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Chapter Text

If someone told Draco Malfoy he'd be divorced by thirty with a toddler and a bitch ex-wife whose sole mission was to make his life as miserable as humanly (and magically) possible—he would've said they were lying. 

Actually, he would've punched them in the face, told them to rightfully fuck off, and might've even bet his entire bloody inheritance on it.

Which, according to Witch Weekly, was only eight hundred and fifty galleons. 

Both equally valid and quite false. 

If they'd just asked him outright (or bribed one of the more slippery Goblins at Gringotts), those nosy reporters would've had their facts straight about his current net worth of nine hundred and thirty million galleons. That roughly translated to approximately 4.8 billion pounds. 

Absurd? Most definitely.  

But he was the only Malfoy Heir, if he didn't count his five-year-old son Scorpius. And Scorpius currently thought Knuts were better for dragon hoards and spent his weekly allowance on sweets shaped like broomsticks and stuffies in Diagon. 

So… yes, technically speaking, it was still Draco’s vault. For now.

Digressing from that tidbit, he honestly didn't think that this was how his life would've panned out. Especially when Astoria cheated on him, then divorced him (which was nearly fucking impossible in the Wizarding World) and moved to Australia with her new lover, Chad.

Or, as Draco liked to refer to him: 'An idiotic prick with teeth.'

Honestly? What sort of name was fucking Chad, anyway? Chad. It felt like a fabricated name—something utterly ridiculous and not at all logical. And to make things about a thousand times worse, Chad was a fucking Muggle.

Yep. A Muggle.

Astoria up and left their entire life and family they built to go shack up with a Muggle. 

Draco wasn't even mad about her leaving. No, what royally pissed him off was the fact that she abandoned their son, Scorpius, without a thought or care in the entire world. Selfish. So fucking greedy. And yes, Draco Malfoy thought Astoria Greengrass-Malfoy was a complete and utter cunt.

If there were a more offensive word out there for her, he'd gladly call her that, but for now she was just a gods-damn cunt. 

He didn't need to expand on that bit, did he?

But Draco supposed that wasn't the crux of the story, given that he was now standing in the upstairs hall bathroom of his townhome, staring down at the ridiculous (and illegal) birthday gift Blaise and Theo gave him for his birthday. 

Actually, if he recalled the exact moment correct, he was positive they both had two shite-eating grins as they said: "Don't die of repression, Malfoy. A wank is needed every once in a while." 

It had been a terrible year. 

Alright, a shite decade, really—but who was counting? 

And he understood why his friends had decided to give him the gift, considering the instructions clearly stated that all fantasies could become a reality with one wish. 

Sighing, Draco met his gaze in the mirror, taking in the tired look in his grey eyes. He looked older, as if the entire year had weighed down on him, causing the slight creases to form in the corners of his mouth. 

Pansy called them frown lines. He called them the consequences of being married to that bitch. Whatever. 

Draco had a few more scars on his body, too. But that typically came with the job, and one particularly aggressive Banshee last month that he and Potter had to wrangle. Yeah, yeah, so what if he became an Auror? Big fucking deal. He was also friends with Potter—something his younger, prickish self wouldn't believe—and he actually enjoyed the wizard's company. Honestly. 

In fact, in precisely thirty-two minutes, half of Draco's bizarrely curated circle of friends would descend upon his townhome for his birthday dinner (Pansy's plan, of course). If he had his way? He'd sit in front of his Muggle television with Scorpius, and the two would share some Chinese takeaway as they watched some kid-friendly movie about dragons. 

Draco's fingers curled over the edge of the sink as he stared back down at the pulsating box. Intricate script of vines and runes was engraved on the top of the silver lid, along with the words: Verum Desiderium. 

Truth of Desire. 

Ha. Clever. 

It was nearly the size of a soap dish, maybe a bit larger. Untraceable, actually. Though maybe that was a good thing, considering that, as an Auror, he confiscated these all the time on the Dark Market. 

Gods, what the hell were Blaise and Theo thinking? Or more correctly: why didn't they ever fucking think? Idiots. 

Curious, he picked up the silver object, cradling it like it was some forbidden talisman or even a Dark Sex Magick tome he knew his mother had kept hidden in Malfoy library (true story, because he found it onetime between his third and fourth year). 

There was no switch, no incantation etched into the priceless metal, or even an instruction manual titled: "So You've Decided To Have A Wank—Here's What To Do." Instead, the box simply warmed in his palm, blooming over his skin with a vibrational hum that was contagiously familiar. Almost recognizable. Goosebumps erupted, dragging like a lover's caress down the dip of his abdomen, encircling his cock that stilled a little too quickly for his liking. 

"Well, this is a bloody great start," Draco muttered, eyeing the device. 

Now he just needed to figure out how to activate it. 

Actually, he remembered Theo telling him that there were only three steps to trigger the box. All he had to do was hold the Verum Desiderium (done), think of his chosen fantasy (getting there), then open the lid, and his wildest dreams would come true (ha!). 

Yeah… pretty straightforward enough. 

Draco checked his overpriced heirloom watch with a dragon-hide inlay band on his wrist. Thirty minutes. He had just half an hour until he was required to morph into that charming, composed, and utterly indifferent person compared to how miserable he actually was. 

So, what was ten minutes to himself? Fucking hell, make that five. 

There was no shame in needing release. It was just a birthday fantasy. A moment alone where no one dared ask how he was doing, or holding up, or if he was considering dating again. A moment where he could just sink into that raw desire.  

Exhaling slowly, Draco loosened the waistband of his trousers just enough to free his rapidly thickening cock. Wrapping a hand around the length, he felt it throb at the simple touch. Gods, he really fucking hated how good it felt. The simple indulgence that was right there—literally. 

Tightening his fingers, he slowly began to move, stroking the velvety skin as his mind drifted. 

Step One: Think of Your Deepest Fantasy. 

Honey-brown, unruly curls. 

A full, pouty mouth that liked to scold him or suck seductively on sugar quills. 

The scent of parchment and violets. 

Ink. 

Dust moats and a warm laugh in a bookstore—her bookstore. 

Granger. 

A low, desperate groan pooled in the back of his throat as he picked up speed, staring down at his thick length fisted in his hand. 

His fantasies were pretty simple nowadays, if not repetitive. But right now? As the swollen indigo head of his cock beaded with arousal, all he wanted was to see her on her knees, sucking him down like it was her job. He craved to put that swotty mouth to use for something other than to scold him, or fire off quick facts whenever he and Scorp visited her bookstore in Muggle London. The way she was so kind… so fucking helpful, like a mother should be; always reading to his son as he wrapped his pale, tiny fingers around her curls.  

Gods… perfect. 

Or the way she'd constantly nibble on her lower lip as she sat and read at the counter. Or how she always smiled at patrons, not knowing that Draco watched her intensely through the stacks. How the angelic sounds of her laughter permeated the store. How she—  

The shrill sound of the doorbell echoed through the townhome. 

Frustration bloomed behind Draco's brow as he glared at his stern reflection in the mirror. "You've got to be kidding me."

The soft sounds of footsteps sounded down the hall, and Draco knew that his curious son would open the door if he didn't get to it first. 

"Scorp!" he shouted through the wooden structure. "Wait for me, kiddo!" 

Draco stuffed himself into his trousers at the near speed of someone who had just committed a crime. Actually, he sorta did, considering the highly illegal silver box practically snickered at him in that knowing way. Whatever. Grabbing the device, he yanked open the linen cabinet, shoving it behind a stack of pristine white and neatly folded hand-towels. It landed with a metallic, resounding thud. 

No one would come up here, given that there was a powder room downstairs. 

Or… he hoped. 

The doorbell rang again and again. Yeah, that was definitely fucking Theo and Blaise. They wouldn't know patience if it bit them in the arse or fucked them six ways to Sunday. 

Grumbling, Draco yanked open the bathroom door. He took the stairs two at a time, looking over the banister. 

"Scorp?" he called out. "Son?" 

No answer. Huh? Odd. 

Nervously, Draco combed his fingers through his hair before tugging at the sleeves of his perfectly pressed Oxford. Rechecking his watch, irritation bloomed with that crimson hot ire as he caught the silhouettes of Theo and Blaise through the stained glass partition into the antechamber. 

Of course, it was them. Why was he even shocked? 

Draco released a breath before opening the door. "Piss off," he said flatly, glaring at his two best mates. "You're early." 

"And Happy Birthday to you, too," Theo purred, sticking his foot in the door before Draco could even try to slam it shut. 

"Really?" he drawled. "You couldn't give me thirty more minutes of peace?" 

Theo grinned wickedly as he pushed himself inside like he owned the place (which, given how often he visited, was partially true). His cerulean gaze flickered over each furnishing and slight scratch on the mahogany floors before spinning on his heels in the entry. 

"Happy Birthday, Dray," Blaise mused, clapping him on the shoulder as he followed Theo inside. A waft of sandalwood and patchouli lingered, reeking of expensive taste and minor scandal in the next edition of the Daily Prophet. Hell, leave it to Blaise Zabini. 

"Are we the first ones here?" Theo asked.

Arching a pale brow, Draco gestured around the completely empty townhome. "Obviously." 

"Good." 

"Good?" Draco laughed coldly. "How is that fucking good?" 

Though if he was being honest (and he usually wasn't, considering it required emotional vulnerability he didn't have time for), it wasn't the worst thing. At least, not yet. The whole random cohort of his friends joining shortly for Pansy's meticulously planned birthday dinner for him was another issue entirely that he shoved to the back of his brain. 

'A casual thing,' Pansy had called it. 

Right. Because casual always included ridiculously overpriced wine from his personal artillery and catered food from that pretentious bistro Pansy liked in Diagon. Plus, the whole place card seating arrangement and the table were set with enough wine glasses to rival Theo's bloody investment vineyard in Côte du Rhone. 

Pansy had also told him with a saucy wink: 'Good company, Dray. That's all you need.' 

If only the medicine for life were that fucking simple. Unfortunately, it was not. 

But fine. Whatever. Draco hadn't argued (much) because mostly Pansy had done everything herself, and all he'd been asked to do was show up, drink, smile, and do what he did best. Then again, that was before he saw the guest list. It was a ridiculous collection of Gryffindors and Snakes and one Millicent Bullstrode, who refused to identify as anything so gods-damn juvenile.

Alright. Draco could agree with that. 

Then there was the other issue: Hermione Granger being on said guest list. Okay, maybe not an issue, per say, but a walking contradiction because half the time he wasn't sure if he wanted to hug her for being so damn sweet on his son or press her up against a bookshelf and snog the living daylights out of her. More specifically, until she forgot her own name. 

Hermione wasn't even supposed to be an issue, but somehow she became one every time he walked into Fable & Fiction (her bookstore). 

Half the time, she lectured him on what books were best for a five-year-old. Other times, she made him laugh. That? That was annoying because she smelled like parchment, violets, and bergamot. She made Scorpius happy, and he adored her to the point of childlike obsession. Worse? He knew how she liked her coffee, and he brought it to her without asking. 

She was infuriating and under his skin like a hex gone wrong. 

She was also… endearing. 

But she was Hermione Granger, and they were just friends with that big, fat capital "F". Sometimes he wondered if they were even that, given the way they bickered. 

With a heavy sigh, Draco ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. This was going to be a long night, wasn't it? 

"Uncle Tots! Uncle Tots!" Scorpius shouted, dragging Draco back into the present. Tiny footsteps thundered up the stairs from the basement kitchen. "Uncle Blaise!" 

Draco didn't miss the slight smearing of chocolate and biscuit crumbs on the corner of his son's mouth. Not to mention Scorpius's silken blonde curls were a tangled mess on his head, and his oversized dragon T-shirt was inside out. 

Father of the Fucking Year. 

Noticing the displeasure on Draco's face, Blaise squeezed his shoulder. "I'll get him fixed up before the party, Dray. Don't worry." 

Dipping his chin slightly, Draco released a breath of air. "Thanks, mate." 

"What are friends for?" Blaise drawled. "Also, we'd be shite godparents if we didn't help you out once in a while. It's like a requirement for us godly figures, yeah?"

At that, Draco couldn't help but snort, feeling the tension vanish from his shoulders.  

Scorpius stopped dramatically, hands on his hips as he gave the three adults a snaggled-tooth grin. "Hi!" 

"And there's the real birthday boy!" Theo beamed, scooping the child up into his arms. 

"Hey!" Draco protested, but the notion was half-hearted. 

Ever since Scorpius was born—exactly six months from Draco's birthday—the three made the joke that it was also "the kid's" birthday. Scorp, being Scorp, didn't know the difference, and so they always blew out their candles together. The added surprise was when Scorpius' actual birthday arrived a few months later on December fifth. 

"You're getting too tall now, Scorpsicle," Theo teased, digging his fingers into the toddler's sides. "I'm filing a complaint with your father. What's he feeding you? Dragon steaks?" 

The angelic sounds of giggles filled the quiet townhome, warming Draco's heart. Gods… 

"Uncle Tots, I'm five and a half," Scorpius announced proudly. "Daddy says I'm a teenager." 

"Well, that explains the attitude," Theo grinned, ruffling his hair before setting him back on the ground. "What did your Daddy get you for your birthday, kid?" 

"Another dragon." 

Theo arched a brow. "A real one?" 

Scorpius gave his godfather a look, placing his hands on his hips. "No," he growled. "It's stuffed and his name is Nibbus the Third." 

"What happened to the other two?" Blaise asked. 

"Bathtub casualties," Draco sighed, rubbing his brow. 

Theo's eyes sparkled with utter mischief. "Oh?" he mused, glancing over at Draco as he wiggled his finger. "Bad Daddy! Scorps-a-lot deserves a real, live dragon." 

"If you call me 'Daddy' one more time, Nott, I'm going to feed you to a bloody dragon," Draco muttered through gritted teeth, tugging Scorpius back by the shoulder. "Also—don't fucking encourage him." 

"Bad word, Daddy," Scorpius frowned up at him. "Swear jar. Five galleons." 

"Fuck me," Draco swore under his breath. 

Scorpius beamed. "Now ten galleons, Daddy." 

Draco groaned, gesturing down as he glared at his friends. "See?" 

"Oh, we see," Blaise mused. 

"Gods, this is excellent," Theo nearly cackled. "You—Draco Malfoy—have a bloody swear jar. Merlin, I never thought I'd see the day with the things that come out of your mouth. And now—look! Your teeny, tiny human gets richer because of it." His cerulean gaze flickered to Blaise. "Now, why didn't I think about that? We could've made a bloody fortune on swear jars."

Yeah, well, Draco wouldn't need one if Astoria hadn't fucking left them for a fucking Muggle named fucking Chad. See? So, in the wake of her coming home and telling him point-blank, 'I'm leaving you for someone else, and I want out of this sham of a marriage,' he was forced to invest in one. Not to mention their divorce got so nasty in Wizengamot that every night he'd come home, silence his bedroom, break everything in sight, and curse every entity known to man. 

Also, so what if 'fuck' was his favorite word? It was his life, and every time he said it, Scorp got five-bloody-galleons. The kid would be beyond wealthy by the time he turned six, enough so that if he wanted to buy his own pet dragon, he very well could. 

"And speaking of gifts," Blaise drawled, casually leaning against the wall. "Have you used it yet?" 

"Did you get a new toy, too, Daddy?" Scorpius piped up, quartz eyes bright and curious. Perfect. 

Instantly, Theo exploded with laughter, nearly doubling over as he clutched his side. It was almost insulting how much fun they were having at his gods-damn expense. Meanwhile, Draco was stuck in some kind of Parental Purgatory (trademark-pending). 

One curious five-year-old? Check. 

One bitch ex-wife? Also check. 

Two nosy fucking bastards who had no business being this amused? Check, check, and check. 

Wiping away his tears with that dramatic flair, Theo shook his head. "Yes, your Da—Father," he corrected quickly under Draco's sobering glare. "Your father got a very special new toy. So, how is it? Did you take your stick out to play?" 

Scorpius tilted his head with childlike curiosity. "Is it a new broom?" 

Theo's grin widened. "In a way, it is, kid." 

Draco's soul left his gods-damn body. 

"Oh, gods," Blaise groaned, hiding amusement behind his hand as he scrubbed at his face. 

Crouching down to Scorpius's level, Theo said with the utmost seriousness: "Your father has been told that he has a very nice broomstick, Scorpsicle. Many witches have claimed they'd wait in a queue to ride it, but he's stubborn. I've heard it's something long and—" 

"Theodore!" Draco barked. 

Theo peered up innocently with a shite-eating grin. "What?" 

Narrowing his gaze, Draco covered his son's ears as he hissed: "I swear to fucking Merlin and Morgana and every fucking god in the universe, I will murder you, Nott." 

Scorpius squirmed. "Daddy, that trick doesn't work anymore. I can still hear." 

Of course he could, because why the hell not? 

Wiggling out of Draco's hold, Scorpius turned around, pointing to the kitchen. "Also, another ten galleons for two bad words." 

With that, Theo cackled with laughter as he scooped the child into his arms. Righting himself, he beamed at Draco. "This is such a glorious occasion because I just realized you've created a teeny-tiny version of yourself, Dray. All that attitude and stubbornness? Karma. Pureblooded, high-end, tailor-made and unfiltered karma." 

Draco glared. "I hope you step on your wand. Really." 

"Chin up," Theo purred. "It's your birthday. No one likes a pouty wizard on their birthday. It's been alchemically studied." Theo looked at Scorpius then, poking him in the belly as he walked up the stairs. "And you, my little deviant monster, need to get changed before the big party." 

Chapter Text

Hermione could admit that Malfoy looked like he wanted to crawl straight under the table, hide, and quite possibly vanish. 

Honestly? Could she blame him? Not particularly, no, because she would do the same thing. The attention? The noise? The conversation? Alright, so that had been pleasant enough (if not bantering), and Pansy Parkinson made sure that everything followed according to plan.

Now, the entire dining room buzzed with eight adults and one very energetic five-year-old. Or five and a half, as Scorpius liked to correct everyone tonight, from the prime spot where he bounced on his father's lap.

One thing was certain: Slytherins did not do casual dinner parties or birthdays, for that matter. 

The table became a curated, cluttered mess of expensive crystal glasses smudged with lipstick and fingerprints beside half-eaten main dishes. Place cards had been set with everyone's names etched in swirling calligraphy. Seating arrangements had been strategically chosen. Actually, Hermione found herself at the opposite end, beside Ginny (who kept teasing her all evening). To add the cherry on top, she had a direct line of vision down to the head of the table, where Draco lounged lazily as if he'd rather be anywhere else. 

Or maybe the fact that he refused to look over at her all evening. 

Again, she didn't blame him, considering it had been like this for the past month in public settings. He kept his distance subtly and strategically, just enough so that it never came across as cold, but rather as if he was the one who made the request. 

Deliberate. Yeah, that was the word. 

Not that they had a terrible relationship or disliked each other. Gods, no! It was nothing compared to the child-like animosity and adolescent bitterness they shared back in school. It had long since wilted into something far more complicated. 

Dare she say… civil? Cordial, even? 

Honestly? Hermione liked Draco, or this version of him. The one who stopped by her bookstore, Fable & Fiction, twice a week, if not more, with Scorpius. The one who sat cross-legged in the children's corner on fluffy beanbags, flipping through picture books with his son. The one who looked ridiculous while doing it as she peered through the gaps in the stacks, pretending to organize her murder mystery section by the Dewey Decimal System. Sometimes, she caught herself staring at his towering, lithe frame folded beside Scorpius. Of course, the boy always had his favorite white dragon plushie tucked to his chest, with a thumb latched between his lips. 

It was adorable. And gods, okay, she really liked it, which was another thing she couldn't admit aloud. That and the fact that she, Hermione Granger, found herself counting down the days until they came into her store. 

"Clear the way!" 

Pansy Parkinson sauntered into the dining room, hips swaying in those form-fitting trousers that Hermione wished she could pull off. Levitated before her was a massive, five-layer cake that was a spectacle within itself. 

"Draco Malfoy is officially ancient!" Pansy declared, dropping the confection with a soft thud at the head of the table. "Thirty, darlings. He's practically vintage." 

Embarrassing enough, Hermione knew precisely what the cake entailed: vanilla sponge, layered with blackberry preserves, slathered in thick chocolate ganache. 

How did she know the exact details? Oh, no reason. Just the simple, offhanded, distracted conversation she had with him when he mentioned he preferred his cakes not to be overly sweet. How fruit always balanced it out, and the chocolate made it the perfect combination. 

It was just a friendly detail, but she filed it away in her mind.

And yes, that was the embarrassing bit, because there was absolutely no reason for her ever to do so. 

Actually, there was no reason for her to stare at him (or rather gawk) as he talked, storing those details, as if it was required for her NEWTs. The slight flush to his pale cheeks as he rambled on in his posh, smooth Purebloodian lilt. The way he leaned against the mahogany counter, playing with the freshly laminated bookmarks she just put out earlier that day. The way his long, masculine fingers toyed with the tassels, like he didn't know what to do with his hands. 

Something warm and ridiculously gooey had bloomed low in her belly that day. And unfortunately, it refused to leave. 

Hermione couldn't stop the thoughts that lingered for days. How the need became almost excruciating that she just had to slip her hand between her thighs at night and whisper his name against her pillow.

Gods. That was so inappropriate of her. 

Pansy flicked her wand, lighting the candles. The room dimmed, illuminating the curve of Draco's jaw and the intense set of his proud brow. Instantly, the group launched into a rendition of "Happy Birthday" and "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" off-key and far too enthusiastic. 

Though the expensive bottles of Pinot Noir and Sancerre in their stomachs were entirely to blame. 

Quietly, Hermione surveyed the table, feeling a bit proud of their group of friends. As strange and stitched-together as they were, they somehow all worked. 

Pansy, with her outgoing and dramatic persona. Theo, with his need to tease out all the knots and kinks in everyone. Blaise's quiet and observant nature. Harry's—well, just Harry and her best friend. Ginny's easy bantering remarks, reinforced by years of living with six older brothers. Millicent, who… alright, she was an anomaly and really only appeared when there was a purpose that benefited her. 

Then there was Draco—an enigma. 

On most days, when they weren't bickering over books, he was a friend. But she knew how great a father he was to Scorpius, choosing to push his worries so far under the surface that his son could live a carefree life, unaware of what Astoria had done to their family. 

Honestly? Hermione wished she could run into the witch just to give her a piece of her mind. 

Actually, she liked to think that their similar circumstances were why they got on. The whole 'nearing thirty and having your life not pan out as planned' situation. And no, Ronald did not cheat on her. It was Hermione who called off their engagement six months ago. 

Well, okay, so technically, it was mutual. Whatever. 

But at the end of the day, Hermione was the one who packed up her things, splitting their lives into cardboard boxes and meticulous checklists like it meant absolutely nothing. She was the one who tried to make it work until it just… didn't. The nights when she'd sit on the shower floor, steam curling around her as she tried to hide her sobs as Ron watched Muggle sports in the other room. Or when he stayed out later and later at the Leaky. Or when they just stopped having sex together because she overheard Ron say that he wasn't turned on by her anymore. That sometimes he'd look at the scars that mangled her once-pure skin and think of the war. Or the nail in the coffin when she heard him tell Harry that he couldn't believe she turned down a high-paying job at the Ministry like everyone expected of her. 

Yeah, well, shame on her for not wanting to become some bull in a pen, living under the bureaucratic thumb of someone else. And so what if she wanted to open up her own bookshop in Muggle London? Ronald worked at a stupid joke shop that barely paid the bills. 

Almost ten years down the drain, but she felt… free. Relieved, really. 

Now, Hermione loved her bookshop more than anything in this world. She didn't need a boyfriend or a man or a wizard to feel satisfied when she was surrounded by her favorite things. It was perfect and entirely hers, nestled between a hat shop and a coffee shop. In the winter, the windows would fog up, and the scent of freshly brewed beans would drift through the air vents. There were always stacks of secondhand books waiting to topple over, and a worn leather sofa that beckoned those to sit and read for hours. 

That was precisely how Draco stumbled upon it with Scorpius.

Initially, they would only come in on Saturday mornings. The energetic, platinum-haired child would race through the door, giggling in harmony with the golden bell chime, as his father groaned his displeasure and apologized for the future mess. Yet lately? Draco had been coming in more often and alone. Sometimes, he came during the week, close to her lunch break, and he'd always offer for them to get coffee at the cafe next door. 

Just casually. 

Just routine. 

Nothing fancy.

And secretly, it easily became her favorite part of the week. 

"So, Granger," Pansy purred, levitating a slice of chocolate cake towards Hermione's plate. "How did that date go with the Scottish Quidditch player?" 

Draco coughed sharply, choking on his wine. 

"What?" Hermione blinked. "Oh, right? That. Uh…" Her gaze darted down to the table, attempting to gather her thoughts or somehow make a cohesive sentence. "Fine? I… uh, guess?" 

Ginny snorted. "She's lying. It was horrible." She turned to Hermione then, arching a russet brow. "Actually… what did you call it? A disaster?" 

"Oh, I'm intrigued," Pansy drawled. "Do tell." 

"The bloke talked about his abs for thirty minutes straight," Ginny explained. "Thirty bloody minutes! Something about his core engagement and whatever. Can't even tell you, but Min said it was the worst date of her life and she nearly hexed him through the restaurant wall." 

"That's not true," Hermione protested, reaching for her wine as warmth prickled her throat in blooming watercolor blotches. Ugh. Brilliant. Really. 

Pansy smirked. "Please tell me you at least got to see these abs, Granger." 

"Oh, he offered," Ginny mused, hazel eyes sparkling. "Right, Min?" 

"He absolutely did not!" Hermione argued, yet she couldn't help the amused grin that stretched across her lips. "Okay. Fine! Yes! Whatever. He did. And no, I didn't see his abs. I don't even think we made it through the appetizers, if I'm being frank." 

"See?" Ginny motioned. "Worst date ever." 

"Tragic," Pansy sighed. "Missed opportunity. One date with a Quidditch player is like finding a golden dragon egg. I would've at least taken a tiny peek—completely for research, of course." 

"Then why don't you date him?" Hermione teased. "I can give you his Floo-number." 

Rolling her emerald eyes, Pansy scoffed. "Absolutely not, Granger. I do not accept seconds or thirds, like they are last season's fashions!" 

Blaise snickered under his breath, muttering something about how he was almost positive Pansy Parkinson had, in fact, dated several of Theo's failed dates after he found out they were straight. 

Thankfully, Pansy and Ginny were already engaged in a passionate discussion and impromptu ranking of the "Top Ten Fittest Quidditch Players" of the last three decades. 

Sighing, Hermione took another long sip of her wine, tasting the rich fruity notes mingling with the full-bodied blend of the Pinot Noir. Her gaze flittered about the room, letting the voices blend into the buzzing background hum of conversation, bright bursts of laughter, and clinking forks on plates. 

That telltale feeling prickled against her skin, pulling her focus to the opposite end of the table where he sat. 

Draco. 

Scorpius was nowhere to be seen, allowing her a crystal-clear view of him. In reality? She didn't know if she should be pleased or a bit terrified, especially given the dark, unreadable expression on his face as he stared down at the piece of cake on his plate. With his elbow propped causally on the arm of his chair, he held his wineglass loosely in his hand. His other pressed against his lips, dragging his thumb slowly over the bottom. 

Back and forth. 

Back and forth. 

Back and forth. 

Godric, something about it made her stomach flip in equal parts nerves and anticipation. The way he just sat there, shoulders tense and jaw flexed with that palpable strain. How he just looked like he was barely holding himself back from something. What that was? She didn't know but craved to guess. 

As if sensing Hermione, Draco's eyes darted to hers, meeting head-on. Oh… Bloody hell. 

Hermione couldn't breathe. Actually, she couldn't think. 

And for a teensy-tiny second, it felt like the noise in the dining room dimmed. A hiccup in time just for them. He wasn't just Draco Malfoy. He wasn't Scorpius's dad or her best friend's annoyingly attractive Auror partner. He wasn't the boy she went to school with, forced into a life he didn't want, or a divorcée, abandoned by his wife for someone else. He wasn't her twice-a-week bookstore visitor or the man who sometimes bought her coffee and a pain au chocolat. 

No, right then and there, he was just a man. 

A red-blooded male with a hungry, calculated look in his mercury eyes and a dangerous mouth that looked as though it could do unspeakably delicious things between her aching thighs.

Warmth immediately licked up Hermione's neck as she looked away, taking a long sip of wine to steady her nerves (or quite possibly a pathetic attempt to recover). Gods, especially given the way she could still feel his gaze on her, burning against her skin like a brand. 

"And earth to Min? Hello?" 

Blinking rapidly, Hermione glanced around the table, only to find Ginny looking at her expectantly. Brilliant. 

"Sorry?" Hermione cleared her throat, though she wasn't sorry at all when she still felt that exquisite pulse between her clenched thighs. Quickly, she adjusted her grip on the wineglass. "Uh? What were you saying?" 

But Ginny didn't answer right away. Instead, her gaze narrowed with too much glee for Hermione's comfort. It was a gods-damn lioness circling wounded prey. 

Spoiler: Hermione was, in fact, the prey. 

"You alright there?" Ginny asked knowingly. Her silken russet hair fell over her shoulder as she tilted her head. "You look… flushed." 

"Fine," Hermione answered briskly. "Just… hot. That's all." 

Ginny hummed. "Yeah, it is hot in here, isn't it? Especially down at the other end." 

"I have no idea what you are talking about." 

"Uh-huh. Sure, you don't." 

Hermione's lips parted on a protest, but Ginny turned to Harry, whispering something in his ear. 

Whatever the witch said? Ha. Hermione could only guess, given how he choked on his beer, sputtering as his face turned scarlet. Honestly, Harry was horrible at hiding his emotions, but she supposed she was one to talk, all things considered. 

"Everything alright there, Potter?" Draco mused dryly. 

"Y-Yeah!" Harry croaked, grabbing his napkin as he wiped at the droplets of ale. "Great. Bloody perfect. Actually, I was just telling Gin that we should probably head home to James—and, uh, Al. You know? Our children." 

"Yes, that was exactly what we were talking about, love," Ginny quipped, rolling her eyes as she pushed her chair away. "Ferret, great party and Happy Birthday." 

"Oi!" Theo shouted, raising his crystal glass towards Harry. "Make sure to use protection, Potter!" 

Hermione nearly inhaled her cake. 

Ginny laughed, patting a very flustered-looking Harry on his chest. "He barely knows how to cast the Charm, Nott." 

"And on that note, we are off!" Harry blurted, adjusting his circular glasses as he looked towards Draco. Clearing his throat, he asked: "Quidditch Sunday?"  

Draco dipped his chin. "Same pitch. Eight sharp. Wouldn't miss it." 

Ginny scoffed. "Excuse me?" 

"Gin," Harry sighed heavily. "It's Ministry-only." 

"So?" The redhead pointed to her chest. "Best Quidditch player in the world at the moment, in case you forgot." 

"She has a point," Pansy sang, interjecting herself. "Darling, don't be put out about it. I can almost bet my entire inherence that you would wipe the pitch with their arses if they let you play. Plus—" she leaned in, blood-red lips twitching "—men and their toys. They never like to see us witches win." 

Instantly, the table erupted in a chorus of protests from said men. Theo clanked his fork against his porcelain plate, earning a growl from Draco about how that was ancestral wedding china and the wizard better not break it. Blaise just shook his head, muttering something about slander, and Harry argued himself hoarse, cheeks still flaming pink. 

Pansy reclined back in her chair, swirling her glass of pinot. "See, Red?" 

"I'll let Miss Ginny play on my team," Scorpius piped up proudly from where he sat next to Theo. 

A plethora of soft coos and awes filled the room. 

Hermione would've been lying through her teeth if she said her heart didn't fold in on itself. Actually, she was positive it melted into a pile of goo, as every instinct in her wanted to pull the boy into her lap and wipe the messy smudge of chocolate icing off his cheeks. She wanted to see that snaggled-tooth grin light up the table again and again. Even her ovaries did a little dance, too. Ugh. Whatever. 

But Godric, she couldn't help it because Scorpius Malfoy was the most adorable five-year-old. 

She wondered if this newfound "maternal instinct" was a result of her recent thirtieth birthday (almost nine months prior) and her subsequent decision to call off her engagement to Ronald. The idea that the metaphorical clock on her life was tick, tick, ticking away, and most told her that she needed to figure out her life sooner rather than later. Yet, sometimes? She didn't want to do what everyone told her to do. She wanted to live her life to the fullest.

And right now? That was running her bookshop, buying limited editions, and coming home to Crookshanks every evening. 

Releasing a breath, Hermione glanced curiously at Draco, only to find that he was already watching her.

Everything in her sounded the alarm, screaming: 'Danger! Danger! Stay away from that man because one misstep and you will be doomed! Better yet, you will destroy your friendship if you even think about it with him!' 

Unfortunately, Hermione was a bit past logic at the moment with the amount of Pinot Noir in her bloodstream and the unreadable expression on his face. She should've looked away, or paid attention to the flush on her cheeks, but she didn't—couldn't. He held her there like she was his captive. 

Was she complaining? Not necessary, no. 

Should she be worried? Absolutely. 

Harry clapped Draco on the shoulder, breaking the tension between them and forcing Hermione roughly back into reality. Ugh. 

"Right, then—see you on Sunday," Harry said. "We're definitely winning the Ministry Cup this year. Bet you fifty quid on it." 

"Fifty," Draco scoffed. "Make it a hundred." 

"Done, Malfoy." 

Grabbing Harry by the hand, Ginny rolled her eyes. "If you two are done with your stick measuring contest, we really need to get going." 

"This is serious, Gin," Harry protested, allowing his wife to drag him toward the Floo. "I'm not listening to McLaggen brag about his stupid win by one goal for another year in the Ministry." 

A shiver rippled through Hermione at the mention of Cormac McLaggen. 

Sometimes, if she thought really, really hard, she could still feel his tongue as it prodded around her mouth behind a tapestry at Professor Slughorn's Yule Soirée. And that was almost thirteen years ago. Ugh. Gross. 

The sound of the floo whooshing filled the room as Harry and Ginny both left for Grimmauld. 

"Draco," Millicent purred, standing as she brushed invisible crumbs from her silk skirt that clung seductively to her full curves. "Thank you for dinner." 

Hermione blinked. 

Gods, right. Millicent Bullstrode was here. 

Honestly? She'd completely forgotten about the witch. Though to be fair, Millicent hadn't said a single word in the last forty-five minutes. In fact, she remained quietly tucked behind Blaise, and given the towering, muscled figure of the wizard, the five-foot-one witch was practically invisible. And not to mention, on the complete opposite end of the table. 

That didn't stop you from staring at Malfoy for the better part of dessert. That little voice cooed. 

Hermione batted the thought away, downing the rest of her wine. With Harry and Ginny now gone and Millicent making her timely exit, it was probably an appropriate time for her to leave as well. She didn't want to overstay her welcome, knowing Draco most likely wanted time alone with his friends. 

Just as she began to rise, Scorpius let out a loud yawn before announcing loudly: "I'm tired, Daddy." 

Yep. Alright. Definitely time for her to go.

Draco stood, wooden chair scraping against the wooden floor with maddening, elegant ease that he somehow managed to pull off after half a bottle of wine. "Come on, then," he said, already reaching for his son. "Bedtime, kiddo." 

But Scorpius wiggled out of his reach, ducking with determination. "No!" 

Draco blinked. "Pardon?" 

"I said no!" Scorpius declared. A mischievous grin (that really only a five-year-old could pull off) bloomed on his lips. "I don't want you to put me to bed." 

"Okay…" Draco said slowly, patiently, if not bordering on that fine line. "Who then, son? If I'm allowed to ask."  

Scorpius didn't even hesitate. Hell, he didn't even glance in Hermione's direction before pointing straight at her. 

Oh, budger…

Hermione froze completely. Actually, she was almost certain that her stomach plummeted down to the very tips of her strappy heeled sandals that Ginny picked out for her. 

"I want Miss Min!" Scorpius said matter-of-factly. "Only Miss Min, Daddy!" 

Silence filled the mahogany-carved walls. For a minute, she swore the antique crystal chandelier (that Pansy whispered was once in Versailles) clinked with the effervescent breath of magic—his magic. 

Could the floor just swallow her whole, please? And thank you. 

Everyone in the room turned to look at her. Everyone. Pansy, Blaise, and Theo. Gods, even Millicent, who hadn't spoken in forty-five minutes, arched a curious eyebrow. Worse? Draco regarded her in a way that made her skin crawl, almost waiting to see how she'd react. 

Scorpius turned to her, unbothered by the growing tension. "Miss Min?" he asked innocently, grey eyes wide and hopeful. "Will you put me to bed? Please?" 

Lips parting, Hermione just blinked at the little boy. Oh Godric! What was she supposed to say?  

"Please?" he asked again. "You're the best at the voices. Daddy's all sound the same. And I gots a new book on dragons! Two new books!" 

Hermione knew she should say something—anything—but all she could do was gawk. And okay, a part of her wanted to say yes, because how could she say no to that squishy little face? Honestly? It was like trying to say no to Professor McGonagall when she offered Hermione the Time Turner in her third year. Utterly impossible. 

But even as her heart twisted, she couldn't miss the apparent emotions written so clearly on Draco's features. 

It wasn't anger or guilt. No, not exactly. It was likely a mix of conflicting hurt and disappointment. The sort that screamed that she was potentially overstepping. Big time. 

Crimson heat crawled up her throat, spreading over the apples of her cheeks. 

"Granger," Draco said tightly. "You don't have to. I can manage it." 

"No, Daddy!" Scorpius protested, narrowing his tiny, silver gaze at his father. "I want Miss Min!" 

Draco's eyes closed for half a beat. "Son," he warned. "We talked about this." 

"I don't care!" 

"Scorpius Hyperion—" 

"Draco Lucius!" the boy retorted, crossing his arms. 

Nervously, Hermione glanced around the room, searching for some semblance of help. Really, she should not (under any circumstances) be involved in this odd familial argument. 

Unfortunately, no such luck. None. Zip. 

Gods, she should've assumed that she'd be left to drown in the waters of this particular conflict, given she was in a room full of serpents. Or the undeniable fact that this argument was one that most Purebloods had passed down through generations. Or something they used to torment their parents with once upon a time. 

Pansy just smirked, crimson lips twitching against her glass of wine. Theo looked back and forth like it was the best game of Quidditch he'd seen all year. Millicent was already walking toward the Floo, trying to disappear without a fuss. Blaise? Well, the wizard always was hard to read, and they weren't particularly close to begin with. So absolutely no help there. 

Hermione supposed she would just have to take charge, even if that was the last thing on earth she wanted to do. Ugh.

Standing, she smoothed her clammy palms against the satin of her slip dress—the one Ginny forced her to wear tonight. The redhead claimed it made Hermione's breasts look "fucking amazing," and she should show them off more often. Okay, so Ginny was right; they did look rather incredible (if Hermione was being vain). 

Yeah, not exactly ideal bedtime attire, but witchcraft and sorcery existed for a reason. 

"It's fine with me," she said tentatively, hoping to ease the tension. "I mean—?" 

"Hermione." 

Draco's rich tenor permeated every inch of her. 

She looked at him then, amber colliding with silver as she visibly recoiled. There was something unnerving about that impassive, unreadable expression written there. Worse? She knew there would be no way for her to decipher those emotions. 

She cleared her throat. "What I'm trying to say is that—well, only if it's alright with you. I don't want to… overstep." 

The minute those words left her mouth, something incomprehensible passed between them. His jaw slackened, chipping away at the well-constructed walls within. His postured softened, morphing him into something that was equal parts apologetic and grateful. Or maybe it was the fact that he looked almost unguarded. 

And gods, she didn't know what to do with that or what it possibly meant. 

Finally, Draco said: "You can never overstep, Hermione." 

Even if she didn't know him as well as those around her—the ones who had been by his side through war and divorce—she knew his words were genuine, and that almost unraveled everything within.

Actually? She didn't know what to say as she stood there, awkwardly. 

"See, Miss Min?" Scorpius said brightly, knowingly. "It's okay. Daddy says so." 

Hermione smiled nervously (or rather automatically) as she turned toward Scorpius. He stared up at her with wide, hopeful eyes. Really. She absolutely, positively abhorred how much that made her yearn for something she couldn't quite put her finger on. 

"Alright," Hermione told Scorpius, placing her hands on her hips. "Now, why don't you go on and show me this new dragon book you got?" 

* * * *

Of course, Scorpius Malfoy's bedroom was precisely what she imagined for a five-year-old, raised by a doting father with costly taste (if not excellent) and a slight flair for the dramatic. 

Dark wooden furniture filled with room, illuminated by soft, golden light, and the enchanted night sky on his ceiling. Bookshelves overflowing with storybooks—both Muggle and magical—consumed the custom-made structure. Plush dragons of every color poured from the leather trunk at the foot of his bed. Dozens of them. Gods, they lined the windowsills, circled the rug like they were prepared for a cuppa, and were even stitched onto the navy duvet. 

Hermione wondered how the hell Draco managed all of this. Honestly?

Then again, she was starting to realize that whatever Scorpius wanted, he got. Easily. 

It wasn't manipulation, per se. No, but it was definitely some conniving Slytherin-in-the-making tactics that he used to convince her to stay well beyond the time she allotted in her brain. So far (and this was before they even started with the bedtime story), he'd shown her his entire dragon collection of stuffies and also explained the meaning behind each of their names. Then she went through his nightly routine of brushing his teeth and reciting the alphabet. 

Finally, she got him into bed. 

"White dragons are my favorite," Scorpius explained as he climbed into his bed with a humph!, before pulling the covers up to his chin. "They're the fastest! Or… that's what Uncle Tots says. My Uncles also say that they'll buy me a dragon one day since Draco won't let me." 

Hermione's lips twitched as she helped fluff his pillow. Spoiler: white dragons were on it, embroidered with enchanted silver thread that caused their wings to flap slowly as they prepared to bed like the boy whose head rested against the fabric.

"I don't think your dad would like it if he heard you call him 'Draco'," she said gently.

Scorpius peered up at her through thick, pale lashes. "But he said earlier to Uncle Tots and Uncle Blaise that he didn't like being called 'Daddy'." 

Hermione choked on a laugh. "I think that's for an entirely different reason, Scorp." She shook her head, attempting to act like a mature adult as she tucked the covers tighter around his shoulders. "One, I'm sure your dad will explain it to you—if he wants." 

"But why can't you, Miss Min?" Scorpius asked. "Dad says he likes it when you talk." 

She paused then, hand stilling mid-fluff. 

"He says you have a pretty voice," Scorpius continued. "And—! And—! Daddy likes it when you explain things to me when you read to me at your store. Says that Mummy never did that. Oh, well, before she left on her trip."  

Hermione's heart racketed into her throat as she stared down, wide-eyed, at the boy. 

Yet, somehow, she just knew he didn't fully understand the full weight of it or what he was saying. Scorpius was five. Five. He didn't have the vocabulary for the concept of abandonment. Gods, not really. He didn't grasp the gap that Astoria left behind, or the fact that she wasn't planning on coming back. His parents had an arranged marriage, and (from what little information Hermione knew), she found a way out of the Pureblood Contractual Agreement. 

Worse of all? Hermione hated that she did. 

She absolutely, positively hated that she could feel a physical ache within her for a little boy that she read to on weekends, just so his father could get some things done. She hated that all she wanted to do in that moment was to comfort the child. Like maybe, if she just said the right thing, he wouldn't have to feel the cracks that were surely forming around his small, still-growing heart. 

And what killed her the very most was that Scorpius was looking at her as if she might have an answer to something he was trying to understand. 

Hermione cleared her throat, trying to loosen the knot forming within. "How do you… uh, know this?" she asked, attempting to keep her voice light. "You know, your father has told me several times that he finds me to be a bit… well, irksome." 

Scorpius just shrugged. "I heard him talking to Aunt Pan-Pan." 

And of course, her throat tightened again. Because why the hell not? 

Hermione closed her eyes, unsure how to feel about that or even what to feel with any of this—this mess. 

Hindsight? It shouldn't matter what a five-year-old crashing from his sugar rush was telling her, parroting things he didn't understand. It really shouldn't. She was just someone who happened to be around, and maybe it could've been anyone who had a lovely voice and read his dragon books in voices. It shouldn't matter that she was learning all these secrets about one Draco Malfoy. 

But it did matter. 

It mattered to her, and against her better judgement, way, way more than it should. 

Hermione swallowed. "I'm sure your dad says a lot of things," she told him. 

"Yeah," Scorpius yawned. "But he doesn't say them like that." 

"Like what?" she asked, curious. 

"Like he means it, Miss Min. Really and truly means it." 

Hermione blinked. That was it. That was all she could do: stare and blink. 

Honestly? She really needed to work on her physical reactions around toddlers. Or maybe it was a good thing because she didn't have a single response for him. Hell, maybe she needed to go to sleep herself. Or indulge in another heavy pour of Pinot Noir. Or maybe see a psychologist to get to the bottom of her confused stupor. 

Maybe all the above. Ugh. 

Before she could spiral further, Scorpius let out another yawn as he asked: "What do you think Daddy wished for?" 

And thank Godric for a five-year-old's attention span, especially considering the current sharing of his father's personal conversations, ones that she was fairly certain he'd not take kindly to her knowing. 

"I don't know," Hermione said honestly. 

Rolling onto his side, Scorpius pressed his hands under his cheek. "Do you think it was a good wish, Miss Min?" 

Releasing a long breath, Hermione's fingers twitched (hesitated, really) before she reached forward and brushed back a loose curl from his head. Gods, they were so soft, like touching Pendlyn spider silk. 

"I like to think everyone wishes for someone good," she said. "But that's what wishes are for, you know? They're good secrets. The best ones we keep." 

"But why—? But why—? Why do we want to keep them?" he asked curiously. 

"I think we just want them to come true one day, especially if it's a really, really good secret." 

Scorpius nodded thoughtfully. For a moment, he looked so much like Draco that she wondered if the magic of biological genetics simply went copy and paste. 

"Can I tell you a good secret?" he asked after a long while. "Like—! Like a really, really good one?" 

Hermione hummed, lips twitching. 

Leaning in, Scorpius cupped his hands around his mouth as he whispered: "My daddy likes you." 

A nervous laugh escaped her. "Well, you know that your father and I are good friends. We went to school together, and lately we've become…" Her words drifted off, unsure what to say or really how to explain this. 

And yes, while she did carry parenting books in her store, this really wasn't her area of expertise.

"We're just friends," she explained. 

"Nuh-uh." Scorpius shook his head against the pillow. "He likes you. Like in a gross, kissy way. Aunt Pan-Pan said it. And I heard Uncle Tots say Daddy's all love-sick over you." 

All Hermione could do was blink. "Oh… uh?" 

"I'm worried," Scorpius continued, unfazed. "Because if Daddy's sick, then I'll…. I'll lose him. And I don't—?" his bottom lip wobbled. "Miss Min? Is my Daddy… sick?"

At that, Hermione's heart cracked wide open. No, it split right in two down the middle behind her ribs, and there was no undoing it. 

"No, no, Scorp," she soothed, shaking her head as she tried to figure out how to navigate this situation. "It's not that… I promise your dad is not sick. It's just an expression. Sometimes—sometimes they say one thing and mean another. Grown-ups can be really confusing." 

Scorpius huffed into his pillow. "They really are." 

Yeah, well, he had no idea. 

Reaching over to the wooden bedside table, she picked up the first book on the massive stack—If You Give a Basilisk a Biscuit. A warm smile pulled at her lips. Honestly? She didn't think that Draco would actually buy the book, considering she was the one who suggested it the last time he came to her bookstore. 

Daddy's all love-sick over you.

Quickly, she shook off the thoughts as she asked: "You want voices tonight?" 

Scorpius gave a drowsy nod. 

Hermione cracked open the cover and cleared her throat. It was almost effortless how she slipped into the theatrics of the story, animating every line and coaxing sleepy giggles from the boy. Eventually, Scorpius quieted as his eyelids fluttered closed, breathes evening out. 

She knew she should leave. 

Hell, she wasn't supposed to fit in like this, or even be a part of this narrative, but she kept reading until the end, trying to quell her racing thoughts. Maybe it was procrastination. Maybe it was the idea that this little boy with unfettered words just told her life-altering and somewhat confusing confessions. 

Daddy's all love-sick over you.

No, that couldn't be true, right? Because Hermione knew for a fact that there was an entire army of witches lined up outside his office door at the Ministry, batting their lashes and shortening the hem of their skirts. Actually, there was an entire fan-club society of the future Mrs. Draco Malfoys already penning fan mail. Witch Weekly did a spread on him every month. And there was not a day that went by that someone didn't write into "Dear Agatha's" column in the Prophet, confessing their dying need to know what Draco Malfoy was like in bed or how to get a specific blonde wizard's attention. 

Hermione thought they were all pathetic. 

She didn't realize that she'd fallen silent until her eyes drifted down towards the sleeping boy. One tiny hand curled around his white dragon plushie, while the other was tucked under his cheek. 

Setting the book on the nightstand, she exhaled long and hard before rubbing at her brow.

She needed to get out of here.

She needed to leave. 

Without thinking, she leaned over and kissed Scorpius on the brow. "Sweet dreams, Scorp." 

It was a quiet, instinctual thing that she didn't even realize she was doing until she stood up, and her stomach dropped all the way down to her toes. Oh crap. 

No—no, she wasn't his mother. She shouldn't harbor that affection for him, especially when she wasn't even a godparent or a friend in that way to Draco. Yeah, he came to her bookstore, and they shared a laugh over a cuppa and a blueberry scone. And sometimes she sat in the children's corner with Scorpius, reading to him while Draco ran errands, but that was it. End of story. Done. 

Hermione turned on her heels and fled the room, heart pounding like a war drum in her skull. 

My daddy likes you.

She didn't stop until she reached the bathroom, fumbling with the doorknob until it opened. Closing it, she leaned over the sink, fingers curving around the marble countertop as if the chill might offer her reprieve. Unfortunately, everything was clammy, and her chest was too tight, and all she kept thinking was: What are you doing? 

Yeah, exactly. What, in Merlin's name, was she, Hermione Jean Granger, doing? 

Then again, Scorpius was five—okay, five-and-a-half. Whatever. But children said things, repeated things that didn't matter. They misinterpreted the world with adorable conviction. 

So really, it could be just that: nothing.

Yet, she could still feel the weight of Draco's gaze earlier from across the dining room table. The immortalized image of him dragging his thumb over his bottom lip. The intensity of his stare that she knew wasn't the only one of the night. 

The annoyingly insistent butterflies were back. Excellent. 

Either way (and whatever way she wanted to interpret the situation), she knew she couldn't go back downstairs. Gods, not in this current hazardous state. But she also couldn't hide in his upstairs bathroom forever. 

Or… could she? 

Hermione met her gaze in the mirror, taking in her flushed, rosy cheeks and wide amber eyes. She looked like a baby doe caught in headlights, and the stupid black slip dress was all wrinkled, clinging to her skin with static that caused her honey-brown curls to swell wildly. 

Shaking her head, she curled her fingers around the marble edge, taking a slow, deliberate breath. 

In… two, three, four.

Out… two, three, four. 

She did it again and again and again until she felt her heart even out to that familiar, natural rhythm. Her magic no longer sparked along her skin, and her anxiety was bottled up nicely in a jar. 

See? That wasn't so bad, was it? 

Leaning over, she turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto her face. It felt nice against her rosy cheeks, dripping between her brows, and over her swollen lips. Blindly, she reached for a towel on the silver serpent hook, only to come up empty. 

"Fuck," Hermione muttered under her breath, wincing at her vulgar language. To be fair, she blamed the amount of time spent around the Slytherins and Harry. Maybe throw Ginny into the mix as well.

Keeping her eyes closed, she blindly felt her way around the bathroom until her fingers latched onto the wooden cabinet. Ha! Grinning, she grabbed the first plushy towel on the middle shelf, assuming that if Draco was as meticulous as he was in everyday life, his hand towels would be placed in the center. 

And Hermione was correct. 

Pulling the towel out, a loud clink landed right by her foot.

Oh gods, she really, really hoped that she didn't break something because how on earth would she explain that? Better yet, she prayed that it wasn't some priceless Pureblood heirloom. Then again, why would Draco keep something like that with his hand towels? 

Curious, she quickly wiped her face before glancing down to investigate what had fallen. There, on the plush bathroom rug, was a small silver box—Goblin-made, if she was being specific. It was turned onto its side, but she could easily make out the scripted words on the top: Verum Desiderium.

Hermione's brows drew together as she reached down and picked it up. "Truth of Desire," she whispered aloud, lips forming around the syllables deliberately. 

The silver box pulsed warmly in her palm. 

She knew she should put it away. It was Draco's personal thing (clearly), and it was obviously enchanted. Most likely illegal. No, scratch that, very illegal. Also, she was in Draco's home, invading his privacy by poking around in his bathroom. Ugh. This was about six ways to Sunday wrong. 

Unfortunately, Hermione was also a bit inebriated. Appropriately tipsy, if she was being honest. And maybe it was the several glasses of expensive wine earlier, mixed with the effervescent champagne. Or maybe it was the knowledge of what Scorpius told her, but her curiosity got the better of her. 

Her thumb brushed the engraved lid. 

Just a peek. Yeah, just a small, teensy-tiny peek. No harm done, right? 

She opened the box, and the world tilted sideways. No, it spread open and yawned like the jaws of a beast before a bright flash of light swallowed her whole. 

And with that, Hermione Granger vanished. 

Chapter Text

"So you really haven't used it yet?" 

Dinner had dwindled down to the empty wine-stained crystal glasses, the candle stubs flickering low, and the dishes long since vanished, leaving only the last dregs of laughter from childhood friends. Yet his mind kept drifting back to the blatant fact that Hermione hadn't come back down since Scorpius dragged her upstairs, most likely explaining his 'Operation Dragon Bedtime' ritual to her. 

Honestly? For once, Draco was glad that Pansy, Theo, and Blaise had stayed. Or… alright, fuck. He had appreciated them staying later than expected until the conversation shifted from the new decade of his life to the gods-damn illegal gift.

Something that felt more like a thorn in his side now than a present. Ugh.

Draco tipped his chair back on two legs, swirling the last bit of his Pinot Noir in his glass. The ruby limbs clung to the side, languidly plodding like syrup, lazy and slow, all the way to the bottom. 

This was an excellent vintage (if he did say so himself). 

"No, Parks," he sighed heavily, gaze flickering towards the staircase again. "I haven't." 

"Un-fucking-believable!" Pansy huffed. 

"That's what I'm saying," Theo grinned, shooting the dark-haired witch a wink. "A complete waste. I gave him a priceless, custom-enchanted fantasy device I had to smuggle past three Ministry guards and bribe one ugly Hungarian brute to get. And here Dray is! Treating it like it's a pile of Unicorn shite! It's fucking rude." 

"First off, did I ask for it?" Draco drawled, patience thinning rapidly. "No. Second: Do I need it? Again, no."

"Right," Theo mused. "Says the guy who rubbed his dick raw the other week." 

Draco narrowed his gaze at Theo, ignoring the warmth prickling his cheeks. "Fuck. You. Actually, all of you—fuck all of you."

"Oh, swear jar, Daddy," Theo tsked, mocking in a tone scarily like Scorpius's own. "Five galleons. Actually, how many fucks was that? Two? Make that ten galleons, Daddy." 

"Theo," Draco growled. "I swear to fucking—?" 

"Fifteen galleons, Daddy! My, gods!" Theo beamed, looking all too pleased with himself. "This is so much fucking fun. Isn't it?" 

Pansy lost a long, heavy sigh. "Oh, Theodore, love, you find fun in a puddle. Not that impressive." 

Blaise chuckled behind his glass of whiskey, clearly amused with this shit show between them at the expense of Draco's dignity. Worse? Hermione could come downstairs at any moment and witness this—this mess. Fuck. Then, she would hear about how Draco wanked so hard last week that he had to beg Theo to come over and make sure his cock wasn't about to shrivel up and fall right on off. 

Who did he wank about? Oh, about three guesses should do it. 

Ignoring them, Pansy gestured with a lazy, manicured hand across the table. "It's your birthday, darling," she purred, emerald eyes glittering. "Why not indulge a little?" 

"I don't have the need to indulge anymore, Parks," Draco sighed. 

"Don't you?" she mused. "Because I bet I can guess what you wished for earlier. Something about Herm—" 

"You want to know what I wished for?" Draco blurted, eager to change the conversation. "For better friends with actual, proper morals." 

"Oh, Dray. Darling. People would kill for friends like us," Pansy laughed delightfully. "And you should take advantage of our questionable morals, especially when we've handed you an indulgent gift on a Goblin-made platter." 

"Uh? You?" Theo cut in. "I think you mean me. I'm the one who gave him the gift." He looked around at them. "Didn't you just hear me say how I had to smuggle it past three Ministry guards and an ugly fucking Hungarian brute? Not Parks. Me."  

"And me," Blaise added, smirking. 

Pansy waved her hand dismissively. "You two can tug cocks on who did what later." She turned her focus back to Draco. "Darling, I-for-one would love an illegal box that allowed my deepest, darkest fantasies to come to life. Do you understand what you have? It's fucking brilliant magic. Realistic magic." 

Draco cocked a brow. "What? Your Werewolf porn not enough, Parks?" 

"And when have I ever looked into Werewolf porn, darling?" Pansy bristled, rolling her eyes. "Honestly? I'm not that depraved." 

"Right. Since when?" Theo deadpanned. 

Her scarlet lips curved wickedly. "You know, I have sex-dreams about your father and I fucking in your vineyards. Filthy, dirty sex-dreams where—?" 

"Stop." Theo held up his hand, wincing. "I don't want to fucking think about that. Like ever, Parkinson." 

"Hit a nerve, did I? Darling, you just know how much I love them older and richer. You might need to start calling me 'Mommy' soon."

Blaise made a sound in the back of his throat. 

Hell, Draco had to agree with that one, even if he dated the witch for three years. Though most of their sexual escapades were tame, considering Pansy Parkinson didn't obtain the knack for being utterly deviant until her mid-twenties. That was after she discovered that life with a father in Azkaban and a mother who had run away to their villa in St. Barts wasn't so bad, and she actually had some freedom. 

Draco let out a slow breath. "Look, the bottom line to all of this is that I appreciate the gesture and the… gift. I really do. But I'm not using the box. End of discussion." 

"Coward," Theo sang. 

"Coward?" Draco scoffed. "I'm a grown man with a child upstairs who has a penchant to climb into my bed at all hours of the night. I cannot lock my door or even piss in peace without him coming in to my bathroom, let alone rub one out. And trapped in an illegally charmed fantasy box where I can't leave until I—well? You know?" He rubbed at his face. "You get my point. Absolutely fucking not." 

"And yet you wanked so hard the other week you—?" 

"Because he was at my mother's and time is fucking precious nowadays."

Blaise snorted. "So you had some sort of wank-a-thon to pass the time?" 

Draco groaned, pale eyes sliding again towards the darkened staircase. Fuck. Why wasn't she down yet? 

Unfortunately, this caught Pansy's attention. "Curious, though, isn't it, Dray? That you barely protested when Scorp pitched a proper fit in front of you. If that were any of us at that age, we'd be shipped off to Drumstrang or have a few lashings with a dragonhide belt." 

"Parks has a point," Blaise drawled. 

"Well, I'm not my fucking father," Draco said with a shrug. "And I'm absolutely not going to punish my child for something he asked for and clearly wanted." 

"And how very progressive of you!" Pansy remarked sardonically. "Salazar! A real modern-day man! Allowing witches to read to his child and tuck them in." 

"Parks, it's called being a present father for my son. There's nothing wrong with that, and—" 

"I know there's nothing wrong," Pansy interjected sharply. Leaning forward, she grinned, blood-red lips stretched wide. "But I'm just curious when I missed the signup sheet to become the next Mrs Malfoy? You know I wanted that position, darling." 

"You'll have to wait your turn, Parks," Theo teased, topping off his wine. "Oh, Granger has been at the top of that list since the fourth year."

Cheeks warming, Draco closed his eyes, rubbing at his brow. 

This? This conversation was not what he wanted to be involved in. At least, not now when said witch could come trotting down the stairs with her wild honey-brown curls and perfectly pouty lips and sensual curves that he wanted to know what they felt like under his hands. The parts of her that he wanted to memorize for himself, like some depraved thing. 

Not that he cared about her, or anything. Nope. Not him. Wrong wizard entirely. 

"I don't like her like that," Draco growled defensively, meeting each of their eyes. "She's a… friend. Just a friend. My son likes her, and she's sweet to him. And right now, that's all I can ask for. Alright?" 

Theo nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah. And the sky is not blue and my dick isn't massive." 

"But your dick isn't massive, Nott," Blaise pointed out, earning a boisterous laugh from Pansy. Smirking, the tawny-skinned wizard turned to Draco. "But he has a point—you do like Granger." 

Draco raised his hands, standing abruptly as his chair scraped over the dark onyx-wood floors. "Alright. Out. Each of you." 

"Aw." Theo pouted, slinging his arm over the back of Blaise's chair. "Did we hit a nerve, sweetheart?" 

"No." 

"Yes."  

"No!" 

"Oh, c'mon, Dray," Theo snickered. "It's not like you haven't admitted it before to each of us." 

"Separately, I might add," Pansy cut in. 

"Parks is right," Theo hummed, grinning. "And at least two of the times you told me you wished you could just fuck her to get her out of your system before you went on a drunk rant about how cute her freckles were." 

"I did not!" Draco argued. "I said they were… distracting."  

Pansy smirked, coming to stand as she smoothed out her form-fitting dress. "I'm pretty sure you told me that she smells like books and the golden sunrise, and it turns you on." 

"Oh, fuck all of you," Draco muttered flatly, giving them the middle finger as he made his way out of the dining room. "You better be gone by the time I come downstairs." 

"Oi!" Theo shouted with a laugh. "When we start hearing sex noises, we'll be sure to get out of here as quick as possible." 

Draco didn't answer. 

Hell, he couldn't answer because how was he supposed to call back downstairs that he, one, would not be shagging Hermione Granger tonight. Two? Well, he didn't quite know where to go with two, but whatever. Did that really matter? He was just ensuring she was alright, and that Scorpius wasn't forcing her to memorize all his Dragon stuffies' names. 

Finally, Draco reached his son's door as he sucked in a nervous breath. 

What would he say to her when he found her? He supposed he could just play the concerned father. But what if he saw them together and did something completely irrational, like ask her to move in and sleep in his bed? 

Yeah, this was entirely the wine talking because Draco Malfoy never, ever acted like this. Ever. 

Pushing open Scorpius' door, he braced himself. 

The room was bathed in a soft glow from the enchanted constellations painted on the ceiling. In the middle of the queen-sized bed was a tiny body, curled onto his side as he clutched his favorite new dragon. Long, pale lashes fluttered with each steady breath, and something in Draco's heart swelled at the sight. 

But there was absolutely no sign or evidence of Hermione Granger. 

His brow furrowed at the thought. 

Okay, so maybe she left already? Somehow sneaking past them while his friends tortured him. But why would she go without saying goodbye? That didn't seem like her, even if the notion would've flustered her enough to cause that pretty little pink blush on the apples of her cheeks. 

Sighing, he closed the door gently, careful not to wake Scorpius. He turned then, rubbing nervously at his brow, when he caught sight of the warm glow from the hall bathroom. Huh? 

Draco moved towards it without thinking. He hovered for a moment because, gods, he didn't want to be the creep who knocked on the door when she was using the loo. 

But… then again, wouldn't she have come out by now? 

A minute passed. Maybe two. Alright, who was he kidding? It was mere seconds before he knocked once. 

"Granger?"

No answer. 

"Uh? Hermione? You… uh, alright in there." 

Why was this downright embarrassing? Him. Standing there. Lingering awkwardly outside the bathroom door, calling out to her like he wasn't at all trying to find her. Or worse, praying that she didn't sneak out just to avoid him. 

Gods. He was so bloody pathetic. 

Yet something about it didn't sit right with him as that unease climbed up his limbs, wrapping around his throat. 

Forgetting all about proper Pureblood, gentlemanly etiquette drilled into him since infancy, Draco tried the knob, finding it unlocked. Fuck. His heart slammed into his ribs, attempting to escape. He didn't even think twice as he shoved open the door, fully expecting some sort of high-pitched shriek, a possible lecture, or (Merlin forbid) a passed-out, unconscious Hermione Granger on his bathroom rug. 

Unfortunately (or rather fortunately), the bathroom was utterly empty. 

"Thank the fucking gods," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his pale hair as his gaze shifted to the ground. "What the—?" 

Yeah, alright. So, he might've spoken a bit too soon as he focused in on the toppled over silver, Goblin-made and highly illegal box on the floor, and a crumpled cream hand towel. 

Draco's stomach plummeted. "Oh. Fuck… Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!" 

Everything within his brain told him to do something—anything—but all he could do was stand there, staring down at it. The Verum Desiderium. The runes flickered lazily along the edges, pulsing with that self-satisfied way that only something very enchanted and highly illegal would have if it were triggered.  

Activated. 

Oh, gods, it was activated, meaning Hermione Granger was inside said box. That also meant that she was inside his fucking fantasy, and he knew exactly which one she landed in. 

Fuck. Fuck. Double fucking fuck. 

Yeah, she was so going to castrate him. 

No, actually, he was sure that she would murder him, given the number of times that the bossy witch lectured him on bodily freedom and illegally charmed objects. 

On co-pilot, he grabbed the Verum Desiderium off the rug and bolted down the hallway towards his bedroom. He winced as the door slammed shut, quickly casting a wandless, non-verbal Silencing Charm so powerful the windows trembled. Fuck. 

Anxiously, Draco's gaze flickered over towards the spelled picture frame, giving him a clear view into Scorpius' bedroom. But thankfully, his son barely stirred. Hell, barely even moved an inch. 

Small miracles, indeed. 

Sucking in a breath, Draco collapsed on the edge of his bed, focusing back on the massive, impractical issue at hand: Hermione Granger was stuck in his magical wank box. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

He needed to think. 

He needed to figure out how to get her out of there. 

He needed to do something other than stare at the charmed (illegal) object as if it were going to give him answers. Like the god-damn Seven Wonders or the Mirror of Erised. 

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

At this point, he was about to have to contribute himself to the Swear Jar out of the pure vulgarity of his current favorite fucking word. 

Yep. Another five Galleons there.

Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. 

Okay, he was a bloody gods-damn Auror and a good one at that. He knew how to fix things and get out of shitty situations. This was no different. Right? He had the competence and skills to figure this out. He just prayed that Granger didn't hex the ever-living daylights out of him before he did. Gods, and how long had she been in there already? 

The box pulsed in his hands as if in foreboding answer. 

A groan escaped him. Fuck me. 

Nervously, he cast one last glance towards the picture-frame monitor, making sure Scorpius wasn't about to wander in asking for a cuddle or a bedtime dragon story. 

Okay, in the clear there. That had to be good, right? 

He'd take the resounding silence as a yes. 

Slowly, reluctantly, he tightened his grip on the device, feeling it warm under his palm. The Latin script glowed brightly. A warning. Or a promise. He couldn't be certain, and he wasn't about to second-guess that particular issue. 

Draco held his breath as he opened the lid. 

For a second, there was nothing. 

Silence, really. 

And gods, he almost laughed, until he felt the whirl of heat wash over the room, tugging right behind his navel. Like someone had reached through his ribcage, wrapped their fingers around something vital, and yanked. Hard. A brilliant sapphire glow filled the space, drenching his face in the ethereal, enchanted light. Twin golden threads of magic unfurled around him, dancing until they morphed together. A rushing filled his ears, blood pounding like how he felt during an exhilarating duel. 

The pull quickly became reality in that bodily, lifelike way. He was being yanked, pulled sideways with no sense of direction. 

Only gravity. 

Only motion. 

It took only a second—a breath, really—before the world cleaved in two, flipping like the pages of a book, and Draco slipped headfirst into the unknown. 

Fuck. 

He couldn't move, but his magic buzzed just beneath the surface of his skin, trying to recalibrate and find some sort of anchor. He reached for something—hell, anything—to brace against. But everything was a blend and flashes of blinding silver and white and the brightest, most effervescent cobalt he'd ever seen. 

Down. 

Down. 

Down. 

Draco didn't know how long he had been falling until, finally, it all went quiet, and he felt his feet become grounded in the plushness of a dream. 

Or, quite literally, his fantasy. 

Slowly, carefully, he peeled one eye open, then the other, and swore under his breath as he stared up at the familiar warped paned windows, the pale grey exterior, and the wooden sign swinging in a phantom breeze that read: Fable & Fiction.

Well, at least he was predictable. 

Sighing heavily, Draco pushed open the door, hearing the familiar ding of the golden bell above. The scent of parchment, newly cracked spines, citrusy bergamot, and violets filled the space. The amber light slanting through the windows was warm as honey, drifting over leather bindings. Shelves towered high on either side of him, but there was a small opening that led to the collection of broken-in sofas and a massive chair that Scorpius loved to curl up in. The air caressed him, drifting over his shoulders as if guiding him across the slightly uneven floorboards, all age-worn and scratched from foot traffic over the centuries. 

But there, sitting behind the mahogany counter, was the one person he equally expected to find and feared to see. 

Hermione Granger. 

She looked exactly the same as she had earlier that night in that impossibly sexy black silk dress that left very little to his depraved imagination. Yet here, there was something about her that was more vivid, like the saturation of her presence had been turned up. Altered, in a way. Her olive skin looked ridiculously soft. And there was something about her chestnut eyes that just killed those ordinarily hardened pieces of him within. 

Hermione focused on him then, blinking as if she wasn't quite sure he was real. "D-Draco?" she staggered out. 

Relief punched through his chest, filling him. Thank the fucking gods. No, scratch that, he'd thank every entity and pantheon in existence, even the obscure ones his great-great-grandfather used to worship. 

"Granger," he exhaled. 

She looked around then, brows pinched with confusion. "What—? Why are we in my… uh? Bookshop?" 

Alright. He took all that gratitude back. Every last one. 

Mortification rose in the back of his neck, sending those prickles of guilt and physical embarrassment over his skin. His gaze focused on everything within the room except for her. The flickering light overhead, which he'd told her she needed to change before. The well-worn mahogany shelves. The crimson rug. The bloody fucking sofa in the corner that he definitely had fantasies about doing filthy, reckless things to her on said surface. 

Salazar, he could absolutely not think about that right now. 

"Draco," Hermione said more fiercely, impatiently. "What are we doing here?" 

Clearing his throat, he muttered: "I think we're… uh? Well, in the box." 

"What box?" 

Good fucking question, Granger. 

Draco sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair as he finally met her gaze. "It's—? Okay, don't freak out." 

She arched a brow. "Telling me not to freak out tends to do the exact opposite." 

Right… fuck. Should've thought of that one. Then again, he also should've considered the fact that she was Hermione Granger, and worrying about every little thing came with her namesake. 

"Theo and Blaise gave me a birthday gift," he explained slowly, feeling that warmth lick up his nape again. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Now, this is the don't freak out part, Granger—it's very illegal." 

Hermione's amber eyes widened before narrowing into thin slits. "Gods! I knew it was illegal." 

"You—? You knew?" 

"I mean, I recognized it," she corrected primly. "The runes, at least." 

"Ah. Right. Well—" Draco made a broad, sweeping movement with his arms "—here we are. In the Verum Desiderium."

The minute the Latin words left his mouth, he felt the walls around him shudder with equal warning and raw promise. 

Salazar, how long would they be stuck in here? Better yet, when could they finally leave? Ugh. This thing should really come with an instruction manual. 

Hermione shook her head. "Why in the gods' name do you have that just sitting in your bathroom?" 

"I didn't have it sitting in my bathroom. It was hidden in the cabinet." 

"Oh. Right. And that's supposed to make it entirely better?" 

"Well, if you didn't go rifling around in places that are not yours to poke around in, we wouldn't be here." 

She made a sharp, protesting sound in the back of her throat. "It was in a towel cabinet, Draco. There were no towels, and I needed one to dry my face! I think that is entirely reasonable. And gods, Draco! You have a child. What would happen if Scorp—?" 

"I know I have a fucking child, Granger!" he hissed defensively as that instinctual protective nature spiked. 

It was one thing to call out his idiocy over his impulsiveness, but another to strike a chord over his parental duties. He was trying as hard as he possibly could with Scorpius, and every day, someone had to remind him to do better… be better. 

It was equally exhausting, as it was annoying. 

Hermione's jaw clicked shut, eyes widening. "Oh. Oh gods! You know that's—?" 

"Not exactly what you meant?" he finished for her, arching a brow. "No, I think it is, Granger. Point taken." 

She bristled then, muttering something under her breath about his insufferable attitude to always assume the worst. 

Alright. He'd give her that, but his defensive nature was warranted. People either saw him as an ex-Death Eater, or a well-respected Auror, or a single parent (and perhaps even throw in some unnecessary pity in there as well). 

Again, it was bloody draining each time he heard it or saw it in others' eyes. Worse? It was the very look he saw in hers right now. 

Hell, wasn't this supposed to be his filthy, outrageous fantasy? The one that he was going to have a proper wank to earlier as he fisted his cock? One that would make those PlayWizard magazines hidden under his bed go to shame over the outrageousness of it. Yeah. Right. That one. And this wasn't supposed to be a sad-sod sympathy fest. No, it was supposed to be relief—sex. Raw, relieving, and no-strings-attached-because-this-was-a-fantasy sex. 

The end. 

Hermione folded her arms over her chest. "Alright. Let's just… put aside who's to blame and figure this out. We're in your, uh, box. And so now what? How does this work?"

"Not sure," Draco replied casually, trying to look anywhere but at her breasts that were pushed up in that scrap of satin she called a dress. Fuck. Me. "I clearly haven't used it before. From what I know, it's supposed to… uh, manifest your deepest desires. You know? Fantasies." 

There was a long stretched of silence that passed between them as he watched her work over his words and the blanks between them. Sometimes, she amazed him with her ability to be the brightest in the room, and yet the simplest things took her minutes to dissect and understand. 

It was endearing, really. 

Okay, it was cute. Really fucking adorable. 

Hermione blinked, then as her mind caught up. "Oh!" 

Yeah. Oh. 

"So, well—uh?" She cleared her throat, warmth blooming over her skin in watercolor blotches. "So you're… well, uh? Your fantasy is my—my bookshop?" 

Rolling his lips together, he nodded. "That's part of it. Yeah." 

"And the other part?" 

Draco met her gaze then for a fraction of a second too long. Oh, she had absolutely no fucking idea. 

If he were a better person, this would have been an enormous relief. Actually, he would've been rather pleased with the whole upper hand bit. That maybe this whole 'I've trapped you in my illegal sex-box' was a good thing because this was one of his more tamed fantasies compared to the other depraved ones that should come with warnings on the label. A big old: DO NOT ENTER!

Unfortunately, Draco Malfoy knew he wasn't that lucky.

"Well," he exhaled a hefty breath, "if this is similar to the other ones the Ministry confiscated, then the fantasy needs to… uh, move forward. Like the magic intended. Think of it like, uh, how the Verum Desiderium would want the dream to go and finish." 

"And this is your fantasy?" 

"Yeah," Draco hummed, before correcting. "Well, I'm not sure, actually. It probably reacts to both of us now." 

Hermione nodded, considering. "Because I'm in it?" 

"Exactly." 

They stood there for a beat as the surrounding walls pulse in a faint cerulean. It was barely perceptible, and really, he only knew where to look because of the number of these he had confiscated over the years. Actually, this one was pretty damn impressive compared to those. And if he weren't so pissed at his friends, he'd probably thank them. Maybe he'd still send them a note and some roses if this went as well as his usual filthy thoughts went. 

"Alright," Hermione finally said, cutting the tension. "So, what normally happens in this… uh, fantasy?" 

"Do you really want to know?" Draco drawled lowly. 

Nodding, he watched her throat hesitate on a thick swallow. Yeah, alright, that was enough permission for him. 

He stepped forward until he was right before the mahogany counter. "Normally, I come in looking for a book."

"A-A book?" she asked, voice tentative. "Should we… uh, do that?"  

A shift permeated throughout the room, curling underneath his collar in warning and anticipation. Almost like a pleased response from the Verum Desiderium. Behind them, the bell chimed, as if someone had entered. Except he knew there was no one there except the ghost of his fantasy. The lights dimmed a fraction, and the air thickened as the weight of magic settled down. 

Hermione must've felt it too; her fingers curled over the edge of the counter, eyes searching the space as if she could track it. 

Good. At least he wasn't fucking alone in this… insanity. 

Draco's mouth curved slightly. "Lead the way, Granger." 

Wetting her lips, she stepped down off the raised platform, moving down the closest aisle that he was all too familiar with. 

Honestly, it was quite embarrassing how often he thought of this bookshop (or even visited), that it was his go-to fantasy when he needed a proper wank. 

Something that she most certainly did not need to know. 

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he followed her through the towering mahogany shelves, moving deeper into the space. His gaze flickered to the shapely curve of her arse, watching as it swayed with each step, before tracking how her fingertips leisurely grazed each spine. 

Gods… it was all so her. And that it made something primal inside of him growl with pleasure. The need to claim and take and fuck because that was what he did in his fantasies. Claim. Take. And fuck. He wasn't polite about it in his dreams. But he always made sure to get her off first before spilling inside of her cunt. Would that be how tonight went? The idea that he would be able to fuck her in here?

Ugh. Draco shifted, adjusting himself and his growing erection. 

Alright. Now was not the time to think about that. Especially not when she could turn around any section and see him grabbing himself like a teenager with a surprise hard-on. 

Hermione stopped before a familiar section: Mystery. 

Ha. Typical.  

Once, she had led him to this particular area of Fable & Fiction, explaining the similarities and parallels between Muggle crime novels and Auror casework. Something about how most of them featured arcs of cocky (but brilliant) detectives, whip-sharp women, and morally ambiguous charmers.  

And okay, maybe he read the three she recommended in two days. And he definitely didn't stay up until three in the morning with a bottle of red and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd open on his lap. Nope! Certainly wasn't him or whatever. 

Hermione plucked a book off the shelf and read the title aloud: "Death on the Nile."

Yeah, he supposed they were sticking to an Agatha Christie theme in this fantasy.  

She glanced over at him, offering a warm smile. "I don't think I've suggested this one yet," she said softly. 

"Uh. No. You haven't." 

"You should read it," she sighed, placing it back on the shelf. Her fingertips paused on the spine, stroking it absentmindedly. Fuck. He wished that it were him. "My mum would read Agatha Christie on every summer hols. This was her favorite. And I—" she shook her head. "I just haven't read it in a very long time." 

A thick knot lodged in his throat. 

Gods. A part of him wanted to blurt out: 'If you want to read it together, we can!' 

But that only made those perpetual flashing images appear in his mind like a predictive Pensive. The fantasy he had of them before the hearth in the townhome. Her silky bare legs up on his lap, his large hand gripping her calf as he massaged it. Hell, the sound of her voice that would fill the air as she read aloud. How Scorpius would listen raptly because he was obsessed with her as much as Draco was. The two of them as they wandered upstairs to go and— 

Draco gritted his teeth, swallowing down the pleasant thought like it was poison. 

Again, it was already embarrassing enough that she was stuck in his fantasy in her bookshop. It was another thing entirely for her to know his almost pathetic, desperate need when it came to… well, her. The cravings he had in his head that made her silly romance novels go to shame.

Yeah, that was all fan-fucking-tastic. Honestly. 

Still, Draco watched Hermione. He watched as she continued to read a few more titles, smiling to herself every now and then, as if she forgot which books she procured and ordered over the years. Gods. He was blindly captivated by the way she tilted her head, the slope of her shoulders, and the way her honey-brown curls fell perfectly down her spine. Her summer-kissed skin looked so soft—so damn warm and inviting that he wanted to kiss every inch. 

Actually, he wanted to run his tongue over the dip of her collarbone, tasting the swell of her breasts until she was a writhing mess under him. 

But that bit would have to wait. 

No, it really needed to wait because he couldn't spiral into his inappropriate thoughts at that moment. Or maybe even ever. 

Sighing, Hermione finally turned towards him, amber eyes catching against the dusty aura of her bookshop. 

"So?" she asked. "What next?" 

Maybe Draco would look back on this moment and blame the fantasy and the whole sodding 'sex-box' on his actions. Maybe he'd lie to himself and call it an accident. A fluke. A momentary lapse in judgment and weakness. Or maybe this was just his instinctive nature to prove to her that this was very, very real to him. And it wasn't going away anytime soon. 

He figured that much by now.

Either way, he didn't think twice as he stepped into her space, crowding her against the mahogany shelves filled with her curated favorites. The scent of parchment, violets, and her wrapped around him like a vise, squeezing his arousal between its phantom fingers. 

His hands pressed on either side of her head, caging her in. Immediately, her eyes widened just a fraction before shuddering. 

"Next," Draco drawled lowly, breath ghosting over her face as he shifted closer. "This is where my fantasy varies, Granger." 

Hermione's throat bobbed. "How—? How so?" 

"Do you really want to know?" 

"I'm still here, aren't I?" 

Alright. She had a point, but then again, she wouldn't be able to leave until the fantasy moved forward in the only way he knew how: one of them reaching climax. 

Gingerly, Draco drifted one hand downward, brushing the backs of his fingers down her jaw, over her shoulder, and down to the slope of her waist. Yeah. Okay, so he knew this was entirely bold of him, but hey, it was his fantasy, and there was no off button for how turned on he was. 

"Tell me," she whispered, barely audible. "Please." 

Merlin, Hermione just said 'please,' and who was Draco Malfoy to deny that perfect sweetness? 

His fingertips drew taunting patterns over the curve of her. "Sometimes," he began, voice husky. "Sometimes, I'm polite about it. I kiss you nice and slow. Take my time."

Tongue darting out, she wetted her lips. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

 "I start soft," he explained. "It's romantic and sweet and just what you need when I press you up against this shelf right here." Draco's hips moved into hers, until there was no space between them, and gods, he couldn't breathe. "Sometimes the kisses are so sweet, you're whimpering against me. But sometimes? Fuck, Granger. I make you beg." 

"And others?" Hermione asked breathlessly, glazed eyes searching his. 

His hand dragged back up, feeling the satin under the pads. The material bunched until he grazed over the gentle curve of her breast, tracing her collarbone. She felt too warm, too real, under his touch. And he wondered if this would drive him insane, knowing that he'd felt this before and might never be able to feel it again. 

Leaning in closer, his lips skimmed the shell of her ear. "Other times? I can't fucking wait." 

Hermione moaned, hips canting in a way that had him swallowing down his sounds of need. 

"Sometimes I can't get enough of you," he told her hoarsely, honestly… openly. "I need to taste you on my tongue. Right here. Against these shelves. I drop to my knees and eat your little perfect cunt until you're begging me to stop." 

"Oh, Godric…" she whimpered. 

Draco's lips curved slyly against her ear. "Not Godric, Granger. Not even fucking close." 

Her fingers curled into the front of his well-pressed Oxford, trying to ground herself to something—anything. 

Yeah, he could easily equate.

In a way, it was just as dizzying for him to feel the heat of her radiate between their aligned bodies. The way they just fit so damn well, that it was almost as if she was custom made for him. Something bespoke that he could only dream up.

Then again, this was a fantasy, so perhaps it was just the Verum Desiderium's way of making it the best it could possibly be. Maybe he'd never know the truth and wake up tomorrow with a mountain of regret. 

Right now, though? He didn't particularly have the strength of will to care. 

His hand traced over her throat, slowly, reverently, until he splayed it possessively over her creamy, freckled neck. Not tight. Not threatening. Not even close to uncomfortable. Just… there. A claiming as he wrapped his palm around the slender column. 

Perfect. 

So fucking perfect. 

He stepped closer, hips brushing against hers, allowing the thickening press of his cock between them. 

Yeah. There was absolutely no fucking way she didn't feel that—it. He was hard. Really, painfully hard, and it almost pulsed with every shallow breath he took. Actually, he hoped that she was just as tormented as he was (or felt). He prayed she was soaked, drenched between her thighs. Fuck. He needed her slick and hot and aching for him in the way he imagined so many times, with a fist wrapped around his length and her name on his tongue. 

"Sometimes," Draco murmured, mouth ghosting over her jawline. "Sometimes, you're the one who snaps first, Granger." 

Hermione's breath hitched.

"Such a pretty sight when that happens," he went on, voice rough. "Watching you drop to your knees as you pull out my cock like you're dying for it. Desperate. Like you can't fucking wait to wrap those swotty lips around me."

She moaned. 

Alright. Yep. That about did it. 

Gods, he was getting so fucking hard. 

Sucking in a breath, Draco pulled away. With the soft tilt of her chin, he angled her face up to his, finding only molten amber pools of want in the rich space between her pupils and irises. 

He'd never seen her like this. Ever. Never seen her this… gone. 

Gingerly, he pressed his thumb right in the center of her full lips, feeling the skin and heat there. Right now? He wanted to fuck her with filthy, depraved words and skilled, long fingers and slippery tongues and jagged teeth. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to consume her until she didn't know where she began and he ended. 

"Do you…?" Hermione started, breathless against his digit. "Do you ever… uh, shag me in this fantasy?" 

A rough, needy sound rumbled deep in his chest, reverberating between them. 

Without thinking, he dropped his forehead to hers. "Gods. Granger," he rasped. "I fuck you in every fantasy. In every place you can possibly think of. Against the shelves. On the counter. On that ugly sofa over there that I can't fucking stand, but you love it in here. Everywhere. I fuck you until you forget your own name and the only thing you think of is me." 

She swallowed hard against his thumb, tongue darting out tentatively to taste his skin. 

So warm. 

So fucking wet. 

And hell, Draco could only think of one thing then: he wanted to taste her, too.  

No, actually, he wanted to consume her. He wanted to ruin her, just like his fantasies had before. Wreck her. Drown in her delicious scent and wanton moans and the wet heat between her thighs until she was sobbing. He wanted her to break apart to the point where he was the only thing that could put her back together again. 

The Verum Desiderium might've spun this world for him from his ultimate desires. But this? This part? This need? It was only him. Every last bit until it was just a singular thought in his mind. A pinprick given the reality. 

He needed it—craved it. 

It was the same harsh awakenings that he had in his bed, fist wrapped around his cock, whispering her name into the dark. Or in the shower; one palm braced against the glass, the other stroking himself to the memory of her reading aloud. Or at the café, watching her fold her lips around the plastic lid, rambling on about a Muggle customer who didn't like how many romance novels she'd stocked, even if they were (as Hermione corrected), far away from the children's corner. The way he just knew she'd look so damn perfect, sucking his thick, swollen length into her mouth. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. 

Draco knew he needed to get a better handle on himself before he completely lost it, spilling into his trousers like some born-again virgin. 

But right now? He couldn't help it. His mind spun with years of repressed thoughts craving to escape their confines.  

Hell, half of them weren't even sexual or depraved like his current predicament. In fact, most of them were under the 'Parental Guidance' category. Like how she looked when she laughed at whatever Scorpius said. Or when she chewed her bottom lip as she read a particularly interesting prose. Or when she didn't know others were paying attention, and there was something so unknowingly devastating about her. 

His gaze met hers once more. "Granger," he murmured, needing to say her name.

And gods, she was perfect. Utterly and irrevocably wonderful. 

This close, he could make out the dusting of freckles over her nose and the soft, rosy flush blooming on her cheeks. The way her lashes dipped low, fanning over her skin with each fluttering breath she took. How her pouty lips parted ever so slightly, unknowingly wrapping around the pad of his thumb. 

It wasn't even a kiss or a suck or anything remotely sexual, but gods, he felt it down to his fucking toes. 

"Draco," she whimpered, tongue darting out, tasting his thumb. 

Okay. Yeah. Hell. He took everything back because the sound of his namesake on her perfect mouth was his undoing. He forgot who he was, or where they were, or what bloody dimension they were even in. He was almost positive he died right there on the spot in his so-called fantasy. The end. 

Here lies Draco Malfoy. Cause of Death? Hermione fucking Granger. 

In fact, he'd go happily because he realized then just how badly he wanted to kiss her. Actually, he needed to—desperately. It was his fantasy, and he could do whatever the hell he wanted. And right now? He wanted it more than he wanted anything in this world, even if it was just for tonight. 

Okay, so maybe not more than anything, but it was pretty up there. Like, at the top of his list or whatever. 

Tentatively, he moved his hand away from her lips. His palm brushed the curve of her jaw, feeling the soft skin there. 

He couldn't wait. 

He wanted to dive right in, headfirst, and blind. He wanted to be reckless and a bit of a teenager, figuring things out for the very first time with her.  

He wanted. 

He wanted.

He wanted… 

But Narcissa Malfoy raised him to be a gentleman and always ask permission (filthy fantasy or not). So, he would request said permission, even if it were the last thing on earth he wanted to do at this given moment.

Draco's gaze flickered down to Hermione's mouth as he rasped: "It's my birthday, you know." 

She swallowed. "It is." 

"And do you know what I want to do? What I want?" 

Hermione shook her head. 

"I want to kiss you," he murmured, barely holding on to his resolve. "So, can I kiss you, Granger?" 

Chapter Text

"Can I kiss you?" 

The question nearly echoed through the bookstore, filling the stillness. Fine dust shimmered in the air, and the golden sun filtered in through the antique Tiffany glass window that Hermione installed.

It was beautiful, and there was no doubt about it because it was the first thing he noticed when he stumbled upon this shop months ago. 

Yet Draco came to learn that the most beautiful thing about the Fable & Fiction was how the air always smelled a bit like her. How it was practically his Amortentia he sniffed Sixth Year before his life went to utter shite and he was forced into a system and dictatorship that he didn't want to partake in. The expectations he never asked for from his father. 

Or before he knew what it felt like to want something and be told he couldn't have it. 

But it had been his once upon a time, even if he never told anyone about it. Not even Theo or Blaise, and certainly not Pansy (the witch was a bloody gossip). 

Hermione? Gods… she was everything. 

Her scent was everything, even in this make-believe fantasy. Fresh, clean parchment. Bergamot, like the sort in the Earl Grey blend, she drank religiously every morning. Fragrant crushed violets, like the kind that grew wild in the South of France. And a bit of thick, golden honey on a wooden spoon. The very kind he spooned out for Scorpius, slowly watching it drizzle. 

Perfection that he wanted to bottle up. 

Yet what he really wanted to do right now was taste it right from the source—drink it down until there was nothing left to give, and she was inside him. Hell, on his tongue, in his lungs, behind his eyes when he closed them. 

He wanted her there, consuming him, until every time he swallowed, he couldn't help but remember her. 

"Can I kiss you?" Draco asked again. 

Hermione swallowed, giving him a subtle nod. "Y-Yes." 

"Good." 

That was all he could say to her as fantasy became reality, and he knew the outcome of this moment. 

Gradually, carefully, Draco leaned in, and she didn't pull away. Alright. That was a good sign, right? Whatever. He'd take it as his gaze flickered down to her mouth. Hermione's lips parted with the smallest breath, almost but not quite a sigh. 

Yeah. That about did it. 

Draco didn't wait as he closed the distance, mouth colliding with hers. There was no hesitation. No mercy. No waiting. No, nothing. There was only a raw, undiluted need as he moved against her warm, pliant mouth. 

And fuck. She tasted just as he imagined: tea, honey, and fucking salvation. 

The kiss was softer than Draco expected (from himself, at least), but there he was, barely hanging on by a thread. In fact, said thread was currently freeing with each breath that he exhaled into her lungs, and she readily swallowed. 

So good. Gods, she was so fucking good to him.

Draco pressed them further against the polished mahogany shelf, needing to feel more of her body on his. But he could feel her everywhere—her presence, her heat, the way she molded against his lips like she was bespoke just for him. 

A low, primal sound bubbled from his chest, sending a bolt of arousal to his cock. 

Salazar. She had to feel how hard he was—how ready he was for her. It was obscene, really. Something that a gentleman (and wizard) like himself shouldn't do to someone who hadn't even given him a single fucking clue she was interested. Yet he felt that tight stretch against his skin and the pulsing need pinpointing right at his erection. 

It also didn't help that kissing her felt like coming up for air after drowning or that his resolve was barely hanging on, waiting to snap. 

On a moan, Hermione's thigh hitched around his waist, almost as if she needed him closer—needed more. 

Okay. So maybe his friends were right because he felt a bit touched-starved at that moment, like some adolescent boy snogging for the first time behind a tapestry, trying not to get caught. Ugh. 

Whatever. 

Draco's mouth molded over hers, swallowing up her desperate sounds without permission or request, feeling that need to dominate and claim. And she allowed him, readily, letting him take control without question, as her hands flew to his shirt, her fingers gripping the fabric to anchor herself, just as she had before. 

A few paperbacks fell off the shelf, hitting the floor with a thud, but the two didn't stop. 

Hell, he didn't think they could. Honest to the gods. 

Hermione let out another whimpered moan, and he claimed the opportunity, tongue pressing against the seam of her lips. The minute he felt them part, opening for him, he pushed deeper, needing to explore her with greed and ecstasy. He kissed harder, faster, deadlier. He needed to be closer to her—needed to wrap his fist around her curls. 

Yeah. Alright. So, it didn't get much better than this (or he only assumed that this was the simple gift she'd give him), and he wasn't about to be that greedy, even if everything in him begged to push further. 

He needed to calm the hell down. 

Unfortunately, he couldn't get enough of it—her. All of it. Fucking everything. 

Better yet? The rhythm between them was perfection. Almost as if the pair had done this for years and years. There were no awkward fumblings or pauses of giggling laughter. 

No, there were only them. 

And maybe that was because with every whimper she made into his mouth, he knew that she wanted him, too. Messy. Raw. Sloppy. Desperate and open-mouthed. 

Draco let his hands roam, tracing patterns over her waist, her ribs, back up until his fingers grazed the silken underside of her breast through her dress. Perfect. So damn perfect. All of her. Every square inch that he was determined to memorize tonight. 

"Please," she breathed, as he began to move down her neck. "D-Draco, please." 

Again, the sound of his name on her lips might as well of been his gods-damn undoing. A sanctimonious sacrilege like some Muggle kneeling at an altar. 

Hermione buried her fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth. Alright. Attention granted, Ms. Granger. 

Pulling away from her flushed skin, Draco arched a cocky brow. "Yes?" he drawled, low and smug. 

Gods. She was a vision. 

Actually, she was perfection with her slick, swollen lips, blotchy cheeks, and blown amber eyes. Her neck was lightly marked with his mouth, and that only made him want to brand her deeper. She looked minutes away from breaking, filled with that need, and they hadn't even begun. 

That thought alone was enough to make his cock twitch with interest. All that masculine pride that screamed 'Party of one—Draco bloody Malfoy.' 

"Touch me," she whispered. 

"Fuck," he swore, lowly as he dragged a palm up her thigh, bunching the satin of her slip dress. "You're going to kill me, Granger." 

He felt her grinding against him in tiny, desperate circles, chasing whatever pleasure she could find against his dragonhide belt buckle. It was slow, unconscious and fucking perfect. He could feel the heat of her cunt—all hot and wet through the thin cotton of her knickers—and that made him savage. 

Hell, especially given that his erection throbbed against each press of her, restrained by layers that now felt entirely criminal. Azkaban worthy.

"Say it again, Granger," he demanded, needing it. 

Hermione licked her lips. "Touch me, Draco. Please." 

Gods-damnit. 

He leaned in, mouth brushing her ear as his hand traveled further up her thigh. "Is this what you want?" he asked, voice dark and raw. "Me? Touching you… here?" 

"Yes…" she whimpered, sounding strung out as she arched against him. "Please—touch me, Draco. Please." 

He wondered then if he'd ever heard anything better in his entire life. Honestly? In fact, he'd bet his entire inheritance on that fact alone. 

Hermione's breath hitched as his fingertips grazed over the edge of her knickers. Instantly, he paused. 

Oh, fuck. They were lace. 

Yeah. Alright, okay. So Hermione Granger was wearing lace. And yet, that nearly rewired something within him at the knowledge. Lace. Fucking lace. Filthy images filled his mind of her splayed on his bed, her curls wild and her body clad in only a pair of emerald lacy knickers. 

His favorite color. 

Draco didn't waste a second as he dragged his thumb over her center, feeling the damp fabric cling to him. He pressed in slightly, just enough to tease and enough to make her squirm for him. 

Was it cruel of him? Yeah. But honestly? The way she moved for him, twitching and undulating? It was enough to drive him abso-fucking-lutely insane. Mental. Utterly bonkers for Hermione Granger's cunt and Hermione Granger's cunt only. 

Moving his hand back up, his knuckles grazed her swollen clit, teasing her where she throbbed the most. Holy hell…

"You're…" Draco breathed, almost reverently. "Gods, you're so wet for me." 

Hermione released a sound that felt like his damnation. Raw and wanton and fucking perfect. It shot through him, right down his spine, and settled low in his belly. It's phantom fingers toyed with his thick, throbbing erection, beckoning to come out and play. 

A warning. 

A fucking promise. 

And somehow, Draco just knew this wasn't a fantasy anymore. Hell, it couldn't be when he knew that no illusion ever felt this warm, this real… this alive. This gods-damn good. This perfect.

It didn't equate in his mind, and he wondered if it ever would. 

Draco's fingers curled along the edge of her knickers as he growled: "You want me to keep touching you, Granger?" 

Frantically, she nodded. "Yes. Godric, please." 

"Not 'Godric,'" he warned, dragging tauntingly over the boundary of her sex and knickers. "Not even close. What's my name? Say it." 

"D-Draco." 

Okay. Yep. He might've just died from that and that alone. Maybe even a bit possessed. 

In fact, he didn't know what sort of demon had come over him then, as he told her, "That's a good girl." 

Draco's fingertips sank into her folds, spreading them. Wet. So damn wet, and he practically groaned at the slickness there, coating him with barely a touch. He wished more than anything that he could see her right now, taste her. He wanted to get on his knees and lick her cunt until she couldn't feel her legs anymore. 

Actually, what he really wanted to do was tie her up and never let her leave. 

Gods. Did that make him a psychopath? Probably. Did he care? Not one fucking bit. 

"The things I want to do to you," he groaned, pointer finger sliding through her heat, teasing her entrance in sharp circles. 

"What—?" Hermione swallowed thickly. "What kind of things?" 

"Filthy things. Horrible things that would make you—?" Draco's eyes fluttered shut as he felt her throb around his fingertip, sending a rush of arousal down over his Malfoy signet ring. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "All kinds of things that I don't think are entirely appropriate." 

A breathless laugh escaped her as her nails bit into his shoulders. "I think we're quite beyond appropriate, Malfoy. You have your hand in my knickers."

Yeah. So, she had a point.

Whatever. 

Leaning in closer, he dragged his pointer finger back up to her clit, swirling around the swollen bundle of nerves until he heard her sigh. Music to his bloody ears (if he was being honest). 

"Feel good?" he asked hoarsely. 

"Y-Yeah," she hummed, wetting her lips. Wide, lust-crazed amber eyes met his as she urged, "I need…? Gods. Can you—? I need you to touch me." 

"But I am touching you." 

Hermione huffed. "You know what I mean, Malfoy." 

His lips curved into that cocky, smug grin as he mused: "No, I'm not entirely certain I do, Granger. Why don't you ask it like a big girl? Go on." 

Another whimper escaped her as he watched that pride and desperation waver within her gaze. It was barely there, but hell, he caught it behind her blown onyx pupils. Her hips rolled, canting into his palm, craving the friction and the touch she couldn't ask for. 

"C'mon," he purred, circling her swollen bundle with feather-light touches. "You can do it." 

"I want—?" Hermione faltered, chest growing flushed and needy and perfectly pink. "Please." 

"Use your words, Granger. Tell me what that brilliant little mind of yours wants so badly. You can do it." 

Jaw clinching, her nails dug deeper into the muscle and skin of his shoulders. Almost as if she wanted to mark him, claim him. Yes. Fucking gods, yes.

"I want—?" she tried again, swallowing. "I want to feel full. I want you inside of me, Draco. I—I need you." 

And hell, that about did it for Draco Malfoy. Happy Birthday to him. Best gods-damn gift ever, even if he felt mere seconds away from his cock breaking free from his finely tailored trousers and coming all over himself. 

Swearing under his breath, he dropped his forehead to hers. "Fuck, Granger. You have no fucking idea what you're asking for."

"I think I do," she whispered. "And—? And, gods. I think I want it." 

Draco growled, the sound low and unhinged in his throat as he surged forward, kissing her without warning or preamble. He needed to taste her lips on his. He needed to feel her tongue brushing against his own. 

He needed. 

He needed. 

He needed…

And he didn't care as their teeth clicked together, or the way she gasped into him, shocked by his abruptness. No, that rational part of him was long gone as his hand pressed harder against her slick cunt, circling and stroking her clit until he felt her whimper into his mouth. 

Again, music to his fucking ears and medicine to his soul. 

He didn't know life could be this sweet, or that make-believe fantasies in a box could be this perfect. But hell, he'd take what he could get and wouldn't ask twice. 

Pulling away, he watched her face as he dragged his pointer finger down her sex, parting her folds once more. Biting her bottom lip, her head fell back against the mahogany shelf with a thud. It was a beautiful sight, indeed, watching her cheeks pink to that rosy color and her eyes hood as he slid his thick digit inside of her. 

And gods. She was tight. She was tight and wet and squeezing the life right on out of him. 

Draco cursed, losing that last fraying thread of self-control as his finger sank knuckle deep into her swollen heat. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Her slickness coated him instantly, dripping down the cool metal of his signet ring. 

Hell, was it so wrong that the thought of her arousal coating his family heirloom made him practically feral?  

"How does that feel, Granger?" Draco asked darkly. "Good? Do you feel full now?" 

She moaned loudly, arching into him. "Don't—? Don't you dare stop, Draco Malfoy."  

Yeah. Not fucking likely, but she didn't need to know that. He already felt desperate, needy, and pathetic with the way he was inside of her. 

"Is this how it feels in your fantasies, too?" he asked, voice rough and breath hot on her throat, but gods, he needed to know. "Do you ever touch yourself like this?" 

And, he wanted to ask if she ever thought of him, dreamed of him sliding inside of her as her small fingers tried to reach the places only his could. If she whimpered that she wasn't full enough, wasn't complete enough. If she ever cried out his name like he cried out hers. 

"Tell me," Draco whispered. Alright, begged. Whatever. "Does this feel better?" 

Hermione's nails scratched against his clothed shoulders, attempting to gain purchased as he continued to pump his finger inside of her. Fuck. 

He wanted her to be a mess. 

He wanted her writhing on his hand, dripping into his palm so that he would smell her for days. 

He wanted to lick his fingers outside of this fantasy and taste her, remembering what it felt like to have her cunt tighten around him. 

"Tell me," he demanded. 

Hermione gasped. "It—? It feels better! You feel better." 

Yeah. Damn right he did. 

A wicked, deviant smirk twisted on his mouth as he slid another finger inside of her. Hell, he relished in the sound of her sweet, pleading whimpers and the way she was utterly and completely drenched. 

Was she always like this? Or was this just for him? 

"What do you think about when you touch yourself, Granger?" he asked darkly. "Do you picture someone's fingers? A mouth? Someone bending you over your desk in this shop until they make you scream?" 

Hermione's hips jolted forward, chasing his palm as he pumped his two digits inside her tight channel. Perfect. 

"I bet you do," he rasped, thumb swiping over her clit, needing to feel her throb again. "I bet you think about them telling you how fucking good you are for them. I bet you're begging for it in your flat.  How tight you are, squeezing their fingers or cock. How messy you get when you come." 

Her nails dug further into his shoulder, making him wince. Yet the prick of pain only fueled him as he pulled out slowly before teasing her entrance with another finger. 

"Can you take it?" he asked, low and rough. "Can you be a good girl and take another finger for me, Granger?"

"Y-Yes!" she gasped. "Just—gods! Please." 

"Please, what?" 

"Please, Draco! Just—ugh!" 

Bloody fucking hell. If she kept saying his name—no, correction, moaning his name like that—he was going to come untouched in his trousers. 

"No," he said, clicking his tongue with a tsk. "Say it, Granger. Please, what?" 

Hermione gave a blend of what sounded like a conflicted mix between a grunt and a moan. "I hate you." 

"I'm sure you do," he purred. Flashing her a sharp smirk, he continued teasing her, finding the space at her center where she'd give way to his three thick fingers. "And yet, your body doesn't. In fact, I think it quite adores me right now, given how fucking soaked you are, dripping down my wrist." 

Through hooded eyes, she glared at him, head thunking again against the shelf. 

"This watch?" he went on, casually. "This watch costs a fortune, you know? Dragon core and leather. From my great-grandfather." He laughed softly, knowingly. "He was a bastard, really. But look at it now, Granger. It's fucking drenched." 

"I don't—?" she groaned. "I don't care about your stupid watch, Malfoy." 

He arched a cocky brow. "Don't you? I'm the one pleasuring you right now? And don't you want to… well, I'd rather hear you say it. Yeah?" 

"Draco," she whined, lifting her hips into his. "Please." 

"Again, please, what, Granger? Use your words like a good girl." 

"Please—gods! Fine! Just please make me come!" 

He grinned down at her, feral and unrepentant. "Now see? Was that so hard?" 

Hermione muttered something about him being a prat under her breath. Honestly? Draco couldn't care less. Really and truly. The fucks he gave were a poof of fairy dust. 

With no warning or preamble, he slid a third finger inside of her, stretching her open until he could see the stars and undiluted pleasure forming behind her eyes. The moan that escaped her was deafening, rattling the thin make-believe windowpanes of his—no, their—fantasy. 

"Oh, bloody hell," he groaned, feeling slick roll over the silver band of his signet ring. "That's—? You're so gods-damn tight, squeezing my fingers. Fucking… perfect like this."

More than anything, he wanted to see what she looked like wrapped around him. He wanted to get on his knees and watch as his fingers slid in and out of her dripping heat. He wanted to watch her melt into him like he was her gods-damn salvation. He wanted to know what she looked like with her cunt spread, ruined and undone, and utterly his. 

Hermione cried out. 

Yet he didn't stop. He just kept pumping and twisting and brushing his thumb over her swollen bundle of nerves in that well-practiced way. 

"You want to come?" he taunted, voice not entirely his own. "Want to come right here? Shoved up against all your pretty little books on my hand?" 

Biting her lip, she nodded at him through lust-drenched eyes. Gods. 

"Good girl." 

The arousal between her thighs thickened, and he was certain there might be a stain on the floor. In fact, he was almost positive because the sound of his fingers was obscene as that wet squelch filled the room, coaxing out that spot he knew she couldn't reach. 

Draco curved his digits one more time, and just like that, she shattered around him. Her cries filled the air, and he watched every moment of her climax like he was starving, hungry for it—for her. 

In fact, he was. 

Because right then and there, Hermione Granger looked divine. She looked like an angel, all flushed and trembling. 

Her honey-brown curls clung to her brow, where a sheen of sweat dampened her skin. Her lips were parted, swollen, and perfect. Her amber eyes were bright and wild and utterly gone. That rosy color dotted her cheeks, and he quickly marked that as his favorite shade in the entire world. 

Screw green. Draco Malfoy would become a man of pink now. Hell, he'd name the gods-damn color after her (after he purchased it or however those transactions usually went). Actually? How did one go about buying a color? 

Whatever. He'd deal with that bit later. 

Right now? Now, Draco realized something—something he obviously knew before, because why would he have an unrequited crush on Hermione Granger? But what he never realized, under the storm that was twenty-nine and facing a nasty divorce and raising his son as a single parent, was that Hermione was beautiful. 

No, she was breathtaking. Stunning. Ethereal. 

Perfect. 

Slowly, she came down, and he continued to watch her, utterly transfixed, as her cunt fluttered around his fingers. Actually, he was hypnotized or quite possibly under some spell of hers. Clever witch. He wasn't even mad about it if he was. 

Gently, carefully, he pulled them from her, hating the whimper she made at the loss. His digits were slick and shining, covered in her arousal. 

And fuck, he knew he had to taste her. Needed it. Craved it. 

Holding Hermione's gaze, he brought the glistening fingers to his mouth. One by one, he sucked them clean. The first? He was slow and deliberate, savoring the flavor of her like the finest delicacy known to man. Sharp. Salty. Sweet. Entirely her. The second? His tongue swirled around the knuckle of his middle finger. There was something almost sacred about it. Hell, worshipful. The third? He made sure she watched him as he cleaned the Malfoy signet ring on his pointer finger; tasting the last remnant of her orgasm. 

Nothing. 

Absolutely fucking nothing had ever tasted this good. 

Draco Malfoy had dined in restaurants (both Muggle and magical) all over the world. He'd drank thousand-pound wine because he could. He'd smoked hand-rolled cigars in Brazil with the best tobacco known to man. He had a Michelin Star chef on speed dial because, yes, he owned a Muggle cellular. 

But this? Her? There was nothing that could ever equate to her. 

Hermione's lips parted, breath hitching as she watched him. "Draco," she whispered. "I—?" 

The air crackled then with that familiar electricity. Snapping and popping and searing against their skin. The light overhead flickered, flared once… twice. It fractured with a white-hot burst. That warmth that surrounded them dissipated, replaced by a staggering chill as the howling wind and raw magic thrummed along the walls. 

Hell, it sounded like some fevered banshee's wail. Ear-splitting and teeth gritting. 

The shelves shook. Books tumbled down onto the floor, spines bared to the ceiling and bent at awkward angles. The wood buckled underneath their feet. 

Immediately, Hermione's body seized against his, fingers tightening over his shoulders. 

No. No. No! Not yet. Not now. He wasn't ready for this to end when he wanted to do so much more with her. 

Yet the Verum Desiderium had other plans. It began to collapse, knowing that Hermione was satisfied (and maybe he should've been pleased about that small fact). 

Unfortunately, he wasn't. 

Not one bloody bit as the entire fantasy imploded around them like paper to a flame. Ceiling tiles split. Dust and plaster flaked off, raining down around them. Magic sparked, flickering and flaring the bulbs one by one.

"D-Draco?" she cried out, eyes wide and frantic. "What's happening?" 

"Hold on to me!" Draco shouted over the raging wind as he pulled her flush against him. "It's—? I don't know what's going to happen!" 

The floor groaned beneath them, low and guttural, and for a moment, he wondered if the earth itself was cleaving in two. Fuck. This was not good. Yeah. Nope. It was not good, and while he really didn't know how the device's magic worked, he could feel that premonition of dread in his gods-damn bones. 

Bookshelves began toppling like dominoes as Draco pulled Hermione's head to his chest, protecting her from falling debris. Something cracked open in the room, spreading like Fiendfyre. 

Wood split. The walls caved. 

"Hold on!" Draco bellowed. 

Gravity shifted then, tugging low in his belly like before. Except this time, the world toppled sideways as the gaping maw of the ground cleaved in two. 

Suddenly, they fell through time and space, into the thundering rupture of want and need and unfinished desire. 

They tumbled and tumbled and tumbled through nothing and everything all at once. Yet he held onto her, keeping her close. It honestly felt like they were apparating, and the fear of her getting splinched crossed his mind. 

That was the absolute last thing he needed, and he was about to hex Theo and Blaise six ways to Sunday. 

Hermione's scream tore through her throat, contrasting with the pleasurable moans he had heard earlier. He held onto her tighter, molars gritting against one another as his heart lodged in his throat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. 

Yet, the last thing Draco saw before the dark swallowed them whole was her. 

And then… nothing. 

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy could only describe the aftermath effects of the Verum Desiderium as a regurgitation. 

No, literally. It felt like the device had chewed him up and spit him back out as he felt himself slam back into the real world (or rather, his bedroom) with a resounding crack. His spine struck against the plush bed, the springs groaning as the wind punched right out of his lungs. 

And gods, he'd never been more bloody fucking thankful for the investment he made in a new pillow-top mattress that Pansy insisted on. 

But that wasn't all. 

No, because Hermione Granger was sprawled on top of him, exposed thighs straddling his hips—his waist. Her breasts heaved against his chest, coming out wild and harsh as she planted her palms on his collarbone for balance. Her curls were a frizzed halo of magic and time travel (or whatever), and her amber eyes were blown wide, still dilated from arousal or panic. 

Maybe even a bit of both. 

That rosy, perfectly pink color flushed her cheeks, and her lips looked swollen from his kisses. 

Worse? When Hermione shifted against him, it felt like she was everywhere. 

Or alright, maybe even this was a good thing because it felt like this moment right here was more of a fantasy to him. Yeah, the bookshop was excellent, and he wouldn't change a thing. But her? In his bed? Straddling him? That was something out of the depths of his ultimate desires. 

And Draco Malfoy didn't know what the fuck to do. 

He blinked up at her, mouth parted, knowing that he should say something to her. Hell, anything. 

Yet at that moment, he couldn't tell what she was thinking, and that was the worst bit of it all. Did she hate him? Want to curse him? Hex him? Was she regretting everything they just did in the Verum Desiderium? 

"I—?" Draco began, voice cracking like a bloody teenager. "Granger, about what just happened? I—?" 

But Hermione pressed her fingers to his mouth, shaking her head. "Don't." 

His brows furrowed in a taut line as he mumbled. "W-What? Why—?" 

Hermione crashed her mouth into his, silencing him completely. An all-too-human gasp tore from his throat as shock rippled through him. He hadn't expected this. Not here in the very harsh and stark reality without the magic of the Verum Desiderium propelling them forward. 

Yet the kiss wasn't anything like it had been before. 

It wasn't sweet, and it certainly wasn't within the bounds of cleanliness, as it stole the last dregs of oxygen and sanity from his lungs and brain. It was the perfect, most messy mix of violent and desperate, like she was starving for it, needing it. 

But he didn't care. Hell, he couldn't care. 

No, not when he wanted it just as badly as she. 

Their teeth knocked, and their tongues tangled as she made a keening sound. And gods, it was so much better than the fantasy. Life-changing and world-bending, and he'd bet his inheritance on it. 

Draco's hands scrambled for purchase, realizing that he was just lying there on his bed like this was the first time a witch sat on top of him, and he didn't know what to do. His fingertips found the curve of her waist, grazing her ribs. The silken material of her slip dress felt like sin and yet too much because he wanted to feel her bare skin. He wanted her naked and writhing over him… under him. 

Actually, he wasn't sure about that one, considering he felt like he was minutes (okay, seconds really) away from combusting like a gods-damn teenager. 

If Draco came before he had a chance to be inside of Hermione's cunt, he would… Alright. Whatever. There was really no telling what he would do. He just hoped that his refractory period was up to par at thirty, considering he wasn't that twenty-four-year-old who got Astoria pregnant on the first try. 

'Strong swimmers,' the Medi-witch had told him. 

Yeah. So, maybe he should just cast the Contraceptive Charm, just in case. Be a responsible adult and all that nonsense. 

Though… the thought of Hermione Granger pregnant with his child did things to him that he didn't think were possible. Not in this lifetime after Astoria had Scorpius. The images of Hermione's belly all swollen and round? The idea of knowing that he, Draco Lucius Malfoy, did that to her? Fuck. It made him nearly go mental with raw lust and undiluted want. The craving to come so deep inside of her that not even magic could stop the inevitable from happening.

Draco groaned into her mouth at the thought. 

Gods. There was something seriously wrong with him, and he made a mental note to get himself checked out sooner rather than later. 

He was thirty, after all, and his health was important. But this? Honestly, this was just him and his filthy mind that wouldn't stop, even with the strongest Muggle or magical sedation. 

Ugh. 

His hand slid up her spine, tangling in her wild, honey-brown curls, tugging just enough to drag her bottom lip between his teeth. 

"Draco," she whimpered. 

Holy. Fucking. Hell. And Salazar be damned and all that nonsense. 

Unable to help it (because he was a man, after all, with a beautiful witch sitting on top of him), he bucked his hips, grinding against her like it was the last thing on earth he ever did. He could honestly die happy right here and now, especially when she grinned against his mouth, like she knew exactly what she was doing. 

Hell, she probably did, because too soon, Hermione pulled back, and Draco found himself practically arching up into her, wanting to have her lips back on his. 

Pathetic. 

Yeah, he was acting really bloody pathetic, like a miscreant or a wanton boy who just felt a woman's body for the first time. 

Hermione stared down at him for a long moment, gaze searching his face. "Hey," she said softly, gently. 

"Hi," he answered. 

They both remained still for a long moment. 

A part of him knew he should look away and break this spell, but he couldn't—wouldn't. No, because right here and now, it felt like she wasn't just seeing him, but peeling back those layers of being a Pureblood, single father, divorcée, and witnessing the real him. The onion layers. The one that had Goblin-made armor, sarcasm, and detachment that he wore with a badge of honor. The him that he didn't show many people. 

Actually, no one saw this side, except his tight circle of friends. 

It made his breath hitch; coiling low in his chest, down towards his stomach, like sucking in air on a brisk winter's day. It made everything in him still to that quiet reprieve. 

Without a word, Hermione grabbed the hem of her slip dress. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck… 

Draco watched with rapacious hunger as she dragged it over her head before tossing it aside unceremoniously. Again, he really, really couldn't help himself as his gaze trailed over her sun-kissed skin, glowing soft and golden in the dim lamplight. How her breasts—correction, bare breasts—were round and supple like he could fit them in the palm of his hand. Something utterly custom-made for him, like the divine just knew this moment would come. All she wore was a pair of lacy knickers that clung to the curve of her hips like a second skin. 

And gods-dammit, he was right because they were fucking emerald green. 

Lacy, emerald green, he might add. 

That and that alone made him—Draco Lucius Malfoy, thirty years old, father, Pureblood heir, and Auror—forget every basic function of humanity and proper instinct. 

His hands stilled midair, unsure where to touch first. Her breasts? Her waist? That perfectly symmetrical little freckle just below her collarbone? Her thighs? Was he even allowed to touch her? Because that was a highly plausible question and gods, he was rock fucking hard, pressed against her. 

Like really, really hard. 

"Hey," Hermione said softly, smiling down at him. "You alright?" 

Draco blinked. "Uh? Yeah, uh? Hi. Wow. Uh? Fine… yeah. I'm fine. Excellent, really." 

She arched a brow. "Certain? You look awfully pale." 

"Am I? Didn't notice." 

Hermione just hummed as her delicate fingertips traced the curve of his right bicep, down to his elbow, before grazing his forearm. Gently, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, lifting his hand up before guiding it to her bare breast. 

"It's okay," she soothed, tone impossibly soft like comforting a startled child. "You can touch me, Draco." 

Swallowing thickly, he bobbed his head in what he hoped was a nodding motion. Or, at least, something close to that of agreement because, wow. 

Honestly? That was all he could fucking think was just… wow. 

Automatically, his thumb brushed over the smooth swell of her, dragging gently across the peak. The skin pebbled beneath his touch. 

It was just a breast—a tit, if he wanted to be crude about it—and it wasn't like he hadn't seen one before or even touched one. He was thirty, and he was far from a virgin. He had other sexual partners. Had been to those Veela strip clubs before. Hell, at one point he watched Scorpius suckle from Astoria's own, though that lasted about as long as someone like his bitch ex-wife would let it. 

But this? 

Yeah, this was different. 

These were her breasts—Hermione Granger's bare fucking breasts right before him. He could feel them in his hand as his thumb continued slow movements over her hardened nipple. He could make out each inch of her skin and the darker, rosy shade that morphed into a milky white. He could see the subtle tan lines that she had from that brief trip to the beach with the female Weasley a few weeks ago. He saw the cluster of moles that decorated her flesh like his own constellation. 

This was nothing like his fucking fantasy. 

Nothing. 

Nope. 

This was a stark, bloody reality as he watched her skin flush under his attention and the beautiful, unguarded gasps she made as he kept dragging his fingers over the tender swells. 

Yep. Draco was entirely and irrevocably under her spell. In fact, he'd even go as far as to say he was enchanted. 

Hermione's fingers ghosted over his abdomen, grazing down the sparse trail of flaxen hair smattered there down to the tops of his bespoke trousers. Gods dammit. He could barely breathe. His erection was like steel, throbbing almost painfully against his zipper. 

Yeah, he knew there was absolutely no way she couldn't feel it pressed against her. 

Hermione looked up at him through her lashes. "May I?" she asked, fingers hooking around the first button of his slacks. 

Fuck. Did she really even need to ask? Though he supposed that she was just being polite and all that. 

Still, he'd probably (no, most likely) would let her do just about anything she damn wanted at this point in time. He'd let her tie him up, destroy him for all his worth, and do it all over again just to tell her 'thank you' in the end. 

Swallowing thickly, he finally managed to get out: "Y-Yeah." 

He watched in rapt attention as her fingers began working his trousers, popping the button with practiced movements. He didn't want to think or even imagine the idea of her doing this before. He wanted to be the only man and wizard she ever undressed. He wanted to be the only person she ever unzipped, taking off his clothes with skilled ease. 

Yeah, whatever. So what if that notion was completely and utterly unrealistic? And a bit of a double standard? Draco certainly didn't care because this was his fantasy (or rather, the aftermath of it). 

Another factor that he would need to reflect on after this was all said and done. 

"Shit," he cursed, lifting his hips up so she could shove his trousers down. He briskly kicked them off, as she already began fumbling with the buttons on his Oxford. "Fucking—! Salazar, Granger, give me a second. Will you?" 

Hermione laughed softly, bending over to press a gentle kiss on his chest, working her way downward. "You know I'm impatient, Malfoy," she mused. 

A choked, pathetic noise escaped him as he paused his own movements, unable to think or even feel as he watched her. 

Alright, so he gawked at her, but who could blame him? Especially when her lips connected with his skin just above the waistband of his briefs, making the room spin uncontrollably like he had too much whiskey or more than a bottle of wine. 

Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Yeah, no. He really wasn't strong enough for this. Hell, he was almost positive that no man was or would be, given the way she was looking at him with those amber eyes and swollen lips. 

"I want to make you feel good," Hermione breathed, fingertips hooking into the band of his briefs. "Is that alright?" 

Draco's lips parted as he stammered: "Y-Yeah. Fine. Gods, yes. Whatever. Do whatever. I mean, not whatever, but you… uh, know? I mean, you know what I mean." 

Brilliant. Really bloody smooth. And gods, he felt like a fucking idiot.

No. Actually, he was a fucking idiot, laying there like he was stunned into submission, watching her as she took off his clothes. 

Anyone (literally anyone) in this situation would've seized the moment, grabbed the witch, flipped her over, and showed her just how skilled they were in bed. But him? Nope. Draco just stuttered over his words, lips parted and throat painfully dry. 

Fuck. Me. 

If Theo or Blaise ever found out about this? They'd never let him hear the end of it, and honestly, he kinda deserved it. 

Gods, especially after last week with the whole Draco floo-calling Theo in the middle of the night to come over and make sure he didn't do any irreparable damage to his cock. Yeah, they weren't exaggerating about that earlier, even with how much he tried to play it off. 

Sliding down his briefs, Hermione released his achingly hard erection from the cotton confines. Now he was officially stunned into that pathetic submission. 

His brain? Mush. 

His entire well-being? It was quite possible that he'd need to be checked into St. Mungos after this activity. 

Instantly, his heavy length bobbed against his stomach, and he didn't miss the way that her eyes widened slightly at the sight. It was barely a flicker—hell, anything really—but it was there. He saw it the moment that she registered all of him, from the blue-green veins that wrapped around the girth to the patch of downy, flaxen curls at the base to the weeping, angry, flushed head at the top. 

Hermione licked her lips, peering up at him. A soft, infuriatingly glorious smile stretched over her features, nearly knocking the wind clean from his lungs. 

"Can I?" she asked softly. 

Draco swallowed. "You want to—? With me—? Now?" 

Humming, Hermione nodded, and he nearly cursed everything under the gods-damn sun. 

"Y-Yeah," he answered tightly, voice cracking like he was fourteen again. "Whatever you want, Granger." 

"Whatever I want? Is that right?" 

"Uh-huh. Whatever—fuck, whatever you want." 

Rolling her lips together, she wrapped her hand around his cock with a touch that made him jolt. Gods. With lazy strokes, her thumb rubbed over his sensitive head, dragging the slick down in perfect motions. 

It was almost like she knew how to please him better than he did because wanking never felt this good. 

"You're never this easygoing in my bookshop when I try to suggest something, Malfoy," she teased, fist tightening just enough to make him shudder. 

Oh, she was so doing that on purpose. 

"I'm—?" he swallowed. "I don't." 

"Uh? You literally argue over every recommendation."  

"Yeah, well," he huffed a laugh, "last time I checked you weren't nearly starkers and on your knees about to suck my cock in your bookshop."

"Touché." 

He gained enough composure to give her a smirk, only to falter when she gave him another devastatingly slow stroke, from root to bloody tip. 

Yep, alright, she was definitely doing that on purpose, and quite possibly getting some sick enjoyment out of it. 

Draco cleared his throat. "But you know, I might be a bit more agreeable if you offered some more incentives." 

"Are you—?" Hermione blinked, still maintaining that steady pressure on his cock. "Draco Malfoy, are you suggesting sexual bribery?" 

"What? Are you interested?" 

A soft laugh escaped her then as she glanced down, the sensation ghosting over his overly sensitive head. Honestly? He could give two rutting shits what they were just talking about as that perfect rosy color bloomed over her cheeks once more. 

His new favorite color. 

Yeah, it was decided: he was going to buy it, name it, give it to her as a thank you for tonight and the best fucking birthday ever. But what would he call it? Granger's Rose? Perfection d'Hermione? Minx No. 3? Blush Reprimand? HG's First Edition? 

Gods, those all sounded absolutely ridiculous. 

He needed something that was the absolute embodiment of her; all innocent excellence with a bit of surprising heat. Something sexy, provocative, and utterly her. Something that he could bottle up and savor. 

Whatever. He'd think of a name for it later, and made a mental note to ask Blaise exactly how one went about buying a color. 

If anyone knew on this earth, it was Blaise Zabini. 

Leaning forward, Hermione gave a tentative lick to the angry head of his erection, yanking him violently (and maybe a bit pleasurably) from his thoughts and color buying techniques. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. 

Draco dropped back against the pillow and groaned. 

Yep. Alright. He made another mental note to add a few galleons to the Swear Jar for Scorp. The kid deserved it after the vulgarity that came out of Draco's mouth and brain tonight. Well, that was if he would exist come sunrise because right now, it was looking as if he might just diminish into nothing. Or see Godric and Salazar and Helga and Rowena in some fucked up reunion. 

Her tongue darted out again, and she groaned. "Good?" she asked. 

"Fucking excellent," he laughed, the sound husky and raw. 

"Should I keep going?" 

Draco hummed, bracing one arm behind his head to give him a better view. His other hand lay pathetically at his side, knowing that if he even thought about lacing his fingertips through her honey-brown curls, he'd do unspeakable things—filthy things. 

Without warning, Hermione's mouth wrapped around the head of his length. 

Yeah. Okay. Best fucking birthday ever. 

The sight of her? The view he had? The way her lips stretched around his cock in that obscene way? The way her tongue swept along the sensitive underside? The determination she had to take him from root to tip? How she quickly realized that she would need to wrap her fist around him, stroking the rest of the length? 

Hell, there were really no words. None at all. And he was okay with that. 

In fact, he'd be perfectly content to just sit in utter silence for the rest of his life if this were the view he'd wake up to every morning—Hermione's swotty, heavenly mouth around his cock, swallowing him down.  

Opening her eyes, Hermione peered up at Draco through her lashes. Fuck. The look she gave him? That undeniable lust within her whiskey brown eyes? 

It was gods-damn perfection. 

And he wondered if she was wet for him? If that delicious warmth pooled between her legs as she sucked him down to the back of her throat? If she was dripping onto his two-thousand-count bedsheets, that cost more than most people's rent? 

Curiously, Draco reached forward, fingertips mapping over her cheeks and down to her jaw. 

"Gods," he groaned hoarsely, voice drenched in lust and want. "You look… fucking incredible right now, Granger. Better than any fantasy."

And it was the truth.  

Hermione's lashes fluttered at the praise as she continued to please him. And did she as her tongue traced his slit, tasting that salty essence. Her hand worked over his base, stroking the areas her mouth couldn't reach. Bloody hell. Each stroke and lick and suck made him more and more feral, hips moving on their own accord, wanting her to go deeper, harder, faster. 

He wanted her to suck him dry until there was nothing left. 

Honestly? Draco couldn't remember the last time someone gave him proper head. Hell, Astoria never did, claiming that no honorable Pureblooded witch would ever degrade herself to something so messy and perverse. 

De rigueur, Astoria would say. 

Yes, well, Draco too had a French saying for that: Connasse coincée.

He was yanked out of his thoughts as her tongue flicked over the sensitive underside of his head. His soul? Straight out of his body. 

"Holy shite, Granger," he rasped, unable to help himself as he laced his hands into her hair. "Don't you—? Don't you dare stop." 

She hummed in response. 

Alright. Yep. He was done for because nothing compared to this, and he was willing to put that in writing. No one had ever made him feel this way; all dizzy and drunk and floating somewhere between earth and his antique four-poster onyx wooden bed. 

This was Hermione Granger. This was her, kneeling starkers between his thighs with her mouth stretched around his cock, working him like she was born to do it. This was his fantasy coming to life in the most explicit ways on those lonely nights with his hand fisted around his erection and guilt gnawing at his chest. 

Yet even in his dirtiest, filthiest fantasies, it had never come close to this—to her. 

Draco gazed down at her and nearly came on the spot. "Hermione! Gods!" he choked out. "Holy—! Shite! Granger! I'm going to—! Oh, gods. Oh… gods!" 

She only moaned, the sound reverberating everywhere as she sank lower on him. It was like she was determined to make him fall apart with every damn bone in her body. Honestly? He'd admire it if he weren't seconds away from combustion. 

Draco's hand tightened in her curls, pulling her off of him with a wet pop! that made him shudder. "Fuck!" he swore, panting as he gawked at her. 

Hermione's brows furrowed. "What—? What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?" 

He didn't think he'd ever get that image out of his head of her swollen, well-used lips and glassy amber eyes staring at him. The unmistakable need glistened there, begging for more. 

"No," Draco swallowed thickly, hand loosening in her hair. "You did nothing wrong. I was just—? I was about to come." 

"But what if I wanted you to come?" she whispered. 

Oh, seriously? Did she really have to say that? He was only so strong in the grand scheme of it all. And that? That was like dangling candy floss in front of a child. It was like telling him that all his worries would go away with one simple spell. 

It was fucking unfair, that was what it was. 

Dragging his hand down her jaw, his thumb slipped between her swollen lips. "The only place I'm coming tonight is inside you, Hermione," he rasped. 

Her breath hitched. 

Without thinking, Draco pulled her up his body, colliding his mouth with hers. His cock twitched, wet and glistening, where it stood achingly erect and at attention. 

Yet, there were no thoughts in his head then, only her. Gods, always her. He kissed her with as much passion as he could, tongues tangling in that messy, uncoordinated way. He kissed her like he'd spent years holding back, only to claim this moment in time. 

He didn't particularly care if it wasn't the best snog in the world. Right now? He was barely hanging on by that frayed thread. 

Gripping her hips, he flipped her beneath him, needing to take control of this situation. The second he felt her gasp against him, he knew he had her as her back hit the mattress. 

Draco pulled back with a groan, not particularly wanting to leave the pillowy warmth of her lips. 

Yet there was no way in the seven circles of hell that he would miss this moment—miss how her curls fanned out around her head like a debauched angel. Fuck. She looked perfectly wrecked and glorious, lying in his bed, in between his sheets and under him. 

She looked a little bit like his in that moment. 

And that did wild things to his sanity—his barely there sanity. 

A part of him wanted to memorize every inch of her, mapping her with his lips and teeth and tongue. He wanted to get to know those hidden bits that well-worn jumpers and denims always covered up in her bookshop, but he was also greedy and bloody selfish. 

Right now? Draco just wanted to be inside of her. He wanted to feel her, hear her, and those sweet sounds of pleasure. He wanted to act out of boyish lust and the base needs of men. 

Hand trailing down the curve of her waist to her hipbone, he found his new favorite home between her thighs and ruined knickers. 

Yeah, so those needed to go immediately. Like now. 

Flashing her a wicked grin, he wrapped his fist around the waistband and ripped; the lace gave a satisfying snap, pulling clean off her body. 

"You did not just do that!" Hermione gasped, amber eyes wide. "Draco! Those were expensive." 

He smoothed a hand over her inner thigh. "How expensive?" 

"Uh? Very." 

"Go on, then. Give me a number, Granger. How expensive?" 

Hermione scoffed. "I'm absolutely not doing that." 

His fingertips inched closer to the space between her legs. Instinctively, she parted them, allowing him entry. And gods, he could already feel how utterly soaked she was as heat radiated from her cunt. 

"Why not?" Draco drawled. 

Hermione bristled. "Because!" 

"Because isn't a good enough reason," he sighed heavily. "C'mon, if you don't tell me, I'll buy you several new pairs. Any kind you want. Silk? Lace? Satin? Cotton?" 

"Draco!" 

"What about color, Granger? Blue? Green?" 

"No," she protested feebly. "Absolutely not!" 

"Pink?" he offered, leaning in to brush his mouth over hers. Yeah, he didn't miss the way her breath hitched as his fingertips inched closer to her drenched center. "You know, I really, really like that color on you. Like a lot." 

"Oh my gods!" she groaned. "You're not buying me a new pair of knickers!" 

"You call those scraps of lace knickers?" he clicked his tongue. "Granger, if they were knickers, I wouldn't be able to rip them off of you. That was clearly some invention designed to drive men mad and send us mortals to an early grave." 

"It's called a thong, Malfoy." 

Draco's mouth stretched further, feeling that odd, giddy, boyish excitement. "Well, whatever the hell it is, I really fucking like it. And I want to buy you more. Lots of them. All of them." 

Rolling her eyes, she moved to close her thighs, but his hand was right there. 

"Ah!" he tsked. "Keep these open for me, love." 

Hermione's breath caught as his fingers slipped between her thighs, parting her slick heat. Unable to help himself, he glanced down, watching as his digit moved up and down. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck. Everything about her was again perfect. All pink and swollen and soaked just for him. 

"Oh, gods," she whimpered, nails digging into his forearm. "That—? Draco, please." 

Something about the way she said his name made his cock twitch against the mattress. 

His gaze flickered up to her face, watching her with rapt attention (or quite possibly poignant devotion). He moved deliberately, sliding through her slit up to that swollen bundle of nerves. Each rock of her hips and flutter of her lashes did something to his ego, stroking it for all its worth. 

"Does that feel good?" he asked, curiosity piqued. 

Nibbling her lower lip, she nodded, and just the notion made him almost jealous of her front teeth. He wanted to be the one right there, stealing it from her. He wanted to taste her mouth on his again and again. 

Yeah, alright, again, it was pathetic. No need to point it out because Draco very well knew that already, but there was no way he'd change his ways now. 

Glancing back down, he swore under his breath at the sight of her thighs spread and the visible slick that was glistening on her sun-kissed skin. The way she looked so fucking ready for him. He didn't ask this time, as a single finger dipped into her wet, hot channel. Oh, bloody hell. 

Gasping, Hermione's back bowed as her nails bit harder into his bicep. "Godric! D-Draco! Yes!" 

Slowly, he began moving in and out, staring in rapt focus like he couldn't look away from where his digit disappeared. Like he was quite possibly under some sort of spell that she cast on him. 

And maybe she had. 

Honestly? He didn't care because this, right here, was exactly what he wanted back in the Verum Desiderium. He wanted to see his digits stretching her, filling her. He wanted to part her slick folds and know what made her hips jump and her body succumb to pleasure. He wanted to know what made her brows pinch and her swollen, pouty lips part in need. He wanted to fill her and consume her. 

He wanted to know everything. 

"Please," she whimpered, pulling his focus away from her cunt. "Draco, please. I need you—? I need you inside me." 

He cocked his head. "But I am inside you?" 

"You—? Oh, Godric, you know what I mean." 

Humming, Draco kept pumping his finger within her, watching her as she watched him. It felt almost like a battle of wills and wits, and he really wasn't complaining. Not in the gods-damn slightest. He'd stay here all day if he had to. 

Alright, maybe that was a lie because he really, really wanted to be inside of her. 

As if reading his mind, Hermione's hand slid between them. She wrapped those usually ink-stained fingers around his throbbing cock, stroking him. Her touch? It reduced him to absolutely nothing. All he felt was raw, undiluted need as he jolted, feeling a bead of pre-come leak against her inner thigh. 

A tattoo he wanted to brand against her, claiming her as 'mine.' 

He moved forward without thinking, finger leaving her heat as he slid it under her right leg, hiking it over his hip… opening her. She parted her other thigh further, the silent suggestion enough for him to understand. 

Or better yet, the realization of the inevitability of this—them. 

The idea that the minute he slipped into her tight, wet cunt, Draco Malfoy just might cease to exist. Finished. Done. And he honestly didn't care because tonight had fulfilled him with enough happiness that he could sustain on it for a lifetime if he never got to do this again.  

A unified, harmonious moan escaped them both as the head of him brushed against her drenched folds once… twice. Oh, fuck. 

Curious, he glanced down, staring at the way she parted for him. How his tip was notched just at her entrance, begging to push forward and enter her. 

"W-Wait," Draco stuttered, cursing under his breath as he tore his gaze away from between her spread thighs. That felt more like a crime than it should, as he asked: "Are you—? Are you on the tonic, Granger?" 

Dragging her bottom lip between her teeth, Hermione nodded.

"Okay," he sighed. "Okay. Do you still want me to cast the charm?"  

"I already cast it in the Verum Desiderium," she explained, before her eyes widened. "Oh gods! I'm so, so sorry that was, uh—oh, Godric. That was awfully presumptuous of me, wasn't it? I mean, it's not that I thought that—? And well, I just—?" 

Draco silenced her with his mouth, pressing it soundly against hers. He didn't even think or weigh the consequences of kissing her without permission or request. No, he just did what he felt was right, lips moving against hers in gentle, unhurried movements. 

He pulled away just enough to murmur: "For once, your presumptuous nature is quite endearing, Granger." 

A soft laugh escaped her as she laced her fingers into his silken strands, holding him close. The sound was golden and perfect and entirely her—all her. 

"Can I then?" he asked, mouth brushing hers. 

Hermione nodded. "Gods, please." 

Permission? Check. 

Spreading her thighs wider, they held each other’s gaze as Draco gradually slid into her inch-by-delicious-inch. He stared at her, watching for any sign or flicker of discomfort as he slowly worked his way inside her, pausing when needed. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he bottomed out to her hilt. Holy hell. 

Hermione tightened her grip on his pale hair, pulling him down until their lips touched again, sharing the same breath. "Draco," she moaned, sounding more like sweet, decadent music to his ears than his own name. "Please—gods, please move." 

"Yeah," he nodded. "I can do that. Sure. I just—give me a moment." 

Actually, he needed more than a moment because he was certain that he was seconds away from spilling inside of her. Like barely hanging on by a thread in that 'this is my first time inside of a woman in months and I'm about to blow my load prematurely' sort of way. It was just… fuck. Everything about her was slick and hot and tight. It was sin incarnate, wrapping around like a vise, wanting to devour him whole. 

Hiking her leg higher on his hip, he sucked in a breath as he rasped: "I'm going to fuck you now, yeah?" 

Hermione nodded, head brushing against the pillow. "P-Please. I—? I just need you to move." 

Alright. Yeah, he could do that. He could do that easily, and he did. 

Every moan turned into a soft, pleading cry as he filled her with long, languid strokes. A well-rehearsed dance between them as they moved in tandem, never breaking that unholy contact between them and their sweat-slicked bodies. It was all moans and sounds of pleasure and the obscene wetness of her. 

Gods… 

He honestly didn’t think that he could achieve any more pleasure, but somehow, they both managed it as something ignited with each brush against her skin.

Hermione cried out beneath him as she commanded: "Harder!" 

A groan escaped him as he nervously glanced at the charmed picture frame on his nightstand. Scorpius was still fast asleep, and Draco could feel the Silencing Charm still flickering around the room. 

Still, he wanted to be safe rather than sorry because the last thing he needed was his son walking in on this. 

"Please," she begged, heels digging into his arse, urging him closer and deeper. "More… I need more." 

Of course, Draco obeyed because he was simply a man possessed by the power of Hermione Granger's cunt. Who wouldn't be?

He drove into her then, harder and faster, hips grinding in a kind of rhythm that felt more like destruction than sweet lovemaking. Though he also supposed that wasn't what they were doing, as sweat beaded down his spine and her skin felt like a thousand degrees every time her breasts brushed against his chest. 

"F-Fuck!" he gritted his teeth, thrusting into her again and again. "You feel… so fucking good." 

Her heels pressed harder into his arse. Salazar dammit… 

Honestly? At this point, Draco Malfoy would promptly sign away his Gringotts access code, Malfoy Manor, his vineyard in France, this townhome, his summer house in Capri, and his entire lineage just to keep Hermione Granger right here in this bed. 

Or he would, if he didn't have a toddler to consider and a future to maintain. 

But if she wanted? He'd let her stay and be a part of that. 

Shaking off the thought, Draco bent down, craving to capture her lips again like he was starving for it. He kissed her with wanton abandon, pulling her leg back further as he rolled into her. Skin against skin. Mouths against mouths. Hearts beating against hearts. Her walls fluttered, and her skin tightened over her bones as she neared the edge. 

He could feel it—feel her. 

It was madness, and he wanted to stay like this forever, but he was barely holding on by a thread. 

"Draco," she whimpered against his mouth. "I’m—please, I’m so close." 

"Y-Yeah? What do you need?"

"Touch me. I need you to touch me."  

The sound he released was raw and untethered as he reached between their bodies. With tight, controlled circles, he rubbed her clit, needing her to fall over that edge—needed to give her what she wanted. 

"Fuck," he swore, pulling away to watch her. "You're so—? Fuck, Hermione. Can I—? Can I come inside you?" 

Lashes fluttering against her cheeks, she nodded. "Please." 

Alright. Correction: That was the best possible thing he could hear in his entire lifetime. The idea that he might be able to fill this tight cunt with his seed if she let him. Honestly? He had never felt like this before, or had this intense craving to fill her with him, planting it right where it belonged, and he wanted it. 

Merlin, he was seriously fucked up in the head. 

But right now? He didn't particularly care. Not when he felt her tighten around him. Her body bowed almost unnaturally, arching up into him as she cried out, loud and uncaring. 

Music to his bloody ears. 

Her pleasure quickly dragged him under as a strangled groan escaped him, and he spilled deep inside of her. Every pulse in her felt like dying and coming back to life. A bloody gods-damn resurrection. 

They both collapsed in a pile of sweaty limbs, unable to move or even breathe. Honestly? He didn’t want this to end as he pulled out of her with a hiss. He wanted her to stay with him in the bed they had made their own, at least just for tonight. 

Somewhere, on the ground, he felt the Verum Desiderium calling out to them, beckoning them to keep playing in whatever odd sorcery it enchanted over them. 

But this? Right here and now? It didn't feel like a game or a spell. No, it felt real and raw, and that terrified him. 

What would happen when she woke up tomorrow? What would happen when the champagne in her system vanished, and she realized everything? Would she hate him for having the Verum Desiderium? Would she hex him? Curse him? Report him for having the illegal device? Claim that he was some sort of unfit parent? 

Yet all those thoughts vanished the minute she nuzzled into his chest, thigh hitching around his hip. Without thinking, he pulled her closer, his fingers drawing lazy circles that traced the ridges of her spine. 

"Well," Hermione hummed. "That escalated quickly." 

Draco's lips twitched. "Really? Didn't notice. But you are naked in my bed." 

"So are you, Mr. Malfoy." 

"Oh fucking gods," he groaned, tossing his head back against the pillow. "Do not call me that. I sound like my father." 

Hermione laughed brightly, pulling away. "You know, your son is convinced that 'Daddy' is a bad word." 

"I know. Gods, I blame my fucking friends."

"Oh?" 

Draco shook his head, glancing at her sidelong. "Don't ask if you don't want to know." 

"Well, I'm kinda curious now," Hermione grinned, and gods, for a moment, he thought the world stopped turning. "Why does Scorp think it's a bad word? He seemed a bit upset by it." 

Lips parting, Draco tried to say something—hell, anything—but all that came out of him was a whoosh of air. 

Yeah, the question might've been silly, but he knew that if he ventured down this path with her, he might just open himself in a way that broke him. Something he might never come back from because it was then that all he could think about was begging Hermione to stay right here, in his bed. Forever. 

No, more than that, because he wanted to keep her laughing like that—all careless and unfiltered. 

He wanted to see her roll her eyes when he said something smug over morning coffee. He wanted to see her sitting at his kitchen table, wearing one of his old t-shirts, flipping through the Daily Prophet as he fed her. He wanted Scorpius to be right next to her, spooning his cereal and making a mess that she'd giggle at before helping him clean up. He wanted to know every time he unlocked his front door at the end of a shite day at the Ministry, he'd find her coat hanging on the hook and her shoes haphazardly flung on the carpet. He wanted to huff and feel agitated as he picked them up and placed them in a neat line beside his and the tiny ones belonging to Scorpius. He wanted to forget all about his frustrations over her cleanliness as he heard her voice drifting from the living room upstairs, where she would be curled on the sofa, reading to his son as if it were the most normal thing in the entire world. 

He wanted everything. 

Honestly? Draco had never loved or hated anything more than the feeling that bloomed, unfurling behind his ribs. It felt an awful lot like those authentically genuine emotions that stole his breath away. Those quiet feelings that he tried so damn hard to push aside for the betterment of his son. 

And yeah, he might've gotten a bit carried away in the moment with her earlier (and his highly inappropriate thoughts), but at the end of the day, it was always going to be just Draco and Scorpius. 

The two of them. 

The Malfoy boys. 

Dad and son. 

That was the vow he made and the line he'd drawn the minute that Astoria walked out on them. 

In fact, Draco made a promise that he would never bring around witches, or place one in their world that wasn't already there. He wouldn't do that to his son, who had barely even grasped the disappointment and the true hurt that Astoria's abandonment brought. The feelings that Draco tried so hard to cover up with dragon bandaids and bedtime stories and dinners with just the two of them, so his son wouldn't know the pain that this year brought on him. 

So, as much as he'd love to have Hermione stay and be that figure for his son, he knew that this was just too good to be true. It always was for someone like him. 

She wouldn't stay. 

She wouldn't want the responsibility of becoming a mother to his son, and he wouldn't ask that of her. She never signed on for this, and they never even had a conversation about the potential aftermath that this night would bring. 

Could he blame her if she woke up tomorrow and regretted it? No. Not one bit. 

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked softly, dragging him from his thoughts. 

Swallowing thickly, he nodded, focusing on the spider-webbed cracks in his ceiling. "Yeah. Sorry. Just… uh, thinking." 

"About?" 

"Just…" Draco hesitated, hating the weak sound that escaped him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lost a breath. "Me," he admitted. "My son. My life. This year." 

A beat of silence passed between them. Honestly? It wasn't like he expected a response from her. Not really, because why would she? 

Unfortunately, Hermione Granger always surprised him. 

"Draco," she said gently, hand sliding up along his jaw, cupping his cheek. "You're a good father. You know that, right?" 

Slowly, he opened his eyes, meeting hers. Gods, were they always this open and bright? 

"Do you know how many dads come into my bookshop?" she asked, pressing on. 

Draco arched a brow. "Thousands?" 

Hell, he really didn't want to think of all the men that enter the Fable & Fiction, most likely staring at her shapely arse in her Muggle jeans or the ones that probably flirted with her while their children ran wild destroying her shop. 

"One," she corrected, brushing her thumb against the corner of his mouth. "Only one."

Something tightened behind his sternum, latching around his throat. Fuck. 

"Mums?" she continued. "I probably get twenty a day. But there's only ever one dad who comes in with his son, did you know that? Only one who sits on those awfully lumpy bean bags in the children's section and reads to his child. You want to guess who that is?"  

"Potter?" he grumbled. 

"You, Draco. Only you." 

He looked away then, because he knew if he held her gaze for one more moment, he'd say something he didn't mean. Hell, something stupid that he couldn't take back, like confessing all of these fucked up emotions within him. 

"Hey?" Hermione smiled down at him. "We don't have to have it all perfect, you know?" 

Draco scoffed. 

"Look at me," she said, palm gently angling his face back to hers. "Gods, I'm single, while quite literally all my friends are getting married and having babies. My fridge is covered in wedding invites and engagement photos and holiday cards and a bunch of bullshite. And sometimes people feel the need to tell me how to be and what I should be doing right now. How do you think that makes me feel? That I don't have my life figured out? Or that sometimes I do feel like a massive failure because I didn't accept the job from the Ministry with a straight shot as Minister for Magic." 

"Well, I think you should tell them to fuck off, Granger." 

"You know what?" Hermione's smile widened. "I should. Thank you, Malfoy. And guess what? You can tell all those judgemental idiots to fuck off, too. Right?" 

A soft laugh escaped him as he reached forward, brushing a stray curl from her damp forehead without thinking. Neither of them moved, and he considered (for a moment) that maybe the gesture was too much as she stared up at him with those amber eyes. 

Fuck. 

Hermione lost a breath before leaning in as she pressed her mouth to his. They stayed like that for a while, mouths pressed against each other as their limbs tangled into one. 

The kiss? It was everything that encompassed soft sureness. It was nothing rushed or desperate with that lingering urgency. Instead, they moved languidly, making him feel more like a teenager than ever before. They kissed with all those silent promises that only birthday wishes could bring. The kind of kissed that asked for nothing but somehow gave everything.

Reluctantly, Draco pulled away, looking down at her. 

Gods, she was beautiful, and as cheesy as it was, there was no other way to describe her in that moment. Honestly? All he wanted to do was to have more. 

Mouth brushing against hers, Draco grinned. "Come back here," he murmured. "I need more from you, Granger." 

As their lips came back together, all fucks went quite literally out the window. 

He kissed her greedily, hands wandering over her soft skin. It was almost as if he needed to touch every inch of her, map her out so that when this all ended, he'd still remember this moment. How his mouth devoured hers like it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

What did Muggles call it? Life support? Yeah, that was it. 

Draco's hands continued to roam, tracing the curve of her spine to the dip of her waist. He swallowed the whimpers she gave as he kneaded over her arse, feeling the soft, muscled flesh before he dipped lower, parting her thighs with his. 

Oh fuck…

He could feel it as his finger dragged through her swollen sex—feel his seed and the slickness of their combined essence along her folds. And hell, Draco nearly whined with the need to see it, like a singular mission on his mind, or quite literally a fixation. 

Hermione's whimpered moan jolted him from his depraved (and slightly concerning) fantasy. 

"Are you sore?" Draco asked, finger swirling at her opening. 

She shook her head. "No." 

"Good." 

It was all the permission he needed as he rolled them over, pressing her back into the mattress. Her wild, honey-brown curls fanned over his pillow like she was always meant to be there in his bed. 

A divine offering from the gods, perhaps.

Okay, that felt stupid even as he considered it. Honestly? He'd take a birthday present over that fantastical bullshite any day. He might be a wizard, but he was rather practical when it came to fairytales. 

Something he knew they had in common. 

Draco pressed his open mouth right to the crease of her shoulder, lips dragging lower. He worshiped her collarbone, breasts, and sternum, relishing in the burst of salt on his tongue and the hints of her scent. Every pass collected more of her: parchment, leather-bound books, bergamot, and violets. 

Greedily, he wanted more. 

Moving lower, he let his mouth slide along the soft planes of her stomach, feeling the scars that he hadn't noticed before. He let her scent consume him, devour him. 

Yet there was no way to miss that pronounced contrast that filled the room. 

Okay, yes, it reeked of sex, but it was also somehow filled with her softened edge and subtle sweetness. A raw, unmistakable energy that emboldened him as he pressed his lips against her skin. 

"So beautiful," he rasped, peering up at her. "So good damn for me." 

There was something so delightful about the warm, rosy flush that climbed up her chest, even as her nipples pebbled against his attention. 

Again, that fucking color. 

Without having to ask, she parted her thighs as his palm made a determined path over the curve of her waist. 

Draco grinned then, nipping at her hipbone before settling right between her legs. Spreading them further, he opened her up for his viewing pleasure. 

"Fuck," he swore under his breath, salivating.  

Honestly? How could he not, given the sight of her before him, with his seed dripping out of her onto his two-thousand-count bed sheets? Actually, he would have had to be blind not to see the image presented on a silver platter. 

This one was undoubtedly going into his designated wank bank. 

"What are you—?" Hermione swallowed thickly. "What are you doing?"

Grinning, he parted her sex with his thumbs, spreading their combined arousal. Leaning forward, he dragged his tongue over her center. Gods. Alright, so maybe this was out of his standard zone of sex and comfort, but there was something about tasting them together that did something filthy to his imagination. 

"Draco," she whimpered, fingers winding into his hair as he tugged slightly. "You don't—? You really don't need to do that. We just had sex." 

"No, I want to," he groaned, wrapping his hands around her thighs. Cheek pressed against her skin, he watched with rapt focus as his finger toyed with her folds, spreading her apart. "Never—? Never thought I'd be into this—wanting to see me drip out of you. Thought about it… but I never—fucking hell, Hermione."

She moaned then, loudly. Good. 

Leaning forward, he licked his tongue over her again and again. He didn't stop. He wouldn't stop if he were getting specific about it. Right now? He had one goal in mind and that was to go down on her until she screamed his name, and then he planned on shagging her one last time before the night was over. 

Hell, maybe even a third time (if she'd let him). 

At the thought, Draco sank his tongue deeper into her, stiffening the well-worked muscle as firmly as he could. He needed to send that pleasure ricocheting down her spine until she was right there on the edge. 

"D-Draco," she whimpered his name like it was the last thing she'd ever say. "I—? Gods, please." 

"Yeah?" he murmured. "What do you need?" 

"I—? I don't know. More. Y-Yeah, more." 

He grinned into her as her fingers coiled in his platinum locks, pulling and tugging. The more he licked her, tongued her, the more she writhed against him. And that was driving him absolutely wild as his own hips thrusted into the mattress, cock rapidly thickening. 

Was he about to come? From going down on her? 

It was a high possibility. 

"You taste so good," he murmured before sucking on her swollen bundle of nerves. "Like honey and sin and you." 

Hermione moaned, thighs parting further as she cried out his name, coming apart. The taste of her sparked against his tongue, dripping down his chin as she undulated against him. 

Salazar, he could live down here forever. 

Gasping, Hermione yanked him up by his hair before her mouth collided with his. Oh fuck. 

Her kiss was rough, hungry, and outright possessive, like she didn't care that he'd just been between her legs or that the taste of them together was still coating his tongue. Actually, she was almost feral as she rolled them over, situating herself atop him. Her mouth refused to part from his as she boldly traced the seam of his lips. 

A groan escaped him. "Hermione…" 

She just grinned, reaching between them to notch the head of his cock at her swollen entrance. Without a word, she slid down onto him, sinking inch-by-glorious-inch, until he was buried deep inside of her. 

Alright. Yeah, Draco still had it in him, and maybe thirty wasn't so damn bad after all. 

Chapter Text

The one thing Hermione hated about waking up after a particularly long night out was the groggy, unnatural feeling, like she'd just slept for a hundred years or not at all. Unfortunately, that only seemed to get worse in her thirties, even after two glasses of wine. 

A tragic new discovery, honestly. 

Everything was heavy: her limbs, her bones, her head, and that rather formidable weight at her back. Gods, and her mouth had that terrible dryness that came with too much wine and too little water. Except… she knew she hadn't been out last night. She was at Draco's thirtieth birthday party (where, yes, there was a bit of over-serving), then she had been commandeered by a five-year-old to read a bedtime story and memorize his stuffed animals. Then there was the panic in the bathroom and—oh, Godric. 

Hermione's eyes shot open, vanishing the dregs of sleep pulling at her lids. Early morning light leaked through the sheer curtains, crawling up the white walls and over the spider-webbed cracks. 

Oh, no. Oh, no… no, no! Nope! No!

The memories from last night hit her then like a rogue Bludger. The flashes of her being sucked into that Goblin-made box—the Verum Desiderium, as Draco explained—into her bookshop. The rather passionate snogs against mahogany shelves. His hand between her thighs, getting her off with his skilled fingers. The two of them, in his bedroom, as the device spat them promptly back out of the fantasy. The crazed, adrenaline-ridden nature that overcame her as she straddled him, undressed him like a maniac, and took his erection into her mouth. The way he filled her, consumed her, and shagged her so well that she begged for it again and again.

Three times, to be precise. 

Hermione winced. Oh, Godric, they had sex three times. Three times! And not just sex, but like filthy, life-altering sex that should come with bright orange warning labels. Sex that she hadn't had in a very, very long time (if ever, but that was just between herself and the heavens). She couldn't even begin to count how many times she got off last night and well into the early hours of the morning. 

Really, it was just obscene for someone like her to be shagging that many times in one night, considering the space between her thighs ached with that unfamiliar soreness.

Groaning under her breath, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring the heat licking up her bare skin. Oh, yes, because she was, in fact, naked. And now she could readily discern that the foreign arm wrapped around her waist and the solid presence at her back was Draco Malfoy. 

Oh, Ginny was going to love this. 

Well, that was if Hermione had the guts to tell her best friend about this wild little adventure. 

Loosing a long, therapeutic breath, she peeled one eye open and then the other as she glanced towards the nightstand, praying to find a clock. 

Nope! Bad idea. 

No, correction: that was a terrible idea, as she came face-to-face with not one, but four, black and white magical photographs.

The ones of Draco and Scorpius weren't so bad. Actually, they were pretty damn adorable, with the five-year-old grinning toothlessly while Draco's lips twitched with that odd need to hide his amusement. In fact, she wanted to steal the solo shot of the boy waving at the camera as he held a familiar white dragon in his hands. 

But the one tucked in the back corner? Yep, that was a walking red flag, because he had a photograph of Narcissa Malfoy—his mother—on his bedside table. 

Oh, gods. Oh, bloody fucking gods. 

The regal, Pureblooded witch sat there, blonde hair twisted artfully in a chignon, while her pale grey eyes glittered knowingly and a bit judgmentally. 

And for a moment, Hermione forgot that photographs were not like portraits and they couldn't interact with the living. Though that was rather hard to separate, because all she could think of was the fact that she was stark naked, under Draco Malfoy's bedsheets, and there was a strong possibility that Narcissa watched them have the most depraved night of sex in Hermione's entire life. 

Alright, nope! Absolutely not. She couldn't think about that right now. 

Or, quite possibly, ever. 

Swallowing down her rising panic, Hermione carefully lifted Draco's arm off her waist. Somehow, she managed to scoot it up and off her ribs without waking him. 

Godric, when was the last time she snuck out of someone's bed? It had to be in her early twenties, and she was almost positive it was Ronald's bed at the Burrow. Ugh, and that was another issue within itself because she never, ever slept over, on those occasions that she did have a one-night stand. 

Giving herself another mental and much-needed pep talk, she managed to get one foot off the bed, successfully onto the floor. Okay, so that was good. Right? Right. Now, she just needed to get her other limb off without jostling the bed too hard. Thankfully, Draco seemed to have a relatively expensive plush mattress that made very little squeaking noises, unlike the one she had back in her flat. 

Another win (if she were being frank). 

Holding her breath, Hermione managed to wiggle down the bed, placing both feet onto the ground. Okay, yes, she felt a bit ridiculous as she slithered out of the sheets like some serpent, and off the mattress, before crouching down onto the wooden floor completely starkers. 

Hermione grinned manically to herself. Ha! Alright, now, she just needed to find her clothes. 

Blindly, using only the soft early morning light, she felt around, trying (or more like attempting) to find her dress and knickers. Or maybe even a trap door that she could sneak out of before she died from humiliation.  

The bed above jostled as Draco made a soft, sleepy sound. 

Eyes widening, she paused, praying to every single deity, both Muggle and magical, that he would stay nice and asleep.

Okay, and she crossed her fingers behind her back, too, but whatever. 

After a minute passed (or maybe more), Hermione lost her breath as she continued with her search for her missing clothing, scanning the floor with her hands. On the bright side, her knickers were the first to be located as her fingers connected with the lacy fabric. The not-so-bright side? They were absolutely, positively shredded as she held them up in the dim light. 

Hermione's jaw hinged. Are you kidding? 

It looked like a gods-damn animal had mauled the emerald fabric with its claws. Worse? It was her first time wearing them, and yes, they were rather expensive for her meager income. Like the sort of cost that she shouldn't have even thought of purchasing, but just wanted to feel good about herself, so she did. Ugh. 

Yeah, so she was definitely going to make him buy more books the next time he came in. Like those limited-edition hardcovers that she kept in the glass case. Or maybe even that signed copy of The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton that she was planning on never selling. 

Suddenly, the thought occurred to her then: What if Draco stopped coming in? What if he stopped bringing Scorpius in every Sunday? 

Hermione swallowed hard, throat terribly dry. 

Gods, had they just ruined everything? Over sex? A one-night stand? Over crossing that invisible line between them? They'd just found this rhythm together with the boundaries of a quiet friendship and easy banter. The way her heart fluttered every time she heard Scorpius' childlike laughter, filling her bookshop. The mix of to-go coffee from the café next door and the subtle moments of lingering glances through the stacks. The soft smile he'd give her before looking back down at his son, reading to him. 

Tears pricked at her lash line, making the room around her blur. Why? Why was she so emotional about this? It was stupid, really, and there was nothing more on this earth that she could hate at that moment than the foolish emotion clouding her senses and the battle-hardened defenses she could feel sliding into place.  

Shaking off the feeling, she continued with her search for her slip dress. 

Unfortunately, her dress was absolutely nowhere to be found in his bedroom or on the floor. Another sacrifice to the stockpile of other witches' clothes that Draco collected over his newfound bachelor lifestyle. 

Yeah, okay. So, that was also another thought she didn't particularly want to think about at the given moment when they just had sex… three times, to be exact. And who the hell did she think she was? To have sex that many times with a man whom she had just started to become friends with? 

Three times! Ugh. 

Hermione's fingertips, however, did find Draco's discarded Oxford, slung on the edge of the armchair. Without thinking, she yanked it on, hating how the manly scent of him bombarded her, wrapping around her. Fumbling with the buttons, she managed to get most of them done as she stood. 

Gods, this was so not appropriate walk-of-shame attire. The well-pressed fabric fell to her mid-thigh, barely covering her like she was in some 90s romantic comedy. 

Whatever. There was nothing she could do, right? 

Sighing, she took one step forward, only to collide with the antique leather-clad trunk at the end of the bed. 

"Ow!" Hermione yelped, lifting her foot as she hobbled around. "Ow! Ow! Oh, my gods! Ow!" 

Behind her, a low, sleepy groan sounded as sheets rustled against bare skin. "Morning, Granger," Draco drawled. 

Whirling, she somehow managed to still hold on to her throbbing big toe while gawking at the sight before her. And yes, okay, the really fantastic view of the man stretching with his arms behind his head and pale hair all mussed with a lazy smirk on his perfectly kissable mouth. The sheets dipped indecently low on his chiseled hips, revealing that sharp v-shape and flaxen hair that she remembered running her tongue over last night. Not to mention the hint of something long and heavy pressed against the cotton, doing very little to conceal its modesty. 

Honestly? How in Merlin's good name did that fit inside her, because… yeah, wow. And if she weren't utterly mortified, standing there, holding her foot, she would've felt a bit proud. 

Draco grinned lazily. "You know, it's quite rude to stare, Granger." 

Eyes widening, she immediately dropped her foot, placing her hands over her cotton-covered breasts and nether regions.

A low, stomach-curling laugh escaped him as he shook his head. "C'mon. It's a little late to be modest now," he drawled, silver gaze flickering downward. "Considering I'm rather well acquainted with the space between your thighs." 

Yeah. Okay, so she was being a bit ridiculous, considering she was dressed in his Oxford. Still, that didn't stop the warmth from climbing up her neck in stark crimson blotches and into her cheeks. 

Sighing, Draco tossed back the sheets and climbed out of bed. "I think this calls for coffee," he mused. 

Hermione squeaked as she came face-to-face with a part of him she was all too familiar with. Oh, fuck me. "I should—?" She cleared her throat, looking away. "I should really get, uh, going." 

Draco opened a drawer in his dresser, pulling out a pair of joggers. "Why?" he asked, stepping into them. "Do you have somewhere else to be? A post-sex debrief at the Potters?" 

Hermione's eyes widened before narrowing. "No," she bit out. "I wasn't—? I wouldn't—? I don't—? I mean, I don't have plans, Malfoy." 

"Good," he mused, running a hand through his hair. "Then you can stay for coffee." 

Lips parting, she gawked at him. 

Unfortunately, she was also quite easily distracted by his bare, toned chest. Had she run her tongue down that last night? She remembered undressing him and taking his impressive length into her mouth, but she couldn't remember if she kissed his chest. 

A crime, honestly. 

Hermione cleared her throat, shaking her head. "Draco," she started, "I really should—?" 

"Stay," he said easily, rummaging through his dresser. 

"But I don't—?" 

"I said, stay. It's the day after my birthday, Granger. You can at least stay for a cup of coffee, and then you can pretend that this night never happened." 

She blinked once and then twice. 

Finding what he was looking for, Draco turned, handing her a pair of pale blue, loose-fitting briefs. "Here," he said, hand outstretched. 

Nervously, she eyed them. 

Draco sighed heavily. "They're clean, Granger. Don't worry." 

She took them without a word, putting them on her body like she was under some sort of Confundus Charm, or maybe even Imperio'd. 

What the hell was wrong with her? And why was she following him out of the bedroom door and down the stairs like this was completely and utterly normal? Also, she was way too old to be doing this. The whole padding around barefoot, wearing another man's clothes, and going downstairs to have coffee and breakfast, before the walk of shame in the real world. 

Yet she didn't stop as she followed him into the shockingly beautiful basement kitchen of the townhome. 

Gods… Alright. So, maybe she could stay a bit longer if it meant sitting in the sunlit space, which was all matte whites, well-worn stone floors, and a wall of windows that looked out over the enclosed garden with a small swing set and scattered toys.  

Something about the sight tugged at her heartstrings. 

Draco pointed to the marbled kitchen island. "Sit." 

Dumbly, she nodded, perching on the tall stool as she pressed her palms into the cool countertop. The fabric underneath her scratched gently at her bare thighs, but it was enough to ground her in reality. 

Okay, yes, she needed to think this through: she was Hermione Granger, and before her making coffee was Draco Malfoy.

Yep, totally and completely normal. Just another lazy Sunday and whatnot with his indecently low joggers and bare chest. Bloody hell, did he always have those muscles? Was that what he kept hiding under those well-pressed Oxfords and Auror leathers? And who knew Draco Malfoy was the master of domestic seduction? Certainly not her. 

"So," he began, grabbing two mugs before setting them on the counter. "I hope Scorp wasn't too hard on you last night with his bedtime ritual." 

Hermione blinked. "Uh? No, he was fine. Why?" 

"Okay, good. He can just be…" he shrugged, trying to find the right words as he began working on the Muggle-looking French Press. "A bit manipulative when it comes to 'Operation Bedtime,' and I didn't want him taking advantage of you." 

Slowly, she nodded, but gods, she couldn't stop looking at his hands as he began measuring the grounds with meticulous precision. All long and elegant and deft. Worse? She couldn't look away from the silver ancestral signet ring that glinted in the light. The very same ring that had been pressed up against her hot center hours before as he brought her to completion with said fingers. 

Bloody hell… 

Hermione crossed her thighs, trying and praying that the ache would cease. 

Spoiler? It didn't.

"Anyway," Draco went on, pressing down the plunger of the French press. "Thank you for doing that. I mean, with Scorp. He… uh, likes when you read to him in the bookstore." 

She bobbed her head. "Right. Sure. Of course." 

He kept talking to her (that much she knew), but she couldn't for the life of her focus on the conversation. 

Why? Oh, no reason, just that her thoughts kept drifting back to last night's adventurous activities. The way he just knew how to use his fingers just right, dragging along that sweet, aching spot within her until she was sobbing his name in the fantasy version of her bookshop. The memory of his length on her tongue and the heaviness of it as she hollowed her cheeks. The taste of him and how he begged to be inside of her. The flashes of him between her spread thighs as he went down on her, making her come. How they tasted together when she kissed him before sliding down on his rapidly filling erection. 

"Here," Draco mused, pulling her from her inappropriate thoughts. "For you." 

Warmth licked up her cheeks as he set down a chipped green mug with a white dragon painted on the front. She knew it had to be Scorpius's, and just the fact that Draco gave her this very mug felt oddly right. 

"Thanks," Hermione said faintly, fingers curling around the ceramic. 

"You're very welcome," he drawled, leaning his palms against the opposite side of the counter, chest very much on display. 

Was he doing that on purpose? It was very plausible. 

Swallowing, she lifted the mug up to her lips, taking a sip. Ugh, and why did he have to make it just the way she liked it? Practically black, rather strong, with just a splash of cream. 

A frown curved against her mouth as she stared at the tawny liquid. When had anyone ever taken the time to understand her coffee preferences? Certainly not Ronald. 

Draco released an odd sound. "Don't do that." 

Brows knitted, she glanced up, meeting his gaze. "Do what?" she asked, confused. 

"The whole—?" he waved his hand, huffing. "The looking-away, upset thing. Don't do that." 

"I'm not." 

"You are." 

"Oh my gods!" Hermione bristled defensively, rolling her eyes. "So what? We slept together once, and you know me? Is that it?" 

Draco pinned her with a look as he leaned in, folding his forearms over the marble. "We slept together more than once, Granger. I think you'll have to Obliviate me if you want me to forget last night." 

"Oh, gods! You know exactly what I mean!" she snapped, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. 

"Do I?" 

"Alright, don't try to be all smart with me, Malfoy." 

"I'm not trying—?" Draco sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "It's just—look, Hermione, I like being your friend. Hell, I want to be your friend. And I really don't want this to be fucking awkward between us. I think it's fair of me to ask that, no?" 

Honestly? She didn't know what to do or how to react because here was Draco, trying to find common ground with her after them having sex. And what was she doing? Just being all weird, defensive, and twitchy. Ugh. 

Running her palms over her thighs, Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry. I am." 

"Oh, I know," he smirked, before leveling his gaze in a way that felt too similar to how she'd seen him with Scorpius. "But, Hermione? I'm being serious—if you want to forget about last night, then we can. Done." 

She swallowed down the knot in her throat. "That—? That easy?" 

"Yeah, that fucking easy." 

Silence pressed between them, filled by the hum of the Muggle refrigerator in the corner. 

Hermione stared down at the tawny liquid of her coffee, watching as the light swirl of milk created a mini galaxy in her cup. Gods, could it really be that easy? Could she really pretend that last night—or the moments in the Verum Desiderium—didn't happen between them? That he hadn't touched her like that? Said those things to her? Made her feel that way, that went beyond physical touch? 

It was then, sitting in this kitchen, drinking coffee from his son's mug, sunlight spilling over the floor like some sort of cinematic joke, that Hermione realized she didn't want to forget. 

Not even a little teeny-tiny bit. 

Maybe that was foolish of her in hindsight, but at this point, what did she have to lose? 

"But—?" Hermione hesitated, running her finger over the rim of the coffee mug. "But what if I don't want to forget? What if I don't want you to, either?" 

Draco cursed under his breath. "Salazar fucking help me, Hermione." 

"Uh?" Hermione squinted. "Is that a… yes? Or a no?" 

But he didn't answer as he stared at her, a wave of conflicting emotions dancing over his chiseled features. 

Okay, so maybe she was being a bit too bold then. Maybe she should've left it at the simple, 'yeah, we can just be friends' and get on with her life. He would come in every Sunday with Scorpius, and she would smile and pretend that they didn't have mind-blowing, life-altering sex together. Easy, right? Right. 

Nervously, Hermione pulled her bottom lip between her front teeth. 

"Fuck," he swore, dragging her attention back to his. "Don't fucking do that either." 

She blinked. "Do what?" 

"That thing with your lip," he groaned, eyes darkening. "All I want to do right now is put you on this counter, lay you out and eat that pretty little cunt of yours again, Hermione." 

That gooey, perfect warmth pooled in her belly. Yeah, she really, really wanted him to do just exactly that.

"And I'm barely hanging onto my sanity thinking about everything we did last night—everything that you let me do. Do you—? Salazar, do you know the times I thought about doing that?" 

"Well, yes, we were in your fantasy, Draco," Hermione muttered dryly, arching a brow. 

He ignored her. "Do you know how many times I wanted to know what it would be like to be with you? Shagging you? Holding you?" 

Hermione wetted her lips, hating how her breath hitched. 

"I don't want to forget either," Draco told her lowly, honestly. "I don't want to pretend that this didn't happen between us because it was the best fucking birthday of my life. I've had a really shite year, and you made it a million times better." 

"You know," she began, meeting his heated gaze, "it is sorta still your birthday. And I didn't get you a gift." 

Draco arched a brow. "Didn't you?" 

Hermione dragged her finger over the rim of the mug, feigning innocence even as her pulse thundered in her veins. "Oh, but last night doesn't count." 

"No?" 

She shook her head. "No, if anything, it was more of a gift to, uh, me." 

"I see," he hummed. "And what is your actual gift to me?" 

Purposefully, this time, Hermione captured her bottom lip between her front teeth. 

Gods, there was something so powerful about the way she watched his focus shift, like gears clicking into place. How he pushed off the counter in understanding, prowling around the island towards her. This close, she could smell the unmistakable scent of him—all masculine and rich. 

He reached out then, spinning the stool with one hand, forcing her to face him fully. She didn't even think as she parted her thighs, allowing him entry between them. 

"Just so you know," he drawled, cupping her jaw, angling her focus up to his. "What you gave me last night? It was far more than I could ever ask for. I'm pretty fucking thankful for the Verum Desiderium." 

Her lips twitched. "Well, you'll have to thank Nott and Zabini then. Didn't they give it to you?" 

Draco pinned her with a look. "Not a chance in hell," he growled. "If you think for one second that I'm telling those idiots what we did, you're bloody insane." 

Her smile slipped then as disappointment came over her. That slippery, sick feeling that curled around her ribs, settling into her veins until it poisoned her heart. 

"Hey? No." Draco stepped closer, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "Don't do that. It's not because I'm ashamed, Hermione. Trust me—I'm far fucking from it." 

Swallowing thickly, she nodded. 

"It's because they're filthy little pricks who would imagine you naked the second I opened my mouth," he explained, voice low and utterly sure. "And I don't want them ever thinking about you like that." 

"And when they do find out?" she asked, curious. 

"Then we will approach that bridge when it comes," he answered. 

"So… there's a bridge to approach?" 

Draco made a thoughtful noise. "Yeah, there's a fucking bridge and I'm crossing right on over it, Hermione Granger." 

Her eyes widened at his words.

"Oh, fuck," he swore, shaking his head. "I mean, only if you want to cross that bridge, Hermione. No pressure or anything. None at all. I don't—? I don't want you to feel like I'm trying to force you into anything." 

Without a word, she reached forward, tugging him by the band of his joggers. Their lips met as she with familiar ease. Hell, by now, she was relatively well acquainted with what it was like, snogging Draco Malfoy. But this? Here in the light of day, with the sunlight streaming through the wall of windows and the cup of coffee that he brewed for her on the kitchen counter? It felt… different. 

It felt real and raw and everything that she'd been running away from for years now. 

Without thinking, she hooked a leg around his, pulling him closer. His hands twisted into her tangled curls, fisting them as she kissed him back greedily, chasing more and more. The kiss morphed into that heavier, messier thing as they moaned into each other. 

Alright, so it was kind of bordering on indecent as she arched into him, needing more friction and heat. 

Draco groaned, tugging possessively on her curls to angle her head further back. "Fuck me, Hermione. I want to—?" 

"Hi!" 

Immediately, they jolted apart at the familiar child-like voice echoing through the kitchen. 

Draco, of course, looked positively rattled as he adjusted himself, eyes wide and alert, like he was a teenager getting caught by Professor McGonagall. Or trying very hard to conceal the arousal tenting his grey joggers.

Warmth licked up Hermione's cheeks as she looked away, mentally preparing for the punishment she'd give herself.

However, absolutely nothing could prepare her for the sight of Scorpius standing there in his little dragon pajamas, platinum hair sticking up in five different directions. 

Oh, my gods. Oh, my bloody gods. 

Yeah, so Scorpius totally just saw them snogging. Like really snogging to the point where she could easily categorize it as a make-out session. And how long had he been standing there? What had he heard? What had he seen? Oh, gods! 

Grinning, Scorpius rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Hi, Miss Min!" he greeted. "Morning, Daddy!" 

Draco cleared his throat, running a nervous hand through his hair. "H-Hey, champ," he said, voice a little too casual for the circumstances. "How'd you sleep?" 

Scorpius shrugged, padding into the kitchen like this was utterly and completely normal to have Hermione sitting there. Without a word, he handed her his stuffed white dragon and climbed up onto the stool with a huff. But all Hermione could do was blink at the five-year-old as she tried to tug down the hem of Draco's Oxford lower on her exposed thighs.

Oh, this was absolutely inappropriate.

And how, in Merlin's name, was she going to leave now? Especially when Scorpius held out his hand, silently requesting back his dragon stuffy with an all too familiar huff. 

Draco moved around the island, grabbing a bowl from the cabinet with that routine ease. It made her painfully aware that she was intruding.

"Want some cereal, Scorp?" he asked evenly, and not at all like he'd been caught snogging minutes before. 

Scorpius bobbed his head, resting his cheek on his palm as he stared at Hermione. No, like literally stared at her with those haunting silver eyes and uncanny features that were a direct copy-and-paste of the man across from them, currently pouring out dry cereal. 

"Hi!" Scorpius chirped. 

"Hi?" she replied, giving the kid an awkward wave. 

"Scorp," Draco sighed heavily, placing the bowl of cereal in front of his son. "We've talked about the staring thing, yeah? You know it's rude to stare." 

Hermione flushed harder, wishing more than anything that she could just vanish right then and there. 

"I'm not staring," Scorpius argued, and still very much staring at her. "I'm preserving." 

Draco glanced down, shaking his head. "Do you mean observing, son?" 

"Are we going to your bookstore today, Miss Min?" Scorpius asked, ignoring his father. 

"Oh, uh?" Hermione looked at Draco, who just shrugged. Great. Letting out a breath, she gave Scorpius a soft smile. "I wasn't planning on opening today, but we can if you want? Is that… uh, what you want?"

Scorpius sagged in his stool dramatically. "I just—? Well, I—?" he huffed, trying to get his thoughts together with an adorable little frown. "I thought that because you slept over in Daddy's bedroom that we would—?" 

"Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy!" Draco choked on his coffee, eyes wide. "Why, in Salazar's name, would you ever assume such a—a crazy idea?" 

Panicked, Hermione looked at the two Malfoys, unsure of what to do. Oh, gods! Oh, bloody gods! For someone who considered herself 'well-read', there was no parenting book in her bookshop that discussed what to do in this situation when a child asked why she slept in 'Daddy's bedroom'. Absolutely nothing explained how to act around a child when she, herself, was wearing one of his father's shirts. Ugh.

Innocently, Scorpius tilted his head. "But Daddy, you told me it's not right to tell fibs." 

Draco's mouth opened, before he promptly snapped it shut. 

Okay, she really, really did not want to know how the child knew that she slept in Draco's bedroom last night. 

Draco cleared his throat. "Son," he started, voice hoarse. "Well, you see? Uh? Sometimes adults can—? Well, when you're much, much older—like me at thirty or maybe even fifty—you can spend quality time with others in private." 

"Like a sleepover?" Scorpius asked hopefully, the silver spoon dangling precariously between the bowl and his mouth. 

"Oh, uh?" Draco blinked. "Yes. Well, sorta. But it's like an adult sleepover when you have your own place to live and not under this roof." 

"But you did it, Daddy? You had a sleepover with Miss Min, and she's—! She's wearing your clothes!" 

Hermione made a very undignified sound, cheeks warming to an unbearable degree. 

"Yes, well—uh?" Draco scrubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to hide his humor. "I own this house with my own money. And when you own a house like this and work really hard, you can have an adult sleepover, too. Deal?" 

Scorpius beamed. "Deal!"  

Glancing away, she attempted to gain control of her facial expressions. 

Never, in a million years, did she think she'd have to sit at Draco Malfoy's kitchen counter while watching him scramble with how to approach an impromptu, five-year-old appropriate sex talk. Alright, if she could even call it that, it was more like 'we're going to talk about this once and then pretend that this never happened' sort of conversation. 

And a part of her wondered just how often those conversations occurred. 

Scorpius began shoveling cereal into his mouth, then. Honestly? She had to give some well-deserved thanks to an easily distracted, childlike mind.

Releasing a breath, she looked back at Draco, who was watching her carefully. Again, that familiar warmth licked up her throat, bleeding into her cheeks.

"Sorry," he mouthed. 

Hermione shook her head, rolling her eyes as she wrapped her hands around the porcelain mug. The scent of fresh coffee wafted up into her senses, soothing her. 

"Wait, Daddy!" Scorpius gasped, jolting them both as they turned towards the child. He wiggled in his seat. "Does this—? Does this mean that our birthday wish came true?" 

Draco blinked. "What do you mean, Scorp?" 

"You told me to wish for something really, really, really good this year." Scorpius grinned brightly. "So I did!" 

Hermione glanced between them, feeling a bit lost. 

"And—! And—!" Scorpius turned to face her, lowering his voice like he didn't want Draco to hear. "Remember, Miss Min? You told me that I—I can't tell anyone until the birthday wish comes true." 

"I… well, uh? I guess," she said slowly. "Yes, I suppose I did." 

"But—! But it did!" Scorpius grinned, bouncing on the stool as it precariously rocked back and forth. Oh gods. "So I can tell now! Can't I? I can tell you my birthday wish!" 

Draco stiffened. And hell, could she really blame him? 

Scorpius pressed his elbows into the counter. "I wished—!" he started. "I wished that Miss Min would make Daddy happy and stay with us forever! And guess what, Daddy? She did!" 

THE END