn’t wish to pass that burden onto the next generation, but it felt like an inheritable curse. 

A log popped in the fireplace, tossing sparks into the air. They sizzled when they landed on the rug, quickly burning out without leaving a mark on the weave. He’d long ago charmed the fabric to be fire repellent - never one to leave anything to chance. Draco had back up plans for back up plans, but fatherhood wasn’t something he felt he could prepare for or predict. His gaze wandered down to his hands, taking a quick inventory of the ragged scars and nicks that marked his pale skin. They told a brutal story, but he couldn’t recall if they’d ever been tasked to protect so much. 

A thousand worries plagued him, collecting into a bezoar that rolled around in the pit of his stomach. He barely ate, cobbling together sparse hours of sleep and distractedly pantomiming his life. Frequently, he drank, seizing the only peace he could find. Come morning, he’d vomit it into the loo and begin his suffering anew.

The fire sparked with color, a distinguishing crackle preceding Hermione’s distant voice. “Draco?”

He didn’t immediately look up. She still retained the power to overwhelm him, and he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of watching it play out across his face.

“...Draco?”

He glanced up from his drink and bit back a groan. Floo calls had advanced considerably in the past few years, allowing him to see Hermione’s entire form without interference. She sat perched on her knees in a barely-there negligee of Slytherin green, hair swept over one shoulder and a hungry look glinting in her dark eyes. 

Draco cleared his throat, taking in the beige austerity of the bedroom she was calling him from. “Where are you?”

Hermione rocked forward at the sound of his voice, shimmying closer to the flames. “New York. I have a meeting with the president of MACUSA in the morning.”

He grunted, but didn’t engage further. Throwing back the dregs of his drink, he discarded the empty glass on the coffee table and settled into the couch. His hands folded in his lap as he openly appraised her, noting the way her nails dug into the soft flesh of her thighs and the subtle racing of her pulse. Her bottom lip was already swollen from her teeth, hinting at a long afternoon in which she must have fought herself to call him. 

“Draco.” Her voice cracked on his name and she briefly closed her eyes, calming the storming features of her face. “This is getting ridiculous.”

His magic flickered, willing to give up the battle without a second thought. Draco didn’t even know what it would be like to truly deny her, though he imagined it would feel like suffocating. All he really had was his hubristic attempts at rebellion and her indulgence.

“I’m not ready, Hermione,” he said, painting the statement in conviction.

She nodded, dropping her gaze. “I know what you must think of me.”

“I think of you as I always have. I am yours. Forever.”

“...but?”

“But I need more time.”

“Even though you forgave me the minute you found out what I’d done?” She sniped, all meekness cast aside in her defeat. 

Draco chuckled, bracing his elbows against his knees as he leaned forward. “My pride is a completely different monster, love.” 

“I need to come so badly it hurts,” she whispered. Her hands relinquished their hold on her thighs, leaving red crescents in her skin as they drifted down between her legs. She bucked up into her own touch, breath catching on the barest sensation. “I can’t think - I can barely work. I need to be able to work, Draco.”

He nearly Apparated right then and there. The shaky command of her voice was potent, tugging his entire body forward. He could already taste the salt gathering across her skin, smell her desire thick in the air, and feel himself sinking into her white-hot heat. 

“Does your greedy little cunt need me, Hermione?” He asked in a strained voice. 

Her legs opened so he could watch her fingers slip beneath the hem of her emerald knickers and swirl around her clit. She whimpered, desperately grinding into the palm of her hand. 

“I don’t appreciate how obvious your attempt to manipulate me is - you’re better than Slytherin green, Hermione,” he sneered. “Come before me honestly and maybe I’ll let you have what you want.”

She glared at him across the distance, disappearing the negligee with a snap of her fingers. The fire tossed light across her naked body, highlighting the desperate blush of her skin, and the mark he’d placed on her hip was stark against the glow. It did something to him to see his claim staked next to the evidence of the child growing within.

“Now open those legs wide, love. Show me how much you need me.”

Hermione swiveled in place, sitting down on her bum and bending her knees to showcase her glistening cunt. She ran a manicured finger over her breasts, down the swell of her belly, and into the thatch of damp curls between her thighs.

“Wet your fingers first,” he commanded gruffly.

A brief look of irritation crossed her face, but she summoned an indulgent amount of pillows from the hotel bed and propped them behind her back so she could recline and splay out her long legs. Two fingers slid across the pad of her tongue, sucking them into her mouth and coating them with spit.

Draco unbuckled his belt and slowly dragged down the zipper. Grasping his cock by the base, he pulled it from his briefs and gave it a lazy pump. “Do you want to suck me off, Hermione? Do you think that would be enough to satiate me?”

She whined around her fingers, eyelids fluttering closed as her back arched over the bank of pillows.

“Answer me, Hermione.”

Shaking her head, she tugged her bottom lip down with wet fingertips and watched as he stroked himself. “No,” she answered in a thick voice.

“No, what?” He gritted out.

“No, I don't think that would be enough. For either of us.”

Draco spit into his hand, slicking up his cock as he grunted in agreement. “Then talk me through it. What would be enough?”

“I’d need to submit to you.” Her expression sharpened as she dragged her fingers over her breasts, tracing a path downward and circling her clit. “Completely.”

A cruel laugh fled his lips, but his hand tightened around the base of his cock at the prospect. “Do you even think you could?”

“For you I could do anything,” she gasped, slipping a finger into her dripping center. She moaned at the slow plunge, but her eyes remained focused on his face as she sank deeper.

“Now we both know that isn’t true. You have a line. As do I,” he chided, a bitter taste pooling on his tongue. “Though I never imagined you were capable of betrayal.”

Hermione froze, abandoning her play as the mood festered and spoiled. “Betrayal is a strong word, Draco,” she hissed.

“You went behind my back to ensure you were pregnant - which I learned about from the fucking press. I fail to see how that word isn’t up to the task of describing how I feel right now,” Draco snapped. Hastily stuffing his cock back into his trousers, he snatched his discarded glass from the table and stalked back toward the bar cart for another round. The sound of clinking glass scored another unsteady pour as they steeped in their anger.

“I could have planned it better, I’ll give you that,” she finally admitted - as if he should be grateful to receive even a modest retraction from the great Hermione Granger. “But it was never intended as a betrayal.”

“Execution is what matters,” he muttered around the rim of his glass, projecting the words into a deep growl. The firewhiskey burned its way down his throat, reinforcing his indignation. 

“I didn’t foresee the extent of your…” she paused, vetting her language, “...reaction.” 

Draco tensed, squinting to see the fine details of her face. Her expression was predictably blank, but the vein at her throat pulsed. “My reaction?” 

“I didn’t think it would mean this much to you.”

He had to close his eyes as her admission washed over him, ripping something vital from his chest. It was agony to not see himself in her words, to think he’d failed her even in the theoretical. 

“It means everything to me,” he blurted out. 

“I understand that now,” Hermione said softly. Her hand crept down her side, protectively cradling the swell of their child. “I knew you’d eventually come to accept my choice, but I never thought you’d want this as much as I do.” 

“I want everything with you.” The confession was quiet, the vulnerable wobble in his voice stripping him of any cover. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but her jaw snapped shut as she silently feuded with herself before committing to their fleeting moment of truth. “I know you have doubts. I see the way it tears at you, living like this.”

Draco set his glass on the bar top, closing the distance between himself and the floo with silent steps. He dropped into a crouch, locking onto the points of gold that streaked through her brown eyes. “I worry about our future, what kind of father I’ll be, and how I’ll survive the long stretches of time alone, but I have never doubted us. I want everything with you, Hermione,” he repeated firmly. “But I’ll take whatever I can get.”

Her face turned from him, taking a moment to compose herself before she could return his gaze. “Sometimes I think I ruined you,” she whispered. “You could have been a good man, but I helped the world trap you in this form.”

Draco scoffed, watching the firelight chase shadows across her belly. “Give me some credit, Hermione. I came to you willingly. I choose this life every day.”

“You would run,” she rasped, swallowing back the emotion leaching into her voice. “You act like this is a mutual decision, but you would run if I gave us the choice.”

There was a flash of impulse to deny it, but it withered on the vine. The lies he told himself were no longer balms for the soul, they were evidence of how deluded he’d become. Draco chased power because there was nothing else for him to do; any joy he derived from his work paled in comparison to a moment of Hermione’s time. Nothing in any plane of existence meant more to him, but Draco recognized that she was not capable of saying the same.

“I know how important being Minister is to you,” he sniffed. “I’ve always known. As I said, I choose this life every day.”

“No,” Hermione murmured, slowly shaking her head. “You don’t. I’m just sorry I’m not easier to love.” She unconsciously reached out to touch him, jerking back her hand when the flames bit at her skin. Her image dissolved into the fire as she extinguished their call.

Draco stared at the empty space she left behind, breathing through waves of impotent fury and grief. Though he had access to everything he ever wanted, he held nothing tangible in his hands. He was a hollow man standing in a dark and empty room, waiting for his next chance in the sun. It was pathetic, but it was also the only thing that gave his life meaning.

Returning to the bar cart, Draco gave a resigned sigh and topped off his glass.

Chapter Text

Draco wasn’t the first Malfoy to utilize the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the family estate. Even outside the dungeons, death lingered. The manor above was condemned, corrupted by Voldemort’s dark magic, and the passages below were all that remained of the Malfoy’s once-noble seat. An ancient power skulked about the lonely passages, running icy fingers down his spine and tickling the fine hairs at the back of his neck. At some point, he’d grown accustomed to its presence — there was a fondness to its touch, as if it knew its brethren. 

Draco’s footsteps were absorbed by a vacuum of silence, the echo so faint it barely registered as sound. The air passing in and out of his lungs got lost behind the hollow beat of his heart, and there was a stillness that sat in his bones — it leeched out all his goodness, leaving behind nothing but ash and kindling. His general agitation had seeped into his work, forcing his hand to the edge of brutality. Forgiveness and leniency were notions he no longer entertained, and he’d ripped a jagged scar through the wizarding underworld. His barbarity should be something he could control, but it just ended up being another thing he could not. 

The tunnel he was traversing opened up into a large cavern cramped with shelves. The makeshift storage room teemed with iridescent light, projected from thousands of gleaming bottles. The memories housed within them swirled in concentrate, running into the walls of their enclosures and pushing hard against the cork stoppers. Memories taken by force reacted differently than those freely given, and very few specimens were content in their cage. Draco paused to empty his pockets, adding a few moody bottles to a random shelf before he followed the exterior wall toward an alcove his magic had torn in the rock. A pair of voices whipped up from around the bend, the familiar warmup to an argument playing in his ear. The moment he crossed the threshold, Goyle’s shoulders slumped and he released a breath. 

“And here he is now!” He rushed out, briefly catching Draco’s eyes as he entered.

The Carrow sisters turned to acknowledge his entrance, two mirrored sets of grey eyes following him as he strolled into the room. Their mousey brown hair was plaited down their backs, pulling their pale features taut across sharp cheekbones. They remained almost childlike, growth stilted by the conditions following the war. The Carrows, like all of Voldemort’s great followers, had fallen hard and fast. 

The twins had always been uncanny, but through hardship they’d formed a near symbiotic relationship. It was difficult to tell them apart, but not impossible. Hestia was slightly taller, and a stray freckle beneath Flora’s right eye differentiated her from her sister. She did all the talking, but they thought as one, and any disagreement was settled with a glance. 

Hestia leaned back on her heels, folding her arms over her shallow chest and granting him a cursory glance. She was perpetually unimpressed with him, and cautious in their dealings  — though she never voiced it. There was no need. Hestia could cancel a deal with one look to her more ambitious, outgoing half. 

“We brought you a present,” Flora hummed, tipping her head toward the table sitting at the center of the alcove. A vibrant red memory danced within a glass bottle, casting a ruby glow over the scarred wood. There was little else to the room but a roughly carved fireplace. A few threadbare armchairs were angled around a roaring fire, but no one enjoyed its warmth. 

“Important enough to warrant a personal visit,” he replied drily, crossing the floor to grasp it in hand. The bottle was hot to the touch, buzzing softly against his cold skin.

“Wait till you hear what it is,” Goyle grunted. He seemed almost bewildered, piquing Draco’s interest. Turning toward the audible twin, he cocked an eyebrow in question.

“Guess who,” Flora grinned, showcasing a neat row of tiny teeth.

Draco rotated the bottle in his hand and tried to read her excitement. “Potter?”

Throwing back her head, she released a gleeful cackle. The cryptic sound ricocheted off bottled memories until it was cut short by Hestia’s silent glare, dissolving the laugh into a resigned sigh.

“The savior’s great deeds inoculate him to scandal, you know that.”

“A man can dream,” he shrugged.

Hestia motioned for her sister to make the reveal, always impatient to be done and gone. Flora rolled her eyes, but turned serious. “I’m sure you’re aware that the President of MACUSA is in town.” She paused, pinning him in place with her flinty stare. “Another round of extradition talks with the Minister that seemingly go nowhere.” 

The muscles in his stomach cramped, reacting to the dull press of dread. “And?”

“He likes one of our girls, visits her every time he’s in London. His affection is misplaced, of course, but what man doesn’t think with his cock?” There was an accusatory bite to the remark, though she flung it out casually like a rhetorical. 

“What exactly are you saying?” He asked in a practiced, measured tone. The carved edges of the bottle cut into his palm, searing his flesh with its heat. Goyle’s fidgety eyes ensnared him until a soft groan-like sound escaped the back of his throat and he turned his head toward the wall to stifle the unhappy sound.

Flora smiled, allowing time for their exchange before she made her claim. “We thought your girl could use some leverage.”

Goyle grunted, slamming his arms down to his sides as his face contorted and raged. His massive hands curled into fists, displaying a noticeable shake as he took a step forward. “I told you this would happen — I told you! You stupid, arrogant—” 

“Settle down, big boy,” Flora called, raising her hands to deescalate the tension. “We’re friends, remember?”

Draco watched contradictory thoughts bounce around Goyle’s head. Every glance was an accusation as his muscles tensed and released. The four of them weren’t exactly friends, but there were few people they trusted more. Draco was troubled by the thought that Hermione was compromised, but the idea that the twins knew about them quickly established itself in his mind. 

“How did you figure it out?” 

Flora cocked her head, humbling him further with a pitying look. “That brothel a few months ago. You had no business being in that business — so it had to be personal. And then there was Benedict Greengrass: missing, presumed dead, and a rather notorious client of that establishment.” 

“He had many enemies.”

“None so deadly as you, it appears.” She said with a wink. Closing the distance between them, she lowered her voice. “Plus there was that rather public blowup at your wedding between Benedict and the Minister.”

“He could have killed him for the disrespect it showed Astoria,” Goyle muttered, kicking a stray pebble at them from across the room. 

Flora snorted out a breath, exchanging a bemused look with her sister. “If Draco was in the habit of avenging his wife, he’d start with her odious father — Benedict was a sleaze at best. But Hesty and I, we noticed a pattern sometime ago. Whenever our benevolent Minister for Magic runs into political trouble, or is publicly affronted, Draco is somehow involved in the fates of the transgressors. We frequently benefit, of course — acquiring magical items associated with the recently missing or deceased and, most recently, having one of our biggest competitors burned to the ground.” Her smile fell, eyes creasing at the corners as she assessed him. “We’re not complaining. What you do is your affair. But I’m sure you know how spectacularly stupid you’re being — though you seem to have persuaded yourself that forbidden cunt is worth the risk.”

Draco couldn’t help the flinch. Even when it was wise to do so, he could not discount what he and Hermione shared. Hestia observed the failing, shaking her head as she pursed her lips. What one sister witnessed, the other saw, and Flora’s mouth fell open with the revelation.

“You love her,” she said slowly, proclaiming his damnation with three little words. “Oh, you bloody fool, how did you manage that?”

“What exactly is your point?” He sniped, thrusting the bottled memory in the air between them. She barely considered it, answering his question with a far off look as she calculated the risks. 

“He visited us last night. After the extradition talks fell through… again,” she added delicately. “Normally, we don’t intercede with our clients, but he just kept running his mouth. Talking about our fine minister in a most ghastly manner — it didn’t sit well with us.”

Draco swallowed down lead and suppressed the angry magic that enveloped his body. Hestia mapped the response and Flora’s tone softened in turn. “I don’t know what you’ve been trying to do to move the needle here,” she said in a quiet voice, “but your solution is in that bottle.”

“How do we know it’s safe?” Goyle grumbled. His arms were folded over his chest as he continued to catastrophize and there was already a cut forming on his mouth from where he’d been chewing his lip.

Hestia made a low, indignant noise in the back of her throat while Flora gasped, pressing her hand to her heart as she mockingly recoiled. “Who do you think you’re talking to right now, Gregory? Don’t lay your insufficiencies at our feet — we’re the definition of professional.”

Goyle curled in on himself, turning toward the wall to mutter his worries.

“I still don’t understand your motivation,” Draco said. “You don’t strike me as particularly invested in bringing any more justice to Voldemort’s former followers.” A shock of cold air froze the moment when the name left his lips, and he watched them each contend with the rush of memory. It had taken him years to build up the courage to say it, but it always had an undertow. 

“Those men escaped everything—” Flora’s voice broke, and she had to look to her sister before she could continue. Straightening her posture, she forced up her chin. “We’re not opposed to proportional justice. Everyone benefits if this chapter of our history can finally come to a close.”

Draco rolled the bottle in his hand thoughtfully, but his heart was already getting away from him. He couldn’t help but imagine the look on Hermione’s face when he presented her with the killing stroke. Her administration had devoted considerable time to bringing the last of the Death Eaters to justice, and the few remaining were insulated by powerful friends. Real, public-facing justice would solidify Hermione’s legacy — but it would also secure her another term. 

“What do you want for it?” Draco asked, silencing the selfish whisperings of his mind.

Flora shrugged. “Consider it a gift — or perhaps, a lesson.”

“A lesson in what?”

“Discretion,” she said, letting the word linger on her tongue. Goyle emitted another strangled groan from the corner, but he let his sullen glare do the talking. 

“Point taken,” Draco muttered, concentrating on the sensation of the bottle biting into his palm and the contours of the hard ground. The shuffle of feet announced their impending departure, and he looked up as Flora looped her thin arm around Hestia’s. There was a rare mix of sympathy and disappointment written on their faces, but the former seemed largely reserved for Goyle.

“We’ll leave you two to… discuss,” Flora said carefully, turning them toward the exit. Their delicate footsteps hit Draco’s ear like a drum, growing fainter as they made their way toward the Apparition point outside.

The silence that gathered in their wake was a fierce current that threatened to carry him away. He was hit with the instinct to walk and not face the mess — let the walls play audience to the self-righteous lecture Goyle was outlining in his mind. Draco had no desire to have his mistakes shrieked at him, but the storm clouds still broke open and released their terrible winds. 

“Wait until they hear about the baby,” Goyle said, his low voice a rumbling menace. He’d mustered a foreboding sort of calm — the kind that could only be called upon when one knew they were completely in the right.

“Which one?” Draco sneered. It was foolish, but he couldn’t smother his obstinance or swallow his pride.

“Don’t play cute with me, mate. I warned you this would happen.”

“We can trust—”

“But I don't trust them!” Goyle thundered, charging forward until he towered over Draco’s shorter stature. Their faces were inches apart, the gust of Goyle’s exhale pushing back the damp strands of his hair. “I trust exactly two people in this world: you, and out of necessity, Hermione. Your circle should be equally as small, but you keep pushing people into the fold.”

“My circle remains small,” Draco gritted out.

Goyle leapt backward, barking out a harsh laugh as he began to pace. “First, you foolishly and unnecessarily take a wife — then you allow your mistress to fall pregnant, followed promptly by the conception of your heir! And now we have the Carrow twins at our door, flaunting your misdeeds like a fucking prize.”

“I told you why Astoria was necessary.”

Goyle made a sharp turn on his heels, descending to a new level of fury. “And I told you to know your place! We have carved out a good life for ourselves when most of our kind are cold in their graves — if anyone even bothered to bury them. You don’t see Flora and Hestia attempting to rise above their station.”

Draco wet his lips, meeting his uncompromising stare. “I can’t accept that.”

Goyle scoffed, throwing up his hands as he put more distance between them. Dragging his fingers through his hair, he slumped against the wall and stilled. “Something has got to give, mate.”

“There’s no compromise to be made.”

Goyle slowly shook his head. He already knew the answer, but he still fought to dissuade fate. “You have an opportunity here, Draco. Give Hermione the memory and part on good terms. Raise the child you can. Live the life within your reach.”

Draco didn’t even bother to respond and they continued to watch each other, drawing out the moment until Goyle eventually sighed and moved toward the edge of the room. He peered out at the storeroom, letting his eyes drift among the shelves bowing under the heavy burden of memory. “Someday you will need to make a choice,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You cannot have it all.”

Draco felt the prescience of his words. The hourglass had been turned, but he stayed the course. Only Hermione could decide when, and if, he ever showed his hand. 

Without another word, Goyle pushed off from the wall and ambled into the storeroom. The only destination he seemed to have in mind was away and Draco tracked his movements as he disappeared amongst the stacks.

Dusk came and went above ground, but it was always night in the tunnels. Draco busied himself with the mundane, focusing his hands on bureaucratic tasks. Memories were reviewed and cataloged, a shiny new label sprouting from the tip of his wand as each bottle found its place on his shelves. The Carrow’s gift stared at him from the desk, but Draco didn’t put it through the same process. He was too busy distracting himself from his problems, using his pensieve to lose himself again and again in strangers’ lives. He found that his thoughts could be completely absorbed by strategy, ignoring the spike of panic as he figured out new uses for others’ mistakes.

It was nearly midnight when he felt her. She was a bright spot on his soul, and her presence chased away the cold that was claiming him. Hermione always knew where to find him, but she rarely visited the dilapidated remains of his childhood home. She’d experienced her own horrors here, and what little power remained of the ancient House of Malfoy scurried from her path, retreating to the loneliest depths.

Draco knew something was amiss before they even locked eyes, and long before he noticed the limp body trailing along in her shadow. 

Hermione entered the alcove like a dream. Magic sparked in the air around her and she crossed the threshold of the room on silent feet, coming to an abrupt stop before him. She had began the final trimester of her pregnancy and it had rounded out her sharper edges, giving her a soft look that was deceivingly pure. Her clothes were professional and precise, but there was a wildness to her face that worried him. Taking a step to the side, Draco finally got a good look at who she was towing. 

“Come here.” The words crept up out of his throat with unprecedented control and Hermione shivered, eyes darting to the storeroom like she was foolish enough to run. “Come here, Hermione,” he repeated. His voice had a steady insistence to it that pushed her forward like a crop to her flank. 

Draco’s hands bracketed her face, gently pulling her forward until she was nestled into his chest. Tipping her head up, he searched her expression. “What is this Hermione? Why did you bring him here?”

“He’s driving me mad,” she glowered, eyeing her husband’s unconscious form. “He won’t stop following me around, and he makes me drink these disgusting prenatal potions he bought in some chintzy shop in Diagon Alley.”

“He cares about you and the baby, Hermione,” Draco resentfully assured her, stroking the sides of her face.

“It’s not out of concern for me,” she scoffed, seemingly more inconvenienced than disappointed by that fact. “He won’t give me any privacy. He just barges in and assails me with questions about how I’m feeling,” she sighed, resting her forehead against him. “He saw the tattoo on my hip.”

“Why didn’t you just obliviate him again?”

“I thought I might take this opportunity to… show you.”

Her words hung in the air despite their weight. Draco didn’t want to ask what she meant, but he needed to know. “Show me what?”

She pulled away from his arms, a determined look set upon her brow as she moved toward Weasley. Leaning forward, she whispered a charm in his ear and he jerked awake. His face featured a sleepy bewilderment as he stumbled, but stayed on his feet.

“Bloody hell, Hermione. Where are we?” 

“Shhh.” Her fingers pressed against his lips as her eyes slid toward Draco. Weasley’s attention followed her lead. 

“Get behind me!” He ordered, jumping valiantly in front of her extended belly. He tried to grab her wrist, but she floated from his grasp.

“Settle down, Ron,” she said with a practiced tone. “We’re not in any danger.”

“But he—”

“He would never hurt me.”

The corner of Weasley’s eye twitched as his frantic gaze sprinted between them. He held onto confusion as long as he could, but slowly the idea dawned. Every muscle in his body coiled, shrinking him to half the man.

“Him?” The question barely escaped his lips before his defeat hardened into cruelty, souring his pallor. “You fucking cunt.”

“There you are, love. As eloquent as ever.” Hermione beat both wizards to their wands, stealing her husband’s weapon from his weak grip. Summoning a chair from beside the fire, she compelled him to sit and stay. 

“Hermione…” Draco almost mounted a protest, but his mouth clamped shut when she pocketed their wands and pulled the bottom of her blouse from her skirt. She couldn’t see over her stomach, but she knew exactly what she was looking for when she exposed the pale skin of her hip. 

“Do you see this?” Her magic jerked Weasley’s chin to the side, directing his wide eyes downward. He stilled, squinting in the dim light at the precise slash of the M riding her hip. “This means I’m his.” Releasing her shirt, she brought her arms around to cradle the swell of her belly. “And so is she.”

She. 

Salazar, that felt right. Draco could barely keep his heart in his chest. It tumbled about the cavity, spritzing joy through his system until a smile was forcing its way across his dry lips. 

Weasley’s entire body transitioned from shock to disgust, bypassing any more complicated emotions. “After everything I’ve done for—” 

Hermione growled, casting a silencing charm that neutered the threat. Her shoulders rose and fell with her harsh breathing and she rolled them out one at a time before she spoke. “I don’t know what you think I owe you, Ronald. The modest investment you made in our marriage has been recouped in spades.” 

Weasley thrashed in place, but he wasn’t really trying to break her spell. He knew better than most the power she could conjure.

“Our partnership is rather one-sided, if you really think about it,” she mused aloud. “But that’s why I brought you down here. Tonight, you’re going to help me for once.”

Draco’s heart stopped when Hermione turned her back on her husband. She took a step toward him. And then another. Caught in her sights, he was mildly surprised to discover he couldn’t move. 

“Is this enough proof?” She asked, sheltering their daughter between them. “I love you, Draco. All I ask is that you give me time.”

He nodded, tentatively reaching up to touch her face. His thumb flattened the plump flesh of her bottom lip, smearing her lipstick across the carefully drawn line. It was telling that she hadn’t used magic to pin it in place — as was the feverish look in her molten eyes. It was dangerous to leave her so long without release.

His face dipped down to taste the want on her lips, the heady sweet flavor he would forever chase. Everything clicked into place when he kissed her; their bodies centered around each other, like she was the sun and he was stars. Draco was her creation, though his mother had borne him — Hermione was the one who made him the man he was today. 

“I love you,” she whispered again, the words catching on their teeth. They’d never said it aloud, and it needed to be repeated before Draco believed it. He knew, but he didn’t. There was so much standing between them he’d always harbored doubt. 

“I love you too,” he murmured, trying to remember the way the words were formed by his tongue. He said it again for practice and each time it came easier, becoming a chant he recited into their kiss. His hands found every opening in her clothing, fingers pressing against her hip to reinforce the claim he’d burned into her skin. 

“Do you want him to watch?” She asked, breath hot against the shell of his ear before she grasped the lobe with her teeth.

He did, but he couldn’t voice the request. His beleaguered soul dragged it back down his throat, scraping the flesh raw. 

She nudged the side of his face, letting him feel the outline of her smile. “Don’t you want him to see how well I take you? How you hit that spot inside me that he could never reach?”

Draco bit back a groan, tipping his head up to the ceiling in search of strength. The ancient power was mute, providing no guidance on how to weather her. He’d stood before both tyrants and demi-gods, but no one scared him more. Grasping his hands in hers, she led him down a darker path. 

Another armchair positioned itself according to her will, a few yards from her husband as if they were sitting down for a game of chess. Hermione pushed him backwards and Draco let himself fall when his calves hit the bottom of the chair. Posting herself on his lap, she straddled his thighs like she was mounting a king on his throne.

“Show him how it’s done, pookie,” she said, teasing him with her beautiful voice and the slow grind of her hips. Draco was barely cognizant of the man sitting across from them. He tore open the buttons of her blouse and slipped the fabric from her shoulders — every act of aggression softened with a kiss. Hermione shook her arms from the sleeves, helping him to push down the cups of her bra so he could gain access to her breasts. Draco groaned when his hands assumed their weight. Their perfection had changed, taking on new dimensions as they grew with her body to prepare for their child. He could tell she was uncertain of their newness, pulling back slightly as he traced one of her nipples with his tongue. Draco’s eyes found hers and he willed his entire being to reassure her. He’d never wanted anyone or anything more. 

Hermione lifted herself from his grasp, ditching her clothes in a pile on the floor while Draco dragged his trousers down his hips, exposing his needy cock to the crisp air. And then she advanced on him again, pale skin alight with life and the eternal glow of the fire. Her body slotted into his perfectly, facing outward so her husband couldn’t deny the perfection before his eyes.

Hermione moaned, draping her arms back over his shoulders and grinding against him in tight, concentric circles. Her nails raked across his scalp, contradicting the velveteen grasp of her tight cunt. Draco was drunk on sensation: the wet slide of her spit-slicked nipples against his calloused palms, the muggy heat trapped between their thighs, the ancient rumble of magic rising from somewhere beyond where the light could touch. With every expression of his hips, Weasley’s angry gaze grew hotter on their skin and Draco’s thrusts gained determination as the temperature rose. 

“She’s mine,” he growled, his voice a shard of glass. Sharp, with a jagged edge. His free hand settled over the arc of her belly, fingers splayed. “Mine.”

“I’m yours,” Hermione whined, leaning back against his chest so he could fuck up into her harder. Weasley didn’t even flinch, as if he’d always known. His freckled face was ruddy with embarrassment, fingers coiling around the arms of the broken down chair he’s been forced to assume. Despite everything, Draco got the distinct feeling he didn’t care for the right reasons. He and Hermione had been linked together so long he only saw her as an extension of himself.

“We should have done this years ago,” Draco rasped, just to hear Hermione laugh. The clear, bell-like sound echoed off the tunnel walls, slapping her husband across the face. She paused their joining long enough to put Weasley out of his misery, propelling a potent sleeping charm right into his skull. His head tipped forward, body slouching in the chair and then it was only the two of them – glorious and infinite as time. Framing his hands with hers, she guided them over her hips and down to where they were joined. The heat scorched his fingertips and their combined juices gathered in the whorls.

“Now fuck me like you do when no one’s watching,” Hermione said huskily. Draco gripped her hips, hard enough to leave indents in the bone. He would fuse them together if he could: one breath, one body, one soul. The chair beneath them released a pained groan and the entire structure rocked each time Draco bottomed out. He pistoned his hips upwards and she rode him harder — taking everything. 

When they both trembled on the edge of bliss, he released her from the cursed magic that bound her pleasure. “Hold it, my love,” he purred, burying his face in her hair. “Show me how strong you are.”

Hermione mewled. Arching her back, she dug her nails into the meat of his thighs until she broke skin. Blood darkened the fabric of his trousers as she tore him open and Draco released his grip on her hips. Crossing his arms over her breasts, he pulled her down onto his cock as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Come.” 

Hermione followed him right off the cliff, screaming out his name for every lingering ancestor to hear. Her ecstatic cry rang off the cold, dead stone surrounding them and they vibrated with a power Draco couldn’t name. His heart thundered in his chest, but he couldn’t say he owned it. The breathless woman in his arms could call it home at any time. It was exhilarating to love so recklessly, following Hermione across a tightrope and trusting her to guide the way. Neither of them moved until the sweat began to dry down on their skin, and even then Draco held her tighter and tried to cocoon her in his warmth.

“You will be the death of me,” Draco chuckled, blowing away curls from his mouth.

“Then we’ll die together,” she said. Her voice was hoarse and her body fucked out. She settled into his arms, releasing a contented sigh as he nuzzled the side of her neck.

“How many times have you obliviated him?” He asked. His hands soothed every bruise he’d pressed into her soft flesh, using his lips to whisper sweet affirmations against the fading blush of her skin.

Hermione hummed, cocking her head as she watched her husband’s steady breathing. “Three?” She paused, reviewing the occasions. “Yes, three.”

“Is his mind quite right?”

She twisted her body atop him, trying to deliver a glare but unable to fully turn her head while she was pregnant and still impaled on his softening cock. “Are you doubting my abilities? I’m the one who taught you and Goyle.”

Draco grinned and nipped at her pulse. “Never.”

“That’s what I thought.” 

She wiggled in his lap and he fought her attempts to pull away, closing his eyes and breathing her in one last time before he relinquished his hold. She stood up gingerly, stretching out her legs as she gathered her clothes. Draco watched her put herself back together, admiring her curves in the firelight while she methodically dressed. Exhaling out a wistful sigh, he joined her — tucking his sated cock back into his trousers and straightening his robes. 

“Come on,” he murmured, slipping his hand in hers and leading her toward the penseive he’d placed against the wall. “I have something for you.” 

He picked the bottled memory up from the table as they passed and uncorked it with his thumb. The scarlet contents slid into the bowl’s dark waters, dissipating across the surface until it glowed red.

“Take a look.”

She threw him a puzzled look and he encouraged her with the bob of his chin, ignoring the voices buzzing in his head that warned him of what it would mean. Dipping her face down, Hermione grasped the sides of the penseive and removed the choice.

When she came back up her full lips were curled into a smile, the spark of victory beaming in her golden eyes. 

“Oh, my love,” she said with a laugh. “We’re going to rule the fucking world.”