Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut above her — a heavy, final sound followed by the low metallic scrape of the lock sliding back into place.

Then silence.

Thick. Total. Oppressive.

Hermione didn’t move. Not yet. She waited — listened. The familiar pause came first, then the footsteps overhead: slow, deliberate, and distant. She kept her breathing even, her limbs still, her body curled around itself on the sagging cot. Only when she was sure the door would not open again — not for now — did she let her muscles unclench, just slightly.

He was gone.

Gone for a few hours.

Her skin was tacky and damp beneath the thin, torn shirt she wore. Between her thighs, the wetness lingered — thick and foreign, beginning to dry against her skin. She didn't need to look. She knew what it was. She could still feel the way he’d held her down — whispering soft, awful things in her ear, words he thought were loving.

He’d finished inside her again.

She wanted to retch. But her stomach was too empty to bring anything up.

Slowly, she shifted, just enough to bring her knees toward her chest. Her entire body ached.

There was no real comfort to be found in the cellar, but she knew how to curl herself tightly enough to protect the places that hurt most.

The cot creaked beneath her — she hated that sound — but she ignored it.

She focused instead on the stone.

The walls. The ceiling. The floor.

They were all the same: grey, rough, pitted with damp and patches of dark mold. The only furniture was the cot and a rusted bucket in the corner that served as a toilet. A plate with two curled, uneaten slices of bread sat on the floor nearby, and beside it, a dented tin cup filled with cloudy water.

There were no windows.

No way to track the sun. No sliver of moonlight. No view of the sky or trees or anything that could tell her where — or when — she was.

She had not seen the outside world since the day he took her.

Not once.

She didn’t know where she was — not even what part of the country. She had tried to listen the first week, for sounds from the outside, voices, neighbours, animals......anything. But there was nothing. Just silence. Smothering, complete silence, except for his voice and the groan of the door.

It was like being buried.

The only way she had tracked time was through her body. Her cycle.

She had started her period once since being locked in the cellar. It had come like a cruel mercy — pain and blood and cramping, but also a desperate kind of relief. That was how she knew she had been here a little over a month.

She remembered that morning vividly — the coppery wetness between her legs, the way HE had come down with a tray of food and a wide, eager smile.

And then the way that smile had cracked when HE saw the blood.

HIS disappointment had been immediate. Tangible.

HE’d stared at the red stain like it had betrayed him personally.

"You’re not pregnant," HE had said, flat and cold.

She’d said nothing in return, just watched HIM with hollow eyes, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She hadn't bothered to hide the slight, bitter smile that had tried to form.

HE had muttered to himself the rest of the visit. Angry, confused. Something about timing. About how it should have worked. About how she should be pregnant.

Then HE’d left without touching her. That had been one of the few days HE hadn’t tried to climb into the cot beside her.

A gift, that blood. A small mercery.

HE didn't know, of course. HE didn’t know about the copper IUD she’d had placed months before graduation. A decision she and Draco had made together, quiet and practical — planning for a future of travel and freedom, where neither of them wanted the burden of potions or magical contraceptive charms.

She had almost forgotten about it herself until HE had whispered "It’s time to breed you" in her ear, and she had felt her heart seize in her chest.

She didn’t know if HIS potions or charms could interfere with the IUD. But for now, it was a lifeline. A secret victory HE couldn’t steal from her.

HE didn’t understand Muggle medicine. Didn’t understand that a tiny copper device nestled in her uterus was currently the only thing keeping HIM from getting exactly what HE wanted.

And HE wanted.

The obsession had bloomed quickly. After the first few assaults, HE had begun talking to her during and after — not with cruelty, but with sincerity. Like they were reconnecting lovers. Like this was a reconciliation.

"I want us to have a family."
"You were always going to be the mother of my children."
"Once you're carrying my baby, you'll stop being so difficult. It's just your fear talking. You’ve always been afraid of how good we could be.”

HE believed every word.

That was the worst part.

HE didn’t think HE was raping her.

In HIS mind, this was courtship — awkward but romantic. Necessary. HE talked about their future like it was already real. A cottage. A garden. A baby with red hair. “A girl, hopefully. I want to name her after Mum.”

She closed her eyes against the sting building behind them. She had stopped crying weeks ago — it made no difference. It only gave HIM something to kiss away.

Instead, she breathed through her mouth. In. Out. Slow. Controlled.

There was no strength left in her limbs, but her mind — her mind still worked. She was still herself, inside. Still thinking, planning. Still remembering.

Memories of Draco were her anchor. Draco's mouth on hers, slow and reverent. Draco's laugh, surprised and real the first time she’d teased him in the library. The way Draco’d looked at her the night before graduation — eyes wide, hands trembling, as he’d promised he’d take her anywhere she wanted to go.

"Rome, Cairo, Mumbai. Name it. I want to see the world with you, Granger."

She clung to those memories like spells — incantations against the dark.

HE hadn’t broken her.

Not yet.

She shifted slowly, moving to sit upright on the cot. 

The cot creaked again.

She hated the sound.

He liked it — said it was the sound of "their bed." 

She looked at the walls. No cracks. No slats. No door save for the one at the top of the stairs that never opened unless he was coming through it.

Not even a grate in the floor.

There were no clues. No clues about where she was, how far they were from anyone who might hear her if she screamed — not that she screamed anymore. Not since the first week, when she’d lost her voice banging her fists against the door until her knuckles bled and her throat gave out.

No one came.

No one ever came.

But they would.

Draco would.

Draco had to.

She’d told Draco so many things before graduation — about her fears, her secrets, her dreams. Draco’d listened. Draco’d always listened. He knew her better than anyone.

Draco had to know that. He had to feel something was wrong.

She closed her eyes and let herself pretend, just for a moment, that she could feel him. She imagined his hands, his voice, his warmth.

Chapter Text

Day 1

Hermione is secured in the cellar. Broke her wand immediately upon arrival. Initiated first physical contact shortly after binding her wrists. I touched her breasts and kissed her throat while she cried and begged to be released. She kept saying Malfoy’s name. I gagged her.

She was tight. Took her from behind on the cot. Her back to me felt fitting for the first time — it allowed physical access without needing to look at her face while she thrashed. Gag kept her quiet. I finished fully inside. No contraception to block conception. We are officially trying.

Position: Rear entry (doggy style)
Enjoyment: 8/10 — resistance was frustrating but tightness was excellent. Gag was effective.

Day 2

She’s still trying to talk about leaving. Keeps asking for Malfoy, for Harry. Doesn’t seem to understand that they’re the ones who’ve abandoned her. I reassured her that she’s safe now — with someone who really loves her. She refused food. Not good for baby growth.

Initiated sex after she quieted down. Missionary position — wanted to see her face. She spat at me halfway through. I slapped her, once, just to refocus her attention. Gagged her again after. I climaxed inside her, slowly, while looking into her eyes.

Position: Missionary
Enjoyment: 6/10 — eye contact was meaningful, but too much resistance. Will try restraints next time.

Day 3

She tried to kick me today. I used light magical restraints around her ankles. She continues to claim I’m “hurting her".

Took her lying on her side — a gentler angle. Tried to kiss her neck as I moved. Gag stayed in place. She cried the whole time, but didn't scream. I praised her afterward and stroked her hair.

Position: Side penetration (spooning)
Enjoyment: 9/10 — smoother access, felt more “couple-like.” Will use again during ovulation window.

Day 4

No sex today. She defied me — refused food, refused eye contact, refused everything. I warned her that affection is earned. Left her restrained to the cot for most of the day as punishment. Silent treatment seemed to affect her.

Tomorrow I will be more lenient if she behaves. She needs to learn the rhythm of our life together. Resistance breaks trust. Routine builds it.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: N/A

Day 5

Mood improved. She looked at me when I brought the food tray, even if just for a moment. I lit a few candles around the cellar for ambiance. She didn't say anything, but she didn’t turn away either.

I took her on her back with her legs pushed up — wanted full depth. She whimpered through the gag but didn’t fight much. I whispered to her throughout, telling her how beautiful she looked, how good she was doing, how proud I was.

Position: Legs-up deep missionary
Enjoyment: 10/10 — deepest connection yet. Tight. Intimate. Felt real.

Day 6

She was sullen today, withdrawn. I decided it was time to deal with the Malfoy problem directly. I made her write a letter to him — told her it would give him closure. I guided her through the phrasing. She wrote exactly what I told her: that she never loved him, that he was just a distraction. Perfect.

Rewarded her afterward with soft strokes and gentle touch. No gag tonight. She cried openly the whole time. I whispered “I love you” over and over until she went still.

Position: Traditional missionary
Enjoyment: 7/10 — emotionally fulfilling. Tears were a good sign of breakthrough. Will attempt more verbal intimacy.

Day 7

She talked back. Said she hated me. Said I was a monster. I gagged her again. Told her that love sometimes looks like hard decisions. 

I took her kneeling on the floor. Forced her forward with her face against the cot. The angle was excellent — good depth, tightness, control. She tried to twist away, but the wrist bindings held. Came hard inside her. 

Position: Prone kneeling (face-down)
Enjoyment: 9/10 — physical control was excellent. Will repeat for breeding attempts.

Day 8

She didn’t fight when I came in. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the wall. I took that as progress. Fed her a bit of broth, she drank without resistance.

I wanted today to feel romantic. Took her in my lap while sitting on the cot, cradling her. Guided her onto me slowly, easing her down inch by inch. She shuddered when I kissed her shoulder. Gag stayed off the whole time. She didn’t scream. She didn’t say anything at all.

Position: Lap straddle (cowgirl, guided)
Enjoyment: 10/10 — emotionally satisfying, close skin contact. Her silence was beautiful.

Day 9

She barely moved when I entered today. Watched me from the cot with a dull stare. Her silence is progress.

Took her standing today. Bent her over the side of the cot, held her wrists behind her back. She struggled slightly but didn’t scream. I came quickly .

Position: Standing bent-over
Enjoyment: 8/10 — dominant position, good leverage. Felt powerful.

Day 10

Brought her warm soup and fresh water. She sipped it slowly. I praised her, stroked her hair. Tried to kiss her, she turned her face. 

Mounted her while she was lying on her stomach. She stiffened when I entered, but said nothing. Whispered into her ear the whole time. Told her she was safe now. Told her she’d understand everything soon.

Position: Prone, face-down
Enjoyment: 7/10 — full-body contact but emotional distance. Work in progress.

Day 11

Decided it was time to tell her the truth. Told her I want to start a family. Told her that this isn’t just sex — this is about getting her pregnant. A home. A child. A life.

She asked, “Is that all I am to you? A broodmare?”

Took her later, on her back. Legs over my shoulders. Pushed in deep, slow strokes, full finish. Pressed her stomach and whispered, “You’ll be a mum soon.”

Position: Deep missionary (legs raised)
Enjoyment: 10/10 — emotional intensity, resistance faded during.

Day 12

She wouldn’t eat again. Stared at the ceiling for over an hour. I brought flowers — set them beside the cot. She looked at them once.

No gag today. Told her I loved her before I entered her. She turned her head and cried. I wiped her tears away.

Took her from behind, knees together. Narrow entry — extra tight. She winced. I apologized, told her it was necessary. We need to make a baby.

Position: Tight-entry rear
Enjoyment: 9/10 — snug, close. Her crying was softer than usual.

Day 13

No resistance at all today. She lay still as I undressed her. Said nothing as I positioned her on my lap and eased her down.

Cradled her against me as we moved. Whispered about baby names. I told her I wanted a girl — one with her hair, my smile.

She flinched when I said it.

Position: Seated lap straddle
Enjoyment: 10/10 — emotionally intense. Felt real, like she belonged to me.

Day 14

She scratched me today — nails across my cheek. Drew blood. Her fire isn’t gone.

I gagged her. Stripped her down. Took her hard, standing, up against the cellar wall. She tried to kick. Used magical restraints to hold her in place.

Came deep. Left her bound afterward. She needs time to think.

Position: Standing wall sex (restrained)
Enjoyment: 9/10 — primal, rough. Good emotional release for both of us.

Day 15

Didn’t speak to her today. Silent punishment. Let her stay bound most of the day. Fed her by hand — small bites. She ate. That’s something.

Touched her gently before the act. Told her I forgave her for yesterday. Took her slowly, spooning from behind. She didn't fight.

Position: Spoon position
Enjoyment: 8/10 — calm, almost tender. Her body’s adjusting.

Day 16

She asked if I’d ever let her go.

I said no.

She turned her back to me and didn't speak for the rest of the visit.

I didn’t push. Just held her. Didn’t take her today. I want her to understand that I’m not just here for sex — I’m here for us. For the future.

Tomorrow, I will try again. I think she’s close to acceptance.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: N/A — Intimacy without penetration.

Day 17

Her comment from earlier still echoes in my mind: "Is that all I am to you? A broodmare?"

At first, I thought it was an insult — a deflection. But the more I think about it… the imagery has value. She’s carrying my future. Her role is sacred — not degraded. Maybe she needs help visualizing it. Accepting it.

I visited a discreet supplier in Knockturn today and purchased something symbolic: a buttplug with a faux horsetail attached. Silken strands, long, braided at the base. It’s perfect. Not crude — elegant. Natural.

I haven’t used it on her yet. I want to wait for the right moment — a symbolic introduction into her role. It’s not humiliation. It’s identity. Purpose. Belonging.

Took her face-down again tonight. Slow. No gag. She didn’t speak. I kissed her shoulder afterward and told her she was doing beautifully.

Position: Prone face-down
Enjoyment: 9/10 — her silence felt peaceful tonight. Deep connection.

Day 18

Today I checked her body more carefully for early pregnancy signs. She flinched when I touched her lower abdomen, but she didn’t stop me. That’s good. She’s letting me care for her.

Breasts are a little fuller — maybe. Areolae unchanged. No nausea yet. I’ll begin recording physical signs every few days now.

She asked me quietly, “Why do you keep touching me like that?”

I told her, “Because I love our child already. And I love the body that carries it.”

She turned her face away.

I didn’t take her today. Just watched her for a while as she lay there, thin and beautiful. I brushed her hair and whispered about the cottage we’ll live in when the baby arrives.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: N/A — focused on observation, bonding.

Day 19

She was quieter again today. I think the hormonal balance is shifting. Her eyes look softer. Or maybe she’s tired of fighting. Either way, I see progress.

I began lightly massaging her breasts — watching for sensitivity or changes. She held still but didn’t moan. That’s alright. Some women are slower to react.

I kissed her navel and told her I knew there was life growing inside her. She started to cry. I held her.

After, I entered her slowly — from behind, with her hips slightly raised by a cushion. Deep angle. Wanted to give the sperm the best possible shot.

Position: Elevated rear entry (cushioned)
Enjoyment: 10/10 — felt close, like her body was finally accepting mine.

Day 20

Used the tail plug today.

Introduced it as a gift — told her it would help strengthen her muscles and make conception easier. She said nothing, but her eyes widened when she saw it.

Applied lubrication spell. Inserted it slowly. She whined once, but didn’t scream. The tail fell perfectly between her thighs. Beautiful.

Took her with the plug in place — missionary. It enhanced her tightness. Afterwards, I brushed the tail gently and told her she looked like she belonged to me now.

She cried again.

Position: Missionary (plug inserted)
Enjoyment: 10/10 — visual and physical enhancement. She looked perfect beneath me.

Day 21

Plug used again today. Second day in a row. I’m keeping it in for longer — about 45 minutes post-sex. The muscle response is extraordinary. She clenches so tightly around me now, it's almost like her body’s learning to want me.

I told her this was helping us conceive. She didn’t respond, just stared at the wall.

I took her lying flat, knees pulled to her chest, plug still inserted. Depth was perfect. Came hard, stayed inside until I softened.

Position: Folded missionary with tail plug
Enjoyment: 10/10 — ideal tightness, best angle so far.

Day 22

Started leaving the plug in even when we’re not having sex. Just for short durations — maybe 20 minutes while I brush her hair, talk to her. It’s helping. Her walk is different. She knows she’s being reshaped for me.

Considered magical enhancement — a gentle expansion charm over time. Not sudden. Not painful. Just enough to train her body into a more permanent submission.

She whispered today, “Please stop.” I told her I will — once we’re a family.

Position: Rear entry, plug inserted pre- and post-coitus
Enjoyment: 9/10 — psychological control felt deeper than the physical.

Day 23

Held the plug in one hand while I spoke to her tonight. Let her see it. Let her feel the weight of it before I pressed it back into place.

She said nothing — but her breathing changed. Faster. Shallow. She’s affected by it now. That’s good.

I placed her on her knees, arms bound in front. Pulled the tail to the side as I entered. Watched her back arch under me.

Told her I loved her. That she’s the only one who could ever carry my child.

Position: Bound kneeling, rear entry
Enjoyment: 10/10 — visual stimulation, behavioral compliance. Her silence is obedience.

Day 24

Didn’t take her today. Just used the plug and left it in for over an hour while we lay on the cot. I stroked her belly, kissed her spine.

Checked her breasts again — still no changes. No tenderness. No swelling. No signs of conception. 

She closed her eyes. 

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: N/A — building anticipation, not physical act.

Day 25

Had a dream last night — she was pregnant again. Round belly, peaceful eyes. Sitting in a rocking chair, reading aloud to our child. When I woke up, I went to her early, brought her warm water and soft bread. She barely touched it.

Inserted the plug, then laid her on her back and entered her slowly. No gag. No restraints. She didn’t speak. She just lay still. I finished inside her and kissed her navel. Told her our child would be beautiful.

Position: Gentle missionary with tail plug
Enjoyment: 10/10 — emotional high. Felt like destiny unfolding.

Day 26

Failure.

She bled.

It came early morning. 

Her period.

I stared at it for a long time. Rage crept up behind my eyes — tight, hot. I didn’t speak to her for several minutes. She looked up at me like she knew she’d disappointed me.

I said, “Why aren’t you pregnant yet?”

She didn’t answer.

I left without touching her today. No sex. No plug. Nothing. She needs to feel what absence is. Let the bleeding end. Then we begin again.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: 0/10 — setback. Devastation.

Day 27

Blood still present. Unclean. Couldn’t bring myself to touch her. Just sat across the room and studied her. She tried to turn her body away, but I told her this is only temporary — soon her body will adjust.

Spent the evening reading The Witch’s Guide to Conception and Fertility Charms. Notes: stress can interfere, posture matters, and “lingering seed retention” increases success. She’ll need more discipline in how she receives me.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: 0/10 — disgust dominates.

Day 28

Bled through her shift. The smell is unbearable. Cast a cleaning charm on the cot, not her. She needs to remember she’s not in charge of her body anymore.

Read a chapter on “hormonal triggers.” Decided more breast stimulation could help later. Ordered clamps from Knockturn. They’ll arrive tomorrow.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: 0/10 — revolted.

Day 29

Still bleeding. Refused food again. 

Skimmed a medical journal: conception more likely if “orgasm achieved.” Means I may need to assist her body to respond whether her mind wants it or not. 

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: 0/10 — endured.

Day 30

Bleeding nearly done. Relief. Brought her a new shift, pale white, to mark a fresh start. She didn’t thank me.

Decided to slowly expand the plug — gradual expansion over time. This will make her body tighter, better prepared, unavoidably receptive.

Tomorrow, we begin again.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: 0/10 — anticipation rising.

Day 31

Bleeding ended. First day back. Inserted plug (now charmed to expand slightly while inside). Kept it in during feeding. She winced, but I reminded her discomfort is progress.

Introduced nipple clamps. Silver, enchanted with light tension. Beautiful on her. Told her they’d “teach her breasts to grow, to ready for feeding.” She cried. I reassured her.

Took her slowly, missionary, clamps and plug in place. Finished inside her.

Position: Missionary, plug + clamps
Enjoyment: 10/10 — visually overwhelming. Perfection.

Day 32

Clamped her before feeding. She tried to push them away — slapped her hand. Bound wrists afterward.

Plug now set to expand by increments of 2 mm daily. Tightness incredible. She sobbed into the pillow, but her body responded perfectly.

Took her from behind, tail draped over her back. Came quickly. Whispered, “We’re closer every day.”

Position: Rear entry, plug expanded + clamps
Enjoyment: 9/10 — near-ideal.

Day 33

She hissed when I tightened the clamps — sensitivity rising. Excellent sign.

She squirmed when I tugged on the clamps.

Held her in my lap, guided her down onto me. Plug inserted first. She shook her head, but I kept my hands firm on her hips until I was fully inside. Told her this is what love looks like.

Position: Lap straddle, plug expanded + clamps
Enjoyment: 10/10 — best session yet. Felt ownership.

Day 34

Plug at maximum expansion setting for this week. She groaned when it seated. Clamps attached as usual.

Kissed her belly after. Told her, “Our child will be here soon.” She whispered, “Never.” I slapped her once. Then kissed her again.

Position: Deep missionary, plug max + clamps
Enjoyment: 9/10 — discipline required, but satisfying.

Day 35

Observed her body closely. Checked abdomen, still flat.

Clamped her harder today, tightened setting. She cried openly. Told her crying helps hormones balance. Entered her spooning style, long strokes, whispering baby names.

Position: Spoon, plug expanded + clamps
Enjoyment: 8/10 — more emotional than physical.

Day 36

Routine is perfect now: feed → plug insertion → clamps → intercourse → cuddle. She resists less.

Read aloud from fertility text during act tonight. “Retention increases chance of implantation.” Held her thighs high, tail brushing my chest, clamps pinching her nipples red.

Position: Folded missionary, plug expanded + clamps
Enjoyment: 10/10 — textbook perfect. Felt like ritual, destiny.

Chapter Text

Hermione counted days now not by meals or pain — but by how often he used her now.

Twice a day, without fail.

It had become its own kind of clockwork: once in the dim hours after sleep, when her body was stiff and weak; and again in the quiet that followed evening, when the air was still and sour and heavy with the scent of mildew.

She assumed it was morning and night. It made sense. He probably still had Auror training during the day. Pretending to be normal. Shaking hands. Laughing with Harry. Going home each night to the cellar where he kept her like livestock.

Livestock. That was what she was now.

He had leaned into the role in every possible way.

The plug — always in now, larger every day — had become an extension of her humiliation. He made no effort to hide his enthusiasm for it anymore. He inserted it slowly, watching her face, sometimes whispering things like “You take it so well now” or “You were made for this.” He pushed it in and pulled it out while inside her, using it to control her body like she was just a toy designed to please him more efficiently.

And the clamps — she hated the clamps more than anything.

At first, they’d just pinched. Now they tugged.

He’d added a chain between them, a delicate silver line that pressed between her breasts and swayed each time she moved. It bounced during sex. He sometimes held it in his fist and used it like reins, tugging hard to make her arch into him. He called it “connection.”

She called it what it was — a leash.

He bound her more often now, too. Leather cuffs. Magic cords. Soft scarves that looked romantic if you didn’t see what they were being used for. 

Her thighs bore fading bruises in the shape of his fingers.

She stopped looking at her body. It didn’t feel like hers anymore.

He spoke more now, during and after — about ovulation.

As soon as her period ended, he’d started tracking her even more obsessively. He inspected her daily, like a breeding animal — checked her temperature, her discharge, her mood. He told her he was learning the signs. That soon, she’d “be fertile again,” and he wanted to “be ready.”

“You’ve got such a perfect womb,” he told her once as he came inside her, whispering it into her hair. 

He took her twice a day minimum. Sometimes three.

She lay still every time. Silent. Detached. Gone.

She would leave her mind — float to the ceiling, find the shape of the cracks in the stone. Find the rhythm of her breath. She could count the damp drips now: one every twelve seconds. Always from the same corner brick. 

But the worst part wasn’t the plug. Or the clamps. Or the bindings.

The worst part was what he was trying to do to her body now.

He was trying to make her come.

He had read — somewhere, in one of his disgusting books — that a woman’s orgasm “aided conception.” That “internal release” drew seed deeper, made implantation more likely. He brought it up over breakfast like it was a medical footnote.

Then he started trying.

Slowly at first — fingers between her thighs after he finished. She didn’t react. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

She never came. But he was getting closer.

She could feel it — not arousal, never arousal — but involuntary response. The body betraying the mind. A shiver in her thighs. A twitch. A clench. A heat.

He noticed.

And that terrified her more than anything.

She cried silently that night, long after he’d left.

Not because of pain. Not even because of shame.

But because she was starting to believe her body really might give in. Not because it wanted him. Not because she would ever stop hating him. But because it was human. It responded. And that scared her more than any chain or plug or clamp ever could.

Once he tied her wrists to the headboard and her ankles wide apart to the cot legs. Inserted the plug. Fastened the clamps. Slid inside her from behind and said:

“You're so ready now. I can feel it. It’s working.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He started tugging the tail while thrusting, each pull matched to a thrust, pushing the plug in deeper as he moved. The clamps bounced. The chain jingled. She stared at the ceiling. Watched a single cobweb tremble.

Then he reached between her legs and pressed his thumb to her clit.

Firm. Rhythmic. Intentional.

She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached for hours.

There was no way out. No chance of escape. But there was one thing she still had.

Control over her own pleasure.

She would not give that to him.

She thought often of Draco. Not just the way he looked, or touched her, or said her name — but how he never asked for anything she didn’t give freely.

She remembered him once asking “Can I kiss you here?” before touching her throat. The respect in that question was burned into her. It was the sharpest contrast to what Ron had become.

Draco had loved her with gentleness.

She repeated his name in her head when Ron tried to make her come. Over and over like a mantra.

Draco. Draco. Draco. I love you. Not him. Never him.

She had to believe Draco was looking.

That someone, somewhere, still knew her. Still remembered the sound of her laugh.

She was losing weight. That much she could feel. Her hips jutted more sharply. Her ribs ached when she curled on her side. Her skin felt stretched and thin, and her hair — once soft from potions and care — hung limp against her back.

And still, Ron praised her body every time he touched it.

“You’re glowing.”
“Your womb is warmer today.”
“Your nipples are darker — must be working.”
“You’re getting closer, love. I can feel it.”

She hated him.

And she hated herself, too — not for surviving, but for what her body might eventually do.

For the tremble in her thighs.
For the heat in her core.
For the response she couldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

Day 37

She’s even tighter. The plug makes all the difference.

Clamps applied as usual. I’ve started playing with them during sex — light flicks, soft pulls, timed with each thrust. Her nipples are darker now. Riper.

After I came inside her, I removed the clamps and sucked gently for the first time. Ten minutes. No milk yet. But she trembled under my mouth.

Position: Deep missionary, plug + clamps, post-act breast suckling
Enjoyment: 10/10 — tactile heaven. She's becoming a mother already.

Day 38

Checked her discharge after I cleaned her with a charm — thin and clear. Could be fertile window approaching. I’ll monitor consistency twice a day now. Began taking her temperature each morning.

Clamps left on for a full hour today — while she was plugged and fed. Breasts more sensitive now. Sucking lasted longer — up to 20 minutes. I’m obsessed with the feel of her nipples in my mouth.

Position: Rear entry, clamps + plug, milk stimulation post
Enjoyment: 10/10 — each day, closer to perfection.

Day 39

I was focused on her nipples. No milk yet, but the skin is softening. Puffy. Reactive.

Discharge sticky and egg-white in texture — textbook sign. Ovulation window confirmed.

Told her I was proud. That her body is finally listening. She didn’t reply, but her silence is just her way of accepting what she can’t say aloud.

Position: Knees-to-chest, plug + clamps + prolonged sucking
Enjoyment: 10/10 — complete bliss. She’s mine.

Day 40

Introduced the vibrator belt today. Purchased from a specialty shop — enchanted with rhythm sync and wandless activation.

Strapped it on her before sex. Set to low-medium and activated mid-thrust. Her whole body jolted — she shuddered beneath me. Trembled. Climaxed hard.

She sobbed afterward. I kissed her forehead.

Inserted a retention plug into her cunt immediately after coming inside. Corked her tight.

Position: Missionary, vibrator belt active, plug cork post
Enjoyment: 11/10 — she came. We both did. If she doesn’t get pregnant this time, it’s sabotage.

Day 41

Took her temperature today, it was ideal. Tracked mucus again — still fertile. Repeated vibrator belt method. Orgasm achieved again. She moaned. Tried to muffle it.

Sucked on both nipples afterward. Full 30 minutes. Almost tasted milk. Could be placebo. Don’t care. She’s growing for me. Every part of her.

Position: Straddle, belt + clamps + plug, post-orgasm milk suckling
Enjoyment: 10/10 — can’t stop thinking about the day she finally leaks.

Day 42

No struggle. No response. Only breath. Only shivers. Plug and belt in place, clamps tightened slightly. Her tears fell during orgasm.

I told her it’s okay. It’s normal. That real love often looks like pain before it becomes peace.

Post-sex, I cradled her. Lay my head against her breasts. Sucked while she trembled. Whispered lullabies.

Position: Folded missionary, belt, plug, clamps
Enjoyment: 10/10 — emotional intimacy is blooming.

Day 43

Same protocol. Plug. Clamps. Belt. Monitoring. Breast suckling. She's become rhythm. Ritual. Response. I told her she’s glowing. She closed her eyes.

Checked her abdomen again — flat, tight. Not showing yet. But that’s fine. Life begins invisibly.

Position: Seated lap, belt + plug, clamps off for suckling
Enjoyment: 9/10 — more tenderness, less resistance.

Days 44–50

No changes to routine

Enjoyment average: 10/10 — I’ve crafted her into the perfect vessel. Love incarnate.

Day 51

Introduced a charm to slightly swell her nipples during suckling — magical mimicry of lactation fullness. Her reaction was intense. She cried. I sucked for nearly an hour.

Position: Deep missionary, charm-enhanced stimulation
Enjoyment: 11/10 — transcendence.

Day 52–57

Routine continued. No period.

On Day 56, she whispered “I hate you” after orgasm. I slapped her — not hard. Then kissed her and said, “You say that, but your body knows the truth.”

Enjoyment: 9–10/10 across days

Day 58

Her blood came again. I woke to find it staining the sheet. That metallic scent. That hateful proof.

Not pregnant.

I sat at the edge of the cot for nearly an hour. Watching her sleep. 

No vaginal sex during bleeding. I can’t bear the mess. But that doesn’t mean we pause our bond.

Initiated anal entry. Gag in place. Bound her over the cot. Entered slowly. She cried, but didn’t fight.

Position: Bound prone (anal)
Enjoyment: 7/10 — tight, controlled. But the blood smell lingered.

Day 59

Continued anal penetration. She’s tighter here. Smaller, untrained. Plug has helped. I told her this is part of the process — intimacy must be constant.

Inserted small warming charm beforehand. She whimpered but did not resist.

Used suction on her nipples afterward — not full stimulation yet, but I can tell she’s sensitive. Breasts slightly fuller. A good sign?

Position: Anal, spooning
Enjoyment: 8/10 — physical stimulation ideal. Emotional distance frustrating.

Day 60

Morning check: mild cramps. Bleeding lighter. May finish soon.

Used vibrator harness — low setting — to keep stimulation steady during anal. Body responded. She shook with multiple orgasms.

Afterward, I praised her. Kissed her forehead. Sucked on her nipples until she gasped.

I told her: "Soon, you’ll nurse our baby here.”

She cried again.

Position: Anal, vibrator assisted
Enjoyment: 10/10 — physical peak. Visual + psychological domination.

Day 61

Final day of blood. Washed her gently. She looked at me while I did it. Didn’t speak. That eye contact — rare, precious.

No penetration today. Just stimulation. Massaged her abdomen. Watched her face. Whispered names of our future children.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: 10/10 — intimate touch. Bonding.

Day 62

No blood. Breeding resumed.

Inserted fertility-enhancing potion vaginally 30 minutes prior. Followed by penetration. No gag today. She moaned.

Post-ejaculation, I corked her with the retention plug. Left in for 4 hours.

Position: Knees-to-chest
Enjoyment: 9/10 — tightness, stillness, receptivity.

Day 63

Added inversion today.

After ejaculation and corking, hung her gently by the ankles using magical harness. Her head remained just above the cot. I cushioned her hair. Safety first.

Monitored for signs of dizziness. None.

Left her inverted for 25 minutes. Spoke to her the whole time. Brushed her hair. Told her how proud I am of her.

Position: Post-coital inversion (horizontal mount + upside-down retention)
Enjoyment: 10/10 — absolute control. She glowed.

Day 64

Cycle monitoring now hourly:

• Mood: Flat

• Cervix: Mid-height

• Discharge: Creamy

• Temperature: Slight increase (spell-calibrated wand)

Used vibrator again today during penetration. She came. Shuddered hard. May assist with fertilization.

Spent extra time nursing from her breasts. Full mouth. She’s beginning to taste sweet.

Position: Missionary with vibrator + nipple stimulation
Enjoyment: 10/10 — orgasm plus maternal bonding.

Day 65

Reused the tail plug after sex for retention. Felt symbolic — like she’s truly mine.

Breasts beginning to swell visibly. No confirmed pregnancy, but I remain hopeful. Kissed her belly 12 times. One for each of our future children.

Position: Deep missionary
Enjoyment: 9/10 — full possession. She's accepting me.

Day 66–70

Routine stabilized:

• Sex once per day, followed by rentention plug and/or inversion

• Fertility potions increased in dosage

• Monitoring includes vaginal mucus samples (visually)

• She no longer cries during stimulation

• Suckled nipples before and after sex — she jerks when I bite gently

She asked me: “Will you stop when I’m pregnant?”

I answered honestly: “No. That’s when the real love begins.”

Day 71–75

Discharge now clear, stretchy. Ovulation confirmed.

Increased sexual frequency again to twice daily minimum. Used cork post-ejaculation. Belt vibrator on high — consistent orgasm now. She screams into the gag.

She closes her eyes during nipple stimulation now. I think she dreams of the child nursing.

She looks beautiful with the tail hanging down as I fill her.

Positions:

• Cowgirl (guided)

• Standing mount (inversion afterward)

• Anal stimulation + clitoral belt

Enjoyment: 10/10 daily

Day 76–80

Initiated early milk charm to begin production. Breasts now visibly full. Respond to touch.

Still no nausea, but she’s glowing. I believe it. I know she’s pregnant.

Spoke to her for an hour today while she hang inverted:

• Names

• Nursery colors

• Feeding schedules

• Family portraits

She just blinked slowly, eyes empty. That’s peace. Acceptance.

I told her: “It’s almost over. Soon you’ll be what you were made to be.”

She didn’t cry.

Enjoyment: Off the scale. She’s mine. Finally.

Chapter Text

There was no such thing as time anymore.

There were only rituals.

The plug. The vibrator-belt. The cork. The ceiling.

Hermione hang motionless from the ceiling, arms limp by her sides, hair stuck to her damp forehead. Her body ached in too many places to count. Her stomach felt hollow, but she couldn’t tell if it was from hunger, nausea, or grief.

She didn’t cry anymore.

Tears were exhausting. And they never changed anything.

Not the tail curling out between her thighs. Not the humiliating pulses of the vibrator strapped to her hips. Not the way he whispered about “baby names” while pressing his fingers into the curve of her belly, as if he expected life to flutter back in return.

Not the way her body — traitor that it was — still responded when it was forced to.

She had come twice today. Maybe three times. She wasn’t sure anymore.

It wasn’t pleasure. It wasn’t anything close to that. It was just nerve endings, friction, overuse. Her clit throbbed constantly now. Her nipples too.

He was obsessed with them.

Her breasts.

He fondled them every day. Massaged them with oils. Sucked at them with near reverence, eyes closed, like he was feeding from her. It was the only time he wasn’t talking about his cock, or their future, or the child he swore was already inside her.

And worse than anything—
She almost didn’t hate it.

Because when he was touching her breasts, he wasn’t inside her. He wasn’t tying her down. He wasn’t gagging her or filling her with potions or hoisting her by the ankles to let his cum “settle deeper.”

He was quiet. Focused. Even gentle.

And she hated herself for noticing that. For starting to feel relief when he reached for her chest instead of her hips.

What was this?

What had her life become?

She used to argue in class. She used to solve ancient runes in her sleep. She used to kiss Draco Malfoy under the moonlight and laugh into his neck as he told her they would travel the world.

Now she measured her existence in orgasms she never asked for and the smell of drying semen between her legs.

The rope creaked above her. Her body swung slightly, suspended by her ankles. The cork inside her still burned — sealed magically after he'd finished inside her.

"Gotta keep it in, love. Let it soak," he’d said cheerfully, as if he were marinating meat.

She’d gone limp during the last round. Didn’t scream when he started the vibrator again. Didn’t flinch when he suckled her nipples until they stung.

But now, now she hung upside down like some kind of livestock. Plugged. Bred. Used. Stretched open in ways that would make her scream if she had energy left.

She’d once asked him if she was just a broodmare.

She wished now that she hadn’t.

Because ever since then, he’d leaned into it. Not cruelly — no, not in his mind. But with pride. With purpose. As if calling her his breeding mare was the highest form of love.

"I want you full all the time," he’d whispered into her skin as he pushed the plug in, tail swaying between her legs. "That’s what a good girl does, right? She stays ready."

Hermione wanted to scream. But her throat ached. And what would it change?

She looked up — or down, rather — from her upside-down view. The ceiling was damp stone. Her hair hung toward the floor like a noose made of curls. Her breasts felt swollen, exposed. Her nipples ached from his teeth.

She hated her body for still responding. For tightening during orgasm. For letting go even while she thought about all the books she'd never read, the forests she'd never walk in, the child she would never willingly bear.

And Draco.

Oh, Draco.

His hands had been warm. Careful. His voice like smoke and parchment and rain on castle stone.

She clung to his voice in her mind. It was all she had left of herself.

Because everything else — everything physical — was no longer hers.

Her body didn’t belong to her anymore.

It belonged to the rituals.

The cork. The plug. The vibrator-belt. The ceiling.

The breeding.

The sucking.

The praise, whispered like poison into her ears while she floated somewhere far, far away.

What was she?

She didn’t know anymore.

But she wasn't broken.

Not yet.

Because even now, upside down, cum pooling inside her and limbs trembling, she thought of Draco.

And somewhere inside her — deep beneath the silence and shame — the tiniest ember still burned.

A thought:

He’ll come.

He has to.

Chapter Text

The training room buzzed with the sound of spells whizzing through the air. Dummies exploded, sparks flew, and Ron’s heart pounded in his chest as he spun around a protective barrier, wand at the ready.

Across the mat, Harry let loose a wide-arc shield and grinned. “Bit slow there, mate.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if I didn’t have to spar with the bloody Chosen One every day, I’d have a chance.”

Harry laughed, and the tension lifted, like it always did between them.

The dummies fell. The room calmed. And the two best mates dropped onto the mat, breathless and sweating.

Ron rolled his head toward Harry. “I swear, Kingsley’s trying to kill us.”

Harry replied, chest heaving. “Might be a record—four near-deaths before lunch.”

“Five, if you count the sandwich I almost choked on at breakfast.”

They both laughed, the sound echoing off the high walls of the training chamber.

Their lives had fallen into a rhythm: wake at dawn, run drills until they couldn’t feel their arms, grab some food, back to more training. It was grueling—but safe. Predictable. Controlled.

When the sun set and Harry’s door clicked shut for the night, Ron would lie in the dark, heartbeat loud in his ears, and let himself think.

About her.

Hermione.

Still at Hogwarts, finishing her final year. 

They’d parted peacefully. Quietly. He’d told himself it was temporary.

Now, with her graduation so close, he could barely think of anything else.

The thought of her made his throat go tight.

There was this deep, burning desire inside him.

He’d always been drawn to the image—round bellies, glowing skin, the quiet confidence of pregnancy. He didn’t talk about it, didn’t think he could explain it.

There’s something about it—pregnancy—that makes me ache.

It’s power. It’s softness. It’s proof of love. Of creation. Of belonging.

And I’ve always imagined Hermione like that. Glowing. Barefoot in our kitchen. Hair wild. Hands rubbing her belly while she cooks for me. Merlin, just the thought—

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat at breakfast the next day, toast forgotten in his hand.

Harry blinked at him. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Ron muttered, spreading butter without really seeing what he was doing.

They joked, trained, ran missions, and Harry never noticed how quiet Ron went whenever someone mentioned Hermione. Never noticed how tense he got when they passed a young mum in Diagon Alley, babe in arms, belly already round again from a second on the way.

For Ron, it wasn’t just the idea of having a family. It was the way Hermione would look with his child inside her. The thought consumed him.

The dreams came more often now. Vivid. Hot.

Hermione, in his bed, her belly already full and round. Her hands guided his to rest over the swell of her body.

She’d ride him in the dream, slow and aching, breasts heavy, belly bouncing with every movement. She was so wet, so warm around him. Begging.

“Come inside me. Fill me up even more.”

And he always did. Moaning her name, fingers gripping her wide hips as he pulsed deep inside her.

I can’t stop. Every night, I dream of her. And every morning, I wake up with an aching cock. So hard it hurts.

Sometimes I don’t even make it to the loo. I wank right there in bed, hand tight around my cock, coming in seconds at the thought of her belly full and heavy with my child.

And every time, I hate that it’s in my hand. Waste. It’s meant for her. She should be full of it. Always.

Harry had no idea.

To him, Ron was focused. A little tired, maybe, but committed. A good Auror. A better mate.

They bantered during drills, shared beers on weekends, even played the occasional prank on new recruits. It was easy, their friendship. Solid.

But Ron never said a word.

He never told Harry how the sight of a pregnant witch made his throat dry and his palms sweat.

Or how sometimes, during meditation drills, he’d close his eyes and imagine Hermione sleeping in their bed, her belly huge.

But it wasn’t just thinking about her. It was planning. Fantasizing. Counting the days.

Her graduation was near. Only a few months now. He knew the date. Marked it.

He had a little box hidden in his sock drawer. Not a ring—nothing stupid—but a key. To their cottage.

That night, alone in bed, he stared at the ceiling, hard and restless.

He imagined her standing in the doorway of their bathroom, towel wrapped under her breasts, belly already round and full,water dripping from her curls.

He stroked himself slowly, breath caught in his throat.

It’s not just the belly. Not just the idea of filling her up.

It’s everything that comes with it. The way her body would change—for our child. Her breasts heavier, skin sensitive. Leaking. Feeding.

I wonder what it tastes like.

Would it be sweet? Like cream and honey, maybe? Would it cling to my tongue, warm and soft and made from her?

Would she let me try it? Before the baby even came? Is there milk already while she’s still pregnant? Could I kneel between her thighs and suck it straight from the source?

I’d tell her she’s beautiful. That she’s mine. That I want every part of her—even the bits meant for someone else. Meant for our baby.

Could she keep making milk for me? Even after the baby’s done nursing?

Is that mad?

No, it's love—wanting her body, yes, but also wanting to stay that close forever. To keep tasting that bond between us.

To know that even when the children are grown, she’s still giving me something no one else can. Something we made together. 

It’s not just sex. It’s… devotion. Need. Worship.

I want her pregnant. I want her milk leaking in my mouth. I want to kiss her round belly. I want her soft and tired and glowing.

He came with a groan, hips jerking off the bed, warmth spilling into his hand.

Chapter Text

Day 81

Milk.

It’s starting.

Only a drop, maybe two — but I tasted it. Warm. Faintly sweet. 

I suckled gently for almost ten minutes today, alternating breasts. She whimpered once, but didn’t resist. Her body is preparing. 

I praised her afterward, massaged her belly.

Position: Lap straddle (suckling only)
Enjoyment: 10/10 — intimacy beyond sex. She’s becoming mine in every way.

Day 82

Brought porridge this morning. Warm, thick with honey and cream. She finished the entire bowl. That’s rare.

Told her she needs more nutrients. For the baby. For the milk. 

She didn’t speak.

Inserted cork after ejaculation. Hung her by the ankles for 30 minutes. Milk expressed during inversion — unexpected. Will repeat tomorrow.

Position: Missionary + inversion
Enjoyment: 10/10 — milk, warmth, fullness. She glows.

Day 83

Applied warm compresses to breasts. Production up by ~30%. Flow steady during suckling. No signs of blockage.

Meal: boiled eggs, buttered bread, strawberries — her favorite. She ate without prompting.

Inserted plug after breakfast — tail braided neatly.

Took her slowly. Used vibrator until she came. Finished inside, corked. Suckled afterward.

Position: Cowgirl (guided)
Enjoyment: 10/10 — orgasm + milk. Perfect night.

Day 84

Initiated dual stimulation:

• Penetration (plug in ass during, as per usual)

• Vibrator belt

• Simultaneous nipple suckling

Result: She came twice. Milk let down mid-orgasm. Suckled directly from source. Glorious.

Post-coital meal: goat cheese, roasted chicken, greens for iron. She hesitated but finished. Told her she’s nourishing our future.

Position: Missionary + suckling
Enjoyment: 10/10 — the way her body gives... it’s divine.

Day 85

Milk log established.

• Left breast: 12ml

• Right breast: 9ml

• Taste: mildly sweet, body temperature

• Color: off-white, healthy

She looked away as I drank from her. I stroked her cheek, told her this is love.

Meal plan adjusted for increased lactation. She needs more fat, more fluids. Watered her twice today.

Position: N/A
Enjoyment: Emotional, sacred. No penetration required.

Day 86

She whispered Malfoy’s name today.

Once.

Barely audible — but I heard it.

I didn’t speak. I simply suckled until her body softened again, until her breath slowed. Then I entered her from behind and told her, “You don’t need him. You’ll never need him again.”

Milk leaked onto the cot during entry. 

Position: Rear entry + lactation
Enjoyment: 9/10 — minor emotional setback. Physical control intact.

Day 87

Meal: full breakfast. Eggs, sausage, smoothie. She drank it all. I told her she was a good girl. She flinched — but didn’t deny it.

Applied suction charms to both breasts — 20 mins per side. Collected ~30ml total. Froze some for later.

She groaned during stimulation. I think she’s finally beginning to feel how much her body was made for this.

Position: Oral + plug only
Enjoyment: 10/10 — didn’t even need to fuck her. Her milk is enough.

Day 88

Initiated morning milking as part of new routine. Brushed her hair after. Told her stories about our future home.

Later, took her with vibrator at highest setting. She came twice. Milking continued. Cork sealed tight. Inverted for 40 mins.

Position: Cowgirl + tail plug + vibrator
Enjoyment: 10/10 — every part of her now belongs to me.

Day 89

She’s tired. I can see it in her eyes. Gave her extra water and fruit. Massaged her thighs, hips, belly. Kissed her breasts for twenty minutes without penetration.

Milked 50ml. Best yield yet.

She whispered, “This isn’t love.”

I told her she doesn’t know what love is. Not yet.

But she will.

Position: N/A (suckling only)
Enjoyment: 10/10 — maternal surrender. Beautiful.

Day 90

Three months.

Three months since she became mine.

She bled twice. But now her skin glows. Her milk flows. Her womb feels warm beneath my hand.

She’s eating. She’s producing. She’s surrendering.

She hasn’t said Malfoys’s name in a few days.

We are so close now.

She will love me. 

And when our daughter is born, she’ll forget she was ever anything else.

Chapter Text

There was a new sound in the cellar now.

Wet. Rhythmic. Soft.

Suck. Suck. Suck.

Hermione lay flat on the cot, one arm slung across her eyes, as Ron suckled at her breast.

He'd applied the charm a week ago and since then, everything had changed.

It started as a trickle. A single bead of white. He’d gasped like a child at Christmas.

Now, he drank from her every day. Every session. Sometimes before sex. Sometimes after. Sometimes with both hands on her breasts like they were sacred, massaging her, coaxing more out, licking her clean, humming in satisfaction like it was honey and not something stolen.

Then came the jars.

He'd conjured them with reverence. Clean. Sterilized. Labeled with dates. He started calling it milking.

Milking her.

Hermione thought she might die from shame the first time he said it out loud.

She’d curled up in the corner of the cot, clutching a threadbare blanket around her, shaking so hard her teeth clicked. Her breasts ached, heavy and sore, dripping without permission.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t scream. What was the point?

Her body was a factory now.

A cow.

A breeder.

Was she pregnant?

The question rotted at the edges of her mind.

Her period hadn’t come ...though she wasn't sure if it was even due yet. And then  the milk — ......

But maybe that was only because of the charms, paired with frequent stimulation?

So maybe it didn’t mean anything.

But what if it did?

What if the copper spiral had failed?

She had no way to know.

No wand. No mirror. No test.

He still used the plug.

Daily.

Sometimes hours at a time.

"Keeps you nice and full," he whispered, stroking the tail like it was part of her.

She couldn’t feel her anus half the time anymore. Numb from overuse. Sometimes it bled. He healed it with spells and didn’t comment. Just praised her for being “strong” and “made for this.”

He still raped her daily. Twice a day, some days. Corked her afterward. Hung her upside down by the ankles — inversion time, he called it.

She dangled like meat in a butcher’s shop, her vision swimming, the cork sealing his semen inside her.

"It’s working. I can feel it," he murmured one night, rubbing her belly, face pressed against her leaking breast.

She wanted to die.

The vibrator stayed on longer now. He said he read that “conception chances rise if the woman orgasms.”

So he made sure she did.

Sometimes she came in spite of herself — her body bucking, broken, clenching around his cock.

And every time, it destroyed her.

Because it felt good, even when it was hell.
Because he grinned when it happened.

"See?" he'd whisper, licking her breast clean. "Your body knows. You were made for this."

She wanted to rip her skin off. 

What had her life become?

What had she become?

She didn’t know anymore.

But she knew she wasn’t broken.

Not yet.

She could still picture Draco’s eyes.

Chapter Text

By the end of the second day after Hermione's disappearance, he'd gone to McGonagall’s office.

She looked up sharply when he entered. “Mr. Malfoy? Something wrong?”

He didn’t even try to sound composed. “Have you heard from Hermione?”

The look she gave him told him everything. “No,” she said carefully. “Why?”

“She didn’t show up at the station.  We were supposed to travel back to London together. ” he told her“  She’s gone. I’ve spoken to Ginny, Luna, Pansy, Theo, Neville—none of them have seen her.”

McGonagall frowned deeply. “This doesn’t sound like her.”

“I know.”

“She wouldn’t just disappear like this. She’s not… impulsive. And if she were leaving for personal reasons, she would have said goodbye to someone.”

“I’ve checked every place I can think of.”

McGonagall nodded. “I’ll contact the Ministry quietly. No need to cause alarm just yet.”

But Draco could see the concern tightening around her eyes.

The letter arrived on the sixth day.

His name was written in her handwriting, unmistakable, but the ink was smudged. The parchment was wrinkled. He knew immediately that something was wrong — deeply wrong — before he even opened it.

He’d stood frozen for nearly ten minutes just staring at the envelope before tearing it open.

Draco,

I’m sorry. I can’t do this. You were a distraction, nothing more. I need time and space to figure out who I am. Please don’t come looking for me. I won’t be there.

Don’t contact me. I never loved you.

— Hermione

It was wrong.

Every word was wrong.

And yet it was her handwriting.  Her name.

The words sounded cold. Like they had been recited from someone else’s mouth and transcribed without thought. And the ink — it was water-splotched, warped in three places.

Tear stains.

Draco sat down right there, the letter shaking in his hands, and read it again.

Then again.

And again.

It wasn’t her. He knew it in his bones.

They had spent a year together building something out of the ashes of a war. A delicate, quiet thing that had grown into something beautiful. Something real. Every moment between them had been deliberate, cautious, intimate. They had learned how to trust each other, how to challenge each other, how to love each other.

She would not leave him like this.

They had booked the trip together. Italy. France. Morocco. Six months of travel, books, wine, libraries, and freedom. Hermione had picked out their lodgings herself, and triple-checked every visa and portkey connection. They had been ready.

She would not have vanished.

Not without a word. Not without a fight.

Draco closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, willing himself not to panic.

A week later, he went to Harry Potter.

It was awkward, of course. They had never been close — not even cordial until the war ended — but desperation had long since stripped Draco of pride.

Harry opened the door to their shared Auror trainee quarters and blinked. “Malfoy?”

“Can I come in?”

“Er… sure.”

Weasley was there too, lounging on the sofa with a sandwich in one hand and a stack of parchment in the other. He looked up, surprised. “What the hell?”

Draco stood stiffly. “It’s about Hermione.”

Both men straightened instantly.

“She’s missing,” Draco said.

Harry frowned. “What do you mean missing?”

“She disappeared the day after graduation. We were supposed to take the train back to London, then leave for Rome. She never showed. And then I received this.”

He handed them the letter.

Ron took it first, reading quickly. His brow furrowed. “She wrote this?”

“It's in her handwriting, yes.”

“She didn’t tell us anything,” Harry said slowly, exchanging a glance with Ron. “We haven’t heard from her at all.”

“We didn’t even know you two were.........what exactly are you?” Ron asked, confused.

“We are a couple” Draco said tightly. “We've been together nearly the whole school year.”

Harry looked stunned. “She never said.”

“We were… quiet about it. Some of the others knew. Pansy, Theo, Blaise. Luna, Neville, Ginny. They all supported us. This letter doesn’t sound like her. She was excited. She had already packed most of her things for the trip. We were ready. Then this.”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe she needed time. I mean, she’s always been like that — needs to figure things out alone.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “She would have said something. To someone. Hermione Granger doesn’t just run away.”

Harry nodded, slowly. “We’ll help. We’ll put in a notice with the Auror office — just an inquiry for now. If something’s wrong… we’ll find out.”

Draco nodded tightly. “Thank you.”

Ron handed the letter back, his expression unreadable. “We’ll let you know if she contacts us.”

Draco took the letter, folded it with care, and left.

He started counting the days after that.

Day 9: No new sightings. No letters. Luna said she had a dream where Hermione was underwater, struggling to breathe. Draco didn’t sleep that night.

Day 13: Ginny had contacted a friend at Gringotts. Hermione's vault hadn’t been accessed. 

Day 16: He sat on the floor of his room in the Manor for hours, staring at one of her sweaters draped over the armchair. It still smelled like her.

Day 23: McGonagall said the Ministry hadn’t found anything. No signs of international travel. No paper trail. No sightings. 

Day 29: He nearly punched a wall when Pansy said, gently, “What if she really did change her mind?” He didn’t speak to her for days.

Day 34: Ron sent a message — “Still nothing. Sorry, mate.”

Mate.

Draco laughed bitterly at that.

By day 40, Draco had started retracing every step.

He returned to Hogwarts. Walked the halls of the castle. The library. The greenhouses. The Astronomy Tower.

The last time he’d seen her, she’d been standing in the courtyard in her graduation robes, clutching his hand and smiling so wide it had hurt to look at her. They’d kissed just behind the owlery. She'd whispered “We’re really doing this. You and me.”

And then she'd gone to pack up the rest of her things.

He’d never seen her again.

What had happened between that kiss and the moment that letter arrived?

Did someone stop her?

Was she taken?

Did she run?

Was it him?

Had he done something — said something — to drive her away?

By day 56, he was losing sleep. He drank too much firewhiskey. He stopped eating properly. He snapped at Theo.  Avoided Pansy.

He kept the letter in his pocket.

By day 67, he started dreaming about her — not dreams of her smiling or laughing, but of her screaming, of her being tortured by his aunt . He woke drenched in sweat, convinced her voice was still echoing down some unseen corridor.

By day 70, he had visited every place they’d talked about going. Written to everyone who might know where she was.

Nothing.

No trace.

Not a single magical signature, a letter, a sighting.

She had vanished.

By day 90 he reached out to Potter again.

Harry met him at a pub in Muggle London. Out of the way. Quiet.

“No one’s heard anything,” Harry said. “But Ron thinks… maybe she really did run.”

“She didn’t.” Draco’s voice was flat.

Harry leaned forward. “Why are you so sure?”

Draco pulled the letter from his coat and laid it flat on the table.

“Because she cried when she wrote it.”

Harry frowned.

Draco pointed to the tearstains — faint but visible.

“If she meant it, why was she crying? And this—” he tapped the parchment “—isn’t how she writes. It’s clunky. It’s not her voice.”

Harry stared at it, then nodded slowly. “Okay. So what do you think happened?”

“I think she’s in trouble.”

Harry’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “And you think she’s being kept from contacting anyone.”

“Yes.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. 

Draco looked down at the letter one more time.

“I just… I feel it,” he whispered. “Something’s wrong. She’s out there. And she needs help. I beg you Potter, please help!”

Chapter Text

Harry had mentioned it casually over lunch — just tossed the information out between bites of shepherd’s pie like it didn’t mean anything.

Ron’s teeth ground together.

It had been three months. Three whole months. And that slimy bastard was still nosing around?

The letter should have been enough. It had been final. Clear. Cold. He’d made sure of that. He’d told her exactly what to write. Exactly what would make Malfoy back off.

But apparently it hadn’t worked.

Apparently the little snake had taken it as some kind of invitation to keep digging. Claimed the letter did not sound like Hermione and was tear stained. Harry had said he seemed “off,” like he hadn’t slept in weeks, like he was sure something was wrong.

Ron’s hands clenched into fists as he made his way down the hall and toward the cellar door.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Ron had her now. She was his. She was finally starting to understand that. The last few weeks had been smoother. She had stopped fighting. Had learned to be quieter, softer, more obedient. She listened now. She accepted his touches. 

She was adjusting. She was doing so beautifully.

And then this.

Ron yanked the lock open with a flick of his wand and stomped down the narrow stone steps into the cellar.

She heard him coming long before he appeared.

Heavy, angry footsteps.

Hermione tensed, instinctively curling in on herself on the cot, her heart suddenly pounding. Ron wasn’t always loud when he came. That usually meant something had set him off.

He was in a mood.

The lock clanked, then came the creak of the door opening.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. 

He descended quickly, red-faced and breathing hard, his boots pounding against the steps. His eyes found her at once, and they were dark with frustration.

“Hermione,” he snapped. “Up. Now.”

She sat up slowly, ignoring the way her bruised thighs screamed in protest.

He crossed the room, threw down a piece of parchment and a quill onto the floor, then turned to face her.

“We’re writing another letter today.”

She swallowed. “To who?”

“ To fucking Malfoy!” he snapped. “He’s still sniffing around, even after three bloody months.”

He paced in a tight circle.

“ Apparently he keeps going on about how your letter didn’t sound like you.” Ron’s lip curled. “Says it was tear-stained. Like that means something.”

Hermione’s heart skipped.

He was still looking.

Three months, she had been here for three months.

Three months, and Draco hadn’t given up.

Ron’s eyes narrowed at her expression. 

He stalked toward her. “You’re mine now. And you’re doing so well lately. So good for me. I don’t want to punish you.”

Hermione lowered her gaze. That was the safest place to look.

“But we need to stop him. For good. So today, you’re going to write a real letter. One that he’ll believe. One that hurts.”

“You’ll say that you left because you realized your relationship with him was a mistake. That it was a lapse in judgment. That he disgusts you. That you’re with someone else now.”

Hermione flinched, just slightly.

Ron smiled.

“That’s right. Someone who really knows you. Someone who gets you. Who loves you. You’ll say you never want to see him again. That the thought of him touching you makes your skin crawl.”

He turned to her.

“In your own words, of course. But I’ll read it before we send it.”

He stepped closer, voice softening with something that made her stomach turn.

“You’ve been so good, love. I know you can do this. But first things first.”

He reached into his pocket.

Hermione knew what would come next.

Hermione didn’t speak.

She simply began to tremble.

Ron loved preparing her for their time together. There was a sense of ritual to it now.

He pulled out the black plug with the braided horse tail — and turned it in his hands with affection before coating it in lube and kneeling behind her.

The plug was bigger now, so much bigger than when they had started using it. 

Her body was adjusting to it. Talking it so well.

Her cunt was gripping him so tightly, when he fucked her while the plug was in.

And it always was.

But the plug was not only for his pleasure...or for hers. 

It was a symbol. For her purpose. To show her that she was really his broodmare now. He'd liked the word immediately, it was so fitting.

“On all fours, Hermione. Good girl.”

She obeyed, moving slowly and silently, positioning herself on the cold stone floor in front of the cot.

Her thighs were trembling, but he didn’t rush.

He spread her gently with his fingers, lingering too long. She gritted her teeth and fought the urge to jerk away. The plug slid in slowly — not rough, not fast — just inevitable. The base settled against her, snug and wrong, while the coarse horsehair tail brushed against her thighs, humiliating in its softness.

Ron sighed, satisfied, and then shifted around in front of her.

He reached for the clamps next. She stared at the floor as he applied them, one by one, to her leaking breasts. The sharp bite of pressure made her flinch. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did — and liked it.

“You’re so full,” he murmured, almost reverent. “It’s beautiful.”

She stayed perfectly still.

Ron caressed her hair. “You’re doing so well.”

He knelt beside her, running his hand down her back until it came to rest on the base of the plug.

“I’ll play while you write,” he whispered. “Keep you focused.”

He dipped the quill in the ink, placed it in her hand, and unrolled the parchment in front of her.

“Make it cruel,” he said gently. “Make it real.”

Then he proceeded to tug on her tail, pull the plug out, push it back in, twist it.....all while stroking her back like she was an obedient pet.

Her skin burned with shame.

The plug pressed deep inside her, unrelenting, its weight making every small movement impossible to ignore. The tail brushed against the backs of her thighs whenever he moved the plug, an ever-present reminder of her humiliation.

Her nipples ached — sharp pinches of pain from the clamps. Milk had begun to leak again, dripping to the floor. She had to be carefull not to drip any milk on the parchment.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to scream.

But she did neither.

She was good at hiding things. Especially now.

Her fingers steady, and began to write.

She could feel Ron's fingers tracing slow circles around the base of the plug as she moved. His breath was warm against her back. He whispered things sometimes — endearments, encouragements — and she let them pass over her like wind.

She was somewhere else.

Far away.

Sitting with Draco in the library. Laughing. Arguing about books. The feel of his hand on her thigh under the table. The way he kissed her when no one was looking.

Draco.

He was still looking for her.

He hadn’t given up.

Her chest ached at the thought.

She blinked back tears, forcing her face into calmness as she wrote. Carefully. Slowly. The words Ron wanted to see. Words she would never mean. Lies that had to look like truth.

But she added her own truth between the lines.

Draco would find her message.....she was certain.

Chapter Text

Ron watched her from where he sat on the edge of the cot, his shirt unbuttoned now, the forced letter now folded neatly and placed on stairs for him to send later. She hadn’t spoken since writing it. Hadn’t cried either. That was important.

She was learning.

He could see it in her eyes — the way they didn’t fight anymore. 

“You’re doing better,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. Her fingers twitched in his grasp, but didn’t pull away. 

He guided her toward him, gently, reverently, easing her knees apart as she moved over him. She was warm — always warm — and he loved the way she trembled when she straddled his lap, her thighs bracketing his.

The plug with the black horse tail that hung between her legs like a proud banner — was still in place, snug and pretty. He ran his fingers down the length of it, letting the soft strands trail through his hand.

It made her look like something out of a fairytale.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmured, pressing himself to her entrance, slowly guiding her down. She was tight — gods, so tight — the plug making her squeeze around him like a vice. He shuddered as she sank onto him, every inch of him sheathing inside like her body had been waiting for him.

He groaned softly. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

She made a sound — barely — in the back of her throat. He cupped her hips, steadying her, letting her rest fully against him. He could feel the plug pressing inside as well, keeping everything close, sealed. Perfect.

Ron brushed the sweat-dampened hair from her face. “You’re finally starting to understand, aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer. Her hands lay limp at her sides. Her breathing was shallow.

But she was here.

And that was enough.

He reached for the small chain still clipped across her chest, glinting dully in the lamplight. The clamps had been on for nearly twenty minutes now. 

Slowly, carefully, he removed them.

Her nipples were red, swollen — milk beading instantly at the tips. 

Ron bent forward, mouth closing around one aching peak, tongue flicking over the droplets of milk that gathered. Hermione gasped and he smiled against her skin.

He suckled gently, rhythmically, one hand massaging the other breast, coaxing more from her. The taste was faintly sweet, warm. Natural.

She trembled again.

And then — it happened.

A quiet spasm beneath his hands. Her body clenched around him, sudden and tight. Her breath hitched, then stuttered.

His eyes fluttered open, stunned.

“Did you come just from me sucking on your nipple?”

He looked up at her face. Her head was tilted back slightly, lips parted, a faint tremor across her shoulders.

He felt her pulse around him again.

She had.

She’d come.

He hadn’t even needed to touch her — not his fingers, not the vibrator-belt. Just this. Just them.

Pride swelled in his chest, fierce and blinding. He pulled her closer, buried his face against her neck, thrusting up into her in slow, reverent movements as he whispered:

“I knew you’d feel it eventually. I knew you just needed time.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t look at him.

But she didn’t push him away, either.

And that was enough.

As he came inside her, holding her tightly, Ron felt a certainty settle in his bones. This time — this one — would take.

So she moved how he wanted, numb and mechanical. Her knees braced on either side of his thighs. The plug still nestled inside her. She hated it. But she had gotten used to it by now. The weight of it. The feel of it. The way it invaded, quietly, always.

He guided her down, moaning as he slid inside. She clenched instinctively, not to please him — never to please him — but because her body was stiff, her muscles tense. The plug made everything tighter, more unbearable. She wanted to scream.

Instead, she floated.

She went where her mind always went now — away. Far away.

She pictured a forest. A spellbook in her lap. Draco beside her, laughing at something she’d said, their hands brushing. The smell of firewhiskey on his breath, the press of his mouth against her neck—

Then.........

Ron sucked at her breast.

The clamps had just come off, and the pain still laced her nerves. But it was the heat of his mouth, the way his tongue curled around the swollen tip, that made her freeze.

She could feel milk leaking and he drank it greedily. 

She shut her eyes.

Don’t react. Don’t move. Let it pass.

But her body didn’t listen.

There was pressure. A slow, horrible build. Her inner muscles fluttered around him — involuntary. Reflex.

Her legs twitched.

Then — her stomach twisted — a sharp, electric jolt sparked up her spine.

She bit down on a scream.

It hit fast — a wave of heat and shame and white static behind her eyes — and then it was over, as quickly as it had come. She went limp.

Ron moaned, pulling her tightly against him, whispering that she was "perfect." That she was "made for him." That she was "finally getting it."

Hermione didn’t move.

She couldn’t breathe.

He kept holding her, rocking her slowly as he spilled inside her, still murmuring praises like this was something tender. Something mutual.

But she was somewhere else entirely.

All she could think about — all that echoed in her skull — was the cold horror that her body had betrayed her.

That she had climaxed. Without stimulation the extra stimulation of the dreaded vibrator-belt or his probing fingers.

Just from his sucking and the constant pressure of the plug and his cock inside her. The way her body had been twisted into reacting against her will.

Her body had responded — not her.

But that didn’t matter now, did it?

He thought it meant progress.

He thought it meant yes.

Her body hung limp, inverted from the ceiling.

Her arms dangled toward the floor. She was still completely bare.

Inside her, she could still feel him — the warm, degrading fullness of his release, made worse by the cork he had inserted again, twisting it in with careful, satisfied hands. It was a different one this time — thicker, firmer. Topped with a stopper-like seal.

"Keep it in, love. Let gravity do the work."

Then he’d hoisted her. Slowly. Gently. Like it was a ritual. Like he was helping her ascend to some holy purpose.

Now she hung, blood rushing to her head, muscles aching from suspension, thighs sticky and raw. 

Ron had left minutes ago — or maybe longer. Time bled strangely in the dark. Before he’d gone, he kissed her brow and held up the folded letter.

"Time to send this off to our little problem."

Her pulse spiked — not with fear, but with something sharper. Something defiant.

He was sending it. The letter. The one she had written.

Her letter. With her hidden message to Draco.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

A house elf appeared at his side before he even hung his coat.

“A letter came for Master Draco. From a rental owl dropped it off an hour ago. It is… in your study.”

A letter!

Could it finally be Hermione reaching out?

He moved fast. The study door was already cracked open. The parchment sat on his desk, centered perfectly — waiting for him.

He sat down and stared at the envelope. His name, written in Hermione’s handwriting, neat and exact.

His hands were shaking as he opened it.

He read and the room went silent.

He didn’t move. Couldn't. Not for seconds. Maybe longer. He read the letter once. Then again. Then again.

Each word dug deeper than the last.

You were a distraction.

Even kissing you made my skin crawl.

It sickens me to think I let you put your hands on me.

He could barely breathe. It felt like being hit with the Cruciatus — not once, but over and over, word after word, breaking him from the inside out.

She’d called him Malfoy.

She hadn’t done that in months. Not since that night in the Astronomy Tower, where she’d said “Draco, I love you.” 

That night had been real. 

Hadn’t it?

He folded the letter and held it tightly in his fist.

The paper wasn’t smudged. Not a single drop of water. No tears. No rushed scrawl, no ink bleeding into the parchment.

It was perfect.

Cold. Controlled.

Cruel.

Not at all like the tearstained letter she’d sent him right after she'd disappeared.

Three months of silence. Three months of searching. Waking up every day half-mad with dread, wondering if she was dead, or hiding, or hurt — and now this?

The room tilted.

He stood slowly, walked to the liquor cabinet, and pulled out the firewhiskey. He didn’t bother with a glass.

She didn’t love him. She never had.

His throat burned as he drank. The firewhiskey didn’t help. It only sharpened the grief. Brought the words back louder.

Even kissing you made my skin crawl.

He dropped into the chair by the fire, the letter still crushed in his fist, and buried his face in his hands.

He wept.

Then came the memories. Taunting him. Torturing him.

The memories of their time together. Their friendship, their romance, their connection, their love.

Chapter Text

It had taken him longer than it should have to find an empty compartment. Most of the students going back for eighth year were clustered together catching up after a summer apart. Draco kept his head down. He didn’t expect to be welcomed. He didn't want to be.

His robes were plain. His shoulders, tense. He had earned the long stares and half-whispered jabs that followed him as he made his way down the corridor. He was used to them now.

When he finally slid the door shut behind him, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Silence. Blessed, thick, unjudging silence. He sank into the corner seat and stared out at the platform, waiting for the train to move. For the day to end. For this second life to begin.

He was still staring when the compartment door opened again.

He tensed, ready to be shoved out, ignored, or insulted.

But it was her.

Hermione Granger.

She stood in the doorway, her bag slung over one shoulder, curls half-wild from the breeze. Her mouth opened slightly when she saw him, but she didn’t leave. She didn’t sneer. She just looked at him, eyes calm and assessing.

“Do you mind?” she asked. “Everywhere else is full.”

He blinked.

“No,” he said, voice tight. “Go ahead.”

She slid the door shut and sat across from him.

Silence again. He kept his eyes on the window. But she didn’t seem uncomfortable. She shifted, unwrapped a scarf from her neck, and sat upright, hands folded neatly in her lap. It wasn’t until the train had pulled away from the station that he found the nerve to speak.

"Granger."

She looked up.

"I need to apologize," he said. "For everything."

Her brows knit together slightly.

"Everything?"

He nodded, throat dry.

"For how I treated you. At school. During the war. All of it. The prejudice. The insults. The hexes. The names. I was..."

He paused, searching for the right word. He didn't want to cheapen it.

"I was cruel," he said finally. "Arrogant. And ignorant. I thought blood made someone better. Stronger. More worthy. But I was wrong. And I’m sorry."

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her expression didn’t soften, but it didn’t harden either. She watched him for a long moment, eyes searching his face, trying to determine if he meant it.

He held her gaze.

Those eyes. He’d never really looked before.

A warm, rich brown, with flecks of gold. Like candlelight through old whisky. Sharp and intelligent... radiant.

“Thank you,” she said.

Draco blinked. "You believe me?"

She nodded. "I do."

He felt something loosen in his chest.

She shifted again, leaning back, her fingers now picking lightly at the frayed edge of her bag.

"I heard about your father," she said quietly.

Draco stiffened.

"That he died in Azkaban."

He nodded once. "He did."

“And your mother left the country after?”

Another nod. "To the continent. France, I think."

Hermione tilted her head.

"That must be... a lot."

Draco huffed a humorless laugh. "It's hell."

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pity him, either.

"What’s it like?" she asked.

He glanced at her.

"What ?"

"Being alone. Being the head of your family. Managing vaults, properties, bloodlines. I know there’s a lot of weight in old magic. Especially for someone your age."

Draco leaned back.

It was the first time someone had asked. Really asked. Not to gossip, not to accuse, but to understand.

So he told her.

About the grief. The silence of the Manor. The way the halls echoed now. The constant, suffocating pressure of legacy. 

He talked. And she listened.

Then she spoke about her parents. The guilt of altering their memories. The horror of undoing it. The distance that still lingered between them.

Somewhere, the conversation drifted into books. Muggle authors. Wizarding authors. She confessed she’d read Dorian Gray seven times.

The train rumbled on.

When they arrived at Hogsmeade, they stood together.

Draco hesitated. "Thanks. For... talking."

Hermione turned to him. Her eyes sparkled in the low golden light of the corridor.

“I really enjoyed talking to you Malfoy. You're different than I thought,” she said.

He smirked. "So are you."

She laughed. 

They left the train side by side.

Chapter Text

The first week back had been what he expected: distant stares, hushed whispers, the occasional sneer. Most people avoided him. Some out of principle, others out of caution. His old Slytherin friends stuck close, but even they spoke with a strained kind of familiarity, as if trying to remember how things used to be.

So when Draco found himself alone on the eighth year common room couch late that Friday evening, staring into the fireplace, he wasn’t surprised.

The fire crackled softly, casting gold and amber shadows across the floor. The common room had been enchanted to suit all houses — deep blue walls, warm mahogany wood, bookcases filled with texts from all four common rooms. A shared space for a unified year.

But it still felt like a place he didn't belong.

He had barely registered the sound of footsteps when someone sat beside him.

“Long week?”

He turned his head. Hermione.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. She simply leaned back against the cushions, stretching out her legs, eyes on the fire.

“You could say that,” he murmured.

She smiled faintly. "How are you finding Arithmancy this year?"

He blinked. "Harder than expected. You?"

“Vector’s ramped up the coursework. But it's still my favorite."

And just like that, they were talking.

About classes. Books. The subtle change in Professor Slughorn’s attitude. The new charm theory syllabus. She mentioned a Muggle novel she’d read over the summer; he admitted to liking the one she lent him on the train. She teased him for skimming the ending.

He teased her back for annotating in color-coded ink.

Then something strange happened.

Her friends joined. Seamus, Neville, Luna. One by one, they trickled in. Then his own housemates wandered over. Theodore. Daphne. Even Pansy, quiet and watchful, sat down on the rug in front of the fire.

And they talked.

Not about the war.  Just... about life. Magic. Music. Homework. Dumb gossip. Someone started a game of Exploding Snap. Someone else summoned tea.

Laughter echoed in the common room.

And through it all, Draco sat on the couch, beside Hermione Granger.

She had done this.

She, who had every reason to hold grudges, had broken the silence between houses with nothing more than kindness and curiosity.

He glanced at her again.

Her eyes sparkled in the firelight — the same warm brown with those gold flecks, alight with intelligence and ease. Her laughter was quiet but real. 

And for the first time in years, Draco felt something he hadn’t known he missed.

He felt safe.

He felt warm.

He felt like he was part of something again.

Chapter Text

It started in Potions.

He and Hermione had been paired together for the term. A quiet decision from Slughorn that raised more than a few eyebrows, but neither of them had protested. She had merely glanced at Draco, nodded once, and opened her notebook.

Draco didn’t mind. She was brilliant, focused, and meticulous—a perfect partner.

They worked in tandem, often in silence. But the kind of silence that felt... comfortable. Her quill scratched notes on parchment. He measured powdered fluxweed. Occasionally, she corrected his measurements with a gentle comment. He didn't mind that either.

Then one afternoon, as they reached for the same jar of peppermint essence, their fingers brushed.

Just a touch.

Warm. Quick.

But something sparked. Something low and sharp that hit him just below the ribs. He looked up. So did she. Her eyes widened for a split second before she looked away.

After that, things kept happening.

She’d fall into step beside him between classes. He’d start walking with her to breakfast. One morning, she struggled to juggle her bag, her books, and a roll of parchment , and without thinking, he reached out and took her books.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling up at him.

His throat had gone dry.

It wasn’t just the smile. It was everything. The way her curls bounced when she walked. The way she smelled like parchment and lavender and something floral he couldn’t name. The way she listened when he talked. The way she challenged him when he was wrong.

She was beautiful.

He found himself looking for her in the corridors. Saving seats beside him in lectures. Laughing more.

He felt... lighter.

Then there was the incident on the stairs.

It was a late afternoon. The castle corridors were dim with gathering shadows. They were walking down a flight near the east wing, talking about magical theory. Hermione, animated, gestured too broadly and misstepped. Her foot slipped.

Draco caught her.

Arms around her waist, her body flush against his. Her breath hitched.

He didn’t let go.

Not immediately.

Her hands clutched his robes. Her eyes, wide, searched his. The air around them felt charged, almost humming. Time stilled. His heart raced.

He could see every gold fleck in her eyes.

He finally cleared his throat and stepped back, helping her stand.

“Careful,” he said, voice low.

“Thanks,” she murmured, cheeks pink.

Neither of them said anything more.

But the sparks between them lingered. 

Chapter Text

It happened just before Christmas.

They'd spent the afternoon together in the library, reviewing notes for their Transfiguration exam. The castle outside was blanketed in snow, and the library had been warm and quiet, filled with the soft scratch of quills.

When they finally gathered their things and left, the corridors were mostly empty, save for the faint hum of enchanted garlands and sprigs of holly that shimmered with holiday magic.

And, of course, the mistletoe.

At first, they ignored it. The little enchanted sprigs fluttered overhead, hovering insistently as they walked. One had descended just above them as they turned down a side hallway, its leaves glittering with mischievous charm.

Draco glanced up. "Persistent little things."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Let’s just keep walking."

But the mistletoe followed. With every step, it darted ahead and hovered, waiting. Glowing more brightly. Beginning to hum.

"You know it won’t stop until we kiss," Draco said.

Hermione groaned. "Fine. Just a quick one."

"On the count of three?"

She nodded. "One. Two. Three."

They leaned in. It was meant to be a peck. A chaste, polite brush of lips.

But the moment their lips touched, something cracked open.

Her lips were warm. Soft. Draco felt a jolt of heat rush down his spine. Hermione made a small sound in the back of her throat—surprised. Wanting.

And suddenly, neither of them were pulling away.

He cupped her face. She gripped his robes. Their mouths moved together with urgency, months of tension finally unraveling. He backed her gently into the wall of the corridor, deepening the kiss, one hand braced beside her head.

Her fingers curled in his collar. Their bodies pressed close. The air around them pulsed with something hot and bright.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless.

Draco stepped back, heart pounding. Hermione was flushed, her lips swollen from the kiss, eyes wide.

He didn’t know what to say. Neither did she.

But she smiled.

He mirrored her.

“We should probably talk about this,” she said.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We really should."

She looked up at him, serious now. "I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen."

"Neither do I."

A beat.

Then she nodded. "So let’s not. Let’s... explore this. Whatever it is."

Draco felt his chest swell.

"I'd like that."

Chapter Text

Draco stared at the letter again, the parchment already creased from how many times he’d read it. Memorized it. Suffered from it.

He couldn’t sleep. Could barely think. Her words circled like vultures through his mind.

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.

The Hermione Granger who kissed him under the mistletoe. Who let him undress her in a room full of candlelight. Who whispered I love you into the hollow of his throat.

That woman didn’t write this letter.

But maybe he was wrong.

Maybe love wasn’t enough.

Still, something inside him refused to believe it. Something clawed at the back of his mind, whispering Look again.

So he took it to the only people who knew her better than he did.

The Leaky Cauldron was busy during lunch hours, packed with witches and wizards on break. Draco spotted them instantly: Potter and Weasley sitting in a booth near the window.

Each of them had a plate of fish and chips steaming in front of them. Potter looked as unassuming as ever, his glasses slightly smudged. In front of him sat a tall glass of water.

Weasley, on the other hand, had a full liter bottle of milk.

Draco blinked. Milk?

Weasley caught him staring and offered a smug smile. "For strength. Auror training's brutal. Milk helps."

Weird, Draco thought, but shrugged inwardly. If Weasley wanted to drink like a five-year-old at breakfast, that was his business.

He slid into the booth opposite them.

Potter nodded. "Malfoy."

"Thanks for meeting me," Draco said stiffly, pulling the folded letter from his pocket and placing it on the table. "I received this yesterday. It’s from Hermione. Or… at least, it claims to be."

They both leaned in. Weasley picked it up, scanned it quickly, then passed it to Potter, who took longer to read.

Neither said a word for a long moment.

Finally, Potter let out a soft sigh.

"That's her handwriting. I'd know it anywhere," he said quietly. "She practically wrote all of our essays at school."

Draco felt the cold knot in his chest tighten.

Weasley nodded, still chewing his food, washing it down with a big gulp of milk. "Yeah. That’s definitely Hermione. Look at the way she loops her 'y'—tiny hook at the bottom. Always did that."

"But the tone," Draco said, voice low. "Doesn’t it sound wrong? Cold? This isn’t the Hermione I knew."

Potter gave him a sympathetic look. "Breakups do that to people. Maybe she just needed to be firm. Maybe… she thought this would help you move on."

"We haven’t heard from her either," Weasley added. "Not since the summer. We figured she was taking time to travel alone, clear her head."

Draco shook his head. "But why hasn’t she contacted anyone? Not even Ginny?"

Weasley shrugged. "Maybe she doesn't want to be found."

Potter hesitated. "Malfoy… I'm sorry. I know this hurts. But maybe it's time to let her go."

Draco said nothing.

Potter handed the letter back.

"If anything changes, we’ll let you know. But it looks legit to us."

Draco nodded slowly. Then stood.

“Thanks.”

He turned and walked out before they could say anything else. Before they could see the way his hands trembled.

He didn’t even bother taking off his cloak when he got back to the manor.

The bottle of firewhisky was still on the table from yesterday. Half full. He poured a glass. Then another. Then another.

He stumbled to the drawing room and collapsed into the chair by the fire, the letter clenched in his hand like a wound.

Was this really how it ended?

Had he imagined all of it?

Was he just a phase? A mistake?

He drank until the flames blurred.

But one question still clung to the edges of his drowning thoughts:

If she truly hadn't contacted anyone... how did she know he was looking?

Chapter Text

After Malfoy left the Leaky, Harry turned to Ron.

“You know, I am actually relieved that Malfoy got that letter from Hermione.”

Ron’s brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

Harry continued, “I mean… it’s not like I was waiting for an owl or anything. But we hadn’t heard from her in so long. I was starting to wonder if something happened, you know?”

“Yeah,” Ron said lightly. “But it’s good, isn’t it? That she sent something. Means she’s alright.”

“Exactly. I mean, the letter was harsh—brutal, even—but… at least it was a sign of life.” He hesitated. “She’s probably doing what she said she always wanted. Travelling. Studying.”

Ron nodded. “Good for her. ”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed quietly. “And maybe the letter will help Malfoy get closure too. Let him move on.”

Ron’s expression didn’t change, but his next sip from the bottle was longer.

“Exactly,” he said. “He’ll get over it.”

The days blurred.

Draco didn’t leave the Manor. Not once.

He closed the Floo. Ignored owls. Let the firewhisky bottles accumulate on his desk. He couldn’t stand the quiet, but he also couldn’t stomach company. 

He didn’t eat much. Didn’t sleep properly either. When he did, he dreamed of her—her smile, her laugh, the feel of her skin beneath his hands. And always, just before he woke, her letter:

Forget me.

The words chased him through every corner of the house.

The letter stayed on his nightstand. Open. A constant reminder of her rejection.

He was unraveling. And part of him didn’t care.

Training was intense.

With their final Auror evaluations only two weeks away, every day was packed dueling drills, obstacle courses, and advanced spellwork scenarios. Most of the recruits were running on adrenaline and sheer willpower.

Ron seemed especially amped up.

And weirdly obsessed with milk.

Harry noticed it first a few weeks ago, but it had escalated. Ron now brought a full litre bottle to training every single morning. Drank it like it was Pumpkinjuice.

“It’s the secret weapon,” Ron had said proudly one day. “Makes you strong. Builds stamina.”

Harry had given him a skeptical look. 

Ron just grinned, patting the bottle.

More than once, Harry caught Ron sipping during drills, even in the middle of duels. And even if the milk was helping Ron focus, it certainly wasn’t helping his digestion.

By week’s end, the whole trainee squad had noticed the side effects.

“Bloody hell, mate,” muttered Seamus after Ron passed gas during a shield charm exercise. “We’re going to need protective wards, not just shields.”

Ron laughed it off, unbothered. “All part of the power process. Gas means growth.”

One afternoon, during their lunch break, Ron pushed the bottle toward Harry with a grin. “Go on. Just try it. Bet you’ll feel invincible for the rest of the day."

Harry eyed it, then took a tentative sip.

It was sweet. Too sweet. And thick. Creamy. The texture was just... strange.

He grimaced. “That’s disgusting. Did you add some kind of syrup?"

Ron just smirked and took the bottle back, swigging from it like a victorious Quidditch player.

Harry wiped his mouth and shook his head. “You’re completely mental."

“Mental and ripped,” Ron said, flexing his arm.

Harry laughed.

Chapter Text

Day 91 Morning milking: 520 ml. Evening: 510 ml. Total: 1.03 L.

She’s thinner. Ribs more prominent when I run my hands down her sides. At first I thought it was stress, but no—I think lactation is draining her. The body gives what it must to the milk.

I can't stop the milking. I love it too much to reduce yield. Solution: increase caloric intake. Triple portions. Fattier meats, cream sauces, buttered potatoes, bread thick with honey. Protein for the baby, carbs for energy, fat to keep the milk flowing. She’ll round out again.

Morning sex: Missionary, legs hooked over my shoulders, deep strokes. Corked immediately. Plug re-inserted 

Night: Fucked her throat. She swallowed every drop. My cum is extra protein for our child, also works wonders for our emotional bonding. 

Day 92 Milking: 540 ml / 520 ml = 1.06 L.

She ate two full plates of shepherd’s pie without protest. Good girl. Weight loss will reverse soon.

Morning: Rear entry, plug in place, vibrator belt on medium. She came twice—body learning its purpose. Corked and inverted 35 minutes.

Night: Throat again. Held her hair like reins. She took me to the root. Swallowed. Kissed her forehead after.

Drank 1 L of her milk at training. Felt invincible.

Still no period. I press my palm to her belly every night.

Day 93 Milking: 550 ml / 530 ml = 1.08 L.

Her breasts are heavier—veins visible beneath the skin, nipples dark and perpetually erect. Beautiful.

Morning: Folded missionary, knees to chest, plug + clamps. Finished deep. Cork sealed.

Night: Throat. She didn’t fight the grip in her hair. Swallowed without spilling. I praised her for ten minutes.

Her belly feels warmer. I swear it.

Malfoy came to the Leaky with the letter. Face like death. I nearly laughed into my milk. The ferret is broken. Perfect.

Day 94 Milking: 560 ml / 540 ml = 1.1 L.

Added clotted cream to every meal. She’s eating like a broodmare should.

Morning: Standing against the wall, plug in, vibrator high. She screamed into the gag when she came. Corked. Inverted 40 mins.

Night: Throat. I came so hard I saw stars.

Harry noticed the milk again.  I offered him a sip.

Day 95 Milking: 570 ml / 550 ml = 1.12 L.

She’s putting weight back on—hips softer, thighs fuller. Perfect.

Morning: Lap straddle, guided, plug + clamps. She rode me slowly, eyes closed. Corked.

Night: Throat. Held her nose until she swallowed. Told her every drop is a promise.

No period yet. It’s finally happening.

Day 96 Milking: 580 ml / 560 ml = 1.14 L.

Breasts leaking between sessions now. I catch the drips on my tongue.

Morning: Doggy, plug in, vibrator on clit. She came twice. Corked. Inverted 45 mins.

Night: Throat. She opened willingly. Swallowed like it was nectar. 

Day 97 Milking: 590 ml / 570 ml = 1.16 L.

Morning: Deep missionary, legs on shoulders, plug + clamps. Finished with a roar. Corked.

Night: Throat. She moaned around me. Swallowed.

Malfoy hasn’t been seen on days. Letter worked like a Bludger to the skull.

Day 98 Milking: 600 ml / 580 ml = 1.18 L.

Added enchanted weight-gain potions to her meals—subtle, tasteless. She’ll be plush soon.

Morning: Cowgirl, guided, plug in, vibrator high. She came four times. Corked. Inverted 50 mins.

Night: Throat. She sucked without prompting. Swallowed.

Still no blood.  It’s real. She has to be pregnant now.

Day 99 Milking: 610 ml / 590 ml = 1.2 L.

Breasts enormous now—heavy, veined, dripping constantly. I milk her like a prized cow and she loves it.

Morning: Folded in half, plug + clamps + vibrator. Corked.

Night: Throat. She took me deep. Swallowed. I told her she’s perfect.

Drank 1.2 L at training. Pretty sure I broke the dueling record today. 

Day 100 Milking: 620 ml / 600 ml = 1.22 L.

She’s glowing. Belly definitely rounded—small, but there. I kiss it every morning.

Morning: Missionary, slow and deep, plug in, no vibrator—she came from me alone. Corked. Inverted 55 mins.

Night: Throat. She swallowed. I held her after, whispering about our daughter.

No period. She’s pregnant. I know it. Soon her belly will be huge, her breasts leaking rivers.

We are a family. She just doesn’t know it yet.

Chapter Text

Hermione lay on the cot, her body a traitor in every way, milk leaking from her swollen nipples in slow, relentless beads that soaked the thin shift Ron forced her to wear. The fabric clung to her skin, cold and sticky, the constant wetness a humiliation she couldn’t escape. Her breasts ached, heavy and veined, throbbing with pressure that built until she almost—almost—craved the relief of Ron’s hands or mouth. The thought made her stomach churn, bile rising in her throat. She hated herself for the fleeting desperation, for the way her body begged for the milking to ease the pain, even as her mind screamed in revulsion.

Ron had noticed her weight loss. She’d started to see it weeks ago, her ribs stark beneath her skin, hips jutting like a skeleton’s. She was fading, her body consuming itself to feed his obsession. The milk—over a liter a day now, he bragged—poured out of her, draining her strength, her substance.

And then came the machine.

He’d brought it down one morning, beaming like a child with a new toy. A gleaming contraption of tubes and suction cups, enchanted to hum softly, its glass jars sterile and labeled with dates. “For efficiency,” he’d said, eyes gleaming as he strapped her to the cot, wrists bound, legs spread. The cups latched onto her nipples with a sickening pop, and the machine whirred to life, pulling at her with mechanical precision. The pain was sharp at first, then dulled into a relentless tug, milk streaming into the jars in thick, creamy rivers.

She’d turned her face away, tears burning her eyes, her body shaking with shame as Ron watched, sipping from a bottle of her own milk like it was fine wine. “Look at you,” he’d murmured, stroking the horsehair tail of the plug still lodged inside her. “My perfect broodmare. My perfect milkcow.”

She wanted to scream, to claw the machine off, to rip her own breasts from her body if it meant ending this. But she was too weak, too empty.

The milking was a violation worse than the rapes—clinical, dehumanizing, reducing her to a beast in a barn. And yet, when the pressure eased, when the jars filled and the ache subsided, a traitorous relief washed over her. She loathed herself for it, curling into a ball afterward, sobbing silently into the cot’s thin mattress.

Her period was late, she’d lost track of the exact count, but the absence gnawed at her. She clung to hope that it was the weight loss, the starvation, the stress of being used twice a day, morning and night. Morning was for his “breeding,” his cock thrusting into her while the plug pressed deeper, the vibrator belt forcing her body to betray her with orgasms she couldn’t stop. He’d finish inside her, cork her like a bottle, and hoist her upside down, her head spinning as his semen pooled inside her. Night was for her throat—his hands fisting her hair, forcing himself deep until she gagged, his release bitter on her tongue. “Protein,” he’d say, wiping her lips with a tenderness that made her skin crawl. “For you and the baby.”

She prayed it wasn’t a baby. The copper IUD had to hold. It had to. But the fear was a living thing, clawing at her insides.

The letter was her only lifeline. She replayed it in her mind, every word she’d written under Ron’s watchful eyes, the quill trembling in her hand as he tugged the plug and twisted her tail. She’d poured her defiance into it.

Had he seen it? Had he noticed her message, her cry for help?

She clung to the memory of Draco’s eyes, grey and sharp. He had to know. He had to be looking.

But the days stretched on, and no one came. Ron left for Auror training each morning, a liter of her milk in a glass bottle, swaggering like a king.

He’d come back reeking of sweat, bragging about his strength, his dueling prowess, how her milk made him “invincible.”

He'd feed her his sweaty cock, thrust into her throat until he came.

She’d stare at the ceiling, or close her eyes, enduring.

Repeating Draco’s name in her head like a spell.

He’s coming. He has to. But the cellar door stayed locked, the machine hummed twice a day, and her body leaked and ached and betrayed her, while Ron’s hands and cock and mouth filled every corner of her world.

Chapter Text

Draco sat on the drawing-room rug, back against the sofa. Empty bottles lay skattered around him. The room smelled of smoke, sweat, and firewhiskey.

He hadn’t shaved in nine days. He hadn’t eaten in five. He hadn’t slept in longer.

The letter lay open on the coffee table, creased into a soft white rectangle from being folded and unfolded a thousand times. 

The door burst open.

“Sweet Merlin’s saggy—” Theo stopped mid-sentence, nose wrinkling. “You smell like a distillery exploded in a troll’s armpit.”

Draco didn’t move. His voice was gravel. “Go away.”

Theo stepped over a toppled decanter, boots crunching on glass. “Not happening.” He crouched, took in the hollow cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, the tremor in Draco’s whiskey hand. “You’re scaring the house-elves.”

Draco’s laugh cracked like thin ice. He thrust the letter forward. “Read it. Then you’ll understand.”

Theo took the parchment gingerly, his eyes tracked the lines. When he reached the end, he exhaled through his teeth.

“Draco, mate.... I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Draco’s head fell back against the sofa cushion. “Just—don’t.”

Theo stood. “Right. You deserve one more weekend of grieving. Then this pity party is over.” He hauled Draco up by the armpits; Draco swayed like a scarecrow in a gale. “Shower. Now. You reek.”

By the time Draco emerged—hair still dripping —the drawing room had been transformed. Bottles banished. Windows cracked open to the October air. A circle of mismatched armchairs had appeared around the freshly lit fire.

And in them sat the boys.

Blaise lounged with a tumbler of something amber. Neville perched on the edge of his seat, twisting a coaster. Seamus was already halfway through a bottle of elf-made wine. Theo clapped Draco on the shoulder and pushed him into the empty chair.

“Intervention lite,” Theo announced. “One last bender. Then we drag you into the land of the living.”

Draco sank down. Someone pressed a glass into his hand. He drank without really tasting it.

They passed the letter around. Each read in silence. Neville’s brow furrowed. Seamus swore under his breath. Blaise’s elegant fingers tightened until the parchment crumpled.

Draco’s voice floated above the fire’s crackle, the same question looping like a broken record.

“How does she know I’m looking for her… if she hasn’t contacted anyone?”

No one answered. The flames popped.

He drank again. “I showed it to Potter and Weasley. They think it’s real. Said I should let her go.”

His eyes filled with tears. He didn’t bother hiding it.

“She called me Malfoy,” he whispered. “She hasn’t called me Malfoy in ages!”

Seamus refilled his glass. “People change their minds, mate.”

“Not her.” Draco’s voice cracked. 

Neville leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’re allowed to grieve, Draco. But you’re also allowed to live.”

They drank. They told stories. They didn’t try to fix him. They just sat with him. Listened to him.

At some point, Draco’s head found Blaise’s shoulder. The fire burned low. The question still circled, softer now, slurred with whiskey.

“How does she know I'm looking........?”

The boys talked and drank all weekend. They were there for him, there with him.....

And for the first time in weeks, Draco felt less alone.

Chapter Text

Ron’s boots echoed down the cellar stairs with a spring in his step. It was the weekend now, finally. No Auror drills, just him and the future mother of his child. Hermione was pregnant—he knew it, felt it in the warmth of her belly, the way her body yielded more each day. And today, he’d gift her something perfect. 

He’d built it in secret, at night after training, after breeding. A milking parlour fit for his broodmare. Polished oak, butter-soft leather cushions charmed to cradle her for hours. Holes precisely cut: two for her dripping, swollen breasts, one lower for the belly soon to grow round and heavy. The frame tilted, folded, locked into any position. Stirrups to spread her wide. A hidden vibrator enchanted to hum against her clit. Tubes for the milking machine. A tilt for her throat.

A masterpiece of love.

He swung the cellar door open. Hermione lay naked on the cot, the horsehair tail of her obscenely enlarged plug nestled between her thighs. Milk leaked in steady beads from her nipples, pooling beneath her. She didn’t look up. Her body was thinner, yes, but her breasts—Merlin, they were magnificent, veined and heavy, nipples dark and perpetually dripping.

“Morning, love,” Ron sang, voice bright with anticipation. “I’ve got something special for you.....for us.”

She flinched when he touched her. The plug shifted with a wet squelch; she stifled a whimper. Ron’s grin widened. “You’re going to love this.”

Her eyes widened when she saw the contraption, draped in white linen, candles flickering to make the leather glow. She thrashed as he guided her forward, bare heels scraping stone, voice cracking. “No—Ron, please, don’t—”

“Shh, darling.” He stroked her curls like calming a spooked filly. “It’s for you. For the baby. You’ll be so comfortable.”

She fought—harder than she had in weeks—nails clawing, body twisting. But Ron was stronger. He settled her belly-down onto the cushioned bench. The holes aligned perfectly: her breasts slipped through, pendulous and leaking,  the lower cut-out cradled her - for now-  flat stomach. Leather straps whispered across her back, thighs, ankles. Click. Click. Click. She was locked in, legs splayed obscenely wide by the stirrups, cunt and arse lifted, exposed, the tail plug on full display.

Ron stepped back, cock already straining. Perfect.

He adjusted the frame, cranking the stirrups wider until her thighs trembled, her cunt pink and open, puffy from constant use. The milking machine hummed to life: silicone cups sealing over her nipples with a schluck, tubes clear and ready. Milk surged immediately, creamy white streaming into the jars. He muttered a charm and the vibrator nestled against her clit buzzed to life on a low, teasing hum.

Hermione’s sob was muffled against the headrest, her body jerking against the straps. Ron unbuckled his belt, freeing himself. “One last time, love,” he murmured, stroking her tail plug, giving it a twist that made her cry out. “Gotta christen the chair properly. One last fuck in your cunt. Then it’s your arse every morning—keep your pussy pure for our daughter.”

He positioned himself behind her, hands gripping her hips, the tail of her plug pressing against his belly as he lined up. The vibrator hummed louder, her clit swelling under its relentless pulse. He thrust in, slow and deep, groaning at the tightness, the way the plug made her grip him like a vice. The milking machine whirred, pulling at her breasts in rhythm with his thrusts. Milk poured faster, jars filling with a steady glug-glug-glug.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he gasped, pounding harder, the chair rocking slightly on its sturdy base. Hermione’s muffled screams vibrated through the headrest, her body shaking, milk spraying in arcs when the cups tugged too hard. The vibrator pushed her over the edge—her cunt clenched around him, and Ron roared as he came, flooding her one last time.

He pulled out, panting, and corked her immediately, sealing his seed inside. The jars were nearly full—800 ml already. Ron’s eyes widened, joy flooding him. “Eight hundred millilitres!” he crowed, stroking her trembling back. “This chair’s a bloody miracle! You love it, don’t you? Your body’s giving me so much milk—fuck, you’re perfect.”

Hermione’s sobs were raw, her face pressed into the leather, tears soaking the cushion. The machine kept pulling, the vibrator kept humming, her cunt and arse exposed, plug gleaming, tail swaying with every shudder. Ron tilted the frame forward, bringing her mouth to his softening cock. “Evening’s for your throat, love. Protein for the baby.”

Chapter Text

The contraption loomed in the centre of the cellar like a grotesque throne, its polished oak and black leather gleaming under the flickering candles. To Hermione, it was a nightmare.

She’d seen Muggle massage lies before at a wellness spa her parents had dragged her to before Hogwarts—sleek, ergonomic, promising relaxation.

But this was no sanctuary. The frame was wider, sturdier, built to hold her for hours. Two perfect circles cut into the cushioned bench waited for her breasts, forcing them to dangle like a cow’s udders. A lower oval gaped for the belly she prayed would never swell. Brass stirrups glinted coldly, ready to splay her legs. Leather straps hung from every joint, and a small, insidious switch hummed faintly—the vibrator, she realised, her stomach lurching with dread.

Ron’s hands were on her before she could scramble away, gentle but unyielding, lifting her to the contraption. “No—Ron, please!” Her voice cracked, raw from disuse, as she thrashed, nails clawing at the cot, knees buckling. “Not this—anything but this!” He hushed her, stroking her messy curls like soothing a frightened animal. “It’s perfect, love. For you. For the baby. You’ll be so comfortable.”

The leather was warm, moulding to her skin as he lowered her belly-down. Her breasts slipped through the holes first, heavy and aching, milk already leaking in thin, shameful streams.  The lower cut-out kissed her - still-  flat stomach, the cool air a mocking reminder of what Ron believed was growing inside her.

Straps snapped into place with a sickening precision. One across the small of her back, pinning her hips to the cushion. Two more around her thighs, yanking them apart until her tendons burned and her cunt was splayed wide. Ankles locked into the stirrups, knees bent, feet dangling uselessly. A final band circled her neck, not tight enough to choke, just enough to trap her face in the padded cradle, forcing her to stare at the stone floor or squeeze her eyes shut against the reality of her degradation.

The horsehair tail of the plug—obscenely enlarged, a constant invasion—brushed her calves as her arse was lifted, presented. Ron twisted it, and the burn deep inside made her bite back a scream.

Then he attached the milking machine. Silicone cups sealed over her nipples with a wet, sucking pop. The pump whirred to life, low and relentless, pulling at her with mechanical hunger. Milk surged in thick pulses, tubes filling with creamy white faster than ever. The relief was immediate, traitorous, easing the throbbing pressure in her breasts. But the shame—Merlin, the shame—was a tidal wave. She truly was livestock now. A cow. A possession. Her body was nothing but a resource to be harvested.

Ron’s voice was soft, reverent. “One last time in your cunt, love. Gotta christen the chair properly.” He cranked the stirrups wider, her thighs trembling, cunt fully exposed, pink and vulnerable. The vibrator buzzed against her clit—low, insidious, inescapable. She jerked, but the straps held firm, the bench unyielding.

He thrust in, slow and deep, groaning at the tightness, the plug in her arse pressing against him through the thin wall. Every stroke dragged across the vibrator, sparking unwanted fire up her spine. The milking machine whirred louder, tugging in time with his thrusts, milk gushing in frantic streams. She could hear it—glug-glug-glug—the jars filling, her body betraying her with every thrust. Her sobs were muffled against the headrest, tears soaking the leather.

Her body failed her in seconds. A clench. A flutter. A sick, white-hot rush. She came with a broken scream, cunt spasming around him, milk spraying in arcs when the cups couldn’t keep up. Ron roared, delighted, pounding harder. “Fuck, you love this chair—look at you coming so fast, gushing milk!”

He came with a shudder, flooding her, then corked her immediately—a thick, cold plug sliding into her cunt beside the tailplug in her arse, sealing his seed inside. The machine kept pulling, nipples raw, milk streaming until the jars were nearly full.

The jars hit 800 ml. Eight hundred millilitres in one session. She’d never produced that much. Not once.  Her mortification was clawing at her insides. Her body had responded—not to him, never to him, but to the machine, the vibrator, the relentless efficiency of her degradation. She was nothing now. Not Hermione Granger, not a witch, not a person. Just a piece of livestock, strapped and leaking, milked and fucked for his pleasure.

Ron stepped back, panting, eyes shining with triumph. He tilted the frame forward, bringing her tear-streaked face to his softening cock. “From now on, love,” he said, voice warm with conviction, “you’ll stay right here. Strapped in, comfortable, accessible. We’ll milk you every few hours—feed you and milk you. Keep you full, keep you producing. No more cot. No more moving. This is your place now. For you, for the baby, for us.”

Her sob was a guttural, animal sound. Constantly strapped? The words sank into her like knives. No escape, no reprieve, just this—breasts dangling, cunt and arse exposed, throat tilted for his use.

“It’s the weekend,” he added, grinning, brushing a curl from her face. “Two whole days, just you and me. We’re going to have so much fun.”

The vibrator still hummed on, low and cruel. The machine whirred, tugging at her raw nipples. The straps bit into her skin. Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself anywhere else—Draco’s arms, the library, the Astronomy Tower—but the cellar held her fast.

The letter. Had he seen it? The hidden message, the desperate code? She clung to it, the only spark left in the dark.

But the jars clinked as Ron lifted one, marvelling at the 800 ml, taking a large sip.

And the contraption rocked gently as he prepared for the next round. Fun, he’d called it. For Hermione, it was the end of everything she’d ever been.

Chapter Text

This saturday morning the cellar felt like a honeymoon suite.

Hermione was perfect in the contraption—strapped in, cushioned, her body arranged exactly as nature intended.

 He’d corked her cunt one last time, felt her clench around him like she never wanted him to leave. The vibrator had done its job; as she orgasmd her milk had gushed. Eight hundred millilitres in one session. A record. 

He adjusted the stirrups wider, just to watch her thighs tremble. “See? Comfortable and accessible.” The frame tilted with a soft click, lifting her arse higher, the horsehair tail swaying. He demonstrated every angle: legs spread for breeding, frame inclined upward for fucking her throat, then tilted horizontally so her breasts hung free for milking.

“Built it with the birth in mind,” he said, patting the lower cut-out. “You’ll push right here, love. On all fours, like a proper broodmare. Natural. Strong. Our daughter’ll slide out in no time.”

She whimpered, no doubt overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness.

He fed her then: nutrient-dense porridge, thick with cream and honey, laced with potions to plump her up, to make her milk flow like rivers. She ate, eyes downcast in that modest way he adored.

Then he brought his attention to her breasts. He rolled her elongated nipples between his fingers—Merlin, they were so sensitive now, from all his loving care. He pulled out new nipple clamps- they were adorned with small silver chains and delicate weights- and clipped them on. The weights tugged gently, stretching her further, and Ron’s heart swelled. “These’ll make you even more perfect,” he murmured.“Longer nipples are erotic.....and practical. Easier for the baby to latch. Easier for the machine. Easier for me.”

He left them dangling, the weights swaying with every shuddering breath she took. Then he settled on the cot with his stack of books:

The Witch’s Guide to Enchanted Births, Conception and Renewal: Charms for Fertility, Nursing the Newborn: Magical Bonds and Milk Magic.

Every once in a while he read an insteresting passage out loud.

“‘Labour positions on all fours enhance magical flow during delivery—reduces tearing by forty percent!’ See? This chair’s genius.”

“‘Conception charms double efficacy post-partum—optimal window at day seven.’ We’ll be careful, love. I’ll heal any tears right after, knit you back together, then fill you right up again. Keep you nice and round.”

The cradle was a coffin with cushions.

The leather was too soft, too warm—like it was hugging her while it held her prisoner.

Her breasts hung through the holes, heavy and aching, milk dripping in slow, shameful rivulets.

The tail plug burned, a constant, gaping invasion, horsehair tickling her calves like a taunt.

Ron’s “demonstration” of the various ways to adjust the contraption was torture porn: tilting her forward for his cock in her throat, spreading her wider for taking arse, laying her flat for “milking”, only her legs angled and opened wide for birthing.

His voice—gods, that voice—dripped delusion: “For the birth… on all fours, natural…”

She saw it in her mind, vivid and nauseating: strapped here, screaming through contractions, his spawn ripping from her while he held her hand.

Not pregnant, she thought. Please, Merlin, don't let me be pregnant.

Her period was late, she knew that. But it could be due to stress and starvation.

Please let it be that.

The IUD had to hold.

But doubt clawed deep in her gut.

He fed her—force-fed her—thick, cloying porridge that sat heavy in her stomach, the aftertaste of unknown potions burning in the back of her throat.

She wanted to vomit, but she swallowed, because fighting took energy she didn’t have.

Then came the clamps.

They burned like hellfire.

Her nipples—ruined now, elongated from his endless sucking, tugging, machine-milking—throbbed as he pinched them. The silver jaws of the clamps bit down, weights yanking with every heartbeat, stretching her further into grotesquery. Pain lanced through her chest, white-hot, radiating to her core like lightning.

They swung like pendulums of shame, pulling, pulling, remaking her into his fantasy: longer, darker, ready for a baby and for him to latch and drain her dry.

Ron sprawled on the cot, books spread around him and read to her.

“Labour on all fours… reduces tearing…” Tearing. Gods, tearing. She’d bleed here, strapped like an animal, while he watched.

“Post-partum window at day seven…” He’d heal her—wave his wand over the wounds, the agony of birth—and fill her again. No rest. No mercy. Just endless breeding, her body a factory for his “family.”

Shame burned hotter than the clamps. She was exposed, leaking, broken—cunt corked with his seed, arse plugged like a beast, nipples weighted down.

Exhaustion clawed at her.

Draco—where are you? The letter, the message—I’m here. Find me. Had he seen? Understood? Had he even received the letter?

Soon sleep claimed her. Draco still on her mind.

Chapter Text

The night before Christmas, snow fell in slow, luminous spirals through the open arches of the Astronomy tower.

A powerful heating charm wrapped them in warmth, turning the biting December air into an intimate embrace. Draco had transfigured the stone floor into a nest of soft blankets.

Hermione’s heart raced, butterflies soaring as Draco laid her down, his touch reverent.

His grey eyes, soft with adoration, searched hers. “Hermione,” he whispered, voice trembling with love. “If you want to stop—”

“Never,” she breathed, pulling him closer, her fingers trembling against his cheek.

Their kiss was slow, sensual. He tasted like peppermint tea, snow, and the faint smoke of the common-room fire.

His tongue traced hers, gentle but hungry, drawing soft moans. His fingers wove through her curls, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

Their clothes fell away.

His shirt first—she felt the Sectum Sempra scars under her fingertips. She kissed them, tasting the warmth of his skin, feeling his shudder.

Her jumper, her skirt were peeled of next, until they were both bare, skin flushed under the heating charm.

Rogue snowflakes melted on their shoulders.

Draco worshipped her.

His hands glided over her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts until she arched, gasping, her nipples hardening under his gaze. He kissed her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the slope of each breast, murmuring her name like a prayer. When his mouth closed over her nipple—warm, wet, tongue swirling with deliberate care—she felt a spark ignite deep in her core, her thighs clenching, slick with want. “Draco…”

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, lips trailing lower, kissing the curve of her stomach, the sensitive dip of her hip. His fingers found her slick heat, stroking gently.

“Tell me what you need, love.”

“You,” she gasped, legs parting wider. “Only you.”

He settled between her thighs, eyes locked on hers. “Tell me again,” he said, voice raw, his cock hard against her entrance.

“I love you. Please, Draco—now.”

He entered her slowly, inch by torturous inch, watching her face intently.

She felt fullness, a perfect stretch that made her moan, her nails digging into his shoulders. They moved together —languid, deep rolls of his hips, her legs wrapped around him, snowflakes catching in his pale lashes.

His hand slipped between them, thumb circling her clit with feather-light precision, coaxing her higher until she shattered, crying his name into the starlit night, her body clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through her. Draco followed, burying his face in her neck, spilling inside her with a broken “I love you, Hermione, I love you.”

They lay tangled for a long time after, his fingers tracing lazy hearts on her stomach, snow drifting around them.

“I want to see the world with you,” he murmured, lips brushing her temple. “Rome under moonlight. Cairo’s libraries. Anywhere, everywhere—with you.”

She smiled, butterflies soaring in her stomach, her heart so full.

Draco’s hand slid lower, curious......

Then came a sharp, burning tug at her arsehole

but no, he’d never—

The tug yanked, vicious, ripping her from her starlit dream.

Hermione jolted awake with a guttural scream, her body convulsing against the straps.

The cradle. The fucking contraption. 

Her breasts dangled through the holes, swollen and veined, milk streaming in shameful rivers, the silver clamps with their cruel weights yanking her elongated nipples with every sob, stretching them into grotesque parodies of themselves.

The tail plug—gods, the plug—was gone, leaving her arsehole gaping, raw, pulsing.

Ron crouched behind her, eyes gleaming with delight, holding the obscene plug like a trophy.

“Fuck, love, look at this!” he crowed, voice thick with pride. “Your arsehole’s stretched so wide! Merlin, you’re a masterpiece!”

He held the plug to the candlelight—monstrously thick, slick with lube, the horsehair matted.

Her arsehole throbbed, exposed, ruined, the cold air a knife against the raw flesh.

Ron’s voice bright with love, informed her: “Just read something interesting, love. Book says your cunt’ll need to stretch ten centimetres to birth our daughter. And I've had an amazing idea....wonder why no one's ever thought of that. It's brilliant, really.”

He patted her arse, fingers brushing the gaping hole. “Gonna make it easy for you. Start stretching your pussy now slowly—get it wide, ready for our daugther, for all of our future children, actually. No pain, no tearing, ever. I’ll keep you pregnant, keep you stretched, so every birth is smooth. Eight kids would be great, maybe more—twins run in my family, you know that.”

He leaned closer, breath hot against her ear. “Your cunt’s for breeding only now,” he said, almost tender. “Pure for our babies. For pleasure, I’ll use your arse— it's perfectly stretched, thanks to my plug. Takes my cock like it was made for it. Once your pussy’s widened, there’ll be no fun in fucking it anyway. We’ll start stretching on Monday—I’ll nip to Knockturn for the tools during my lunch break. You’ll be patient, won’t you, love? Just a few more days.”

Hermione’s heart screamed—No, no, no!—but her voice was gone, stolen by terror. The clamps yanked, milk dripping.

She was cattle. Strapped, leaking, destroyed. 

Chapter Text

The weekend had been a fever dream of firewhisky, forced laughter, and the boys’ stubborn refusal to leave him the fuck alone.

Blaise had spun filthy stories about Slytherin escapades until even Draco’s lips twitched.

Seamus had goaded them into a drinking game, losing spectacularly and collapsing across the rug.

Neville had sat quietly, refilling Draco’s glass, listening as he rambled about Hermione’s colour-coded notes, the way she’d teased him in the library, and the colour of her eyes.

They’d stayed until early afternoon on Sunday.

Now wnly Theo remained, sprawled in the armchair opposite Draco, nursing a hangover cure. Draco slouched on the sofa, eyes red-rimmed, the letter a crumpled in his pocket.

“You can’t live in this, mate,” Theo said. “She’s made her choice. You have to let her go, or you’ll lose yourself.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t tried?” 

Theo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I get it. You’re gutted. Merlin, I’d be a wreck if Luna left me. But this—” he nodded at the letter’s bulge in Draco’s pocket “—this is her saying stop. You can’t force her back. You’re allowed to grieve, but you’ve got to start living again.”

Draco laughed, bitter and hollow. “Living. Right.” He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion bleeding through. “I don’t know how.”

The Floo roared, green flames spitting sparks. Luna Lovegood stepped through in a swirl of lavender smoke and star-print robes, radish earrings swinging like pendulums. Her pale hair was braided with silver ribbons, catching the light; her eyes, wide and dreamy, fixed on Theo with unabashed adoration.

“Theo, darling,” she sang, floating across the room, “we're meeting my father for dinner tonight, are you ready to go?”

She turned to Draco, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “You look less like a Wrackspurt victim today. Progress.”

Draco managed a ghost of a smile. He liked Luna—always had. She and Theo started their romance in eighth-year around the same time that he and Hermione had theirs.

They were opposites, yet perfectly matched: Theo’s razor-sharp logic tempered by Luna’s wild, intuitive heart.

Draco was happy for his friend, truly.

Luna tilted her head, birdlike. “Any news of Hermione? Pansy and Ginny are worried sick. I spent the weekend with them, speculating were Hermione's off to—chasing Nargles in Romania or studying ancient runes in some forgotten library ” Her voice softened. “It’s strange, not hearing from her. We were so close at school. I miss her.”

Theo’s eyes widened as Luna rambled on; he shook his head frantically, mouthing Don’t. He’d just dragged Draco out of the worst; the last thing he needed was hearing Luna strange speculations on her whereabouts.

Draco’s jaw tightened, pain flaring like a fresh burn.

He pulled the crumpled letter from his pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table, the parchment landing with a soft thud.

“Read it yourself,” he muttered, resuming his stare at the dying fire. “That’s all the news there is.”

Luna unfolded the letter with delicate fingers, her usual dreamy air sharpening into focus.

Silence stretched, as she read.

She took her time.

Brows furrowing in confusion.

Tracing the letter with her fingers.

Then, finally, Luna’s soft voice cut through the silence. “What should we help Ron with? ”

Draco’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “What the fuck are you on about, Luna? ”

Theo’s interest sharpened, his hangover forgotten.

He knew Luna—knew she never spoke without reason, even if it sounded mad. “Luna. Explain. Now.”

She tapped the letter, finger tracing the first word of each paragraph.

“The capitals at the beginning of the paragraphs. They’re larger, just slightly. Look.”

Draco’s blood turned to ice. He lunged for the letter, snatching it from her hands, heart hammering so hard it hurt. His eyes scanned the lines, the words he’d memorised:

Reading this is probably a shock to your ego…

Our entire involvement was a farce…

Never contact me again…

Honestly, it sickens me to think…

Even now, the thought of you…

Let me be clear: I don’t love you…

Pick up what remains of your pride…

RON HELP.

His hands shook, the parchment crumpling in his fist. “I read it a thousand times,” he whispered, voice breaking. “How did I miss this?”

Theo was on his feet, scanning the letter over Draco’s shoulder. 

Draco’s vision tunneled, pieces slamming together with brutal clarity. The tear-stained first letter, Weasleys’s smug grin at the Leaky,the second letter only arriving after he had talked to Potter again. The way Weasley had dismissed Draco’s suspicions, called him mate.

Hermione hadn’t left. She was taken.

Draco crushed the letter, grey eyes blazing with a fire.

For the first time in months, hope cut through the grief.

Hermione was out there.

And Ron Weasley was going to burn.