Chapter Text
Months passed, and Hermione found herself settling into a quiet, unexpected rhythm at the manor. Most weekdays, Draco left for Malfoy Enterprises, occasionally swapping days with his father so he could stay home and spend time with her. On the days he was away, Theo kept her company, and as always, was endlessly entertaining, surprisingly insightful, and always up for mischief or meaningful conversation.
Often, they’d lose entire afternoons in the vast manor library. Hermione could vanish into its shelves for days if left to her own devices, and Theo—despite his reputation as a rakish troublemaker—was far more intellectual than he let on. He actually enjoyed devouring books alongside her, though he hid it beneath layers of charm and sarcasm. Gods forbid anyone think he was a bookworm.
They’d often pick out a couple of books, curl up on the couch, and read in companionable silence. Sometimes, Theo would rest his head in her lap while they both read, or she’d tuck her perpetually cold feet beneath him for warmth. Draco would occasionally find them like this and, without a word, send a stinging hex Theo’s way until they separated—then promptly wedge himself between them with a pointed look.
She fell into other habits as well, such as taking dips in the indoor pool, practicing piano in the acoustically-engineered music room, visiting the horses in the stables, chatting with Draco’s portrait, or wandering the grounds with Lucius’s gentle Scottish deerhounds—Helios and Gwenie (short for Gwendolyn)—trotting faithfully at her side.
Blaise and Pansy visited often, sometimes with Neville in tow (whom her friend was now quite serious about), and her other friends dropped by on occasion. Still, Hermione usually preferred to visit Harry and Ginny or Luna instead, knowing they weren’t as comfortable in the manor. But over time, it had quietly become home to her despite how ridiculously grand it was and the fact that she was still finding new rooms.
Every morning, she, Draco, Theo, and Lucius took breakfast together. Conversation flowed easily over tea and toast—plans for the day, musings about whatever book she was currently reading, playful bickering between Theo and Draco, and the slower, more cautious exchanges between father and son. Their relationship remained tinged with tension, but both were making an effort. Draco was more receptive now to Lucius’s attempts at reconciliation—though it often took a subtle nudge (or not-so-subtle glare) from her to keep him on track.
Lucius, for his part, was around more often than he had been when she and Draco were merely courting. She’d frequently catch him in passing throughout the manor, and their encounters always began with a warm greeting and easy conversation. When the weather allowed, they would stroll through the gardens together. Hermione found him composed, thoughtful, and disarmingly intelligent—his wit was sharp and clever, never obvious, as he seemed to find crass humor distasteful. Their rapport deepened over time, and he gradually began sharing quiet glimpses into Draco’s childhood—his close bond with Narcissa, small acts of mischief, and painful truths from the war that Draco rarely spoke of.
When Hermione shared things in return, Lucius surprised her by truly listening, especially when she spoke of her parents.
He offered—without fanfare or expectation—to pay for the finest mind healers in hopes of restoring their memories. She’d gently declined, feeling that too much time had passed. Too many years lost. How could she explain what she had done? The choices she had made? Her parents were safe and happy, living a quiet life in Australia. She’d checked on them from time to time—most recently, with Harry.
They’d posed as a couple, interested in buying the house next door, and were invited in for tea. Her parents didn’t recognize her. They were kind, gracious, and complimented Hermione and Harry on being a “lovely couple.”
She held it together until they left. Smiled politely, made small talk, even thanked them for the tea. But the moment they stepped out of her parents’ home and the door closed behind them, the weight of it all came crashing down. She broke.
Harry caught her as her knees buckled, wrapping his arms around her as she sobbed into his chest. He didn’t say much at first—just held her, letting her cry, one hand gently stroking her hair, the other gripping her waist like he could anchor her to the earth. When her cries quieted into hiccuping breaths, he finally spoke.
“They’re safe, Hermione,” he said softly. “They’re happy. You did what you had to do. You saved them.”
She shook her head, tears still streaking down her face. “I stole their lives, Harry… I took everything from them.”
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “You gave them a life. A future without fear. That’s not theft, Hermione. That’s love.”
She collapsed into him again, grateful but unconvinced, grief curling in her chest like a second heartbeat.
After they returned to the manor, and after managing a quick goodbye, she wandered the estate until she was lost in more ways than one. Eventually, she sank down at the base of an old tree, clutching her knees, weeping for all that had been taken, all she had chosen, and all she could never fix.
Lucius found her an hour later.
He didn’t speak. Just gently helped her up, silent and steady, and offered her his arm. She clung to it. He only broke the silence once, to softly ask if she wanted him to Apparate them inside. She shook her head. She needed the walk to steady herself before seeing Draco. She didn’t want to worry him.
She leaned her head gently against Lucius’s strong arm, silent and distant, and let the tears dry on her cheeks as they walked slowly back toward the manor. The silence between them was a comfort—Lucius didn’t press or offer empty words. He simply walked at her pace, letting her hold on as tightly as she needed. The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet, and the sun had just begun to dip beneath the horizon, bathing the estate in a warm, golden glow. By the time the towering silhouette of the manor came into view, Hermione had mostly composed herself, her eyes puffy and red but dry, her breathing even again.
When she stepped inside, Draco and Theo were waiting for her in the front hall, both wearing matching looks of concern that made her throat tighten all over again. She forced a small, brave smile as she straightened her shoulders. “Sorry I was gone so long,” she said lightly, as if she hadn’t been a sobbing mess barely an hour earlier.
Draco was by her side immediately, brushing her hair back and searching her face, but she shook her head gently— not now. Theo didn’t press either; he simply stepped forward and pulled her into a quiet, grounding hug, holding her just long enough to steady her before letting go. He gave Draco a small nod and stepped back as Draco wrapped his arms around her and guided her upstairs.
Once in his room, she lay down on the bed, and Draco gathered her close, spooning her from behind. He pressed soft kisses to her forehead and cheeks, whispering gentle reassurances—that she was safe, that everything was okay, that he was there, and that when she was ready, they could talk about what happened. She didn’t speak. She only cried silently, her tears soaking into the pillow, and eventually drifted into sleep. She didn’t wake until late the next morning.
That day, Draco enchanted their wedding rings—so she could summon him at any time, and so he’d always know where she was. It made her feel a little safer, a little more grounded. When she was ready, she opened up to him about visiting her parents with Harry. About how difficult it had been. How the guilt gnawed at her constantly for having obliviated their memories. How she missed them fiercely, even though she’d shoved those feelings deep down for years, trying not to drown in them.
“I can never replace your parents, my love,” Draco said gently, cupping her cheek. “But I am your family now. And you will never be alone again. I promise you that.”
She held onto him tightly and let the words fill her. He was her husband, yes—but he also felt like home. So did Theo, and Harry, and the handful of others who loved her so fiercely and without condition. She was lucky, she knew that. But the loss of her parents was still a wound that hadn’t healed—and perhaps never would.
Draco encouraged her to reconsider meeting with specialized mind healers to explore the possibility of restoring their memories. This time, she agreed to at least speak with them. To weigh the risks, not just for her parents’ mental well-being, but for her own peace of mind.
But Hermione wasn’t the only one quietly struggling.
Some nights, Draco would thrash in his sleep—crying out, sweating, kicking at the sheets. She’d hear him whispering broken pleas: “Not my mother, please—punish me instead,” or “No more blood… please no more blood…”
She would wake him gently, whispering softly, touching his cheek until the wild look in his eyes faded and he remembered where he was, that he was safe. That the war was over. That she was his wife, and she was right there.
He would exhale shakily and bury his face in her chest while she held him. Rarely, he would cry. But when he did, it shattered her. He never wanted to talk about it. Said it was better left alone. She disagreed, but she respected his boundary. Still, it worried her, the way he kept the trauma so tightly locked inside.
They were both a little broken in their own ways. But the cracks rarely showed. Day-to-day, they were genuinely happy in their marriage, and Hermione found herself falling more in love with Draco all the time.
He wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t either. But over time, she learned to navigate his complexities. He was quick to temper—never with her, but still intense. He was deeply jealous. Possessive. Not just when Theo touched her, but anyone, really—except for his father, who never did more than offer his arm to her and always treated her with old-world courtesy.
Still, it was abundantly clear to her that Draco was a dragon, and she was his hoard.
He could also be evasive at times. Withholding. Sometimes, when she’d ask him questions, he’d dodge them or redirect until she pressed him hard enough for answers. One day, she found him in his study with Harry, their conversation hushed and tense. When she asked what it was about, Draco deflected and claimed he was late for a work meeting. Harry offered no explanation either, and even Ginny didn’t know what was going on. It lingered in the back of her mind—whatever it was, they were hiding something.
Still, Draco was endlessly loving and attentive. Devoted in a way that made her feel like the center of his world. He worshipped her—she felt it every time they made love. He always made it primarily about her pleasure, and some days, they wouldn’t leave their room, wrapped up in each other for hours on end between naps and meals. It was intense. Consuming. But she had never felt so alive.
When they did eventually emerge, Theo would all but explode with pent-up energy and demand her attention like a starved puppy. His emotional neediness had quietly morphed into a kind of codependence, one she knew wasn’t healthy—but she couldn’t bear to deny him the comfort she could so easily offer him.
Once, she tried to confront him about his walls—how he pushed people away under the guise of detachment, even though he clearly longed so deeply to be loved. But he deflected, cracked a joke, changed the subject—what all of the Slytherins around her tended to do.
Until one night, after a few too many drinks, he finally confessed what she’d always suspected, that he had never truly gotten over his unrequited love for Draco. And now that Draco was married, he forced himself to keep new boundaries. No more lingering touches. No more curling up beside him like before. It hurt, and he missed the closeness, but he respected their marriage and Draco’s devotion and unwavering fidelity to her. He laughed when she brought up the irony of the lack of boundaries he had with her, and explained that it was different because he wasn’t in love with her; he didn’t want her in the same way he wanted Draco.
“Wouldn’t that just make it worse for you, though, in the past?” Hermione asked gently. “Receiving crumbs of affection, knowing it never meant to him what it meant to you?”
Theo stared at the fireplace, finishing the last sip of his firewhiskey before murmuring, “I’d rather live in the illusion of what could have been than never feel anything at all.”
She found his answer excruciatingly painful to hear.
“Oh, Theo…”
She opened her arms, and he crawled into her lap on the couch without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head on her thigh. She stroked his hair softly, threading her fingers through the dark, wavy strands.
“Theo, please… I’m begging you. Find someone who can love you back the way you love them. You deserve that. You deserve to be happy.”
He sighed, quiet for a long moment, holding onto her tightly. Then, finally, “It feels… terrifying. Opening up like that with someone new.”
“You don’t have to do it all at once,” she said, her voice tender. “You can go at your own pace. In parts. Take your time. It’s not a race. You don’t have to rush into it like Draco and I did. In fact, you shouldn’t. We were lucky it worked out.”
He looked up and gave a small, wistful smile. “Draco never would’ve let you slip away. He would’ve become whatever you needed him to be, just to keep you. Fortunately, you seem to love him just as he is.”
She smiled softly. “I do.”
“Still,” she added more firmly, “you need to move on. You’re living in a stunted adolescence, and it’s time to grow up. I say that with love.”
“I love you more, my darling,” Theo murmured, laying his head back down on her thigh. “Something Draco and I share.”
“That’s not true,” she said gently. “I love you both. The same way you both love me.”
He snorted. “Would you kill for either of us?”
She hesitated. “That’s hardly the best measure of love—whether I’m willing to give away pieces of my soul.”
“You and Draco already have my entire soul,” Theo said quietly. “I’d give it willingly if it meant saving either of you. And I know Draco feels the same about you. I’ve seen it. In his head.”
Hermione blinked. “So I was right… you two have been doing secret Legilimency behind my back.”
“And in front of you as well, darling,” Draco’s voice cut in from the doorway, giving her another one of his heated, jealous stares.
Theo lifted his head and met Draco’s eyes with an unimpressed look before slowly releasing Hermione and sitting upright again.
“Come, wife,” Draco said, offering his hand. “I’d like to shag the remnants of Theo’s touch off your body now.”
“Must you say it like that?” Hermione sighed, though her lips twitched with amusement as she stood and walked over to him.
Draco grabbed her possessively, eyes dark with want. “No,” he said, voice low, “but I do need to shag you senseless.”
The devilish glint in his smirk made her pulse flutter.
“Would you mind terribly,” she asked sweetly, “saying goodnight to Theo first?”
Draco sighed. “Goodnight, Nott,” he said dryly.
Theo waved a lazy hand from where he was lounging on the couch.
Hermione leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Give him a kiss goodnight.”
Draco gave her a look—part amused, part exasperated—but when she nodded with soft insistence, he rolled his eyes and relented.
With a sigh, he walked over to Theo, who was once again stretched out across the couch like an overly pampered cat. Without a word, Draco grabbed the blanket from the armrest and draped it casually over Theo’s legs. Then he leaned down, cupped his cheek with one hand, and held his gaze for a beat—something almost tender passing between them.
He pressed a kiss to Theo’s forehead, lingering a moment before pulling away and murmuring, “Sleep well.”
He turned and walked back to Hermione, taking her hand in his. Together, they quietly slipped out of the room.
When she glanced back, Theo hadn’t moved. He was still sprawled out lazily, head resting on the cushion, but his eyes glistened—and the look he gave her was full of quiet gratitude.
***
April 30th, 2002
Draco had been receiving letters for months.
At first, they were little more than idle threats—crude insults scrawled in shaky script, sealed with obscure pureblood sigils that reeked of desperation. He’d scoffed, tossing them into the fireplace without a second glance. Crackpot ramblings from bitter traditionalists. Nothing more than noise.
But then the letters changed.
Ink that scorched the parchment. Envelopes that hissed when opened. One note arrived soaked in something that looked like blood, its message written in jagged, violent strokes:
You’ve shamed your name. Soon, you’ll answer for it.
Still, he hadn’t told Hermione.
She was happy. Settled. And for once in her life, at peace. After everything she’d endured during the war, he couldn’t bring himself to drag her into the shadow looming behind him—not unless it became something real. Something unavoidable.
So he said nothing.
Instead, he watched. Waited. Reinforced the wards, quietly enchanted new protections over the windows and doorways. Modified the Floo security system. He even took to carrying his wand more tightly in hand, even within the manor walls. If Hermione noticed the stiffness in his posture or the way his eyes flicked too often toward the windows, she didn’t press.
But late at night, when sleep evaded him and the threats echoed in his mind, Draco couldn’t help but wonder if the sins of his past—or of his name—would ever truly let him go.
Their wedding had brought a rare swell of goodwill to the Malfoy name. In the months that followed, Hermione quietly spent hundreds of thousands of galleons on charitable causes, including healing clinics, orphanages, reparations for war victims, and research into improved prosthetics. When the donations were leaked to the press, the story exploded. The brilliant Muggle-born war heroine turned Lady Malfoy was suddenly the wizarding world’s most famous philanthropist—admired, applauded, and adored. Their public image softened, transformed. Draco’s name, once met with suspicion, was now met with cautious curiosity.
But not everyone celebrated.
On the side of light, some still whispered that Draco had escaped true justice—that he didn’t deserve his happy ending. And in the darker corners of pureblood society, their union was viewed as betrayal. A Malfoy heir marrying a Muggle-born witch was unforgivable. Other prominent families began following their example, marrying outside the sacred twenty-eight, and the Malfoys were blamed for the shift.
The discontent simmered beneath the surface, quiet, but growing.
He never let Hermione leave the manor unaccompanied anymore. If he couldn’t go with her, he’d gently nudge her to invite Theo or check if Potter was free. Theo, despite his insufferable habits and charming aloofness, was fiercely protective when it counted and an excellent duelist. And Potter—well, Potter was an Auror with a martyr complex. He’d throw himself in front of a curse for her without hesitation.
She also had her enchanted ring, linked to his, which allowed him to know her location at all times and come to her instantly if needed. It helped. But not enough.
Lucius tried to reassure him. The manor’s wards were ancient and formidable, rivaling Hogwarts in strength. No one could hope to breach them, and if by some miracle they did, it would set off a dozen alarms. But Draco’s instincts wouldn’t be soothed so easily.
He knew too well what fear looked like dressed as loyalty.
Harry gave him updates on lingering Death Eater activity—names like Mulciber Jr., Rodolphus Lestrange, Selwyn, and Macnair. All still at large. Rumors whispered of a new order forming from the ruins of the old—extremists who refused to accept the changing world.
That worried Draco most of all.
Because he knew Rodolphus Lestrange had a reason to come for him.
In the final days of the war, Draco had executed Rabastan Lestrange under Voldemort’s orders. But it had been his idea—his scheme. He framed Rabastan for deliberately letting a group of imprisoned Muggle-borns escape. Voldemort, suspicious and unraveling, accepted the lie without question and sentenced him to death.
Draco carried out the sentence swiftly and without remorse.
Rodolphus had watched. Had known. And he’d sworn that one day, Draco would pay for what he’d done.
Now, with letters arriving in blood and whispers of a new uprising, Draco feared that day was coming—and he felt helpless to stop it. He had already made certain arrangements in case the worst should happen, determined that no matter what, his wife would remain safe. That was all that mattered.
He was deep in thought during dinner when Hermione cleared her throat and gave him a look—pointed, expectant. Clearly, something was on her mind.
“I’ve been thinking about your upcoming birthday, dear husband,” she said with a small smile.
“Oh, have you, darling? What about it exactly? Aside from the fact that I’ll finally catch up to you in age—if only for a few short months.”
“Age is just a number, Draco,” she dismissed.
“Not when you’ve reached my age,” Lucius interjected smoothly with a ghost of a smirk.
“You’re what, late forties? That’s hardly ancient,” Hermione replied, waving off the comment.
“Hmm, if you say so,” Lucius said mildly, taking another bite of food.
“You could easily find yourself in the knickers of a witch half your age, Lucy,” Theo added with a sly grin.
Lucius raised an unimpressed brow. “Are you saying you find me handsome, Nott?”
“Oh, you know I do. That’s not even up for debate,” Theo said with a wink. “You hardly look a day over thirty-five. I do wish you’d share your skincare routine.”
“It’s purely genetics,” Lucius replied, deadpan. “Though I do take great care to condition my hair,” he added, casting an amused glance at Hermione.
It was always nice when Lucius let himself be a bit less formal. Hermione gave him a smile in return.
“Well, back to your birthday,” she said, redirecting. “I’d like to throw a gala in your honor. And instead of gifts, I was hoping everyone would donate to a trust fund for the new healing wing at St. Mungo’s. We could raise funds to refurbish the entire hospital, really.”
Draco stared at her, full of fondness. His wife—ever the altruist—even when it came to his birthday. Merlin, he loved her for it.
“The idea’s intriguing,” he said, “but… I’m not sure about hosting it here.”
“Why not? What’s the point of having a manor with two ballrooms if we never use them?” she asked, furrowing her brows.
He glanced at his father, who immediately understood. With security still a concern, Draco didn’t want hundreds of guests wandering through the manor, having the opportunity to plant Merlin knows what in their home.
“Perhaps it would be better held elsewhere,” Lucius said smoothly. Then, turning to Theo with a subtle tilt of his head, “Nott, would you consider hosting this gala at your estate?”
Theo blinked, caught off guard—but Lucius’s pointed stare made resistance futile.
“My dear Draco,” he said, plastering on a smile, “I’d be honored to host your birthday gala. I’ll contact Pansy at once and begin planning.”
“Thank you, Theo. How generous,” Draco replied sweetly, blowing him a kiss, which Theo pretended to catch and tuck into his pocket.
Hermione gave all three men a suspicious look, clearly sensing something they weren’t telling her. Eventually, she sighed and reached for her wine.
“Let’s focus on inviting the wealthiest donors you know. I already promised St. Mungo’s we’d raise several hundred thousand galleons.”
“I’ll match whatever is raised that night,” Draco said, squeezing her hand. “Don’t worry.”
“I’ll contribute a quarter million,” Lucius added smoothly, glancing toward Theo.
Theo groaned. “Don’t look at me—I’m already throwing the party.”
“Nott, you’ve got a hundred million galleons sitting in your vaults,” Draco drawled. “Don’t be stingy. It’s unbecoming.”
“Fine,” Theo grumbled. “I’ll toss in fifty thousand. For Hermione.”
“Hearing you lot casually throw around numbers like that will never stop disturbing me,” she muttered.
“Do you have any idea what your rings are worth? Your diamond studs and the diamond bracelet I gave you for your birthday? You’re practically a walking vault, darling,” Draco said, smirking.
She blushed but waved him off. “It’s for charity, so thank you all. I can’t wait to celebrate you, love.”
Draco lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “And I can’t wait to take off your dress at the end of the night.”
The heat in his voice made her blush deepen, and he felt his pulse stir in response.
“In fact,” he said, standing up, “I believe I’m finished with dinner. And it seems you are too.”
He rose and tugged her gently to her feet. Lucius stood as well, offering a polite nod, while Theo smirked into his goblet.
“Goodnight, gentlemen,” Draco said, guiding his wife from the room.
As soon as they were in the hallway, Draco apparated them directly into their bedroom without a word. The moment her feet touched the floor, he had her backed against the wall, caging her in with his arms, his eyes smoldering.
For a beat, he didn’t touch her. Just stared—gazed at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. His wife. His. Every curve, every inch of her, belonged to him, and Merlin, it undid him.
“You always look so bloody beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough and low.
Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t get a word out before his mouth crashed against hers—hungry, possessive, full of longing he’d barely restrained all evening. His hands slid down to her hips, gripping hard, dragging her flush against him so she could feel how much he wanted her.
Her gasp gave him just enough space to trail kisses along her jaw, down the curve of her neck. He bit lightly at her pulse point, then soothed it with his tongue, smiling when she moaned.
“I’ve been thinking about this all bloody evening,” he confessed, his hands already pushing her dress up over her thighs. “Watching you… smiling like that… knowing what’s mine under all that silk…”
She clung to his shoulders as he lifted her off the ground, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He carried her to the bed and laid her down carefully—like she was something precious, something breakable. And then he hovered over her, drinking in the sight of her splayed beneath him.
Slowly, deliberately, he began to undress her—undoing each clasp, each layer, with reverent fingers. He wanted to savor her, not rush. She was flushed and panting already, her eyes glazed with need, but he still took his time.
When she was bare beneath him, he just looked at her for a long moment.
She reached for him. “Draco…”
“I know what you need,” he said, voice hoarse.
He undressed quickly, shedding his clothes with practiced ease, and settled over her again—skin to skin, breath to breath. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone as he kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, his mouth moving against hers with reverence.
He trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat, savoring the shiver he drew from her. His hands roamed her body—strong, deliberate—palming her breasts, teasing her nipples until she arched into him with a quiet gasp. He took his time, worshipping every inch of her, rediscovering her like it was the first time.
One hand slid down her stomach, fingers parting her thighs with ease. He slipped between them, stroking her with the perfect pressure, circling and teasing until she was panting beneath him. She was soft, warm, wet—utterly ready for him—and he growled low in his throat at the feel of her.
He kept going, slow and attentive, two fingers easing inside her while his thumb continued its rhythm. She moaned his name, hips lifting to meet his touch, and it took everything in him not to lose control right then.
When her breath hitched and she clenched around him, he slowly pulled his fingers out, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean with a wicked glint in his eyes. She always tasted like heaven.
Only then did he position himself, tip of his cock brushing her entrance. He kissed her again, long and slow, and murmured against her lips, “Mine.”
He slid into her—inch by inch—with a slow, aching stretch that had them both groaning. He held still once he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to hers, letting her body adjust, letting himself breathe.
And then he began to move.
It was a steady rhythm at first—long, deep strokes that made her gasp and cling to him. He moved slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of her wrapped around him, the way her body welcomed every inch like she was made for him. She arched beneath him, nails raking down his back, and he reveled in the sharp sting—it grounded him, pushed him deeper into the haze of want.
She was so beautiful like this. Hair spread out and wild over the pillow, cheeks flushed, lips parted as she whispered his name over and over like a chant—like a prayer. He kissed her hard, swallowing the sound, one hand threading into her hair to keep her close, the other gripping her thigh tightly.
But it wasn’t enough.
He wanted more.
Breaking the kiss, he shifted, grabbing her other leg and pushing both thighs up slowly, folding her nearly in half. Her breath hitched at the new angle, a soft whimper slipping from her lips.
“Oh, you feel that, love?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “So deep now. You’re taking me so fucking well.”
He began to thrust again, deeper now, harder—but not brutal—still controlled, still measured. Every time he pushed forward, she gasped, her head tipping back, her eyes fluttering closed.
“Look at me,” he ordered gently, cupping her face. “I want to see your eyes when you come.”
She did as he asked—always did—and the sight of her, wrecked and open and his, made his control fray at the edges. Her body tensed beneath him, legs trembling as he drove into her again and again, each stroke coaxing her closer to the edge.
“That’s it, my darling,” he praised, breathless. “You’re perfect. So tight… so fucking good for me. My brilliant girl.”
She cried out softly, clenching around him, and he knew she was there, right on the precipice. He reached between them, circling her clit with deft fingers as he continued to move within her.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “Let me feel you.”
She shattered beneath him with a soft, broken moan, her body locking around his in waves. He groaned, forehead pressed to hers, nearly undone by the way she pulsed around him, the way she clung to him like he was her lifeline.
He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until he gave her every drop of what he had.
Her walls clenched around him again, and he nearly lost it right then—her body still trembling, her breath catching on little gasps as she came down. But he wasn’t finished.
He slowed his pace, drawing it out, pulling nearly all the way out before thrusting in again, deeper, rougher. She whimpered, oversensitive now, her nails digging into his biceps as her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, holding him close.
“Just a bit more, love,” he panted, voice ragged. “So close…”
She met his gaze, glassy and sated, and whispered, “I want it… please, Draco.”
That was all it took.
His rhythm faltered, hips snapping forward once, twice more before he came with a groan that tore from deep in his chest. He spilled into her with a shudder, burying his face in the curve of her neck, holding her so tightly he thought he might disappear inside her.
“Fuck, Hermione…” he breathed against her skin, lips brushing her shoulder. “You undo me.”
For a moment, neither of them moved—just the sound of their breathing, the warmth of skin on skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat finally beginning to slow.
He softened inside her but didn’t pull away just yet. Instead, he kissed her jaw, her temple, her eyelids as they fluttered shut.
“You’re everything,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Everything I never thought I’d have.”
Hermione hummed sleepily, content, her fingers trailing down his back. “I love you,” she murmured, her voice heavy with exhaustion.
He kissed her again, gently this time. “I love you more.”
Afterward, he held her close, both of them slick with sweat, limbs tangled. He buried his face in her neck and exhaled slowly, grounding himself in her scent, her warmth.
“I’ll never get enough of you,” he murmured, and meant it.
She stroked his hair and kissed his temple, and in the quiet that followed, all he could feel was her—her body wrapped around his, her breath soft against his skin, her love pressed into every inch of him.