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Chapter Text

The moment it happened, Hermione knew.

A gut-wrenching twist low in her belly stopped her dead in her tracks on the way to the library.

The pain was different. Sharper, more urgent, and devastatingly distinct from anything she’d felt before.

It wasn’t physical, not entirely.

It was a feeling of loss.

Not the dull ache of fear or the sharp pangs of late pregnancy. No, this was something deeper. Wrong, in a way that echoed through her very magic.

"Draco," she whispered, her hand instinctively pressed against her swollen stomach. The cold corridor of Malfoy Manor seemed to close in around her.

She immediately twisted her engagement ring in a full circle, summoning him and waiting for a response, for her finger to warm, indicating that he received her call and was on the way to her. 

Nothing.

Her breath caught. Panic clawed its way up her throat.

She twisted again.

Still nothing.

Panic tightened her chest. Her breath came faster. Her fingers shook.

Once more—with trembling hands and a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening—she twisted the ring, knowing that nothing save death would stop him from coming back to her when she called, especially now that she was almost nine months pregnant. 

Again…nothing.

And then she knew. Really knew.

Deep down, she knew the truth that her heart wasn’t ready to accept.

Draco Malfoy, her husband, the father of her unborn children, her love, was… gone.

The scream that tore from her wasn't human. It was raw, primal—the sound of something shattering beyond repair. She collapsed to the cold marble floor, back against the wall, legs twisted to the side, hands clutching her belly as if she could hold her world together by sheer force of will.

Lucius found her like that. His hands were gentle when they touched her face, brushing away tears she couldn’t feel streaming down her face.

"Hermione?" The fear in his voice was uncharacteristic. "The babies—?"

She shook her head, struggling to speak through shallow, panicked breaths as Lucius crouched in front of her, assessing her with worried eyes. 

“No, they’re fine. It’s Draco. He’s not… He’s not answering my ring.”

Her voice cracked, the words barely more than a sob. “Lucius… I think he’s…Something has happened. I can’t…I can’t feel him anymore…”

She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t give shape to the nightmare that was like the cold, hard truth.

Lucius hesitated only a moment before gathering her into his arms, pressing her against his chest.

“I will find him,” he assured her against her hair, his voice resolute and grounded in a moment that felt like the earth was swallowing her whole. 

He waited for her to calm slightly, then gently helped her to her feet and apparated her to the bedroom she shared with Draco. He guided her to the chaise lounge, tucking her into the cushions before disappearing again with a crack.

A few seconds later, he reappeared, this time with Theo.

Theo immediately rushed to her side, kneeling and wrapping her in his arms as she sobbed into his chest.

“Do not leave her,” Lucius ordered, voice cold and clipped.

“I won’t,” Theo responded firmly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Lucius vanished again, leaving the two of them in the quiet devastation of the room.

Theo rocked her gently, his hand stroking over her hair until the sobs eventually subsided into shudders.

She stirred, lifted her head, and twisted the ring again, one last time. Nothing.

With a choked cry, she tore it from her finger and hurled it across the room.

Theo swallowed and then stared at her for a long moment, no doubt his head working out in real time what was going on. 

“You don’t know for sure what’s going on,” Theo tried to reassure quietly. “Maybe…Maybe he took his ring off and that’s why—”

“He wouldn’t,” she snapped. Her voice cracked. “He would never do that. I felt it, Theo. I felt him…go. Something… something awful has happened. He’s gone. I know it.”

Theo didn’t argue, clearly not wanting to give her false hope. He just took her hand and held it in a comforting grip. He then used his free hand to brush over the wetness on her cheek.

“Everything is going to be okay, Hermione,” he said softly, “I promise you…no matter what happens.”

Hermione stared at the floor, at the place where the ring had landed.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Nothing will ever be okay again.”

The long silence that followed agreed with her.

Chapter Text

July 5, 2001 – Ministry of Magic – Wizengamot Chamber

Trial of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy & Draco Lucius Malfoy

Hermione could feel the anxiety rising in her throat as the chamber fell quiet.

It was rare for the Wizengamot to try two individuals simultaneously, but the circumstances were anything but typical. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s urgency to quell the media frenzy, centered on two of the war’s most controversial figures, meant that procedural norms had been set aside in favor of an expedited, public resolution.

Heroes or traitors, depending on who you asked.

Several members of the Order had testified to the Malfoys’ role as covert operatives, drawing comparisons to Severus Snape, who had only recently been cleared of all charges. Hermione and Harry had been the last to take the stand.

Hermione hadn’t interacted often with Lucius or Draco during the war, but she had relied on their intelligence. Their information had saved lives. That much, she knew for certain.

Still, it was Harry’s testimony that she believed would tip the scales. Of all the Order, Harry had spent the most time with Draco in the war’s final years. Their long-standing enmity had dulled into something else—something resembling reluctant trust and cautious friendship.

Harry hadn’t just listed facts during his statement. He spoke of sacrifice. Of the risks the Malfoys had taken, the secrets they kept, the threat of exposure hanging over them constantly. He painted a picture of two men walking a tightrope between damnation and redemption.

Most striking was the way Harry described Draco himself. He told the court that, in his view, Draco had genuinely abandoned the ideology with which he was raised to believe. That he had shown remorse. That he’d grown as a person.

Hermione hadn’t expected that part to move her. But it had.

Harry hadn’t just said words to build their case for exoneration; he truly meant them, she could feel it.

As for Lucius, Harry hadn’t presumed to speak to his beliefs. Draco had, for the most part, been their point of contact, not his father. But Harry had made it clear: without Lucius’s role, the Order might not have won. The intelligence he smuggled from inside the Ministry had turned the tide more than once.

Hermione didn’t believe Lucius had abandoned his beliefs. Not really. She suspected his defection had more to do with vengeance than redemption. Voldemort had murdered Narcissa, and Lucius had turned on him with the same cold calculation that made him dangerous.

But his motives didn’t matter to her during the time of the war. Only his results did.

It had all started when Draco approached Harry near the end of their sixth year, just after Harry had nearly killed him, confessing the impossible task he’d been given to kill Albus Dumbledore. That was when Harry learned about Snape’s Unbreakable Vow—and Dumbledore’s intent to die by Snape’s hand after questioning him about everything just before they left to attain the fake Horcrux locket.

Everything had unraveled from there.

The turning point came when Narcissa was killed. Punishment for Draco’s perceived weakness in ending Dumbledore himself. Her death severed whatever loyalty the Malfoys had left for their Dark Lord and moved them to secretly broker an alliance with the Order.

Lucius, ever the strategist, convinced Voldemort that his influence at the Ministry could serve the cause more effectively. He was appointed Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, a post he used to funnel intelligence to the Order in secret.

Draco had been tasked with rallying non-human magical beings—veela, giants, goblins, vampires, and others—to Voldemort’s side. Instead, he’d quietly assessed who could be turned against him, negotiating fragile alliances with the Order.

They had walked a razor’s edge of being discovered, and somehow, they hadn’t fallen.

Still, none of that mattered to the countless witches and wizards who wanted them imprisoned—or worse. Some had suffered personal losses at the Malfoys’ hands. Others resented their survival. And among the old guard—those pureblood families who had publicly remained neutral but privately supported Voldemort—the Malfoys’ betrayal of his cause was seen as treason.

Outside the Order, the name Malfoy was still synonymous with power, privilege, and fear.

Hermione, for her part, hadn’t spent enough time with either Malfoy to develop any sort of feeling of real kinship. But she believed in justice, and she believed in truth. And the truth was this:

They hadn’t run. They hadn’t bowed down to Voldemort and become bloodthirsty henchmen. They had risked everything to aid the Order.

And in the end, they had helped win the war.

She and Harry stood together, hands clasped tightly, as the chamber held its breath.

The Chief Warlock rose.

“After due consideration of the evidence,” he said, voice echoing through the marble hall, “the Wizengamot delivers the following judgment.”

Hermione’s heart pounded in her ears.

“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are hereby exonerated of the following charges stemming from your involvement in the Second Wizarding War: The trafficking in Dark artifacts, conspiracy to commit murder, attempted use of Unforgivable Curses, participation in discriminatory acts against Muggle-born witches and wizards, engagement in unlawful activities under the banner of the Dark Lord, obstruction of magical law enforcement, and conspiracy to overthrow the Ministry of Magic.”

A wave of gasps and outrage rippled through the gallery. The Chief Warlock raised a hand. Silence fell again.

“This decision has been reached based on the testimony from members of the Order of the Phoenix as well as several resistance members and allies, documentation and evidence submitted of your covert actions, and the vital roles you played in the downfall of Lord Voldemort. However…”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“…your choices, though ultimately impactful, do not absolve you of willingly aligning yourselves with the Dark Lord at the onset of the war. You were not coerced, nor were you misled. You took the Mark freely and, in doing so, gave power and legitimacy to a regime built on terror, violence, and bigotry.

Though your actions helped hasten Voldemort’s defeat, they do not erase the time spent serving his cause initially.

This court acknowledges the distinction between the accused. Lucius Malfoy, as an adult and long-standing supporter of the Dark Lord before his change of heart, bears greater culpability for his choices and actions. Draco Malfoy, though not absolved, was a minor when he took his mark and acted under the influence of his family and extreme duress.

This court recognizes the nuance—but not the excuse.”

The Chief Warlock’s voice grew sharper.

“As such, you are both to be placed under probation and structured house arrest at Malfoy Manor, effective immediately.

Lucius Malfoy, your term shall be ten years.

Draco Malfoy, your term shall be one year.

During the duration of your respective terms of house arrest, you may leave the premises only for verified employment at Malfoy Enterprises, medical care, Ministry-approved outings, or upon direct summons from a Ministry official.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement shall monitor your use of magic for a period of twenty years, and all personal correspondence shall be subject to inspection and review.

Furthermore, you are both barred from holding any position of public office or employment within the Ministry of Magic for the duration of your terms, and for five years thereafter.

Any breach of these conditions will result in immediate incarceration at Azkaban.”

The gavel came down—sharp as thunder.

“Let it be recorded that this judgment is final.”

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

It was over. Officially, at least.

The Malfoys were spared Azkaban—or worse, the Dementor’s Kiss.

Across the courtroom, Lucius stood tall and unreadable. Draco looked pale, but there was relief in the tight line of his mouth. He glanced at them—just once—and then looked away.

Hermione hadn’t seen him in almost two years. The boy she’d known was gone.

Draco was taller now, all sharp cheekbones and aristocratic grace. Sleek platinum hair, flawless skin, and pale grey eyes that caught the light like mirrors. He’d always been attractive, in that irritating, smug way of his, even Hermione couldn’t deny that. But now he was… stunningly handsome, like he was carved from marble—clearly his father’s son. 

But as striking as his appearance was, he also looked a bit worn down.

There was a heaviness around his eyes that told her he hadn’t known peace in a long time.

Lucius leaned in, whispered something into his son’s ear, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

Together, they turned and walked toward the courtroom doors.

Hermione and Harry followed at a distance as the crowd surged forward.

The moment the doors opened, chaos broke loose.

Flashes exploded from enchanted cameras. Quills scribbled madly in mid-air. Reporters swarmed like locusts, shouting questions as microphones floated forward.

“Mr. Malfoy! Do you believe the verdict was fair?”

“Draco, will you return to public life after your sentence?”

“Lucius, how do you respond to accusations of political manipulation?”

“What do the Sacred Twenty-Eight think of you mixing with Muggleborns, sir?”

Neither man answered. Lucius remained stoic, his hand still lightly on Draco’s shoulder. Draco kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, refusing to react.

Hermione slowed her pace as she watched them. The cameras loved them—two elegant men in tailored robes, cloaked in scandal, silence, and reluctant redemption.

Then a voice cut through the noise, sharp as a spell:

“Draco Malfoy, what do you say to the families of those who died in the war?”

Draco faltered, just for a moment.

Hermione felt Harry tense beside her.

But before Draco could turn, Lucius guided him forward again, unflinching, toward the Ministry’s public Floo.

The green flames flared to life.

Another voice rang out, shrill and demanding:

“Lucius Malfoy, do you still believe in blood purity?”

Lucius paused. Just long enough for the words to sting.

Then he turned his head slightly, offering a cold, unreadable smile.

“I no longer believe in much of anything,” he murmured.

And with that, the Malfoys stepped into the flames and vanished.

***

A Few Weeks Later…

“Have you read the papers lately, Hermione?” Kingsley asked as he sat behind his ornate Minister’s desk.

She shrugged. He gestured to the pile of newspapers cluttering the surface. She leaned forward, scanning the headlines—most of which she’d already seen before cancelling her subscriptions to The Daily Prophet and every other rag spinning hearsay and conspiracy.

Malfoys Walk Free: Wizengamot Delivers Conditional Pardon

Probation, Not Prison: Are the Malfoys Above the Law?

Controversial Verdict Sparks Public Outcry Across Wizarding Britain

Draco Malfoy: War Criminal or Misunderstood Heartthrob?

Hermione sighed and looked back at Kingsley. “You knew it wouldn’t be easy. They’re not going to let this go for months.”

“Yes, well—bad press I can handle. It’s the rising factions on either side that worry me,” Kingsley revealed, his tone graver now.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you spoken to Harry lately about what he’s working on?”

“He’s been tight-lipped, which usually means he doesn’t want to worry me. I know there’s talk of vigilante groups rising—both sides, former sympathizers and resistance radicals. I assume he’s keeping a lid on things with the Aurors.”

“He is. But there’s real concern that violence is brewing again. And I fear the Malfoys will be the first target.”

Hermione frowned. “It’s not like they got off scot-free. The Ministry has them on a tight leash.”

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “At least publicly, we do.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“I had Harry assigned as their probation Auror and allowed him certain reasonable liberties.”

“Such as?” she asked, raising a brow.

“They have a bit more freedom to move around than outlined in the official house arrest terms, so long as they inform Harry first. They haven’t left the manor much, but both have traces on them. I know where they are at all times. I’ve also had their house arrest residence extended to include their chateau in France.”

Hermione huffed. “Must be nice... Anyway, Kingsley, as fun as it is catching up on the Malfoys’ extended holiday, what’s the real reason you asked me here?”

He leaned back. “Very well. I know you’ve no interest at this time in taking a formal role in the Ministry or the Order—”

“I’ve been on the run or fighting for the past four years. I think I’m entitled to a bloody rest.”

The war had hardened Hermione. She wasn’t the same girl she once was—her patience shorter, her tongue sharper.

Kingsley was used to her bluntness by now, but even so, he raised a brow at her response.

“Of course. I’m not suggesting otherwise,” he said calmly. “But… I wondered if your contribution post-war might take a different form.”

She tilted her head and gave him a long, suspicious look. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

Kingsley cleared his throat and hesitated.

“We need unity now more than ever. The wizarding world is fractured. We’ve had victories, yes, but many things remain on shaky ground; most notably, pureblood and muggleborn politics. The Malfoys were instrumental in ending the war—you and I both know that. But the public has cherry-picked what they want to believe and blames the Ministry for not making an example of them.”

“The Ministry convicted plenty of Death Eaters,” Hermione snapped. “Most were given much harsher sentences than the Malfoys, if they were left to live that is.”

“Yes, but who are they focused on? The ones we spared and walked away with leniency. I won’t stand by while people who helped us win the war are harmed. My question is—can you?”

She stared at him. “Of course not. What a ridiculous thing to ask. I testified on their behalf. I told the court everything—how Draco sent me a strand of Bellatrix’s hair for Polyjuice potion, the several crates of Dittany they smuggled to the resistance, the vital information they sent our way. I made sure the court knew that they were on our side.”

He studied her quietly, then asked, “Do you believe they deserve a second chance? That they’re redeemable?”

“I…” Hermione hesitated.

Her gut said yes. Her mind, however, still remembered who they were before the war—cruel, elitist, arrogant. But war had changed them all, and so did loss. So many losses….

Ron. Remus. Tonks. Colin. Lavender. Hagrid. So many resistance fighters she had come to know and care for in the last few years… 

There was no way that Draco was the same bully he once was after everything he had lost too. Harry believed that, and she trusted Harry above everyone else. She trusted him with her life.

“I do,” she said finally. “I believe they are.”

Kingsley smiled softly. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

A strange sense of dread unfurled in her stomach.

“What is it you want me to do?” she asked warily, wanting to get to the point of this conversation quickly.

He folded his hands, his tone turning diplomatic. “Healing the rift in our society will take more than policy. We need symbolic gestures. A show of unity. Of reconciliation. And nothing would send a stronger message than seeing the most famous Muggleborn of her generation unite with the most famous pureblood heir.”

She blinked, brow furrowing. “What are you saying? That I should…what, be friends with Malfoy?”

“For starters,” Kingsley said delicately. “Though that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

She stared at him. “You can’t possibly mean we should pretend to date—”

“I’m suggesting,” he interrupted gently, “that you consider a marriage alliance. With Draco.”

There was silence. Hermione blinked slowly, her mind scrambling.

Marry Draco Malfoy ?

The first person to ever call her Mudblood ? Someone she barely even knew ?

Had Kingsley gone absolutely crackers? 

“Have I not given enough?” she finally whispered, voice low and sharp.

“You have,” Kingsley said immediately. “More than anyone. But please hear me out. You are the brightest witch of your age, Hermione. You must understand better than anyone what a strategic move this could be for—.”

“The Ministry,” she snapped.

“No. For the wizarding world. For all of us.”

She crossed her arms, biting down her frustration. Of course, he was right. She hated that he was right. The press adored her. Her name still carried power as the golden girl. If she married Draco Malfoy, it would do more than silence the whispers—it could protect them. Help everyone move the fuck on. 

Still, the thought was absurd, her becoming a Malfoy.

“How do you know they’d even agree to this? The idea of the Malfoy heir marrying a Mudblood should be laughable to them.”

“I brought the proposal to Lucius,” Kingsley admitted. “He then presented it to Draco. As it turns out, they’re… surprisingly open to the idea.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “To marrying a Mudblood ?”

“To marrying you ,” he corrected. “The brightest witch of her generation, who also happens to be a rather lovely and attractive young woman—if you’ll excuse my bluntness. Draco is quite the eligible bachelor, too, you know, if you ignore the Death Eater history. He was second in your class, was he not?”

She rolled her eyes and gripped the arms of her chair. “And if we’re miserable? Would that matter to you at all?”

Kingsley leaned forward, voice soft. “I am your friend, Hermione. Not your enemy. I would never force you into anything that I think would make you unhappy. I’m asking—not commanding if you will consider this idea. Lucius has assured me that Draco would treat you with nothing but respect. He already holds you in high regard.”

That was news to her, but not completely unbelievable. They were both courteous and polite, the few times she saw them during the war.

“So I won’t be expected to pop out heirs like a breeding mare?”

“Absolutely not. That choice is entirely yours, if you want to have children, that is,” Kingsley responded seriously.

Hermione exhaled slowly. The weight of the world pressed against her chest again—only this time, it wasn’t war. It was peace. And the cost of maintaining it.

Fuck me …

“If I were to do this, I’d require some assurances. In writing,” she said at last.

Kingsley brightened. “So, you’re interested?”

“The assurances , Kingsley.”

“Yes, yes—of course. Whatever you want.”

Hermione exhaled, already resigning herself to the inevitability of it all. If something were to happen to either Malfoy, she knew the guilt would consume her. And really, they weren’t asking her to return to the front lines—just to marry a man she barely knew.

A rather attractive man, admittedly. And incredibly wealthy. That fact meant nothing to her personally, but philanthropically? That kind of money could change lives. She could do so much with the right resources.

That alone tugged her further toward agreement.

She also considered her current living arrangement—staying with Harry and Ginny at Grimmauld Place. It was fine, but she often felt like a third wheel. And while she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of moving into Malfoy Manor, there were worse places to live. She had heard rumors about the size of their library…

Then there was the simple fact that she was painfully single. She hadn’t really processed the loss of Ron, or whatever complicated thing had existed between them before the last battle. But she was… lonely.

And maybe Draco was lonely too.

She didn’t want a sham marriage. If she was going to do this, it had to be real. Not just a photo opportunity for the Prophet. She hadn’t planned on marrying anyone—not now, maybe not ever—but if she was going to marry, it had to be someone who wanted a real partnership. Someone who would be kind to her. Respect her. Try.

So much had been taken from her—her parents, her youth, her sense of safety, her education. Going back to Hogwarts at twenty-one felt laughable now, and any hope of a normal life, a quiet life, had long been surrendered to war and duty.

And here she was. Once again. About to take on another godsdamn burden, for the good of the many.

Fine.

If Draco wanted something real—if he was willing to try—so was she. She’d marry him, and hope for the best.

Worst case scenario? She’d take a chunk of the Malfoy money, buy herself an island, and disappear from wizarding society forever.

She looked back at Kingsley and lifted her chin.

“Take out a quill. I’m going to give you a list of my demands.”

Chapter Text

Hermione walked quietly beside Harry toward the Muggle café she’d chosen for her first meeting with Draco.

Harry had insisted on accompanying her—partly to help support her, and partly to serve as a chaperone due to Draco’s house arrest terms.

She’d been a bundle of nerves all morning. Their owl correspondences had been brief, polite, and painfully neutral, giving her no clue as to Draco’s intentions.

Picking a meeting place had also been a nightmare. She didn’t want the press catching wind of this, nor did she want to meet at the Manor or the Ministry. Shacklebolt had already negotiated the terms of the proposed arrangement; all that was left was for her to sign. But she had refused to do so until she met Draco face to face—well, semi-alone, anyway.

She had no idea which version of Draco she was going to get—or how to start the conversation. Most of her questions were personal, and she wanted answers without Lucius or Kingsley hovering nearby.

She was more confident these days, no longer the bushy-haired girl constantly raising her hand at Hogwarts. War had changed her. Hardened her. But when it came to romance… her experience was, frankly, underwhelming.

She was still a bit of a know-it-all. Still a bit swotty. Ron had once told her, not-so-kindly, that it could be a turn-off. She didn’t really know how to act around men she fancied.

Not that she’d fancied many.

She chewed her thumbnail nervously as they walked, completely absorbed in her thoughts. Harry glanced over and sighed before taking her hand gently in his, offering a comforting squeeze.

“It’s going to be fine, Hermione. I promise—he’s not as bad as he used to be.”

She nodded, took a deep breath, and let him guide her the rest of the way. Apparating wasn’t an option in front of Muggles, and the walk helped steady her nerves.

When they finally reached the café, she spotted Draco already seated at a small outdoor table beneath an umbrella. Three cappuccinos sat neatly in front of him.

He looked… bored.

How very thoughtful of him, she thought, surprised at his consideration in getting them beverages.

As they approached, Draco stood immediately, giving her a polite nod, then offering a similar—if slightly more reserved—one to Harry. Hermione stopped short, suddenly unsure of what to do with her limbs.

“Granger. Potter,” Draco said smoothly. “Hope you both like cappuccinos. They’re still warm—I placed them under a stasis charm. I arrived a bit early.” He hesitated, then added, “Erm… lovely weather we’re having today.”

He smiled—slightly awkward, but sincere.

Hermione arched an eyebrow at his overly courteous demeanor and took a second to assess his appearance.

He was dressed in surprisingly fashionable Muggle attire—an expensive-looking charcoal houndstooth overcoat that fell just past his knees, a fitted black turtleneck, and sharply tailored trousers. His platinum-blonde hair was shorter at the sides and tousled perfectly in front, and his gray eyes were light and sparkling in the sunlight.

He looked like he’d just walked off a Chanel menswear runway. 

She glanced down at her jeans, trainers, and simple lilac top and felt immediately underdressed. Ginny had at least insisted she do something with her hair, so she’d thrown it into a neat French braid rather than deal with her curls—and the looming threat of rain.

“Er… yeah, I like cappuccinos. You too, right, ’Mione?”

Harry gave her hand a gentle squeeze in his to get her attention, and Hermione caught it—just for a second—the flicker of something almost like jealousy in Draco’s eyes when he glanced at their hand holding. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it had been there.

“Um, yeah. They’re good,” she murmured.

“Shall we take a seat?” Draco offered.

She nodded, and Harry released her hand to sit. But before she could reach for her chair, Draco was already there, stepping around her with smooth precision. He pulled it out for her and gently scooted her in once she sat, the gesture unfamiliar to her, even being around so many men all the time.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Thanks.”

He inclined his head and sat down across from her.

An awkward few beats of silence fell between the three of them, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain as they all took a sip of their coffees and the hum of passing Muggle traffic.

“So, um… we should talk about the, uh… marriage and whatnot,” Harry began, clearing his throat. “I’m sure you’ve got a few questions for Hermione.”

Draco shrugged, his eyes sliding to Hermione. “Perhaps one or two. But I’m more interested in what you want to ask me, Granger.”

His gaze was direct, steady, a little intense—and it made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

“Right. Hold on—I have a list.”

Draco’s brow quirked, amused, as she fished a folded bit of parchment from her coat pocket and began to unfold it.

Harry leaned over to peek at it and raised his eyebrows.

“What?” she whispered.

He gave her a look and subtly tapped a line with his finger—an obvious place to start.

Hermione drew a breath and read it verbatim. “Are you going along with this out of obligation, or do you actually want to get married?”

Her face flushed the moment the words left her mouth.

Draco smirked, clearly entertained by her bluntness. “Do I want to get married at twenty-one for political reasons? No, Granger, it wasn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list after the war. Did my father strongly encourage the arrangement? Yes. But ultimately, the choice was mine to consent.”

He shrugged lightly. “I’ve been raised my entire life to expect that my marriage would be arranged. So, no—I’m not losing any sleep over someone else choosing my bride.”

It was honest. Not exactly reassuring, but not dismissive either. And it won him a point or two in Hermione’s book for not sugarcoating it.

She moved on. “How do you feel about blood purity?”

Draco looked down, his smirk fading. He bit his lip, clearly uncomfortable.

“I don’t care about that shite anymore,” he said quietly. “I’m…I’m sorry for how I treated you back at school. I was a right prat most of the time. I hope you can think better of me—eventually.”

Hermione blinked. That was… more than she’d expected.

“How come I never got an apology, Malfoy?” Harry teased. “You were a twat to me as well.”

Draco looked up and smirked again. “I figured we were even, considering you carved half a dozen scars into my chest with Sectumsempra, Potter.”

Harry tilted his head, pretending to weigh it. “Yeah, fair. Sorry about that, by the way. Didn’t mean to ruin your pristine body.”

Draco waved the apology off. “Not the last scar I earned since school. It’s fine.”

The mood lightened, and Hermione found herself a little more at ease.

She glanced back at her parchment.

“How does your father really feel about you marrying me?”

“He’s in agreement,” Draco replied. “If you’re asking whether he’d rather I marry a Greengrass or some other high-society pureblood, the answer is probably yes. But he’s changed a lot since the war. He’s… grateful, I think, that you’re even considering it. He’s been waiting for us to meet before formally requesting you come for tea at the Manor.”

Hermione raised her brows in surprise. “Really?”

Draco nodded. “You can bring Potter, if it makes you more comfortable.”

She straightened, slightly defensive. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“No slight intended,” Draco explained smoothly. “Just thought you might appreciate a familiar face at the manor. I know my father can be…intimidating.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Right.”

Okay… maybe he wasn’t so bad.

“I’ll see if Ginny can spare me that day,” Harry offered with a shrug.

“Is it true, what the papers are speculating?” Draco asked, tone casual. “You and the Weas—er, Ginevra—are engaged?”

“Not quite yet,” Harry responded. “But I asked her parents for their blessing. Only way to get them off her back about moving in with me.”

“Not ready for marriage yet, Potter?”

“I am, actually,” Harry admitted. “But Ginny wants to wait. She’s considering a pro Quidditch contract and wants to focus on her career before planning a wedding.”

“Practical,” Draco said approvingly. “She’s always had a mind of her own.”

“Yeah, she’s not about to let anyone make her do things the traditional route,” Harry said. “We’re doing things our way.”

Draco glanced at Hermione again, a teasing glint in his eye. “Guess she can catch the bouquet at our wedding, right, Granger?”

Hermione flushed again, the heat blooming from her neck all the way up her cheeks.

“Did you have any questions for me, Malfoy?” she asked, redirecting the conversation.

“Draco,” he corrected smoothly. “If I’m to be your intended, I reckon we should at least be on a first-name basis.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t exactly argue with the logic. “Alright. Draco. Did you have any questions you wanted to ask me?”

He tilted his head. “I was curious about the amount you listed in the marriage agreement for your annual allowance. I didn’t realize you were so interested in acquiring wealth.”

Her spine straightened. “I’m not. I intend to use the money for entirely philanthropic purposes. Why? Is it too deep a dent in your precious Gringotts vaults?”

Draco grinned, the corners of his mouth curling up in genuine amusement. “Darling, Malfoy Enterprises earns more than a million galleons a day. You’ll find our vaults are quite flush.”

He leaned forward slightly, tone easy but sincere. “If you’d like, I can add an addendum to the agreement doubling the amount you requested—strictly for charitable causes of your choosing—and set aside a separate personal allowance as Lady of the Manor?”

Hermione arched a brow. “ Lady of the Manor, huh? That sounds suspiciously like you think I’ll be lounging around in silk dressing gowns and reorganizing peony arrangements.”

Draco gave her a slow, deliberate once-over, not inappropriately, just enough to make her throat tighten.

“Would you like to be?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’d rather drown in a vat of doxy repellent.”

Harry snorted into his cappuccino.

Draco just laughed. “Good. I’d hate to be married to someone without ambition.”

Hermione couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Damn him for being charming. “Fine,” she said. “Double the allowance—but I’ll decide where every knut goes. And don’t expect me to spend my time planning balls and high society events.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Granger—”

“Hermione.”

He blinked, surprised.

“If I have to call you Draco, you can manage Hermione.”

He smiled, soft this time. “Fair enough.”

Harry cleared his throat, glancing between the two of them.

“Well,” he said, standing and brushing imaginary crumbs off his jeans, “I think I’m going to take a little walk. Let you two finish up without me hovering.”

Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “You don’t need to—”

“I do,” Harry interrupted with a meaningful look. “You’re capable of handling yourself, and he’s not stupid enough to try anything in a Muggle café with a trace on him.”

“I’m sitting right here, you know,” Draco pointed out mildly, though his eyes slightly narrowed.

Harry ignored him. “I’ll be back in fifteen. Try not to hex each other.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “No promises.”

As he walked off down the street, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, Hermione turned her attention back to Draco, who was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

“Alone at last,” he murmured, taking a slow sip of his cappuccino.

She leaned back in her chair. “Don’t push it.”

He smiled, but it was more thoughtful than smug now.

“I meant it, by the way. About the money. If this arrangement is going to work, I’d rather we both feel like it serves something bigger than either of us.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly. “You really don’t mind me directing funds wherever I choose?”

“I trust your judgment,” he said simply. “And frankly, having someone like you in the family doing actual good with our name might be the best PR strategy we’ve had in generations.”

She gave a dry laugh. “Well, that’s refreshingly honest.”

“I don’t have the luxury of lying to you,” Draco replied. “You’re a bit smarter than me. It wouldn’t end well.”

She felt a bit surprised by the compliment but didn't let it show on her face. 

“Smarter, perhaps,” she said, sipping her cappuccino. “But I doubt I’d hold up well amongst your pure-blood peers in your… posh life. You were raised to thrive in your world. I wouldn’t even know which fork to use at a formal dinner.”

Draco gave a small laugh, but there was something wistful in it.

“True. But none of the girls I was raised to marry know what it’s like to be on the front lines. To watch people fall. To survive things you don’t talk about after.”

He paused, eyes on the rim of his cup.

“To be very honest with you… the war changed me. In ways I’m still figuring out. I don’t think I could relate to someone untouched by it. Someone who still lives in the world we thought we’d return to.”

He looked up at her then, and his voice softened.

“I may have been raised differently, Hermione. But the last thing I want is a silly girl who cares only about appearances and dinner parties. Not anymore. Not after everything…”

The use of her name caught her off guard, as well as the raw honesty of his words. It settled over her like a warm charm.

This was a Draco she could work with. 

She looked away, heat rising in her chest. “You should know, I’m not agreeing to anything until I’ve spoken to your father myself. And if he’s even slightly condescending, I’m out.”

Draco lifted a hand in mock surrender. “Fair enough. He’ll be on his best behavior, I swear it.”

She studied him for a moment. “Do you want this to be a real marriage?”

His smile faded, and he met her gaze without flinching.

“I want this, Hermione. Not just to play a role or serve some greater cause—I want it to be real. I’m not asking for love at first sight or some fairytale start, but I’d like to build something honest between us. If we’re going to do this… I want to do it right with you.”

Hermione stared at him, caught by the steadiness in his silver pools.

She hadn’t expected that answer—not from him, and not delivered so quietly, so vulnerably. But she somehow believed him.

The Draco Malfoy sitting across from her was nothing like the sneering, arrogant boy she remembered from school. That boy seemed long gone. In his place was someone more grounded. Someone who carried the war on his shoulders, same as she did.

And maybe—even more surprisingly—someone she could come to genuinely like.

She glanced down at her parchment, breaking the eye contact before she lost track of why they were there.

“Do you plan on being faithful in this marriage?” she asked plainly.

Draco furrowed his brows, looking vaguely incredulous.

“Malfoy men don’t stray from their women,” he said matter-of-factly. “Perhaps some of the other Sacred Twenty-Eight have looser standards, but not my family.”

He leaned back slightly, still holding her gaze.

“And just so we’re clear—Malfoy men don’t share. In case you ever viewed that as an option.”

Hermione tensed, caught off guard by both the certainty in his tone and the possessive edge in his words.

It wasn’t the answer she anticipated—some vague political promise of discretion, maybe, or a smirk and a brush-off. But not this. Not unwavering loyalty delivered with the quiet pride of a man stating a family creed.

It was… intense.

And strangely enough, it didn’t make her recoil.

If anything, it made her heart beat a little faster.

She opened her mouth to respond—then closed it again, not quite sure what she wanted to say.

Draco didn’t press her. He just sat there, sipping his cappuccino like he hadn’t just declared something that made her stomach flutter and her thoughts scramble.

She looked back down at her list, suddenly unsure if she wanted to keep going or run in the opposite direction.

Instead, she cleared her throat. “Right. Next question.” She paused for a long beat before finally gathering the courage to ask him.

“Do you expect children?”

Draco didn’t answer right away.

He looked down, absently tracing the rim of his cup with one finger, and for the first time since they sat down, he seemed genuinely unsure of his words.

“I always assumed I would have heirs,” he said finally. “It’s what’s expected. Carry on the family line, raise the next generation of Malfoys… all of that pure-blood rot.”

He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes.

“But that was before the war. Before everything changed. I don’t think I want children just because I’m supposed to anymore. If I ever do, it’s going to be because I actually want to raise them the right way, without hate in their hearts for people who are different than them, with someone who wants them too.”

He paused, then added more quietly, “And I’d want them to grow up in a different kind of world than the one we were given. That matters more to me than bloodlines or legacies now.”

It was a perfect answer—measured, sincere, and entirely disarming.

He was so much more mature than she ever would have expected. Vulnerable, even. There was nothing performative about it. He seemed… genuine. A word she never would’ve dreamed of associating with Draco Malfoy back at Hogwarts.

What had happened to him all those years he’d played double agent? What had the war turned him into?

Before she could get too lost in the thought, his voice broke through her reverie.

“What about you, Granger? You fancy having a couple of sprogs one day?”

She raised a brow at him.

“Sorry— Hermione,” he corrected himself with a smirk.

She sighed and took a long sip of her cappuccino, considering how honest she wanted to be with him before deciding on ultimately sharing her true feelings on the matter. 

“I mean… I hadn’t really thought about it much, to be honest. Well, not before this whole marriage proposal came up. I think the idea is nice in theory. A child or two, maybe, one day...I don’t know.”

She paused, meeting his eyes again. “All I can say is… it’s on the table.”

He nodded, a small smile curving at the edges of his mouth.

“Dad will love to hear it.”

Hermione gave him a look. In response, Draco wiggled his brows at her with mock innocence.

“I wonder,” he said smoothly, “since you’ve said children are on the table, if you intend to make this marriage real in every sense of the word, darling.”

She didn’t miss the implication—nor the deliberate use of darling —and she felt her cheeks heat without her permission.

But she wasn’t going to shrink from it. Even if she still hadn’t… well… done that, it wasn’t exactly information she planned on sharing anytime soon. Not because she was ashamed, but because it was hers , and he didn’t get to have it just yet.

She met his eyes, voice steady.

“If you’re asking whether I plan on shagging you if I agree to this marriage… that would depend.”

Draco leaned in slightly, the glint in his eyes unmistakable. One finger slid across the table—slow, deliberate—brushing just barely against hers. His silver signet ring caught the light, the carved serpent gleaming like a challenge.

“On what, exactly?” he asked, voice low. “Would I have to earn the right to take a taste?”

Hermione swallowed, feeling a nervous but also thrilling flicker run through her, like the flutter of a snitch just beneath her skin. His words were bold, his touch light, but there was something dangerous in the way he said it. Dangerous in the way it made her wonder what it would feel like to let him.

She held his gaze, willing her voice not to waver.

“That would depend on whether you prove yourself… worthy,” she said coolly, pulling her hand away just enough to break the contact, but not enough to make it feel like retreat.

Draco’s smile deepened, and damn him, he looked genuinely delighted.

“Well,” he said, sitting back with a lazy confidence that made her want to both hex him and kiss him, “that gives me something to look forward to.”

Hermione lifted her cappuccino with deliberate calm, masking the flush creeping up her neck. She took a long sip, then set it down and gave him a perfectly polite smile.

“You’ll find I’m not so easily won over, Malfoy.”

“Draco,” he corrected again, lips curving around the word like a dare. She arched a brow. “We’ll see.”

Not long after, Harry returned, and Hermione made plans with Draco to meet him and his father for tea next Saturday.

When they stood to leave, Draco stepped toward her and gently took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The gesture caught her off guard, but she didn’t exactly hate it. In fact, she was starting to find his chivalry… oddly enjoyable.

Not that she’d ever admit it to him.

As she and Harry made their way toward the apparition point, she found herself deep in thought, her mind still looping back to the café.

She still didn’t know Draco well enough to say definitively that he’d make a good husband. But he was charming, unexpectedly sincere, and—yes—very, very good-looking. That didn’t hurt.

Was that enough to build a marriage on?

She wasn’t sure. But it was a start.

Harry slipped his arm through hers for the last block of the walk.

“A galleon for your thoughts?”

“Oh, well… he’s not so bad,” she said, a little too casually. “Like you said.”

Harry gave her a sideways glance. “Are you telling me you fancy him already?”

Hermione scoffed. “Hardly. But he is… intriguing. I might end up not hating my life after all if we get married.”

“Do you think you’ll go through with it now?”

“I’m leaning toward yes. But I have to meet with his father first. I need to know if he’s actually changed. I won’t share a home with someone who merely tolerates me—or worse, resents me for still breathing after I give him a grandchild.”

Harry nodded. “Lucius isn’t as scary as he used to be. He’s still aloof, still every bit the aristocrat, but… I think he’s softened. He clearly loves Draco, and I think he misses Narcissa deeply.”

Hermione winced. “Oh, I should have said something about Narcissa! How insensitive of me.”

Harry patted her arm. “It was the first meeting. You’ll have plenty of time for a heart-to-heart later. It’s not like he brought up Ron, either.”

The name landed between them like a quiet stone. Hermione sighed, her throat tight with the grief she’d spent months compartmentalizing.

“I wonder what he’d think of me marrying Malfoy.”

“Oh, he’d have you committed at St. Mungo’s,” Harry said lightly. “Right after he Avada’d your intended.”

They both laughed—because the truth of it did sound absurd.

She stopped walking for a moment, turning to meet Harry’s eyes. “You don’t think me insane for going through with this, do you?”

Harry shook his head. He reached up and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

“I just want you to be happy. I know Shacklebolt has his whole ‘for the good of wizardkind’ angle, but I don’t care about any of that rot. This is your life, Hermione. The war is over. Do what feels right for you .”

Hermione nodded slowly, her chest tightening with appreciation. “Thank you, Harry.”

He smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to her temple before gently nudging her to keep walking.

She thanked the gods that she still had Harry in her life.

He was the one constant in her world—her fiercest advocate, her truest friend. Not even Ron, when he’d been alive, had ever been quite that for her—maybe because they’d muddied their friendship by trying to turn it into something more. She and Harry had realized ages ago that they were platonic soulmates, and thankfully, Ginny had always understood. She knew there were things the two of them had endured together—things they had survived—that no one else could ever fully grasp.

Sometimes, Hermione wondered if she would’ve endured the war with her sanity intact if Harry hadn’t made it. If she would’ve snapped her wand and turned her back on magic, on everything, and everyone.

Her parents’ memories of her were irretrievable now, lost to a decision that had been necessary, but painful nonetheless. Harry was the only family she had left. Ginny, too, in many ways, more sister than friend now. But it was Harry who had held her up when the world tried to knock her down.

If this arrangement with Draco somehow worked, maybe they could start to build something new. Maybe they could make a family of their own, and perhaps the broken parts of her could finally start to knit themselves back together.

One could dream, anyway...       

Chapter Text

After a brief debrief with his father, who was, unsurprisingly, most pleased with the hopeful turn of events (as was he)—Draco headed straight to his sitting room, knowing his friends were likely waiting to receive their version of the debriefing.

Sure enough, Theo was smoking a fag by the open window, Pansy perched primly on one couch with her legs crossed and an air of bored expectation, and Blaise lounging on the other, lazily thumbing through a book.

When Draco shut the door behind him, all three looked up, their faces wearing the unmistakable expressions of people who were desperate for gossip but trying not to appear it.

Draco smirked and sauntered over to the other end of the couch Pansy was sitting on, throwing an arm casually along the backrest.

“Well?” Pansy snapped, clearly irritated by the lack of instant answers.

Draco took his time brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve before responding.

“She’s amenable to the arrangement. We’ve scheduled tea with Father next Saturday to discuss further.”

“So you and the Golden Girl are officially engaged now?” Blaise asked, sitting up and setting his book aside.

“Not quite. But it would seem that we are headed in that direction.”

Theo took one last drag of his cigarette, vanished the stub with a casual Evanesco , then walked over to flop dramatically down between Draco and Pansy.

He threw an arm around Draco and kissed his cheek. Draco rolled his eyes—entirely unmoved.

“Our boy is finally growing up,” Theo sighed theatrically. “However will we survive once he’s chained to his darling wife?”

Pansy scoffed, standing up to sit across from them with Blaise. “It’s not like he’s been a barrel of laughs since the war.”

“Does this mean the rest of us should consider marriage as well?” Blaise mused.

Theo made a face like he’d smelled something foul.

“I meant me and Pansy, you horny slut,” Blaise clarified.

“Yeah, Theo, gods forbid you give up shagging anything that breathes,” Pansy added dryly.

Theo smirked. “Nothing wrong with enjoying the simple things in life. Am I right, Draco?”

He placed a hand on Draco’s thigh, his eyes heavy-lidded with mischief

“You’ll have to stop coming onto me once I’m married, Nott,” Draco said, deadpan. “Wouldn’t want to give my future wife the wrong impression of my fidelity .”

Theo gave him a bratty pout, and Draco responded with a placating, chaste kiss to his temple before nudging him aside. Theo scooted over with a dramatic sigh.

“So,” Pansy said, inspecting her nails, “is she still as swotty as ever?”

“Not really. She was rather… forthcoming,” Draco replied, thinking fondly of how Hermione had grilled him like a seasoned negotiator. “Didn’t beat around the bush.”

“What’d she ask?” Blaise asked, intrigued now.

“Fair things. Whether I actually wanted a real marriage or if I was just going along with Shacklebolt’s plan for public image.”

“And you said?” Pansy prompted.

“That I wanted something real. I’m not going to be tethered to someone I can’t have a meaningful relationship with.”

Theo wiggled his brows. “Did you mention you’ve fancied her since fourth year?”

Draco gave him a sharp look. “No. And don’t you dare mention it to her either.”

Theo raised his hands in surrender. “Your secret’s safe with me, darling.”

Pansy scoffed. “Yes, some of us would rather not relive Draco being in love with a Muggle-born know-it-all while one of us was actually dating him.”

A sharp pang of guilt pierced him at the dig.

Draco leaned forward, brows raised. “You can’t still be cross with me about that?”

She sighed and waved him off. “I got my revenge. We’re square.”

Theo smirked at her, clearly thinking about all the times they’d fucked behind Draco’s back. Pansy rolled her eyes, unamused.

“You lot are entirely too incestuous,” Blaise said with mock disdain.

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t snog Pansy a time or two when we’d all get pissed in the common room together,” Theo retorted.

“Yes, well, I didn’t shag her, did I? Some of us have morals.”

Pansy held up both hands, as if corralling children.

“If we’re quite done tripping down memory lane, I’d actually like to hear more about Draco’s intended.”

“Yeah, Drake, what else did she ask you?” Blaise asked, curiosity piqued.

“She asked if I wanted children and whether I still believed in blood purity,” Draco answered casually.

“Yes and no, obviously,” Theo supplied for him with a smirk. “Honestly, I expected something juicier. Can’t wait to meet her and make her blush for me. You reckon she’s still a virgin?”

Draco shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Theo just shrugged innocently.

“As if Draco would let Granger within a hundred miles of you,” Pansy drawled.

“Well, I do live here,” Theo countered, “and I fully intend on becoming quite chummy with her, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, you’ll definitely be making an Unbreakable Vow before she moves in,” Draco asserted, crossing his arms, his glare unwavering.

“As if I’d try to shag your wife,” Theo said, mock-wounded. “Really, Draco. I’d hoped you would think better of me than that.”

“You’ve shagged plenty of wives ,” Draco retorted pointedly, “and husbands, I might add.”

“Yes, but never my best mate’s wife. Honestly, I think Granger and I will get along quite well. I do intend to make her my strictly platonic friend.”

The sincerity in his tone made Draco ease, just slightly.

“It’s sorted then,” Pansy cut in, clearly exasperated. “Theo keeps his comically large cock to himself, and Draco doesn’t have to Avada anyone. Can we talk about the wedding now, please? I need at least some heads-up if I’m going to be planning the damn thing.”

Draco turned to her, amused. “How much time do you need to get something together?”

She tilted her head, considering. “A month. At least a month. Hopefully, she’s not the type with too many opinions—it’s not like she has good taste or anything. I doubt she even knows what a charger plate is, let alone how to pick linen colors.”

“Alright. Once she gives the go-ahead next weekend, I’ll owl you to start planning. Thanks, Pans. Really.” Draco shot her a soft smile of appreciation. 

She gave him a curt nod, eyes flicking away from his. “It’s the least I can do with Narcissa gone… I’ll do my best to live up to her standards. I doubt your future wife has any interest or clue when it comes to planning events.”

Draco shook his head, remembering Hermione’s joke about lounging in silk and arranging peonies. He wouldn’t mind the lounging bit at all as he imagined her in a silk chemise, curled up in his bed.

Speaking of delicate clothing…

“Would you mind horribly adding some clothes and underthings to her wardrobe?”

“As long as I can buy myself a few things on your galleon while I’m playing personal shopper,” Pansy replied.

“Brilliant. You’re the best.”

She flipped her hair. “Obviously.”

“If we’re finally done talking about Granger,” Blaise said, stretching, “can we break out the Firewhiskey and get thoroughly smashed? All this wedding talk is making me feel positively jealous.”

“Excellent idea,” Theo chimed in. “Maybe if we get Drake drunk enough, he’ll let me give him one last blowjob before he’s officially off the market.”

Draco groaned and rubbed a hand down his face. “Theo, for the millionth time—I’m not letting you do that again. I know I’m devastatingly attractive, but it’s been years . Lay off already.”

Pansy and Blaise both snorted with laughter as Theo sauntered toward the bar cart, unapologetic.

“No harm in asking.”

***

Sometime around 1 a.m., after Blaise and Pansy had Flooed back to theirs—thoroughly tipsy and laughed out for the night—Draco stripped down to his boxer-briefs and flopped onto his bed.

It had been a long time since they’d all spent time like that together. For a few hours, it had felt like Hogwarts again—taking the piss out of each other, plotting idiotic schemes, lounging in the common room like the war had never happened. He’d missed it. He’d missed them. Missed not having to think about consequences or responsibility. Just laughing. Just being around people he trusted and cared for.

It meant more than he could say that they supported the engagement. No sly remarks or overly cruel veiled barbs about Granger. Just… support. It hadn’t always been like that. But they’d changed too, after the war. They’d grown. Let go of the pure-blood dogma they’d been raised on.

Still, he knew his friends were the exception . Judging by the number of anonymous howlers he received every week—calling him a blood traitor, a disgrace—there were plenty who hadn’t changed a bit.

They could all go to hell.

Frankly, Draco was still shocked he’d survived the war at all, even with years of Occlumency practice that had saved his cover. That he’d made it out intact was nothing short of a miracle.

There had to be a reason he was still here.

Maybe… it was her .

Seeing her today had sparked something in him, set his soul alight in a way he hadn’t felt in years. She was even lovelier now than she’d been at Hogwarts, despite her hair being pulled back in a braid. He’d always been a sucker for her curls.

He’d had a hard-on for Granger since third year, if he was being honest—since the day she clocked him outside Buckbeak’s paddock. But it wasn’t until fourth year that the real infatuation had settled in. Not just lust, he truly fancied her. Wanted her above everyone else. Felt himself falling deeper and deeper in love with her as time went on from afar. 

She was brilliant. Clever. Brave. Stubborn as hell. Fiercely loyal. She was unlike anyone he’d ever met, and he doubted he’d meet anyone like her again.

It still amazed him that Shacklebolt had suggested the match—and even more so that she was actually considering it. He could tell she’d liked his answers earlier and that had pleased him immensely. 

He mostly trusted his father not to bollocks the whole thing when they met her for tea. His old man really had changed, surprisingly enough. Whatever lingering beliefs he still held, he was able to put aside as Lucius had been fully on board with the idea of the engagement. He’d even remarked that their future children would be terrifyingly intelligent —which, admittedly, was a thought Draco had also entertained. Briefly.

But the truth was, if she never wanted kids, that would be fine too.

He didn’t care about passing on the Malfoy name. Not anymore.

Would it be nice to see a curly-haired child with her brown eyes staring up at him one day? Sure. But that wasn’t the point.

All he really wanted… was her.

He’d give her anything she wanted. Do anything to make her happy.

Fuck, all he wanted was to see her smile.

The thought that she might one day respect him—really see him as a man worth her time—was one of the few things that had kept him going during the war. That, and the idea of being someone worthy of her.

He wondered, briefly, if she and Weasley had ever been properly engaged. If the redheaded git had gotten his grubby hands on her before he died.

The idea that she might still be untouched after all this time didn’t seem realistic… Not that he particularly cared either way. Although— to be fair —the idea of being the only man to ever have her, was rather… appealing.

He shook the thought off. It really didn’t matter if he was her first or her fiftieth. He would be her last. 

Draco just wanted to be a good husband. Make her feel safe. Respected. Loved.

He loved her so fucking much he sometimes wondered if it was obvious—if she could somehow tell . He’d kept himself cool, calm, and collected during their meeting, but inside? He’d been a wreck.

He sighed and hugged his pillow, feeling ridiculous, like a love-sick ponce.

Then the door creaked open, and he felt the bed dip.

Warm arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him against a hard, bare chest. Theo’s scent hit him a second before his voice.

Draco groaned.

“Nott, last I checked, you had a perfectly acceptable bedroom in the other wing.”

“Yes, but I found it lacking,” Theo murmured, nestling closer.

“Lacking in what exactly, you idiot?”

“You, darling. Obviously.”

Draco tried to scoot away, but Theo only locked his arms tighter around him.

Iron grip. Classic Theo.

“Indulge me,” Theo murmured. “I won’t ever get to hold you like this again after you’re officially engaged.”

“I never asked you to snuggle up next to me all the other times you snuck into my bed over the years,” Draco pointed out with an annoyed huff.

“Don’t act like it wasn’t perfectly nice to have me hold you all those times, Draco.”

“You’re too warm, you drool, and I don’t enjoy your cock nestling into my arse.”

“Shush, I’m not hard right now. And I’ll pull down the comforter so we don’t get too hot.”

Theo shifted the comforter swiftly off of them with one hand, then somehow nestled even closer to Draco.

Draco sighed and resigned himself to surrendering to Theo’s whims one last time. His friend had always been overly affectionate, and Draco mostly didn’t mind. He probably wouldn’t have allowed anyone else that privilege—especially not another man.

Theo had been his closest friend since they were very young. The only other person he’d ever told his truest feelings to. His relationship with his father had become difficult over the years, but Draco always knew—deep down—that Lucius loved him. That his father would always be his staunch advocate, aside from his dear mother.

Theo, unfortunately, never had that. His father wasn’t just cold—he was abusive and openly disdainful of him. And unfortunately, His mother had died when he was very young. Theo spent more and more time at Malfoy Manor, especially when his father was in one of his explosive moods, and then for a long time after fifth year, after his father was arrested for the raid on the Ministry of Magic alongside Lucius.

Draco had been the first person Theo ever told that he liked both boys and girls when they were in their first year. Draco had hugged him and told him he’d never think any differently of him.

He’d feared for his friend ever since—especially when Theo grew older and became less discreet in his experimentation. And sure enough, when his father caught him kissing a boy in the summer after fourth year, the consequences were brutal. Theo had spent a week at St. Mungo’s. Draco stayed by his side every single day until he was discharged.

During the war, they practiced Occlumency together religiously—Theo had been the one person outside of Lucius who knew what Draco was really doing to aid the Order. Theo had mostly stayed out of the war. His father hadn’t even bothered to make him a Death Eater, convinced he wasn’t worthy of serving the Dark Lord.

So Draco kept him safe and looked over him at the Manor.

Most nights he was in his own room, entertaining whatever piece of ass he found for the evening. But some nights, he’d slip into Draco’s bed and just… hold him. Sometimes Draco would cry, thinking about his mother, or the awful things he saw or was made to do.

Theo never said anything. Just held him tighter.

He was good like that. Always knowing when to be quiet, when to press, when to pull him back from too-deep Occluding.

Draco knew Theo loved him—probably a bit more than a friend. He never really minded that either. He’d let him kiss him sometimes, back when they were young, before he’d properly snogged a girl and knew firsthand it felt different than it did with Theo. He never felt butterflies when Theo kissed him.

There were, of course, the handful of times over the years at Hogwarts when he’d let Theo suck him off when he was properly smashed. But he always had to close his eyes and imagine it was Pansy or some other girl to be able to finish. Theo also wasn’t very good at it the first few times, not having a lot of experience with other boys yet. Draco never reciprocated. He offered to return the favor exactly one time in third year, and the moment Theo’s cock touched his tongue he gagged wasn’t able to go through with it. 

Theo had anticipated that would happen because he was ‘annoyingly hetero’, and thankfully wasn’t offended. He instead held him and rutted against his backside until he came in his underwear. Draco thought about potions while he waited for him to finish.  

The last time Theo went down on him had been in sixth year. He was barely hanging on back then, tasked with killing Dumbledore, drowning in fear and guilt. One night, Theo found him in their dorm having a panic attack and made him breathe with him until he calmed down. Then they drank way too much firewhiskey.

Theo had offered to help him sleep—with his mouth.

Draco had been hesitant at first, but Theo convinced him. Pansy had broken up with him the previous year, and Draco didn’t have the strength or will to chase someone new. So he relented.

And fuck—he may not have been into men, but Theo was really good at sucking cock by then. Better than anyone he’d ever been with. He’d deep throated Draco’s full length, sucked his balls, even pressed a finger into his arse. Draco hadn’t expected that. He’d never moaned anyone’s name like that before.

Thankfully, Theo had silenced the bed. No one heard a thing.

Afterward, Draco—feeling a bit selfish—offered to wank him off, but Theo declined. Said he’d taken care of himself while he was blowing him.

They’d cleaned up with a quick Scourgify, then curled into bed wordlessly. Draco had turned and pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth in thanks before finally falling asleep.

In the morning, Theo was gone.

Draco worried for a moment that he’d given the wrong impression of his feelings for him and fucked up their friendship. But then he saw the note stuck to his bedpost:

Don’t worry, Drake. I know you still prefer pussy. I’ll always be your best mate—nothing’s changed. Thanks for the memories, though.

—Theo xx

That had been five years ago. They hadn’t crossed that line again.

Theo still joked about it now and then—usually not seriously. He had enough other blokes and girls to play with anyway. He’d grown into an objectively beautiful man, and barely had to look someone’s way before they were begging to warm his bed.

But some nights, like this one, he came back to Draco.

For warmth and comfort.

“How did she look?” Theo asked quietly.

Draco took a deep breath and focused on the memory in his mind. He felt Theo wordlessly and wandlessly slip inside, brushing against his thoughts and memories of the day. They’d done this for years—Legilimency without pain, without force. It came easily to them, natural as breathing.

“Don’t hex me for saying it,” Theo murmured after pulling back, “but she’s rather lovely, Draco.”

“Yeah,” Draco said softly. “She is.”

“Are you truly jealous of Potter, of all people?”

“He’s too friendly with her… I don’t like him touching her.”

Theo smirked, but his tone was thoughtful. “I always wondered when the dragon in you would come out. I remember how possessive Lucius was with your mother. This was inevitable, you know.”

Draco said nothing, just stared at his window.

“She’s not the cheating type,” Theo added. “Aside from being a Gryffindor, she’s too pure to do something like that. Besides, they’ve been friends since first year. If something were going to happen between them, it would’ve by now.”

Draco considered that and found himself agreeing. “Still don’t like the idea of him feeling entitled to hold her hand. You’d think his witch would hex him for it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t do it in front of her.”

“That’s even worse… I warned her that Malfoys don’t share. I hope she understood the message.”

“I bet that got her hot,” Theo teased.

“You really think so?”

Theo chuckled. “You’ve got it so bad for her. It’s cute, really.”

Draco pinched his arm. “Ouch, you tosser.”

They lay in silence for a few more moments until Draco asked, quieter now, “Do you think she could ever grow to love me back?”

Theo didn’t hesitate. “Of course. I don’t doubt it for a moment. She’s never had someone take care of her properly. Always had to be the smartest, the fastest, two steps ahead. Potter wouldn’t have survived without her. And Weasley… well, he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he did.”

“You don’t think she’s still in love with him? Even after he died?”

Theo sighed. “Love’s complicated in war. Who knows if it would’ve worked out, even if he had lived. Maybe she does love him. But that doesn’t mean you can’t worm your way in anyway. And, let’s be honest—helps that you’re loads more attractive than he ever was.”

Draco laughed, reaching down to squeeze the hand Theo had slung around his waist. “Thanks, Nott. I’ll try not to be a little bitch the entire courtship.”

“Oh, you will be. Right up until the moment she tells you she loves you. And even then, you’ll ask me if she really means it.”

“Ha. Ha,” Draco muttered dryly.

A few beats passed. Then Theo spoke again.

“You won’t be cross with me, too, if I hold her hand, will you?”

Draco growled low in his throat.

“I’ll make the damn vow,” Theo sighed, exasperated but not unkind. “I won’t ever cross a line with her. I mean it. I truly just want to be her friend. It gets lonely here, especially when you’re gone for work and everyone else is too busy to hang.”

“Then why don’t you get a bloody job?” Draco muttered. “I’ve told you a hundred times—get off your arse and do something.”

“What’s the point in working when I’m rich? I could spend my father’s money recklessly for the next hundred years and still be flush.”

“You’re bored and lonely because you have no purpose.”

“Purpose is for the poor. Now answer my question.”

Draco sighed dramatically. “Fine. After you swear the vow to never go after her sexually, you can hold her bloody hand. If she’ll let you, that is.”

Theo made an excited little noise and kissed his cheek. “Brilliant. I can’t wait to talk to her about how she tames that hair. And take her shopping! Her wardrobe’s atrocious—no offense.”

“Great,” Draco groaned. “You’re going to become her gay best mate. Give her a makeover and paint her nails?”

“Paint her nails? Please. What do I look like, the help?” Theo scoffed. “No, I’ll take her to a spa. We’ll get manis together. I’m sure she could use one—she used to bite her nails at school.”

Draco rubbed his eyes, trying to block out the image of Theo and Hermione gossiping in matching spa robes.

“I’m going to sleep now. Good night.”

“Alright, sourpuss. Goodnight.”

Theo finally shut up. Draco’s mind began to quiet too, and he let himself sink into the warmth of the bed—and Theo’s arms, which were only slightly too warm.

Chapter Text

Standing outside the wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor, Hermione had already turned back twice. She might have fled a third time, too, if Harry hadn’t gently tugged her arm.

“It’s just tea,” he reminded her calmly. “You don’t have to say yes to anything.”

She exhaled shakily. Having Harry at her side grounded her more than she wanted to admit. He had apparated with her to the Manor gates, though they’d agreed in advance he would leave before tea. When the visit was over, she’d Floo back to Grimmauld Place.

Still, the nerves buzzed beneath her skin.

She hadn’t spoken to Lucius Malfoy directly since… well, she wasn’t entirely sure. Perhaps that chaotic day in the Department of Mysteries, back in fifth year? Did she even speak to him then? She remembered attending an Order meeting during the war, when the Malfoys formally offered their allegiance—but Lucius hadn’t spared her more than a glance. Draco had been there, too. They’d exchanged a stiff, guarded greeting. Nothing more.

Lucius Malfoy had always struck her as the kind of man who sucked the air out of a room. Cold, calculating, always five moves ahead. He was the sort of enemy you never wanted to make—but now she might have to share a roof with him.

If today went poorly, the whole arrangement could be off, and if it went well, maybe after Draco’s house arrest, they could move into a flat of their own…

A thought for another day—if this even moved forward.

As they approached the gates, Draco appeared behind them as if summoned, dressed in a sleek black-on-black suit. The wrought-iron gates creaked open at his arrival.

“There are anti-Apparition wards across the estate,” Harry explained quietly. “Only the Lord of the Manor and his heir can bypass them.”

Hermione frowned. “What about the Lady of the Manor?”

Draco answered before Harry could. “Only once she’s carrying the next heir,” he said, stepping closer with that cool, unbothered poise he wore like a second skin.

How patriarchal…

“Good afternoon, Hermione. Potter,” he added with a polite slight bow of his head.

“Malfoy,” Harry returned with a curt nod.

“Um—good afternoon, Draco,” Hermione said, forcing a small smile. The name still felt strange on her tongue, but she wasn’t about to backpedal. They’d agreed to first names, and she would stick to it.

Draco’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a smile, clearly amused by her hesitation.

“This way,” he said, turning smoothly on his heel and gesturing for them to follow.

As they followed Draco along the stone path toward the manor, Hermione tried not to look as impressed as she felt.  She took in the vast, manicured estate that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Draco proceeded to give them a mini-tour along the way to the entrance.

The gardens were immaculate—hedges trimmed into tasteful shapes, old yew trees casting dappled shade across the walkway, and marble statues nestled in little alcoves along the path. Draco pointed out the reflecting pool just off to the left, charmed to mirror the stars regardless of the hour, its surface still and glasslike.

Farther along, he motioned toward the stables in the distance, where sleek, impossibly well-groomed horses grazed lazily in a private paddock. Hermione guessed they were some kind of rare, likely foreign breed, bred more for elegance than utility.

She noticed runes etched faintly into the stone beneath their feet—wards, she realized, very old and very powerful. They buzzed faintly beneath her shoes, pulsing with complicated magic that she’d very be interested in investigating further as Ancient Runes were always one of her favorite subjects in school.

Hermione absorbed it all in silence, keenly aware of the generations of wealth and power stitched into every inch of the manor, and of how out of place she felt walking through it.

Once they arrived at the front doors, Hermione barely had time to brace herself before they opened with an elegant sweep—enchanted, no doubt—and they stepped into the grand entrance hall of Malfoy Manor.

The air inside was cooler, laced with the faint scent of old parchment, polished wood, and something floral she couldn’t quite place. The sheer scale of the space was overwhelming. The floor beneath her feet was a gleaming checkerboard of black and white marble, so flawlessly polished that it reflected the golden glow of the sconces along the walls.

Above them, the ceiling stretched dizzyingly high, covered in a sweeping mural of mythological figures in motion—gods and mortals frozen mid-flight, all in rich reds and golds and blues. The effect was almost alive, as though the ceiling might shift if she looked away.

The staircase directly ahead rose like something out of a painting, flanked by intricately carved balustrades and crowned by a statue she couldn’t identify at first glance. To the left and right were wide corridors framed by arched doorways, while portraits—some moving, some enchantingly still—watched them from their gilded frames.

Gold filigree lined the walls, delicate yet sharp in its detail. The room practically hummed with old magic and older money.

Hermione stood frozen for a moment, feeling underdressed and out of place in a way that went far beyond the simple, floral-patterned sundress she’d chosen to wear that day. She’d fought in a war, survived unspeakable things—and yet something about this house made her feel like a child again, stepping into a world that had never truly been built for her.

Lucius appeared with a crack suddenly to her left, and upon meeting her gaze, he immediately gave her a shallow but impeccably timed bow—precise, controlled, and just formal enough to remind her of exactly whose home she was standing in.

“Miss Granger,” he said smoothly, his voice like velvet over glass. “Welcome to Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione straightened instinctively, forcing her spine not to bow under the weight of his presence. “Mr. Malfoy,” she replied, nodding politely, matching his civility with her own.

Lucius then turned to Harry and offered a faint nod—respectful but reserved, as if acknowledging both their complicated history and Harry’s status. “Mr. Potter.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Harry returned evenly, neither cold nor warm.

Lucius’s pale eyes flicked briefly between them, measuring. Then he extended one long, elegant hand toward the corridor.

“ If you’ll both follow me, we’ll take tea in the drawing room,” Lucius said with practiced poise.

“Uh, I won’t be staying,” Harry said, stepping back slightly. “I was just escorting Hermione to the manor. I’ll take my leave through the Floo.” He gestured toward the grand fireplace in the center of the entrance hall.

“Very well, Mr. Potter. Good day,” Lucius replied politely, his tone crisp but civil.

Harry gave him a short nod, then leaned in to press a quick kiss to Hermione’s forehead. He murmured in her ear, low enough for only her to hear, “Don’t let the poncey bastards intimidate you, ’Mione.”

She smiled at the familiar reassurance and gave a subtle nod. With a final squeeze of her hand, Harry turned, crossed to the fireplace, and reached into the satchel tucked in his coat for Floo powder. A moment later, he was gone in a swirl of green flame.

Draco then met her gaze briefly before holding out his arm for her to take, his expression softer than she was used to from him.

Hesitantly, she stepped closer to him and accepted his arm, finding that it felt strong and sturdy.

They followed Lucius down a long, marbled corridor lined with portraits and glittering sconces, each step echoing slightly off the stone walls. Hermione barely registered the route they took—the manor was enormous, and her senses were quickly overloaded by ornate details: gilded frames, inlaid floors, tapestries that moved slightly as they passed. It was all a blur of grandeur.

And then, suddenly, they arrived.

Lucius opened a set of tall, double doors, revealing a drawing room that looked like it had been plucked from the pages of a Regency novel. Soft blue walls, gold accents, and sweeping chandeliers cast warm light over delicate furniture and embroidered settees. An enchanted harp played soft music in the corner. Everything gleamed—crystal, polished wood, the carved fireplace mantle, even the impossibly pristine tea service already waiting on a low table surrounded by a cluster of elegant chairs.

Draco gently guided her forward, and for a moment, Hermione felt as though she’d stepped into another world entirely.

She took a seat on one of the elegant chairs near the low round table where the tea service had already been laid out—porcelain cups with delicate gold filigree, a gleaming silver teapot, and an assortment of miniature sandwiches and pastries arranged with meticulous care. She smoothed her dress beneath her and sat up straight, hands folded primly in her lap, even though her pulse was still fluttering beneath her skin.

Lucius moved to take the chair opposite her, lowering himself with the kind of effortless grace that made it clear he’d been raised in rooms like this. Draco, after murmuring something to one of the waiting elves in the room, who, she noted with mild surprise, were dressed in actual rather nice clothes, settled into the chair directly next to her.

Hermione forced herself to relax her shoulders as one of the elves quietly poured the tea. She offered a polite nod in thanks before turning her attention back to Lucius, whose eyes were already on her—cool, unreadable, but not unkind.

“I trust the walk was pleasant?” he asked, in a voice that was as smooth as polished marble.

Hermione offered a neutral smile, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around the delicate handle of her cup. “Yes, thank you. The grounds are beautiful.”

Lucius inclined his head slightly, accepting the compliment without comment.

She had the distinct impression that this was a test. Or perhaps several, layered one atop the other. She wasn’t sure if she was meant to pass—or simply survive it.

Hermione took a moment to really take in the two Malfoy men, now that she had a direct view of both of them in the same room. There was something oddly surreal about them casually sitting all together, ignoring all the past history between them that led up to this point. 

Lucius, despite everything—the toll of war and the loss of his wife—looked… well, impossibly handsome. Pristine was the word that came to mind. Polished to the point of almost being unreal. He didn’t appear to have aged much since she’d first glimpsed him at Flourish and Blotts just before second year, when he’d insulted her existence with nothing more than a glance.

His long, white-blonde hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck with a black silk ribbon, and he wore a dark grey suit that looked custom-made to within an inch of its life. No wizarding robes, no ostentatious flourishes—just clean lines, tailored perfection, and quiet power. Even his dragon leather shoes gleamed.

When they were walking through the manor, she’d noticed that Lucius was still somewhat taller than Draco, who himself was already quite tall, likely around 6’1 or 6’2. Where Draco was lean and athletic, built like someone who trained more for balance and precision, Lucius had a broader frame, a slightly more imposing sort of masculine strength. 

They shared the same distinctive eyes—those pale, shifting gray irises that seemed to reflect the light and mood of whatever room they were in. Here, with the blue-toned walls and filtered daylight, they looked nearly silver-blue. 

It was both fascinating and mildly unsettling to see how similar they were—and yet how differently they carried themselves.

Draco was a touch more relaxed, less guarded (for him, anyway), his posture casual but not careless. Lucius, on the other hand, looked every bit the aristocrat—refined, upright, and composed in that cool, practiced way that made it hard to tell what he was actually thinking.

Alright, well… one of us has to talk. Come on, Hermione, don’t be a coward.

She took a breath and finally spoke. 

“I noticed that the entrance was a bit more… baroque in style, but this room feels more Regency era,” Hermione finally said, breaking the polite silence. “I, uh, quite like it.”

Draco turned his head and smirked at his father, and Lucius mirrored it—just faintly.

“This room, and others like it, are largely the result of my late wife’s influence,” Lucius replied smoothly. “She rather detested the heavy chiaroscuro elements and overwrought finishes of the baroque period. Narcissa preferred light and always sought to bring brightness into any space. I allowed her free rein to make the changes as she saw fit.”

He paused, fingertips tapping gently once against the armrest. “The entrance, of course, she left untouched. I imagine she considered it useful for… setting a tone.”

There was a subtle irony in his voice, and Hermione couldn’t help the amused quirk of her lips.

“I’m surprised,” Lucius went on, his eyes meeting hers directly, “that you’ve taken an interest in architecture and interior design, Miss Granger.”

“Only casually,” she replied, sitting up a little straighter. “Some of my favorite books are set during the Regency era. I’m sure you’ve never heard of the Muggle author Jane Austen—”

“The Pride and Prejudice author? I may have been a purist most of my life, but I can appreciate a solid piece of literary work, no matter the writer’s magical background,” Lucius interrupted her smoothly.

Okay, she thought. Solid half a point for that one.

“We have some Muggle books in the library,” Draco added with a slight smile. “I’ll take you there after tea, if you’d like.”

She almost blurted out a loud yes , but instead gave him a polite nod.

“I noticed that the house elf who served our tea was free,” Hermione said, directing a pointed look at Lucius.

“It was one of the stipulations outlined in your marriage terms, if I recall,” Lucius replied evenly. “I understand legislation is forthcoming to mandate freedom for all elves, once the Ministry is better organized. It was only a matter of time. The elves who chose to remain are paid a fair wage and given time off. I hope that eases your mind, Miss Granger.”

“Well, as much as I dislike the idea of having any servants, I can’t deny that a place like this requires a small army to run,” Hermione admitted with a sigh.

“Yes, quite. Half the help left when I offered them freedom. Only those most loyal to the Malfoy family remained. We’ll see if the estate can manage with a leaner staff. Regardless, I intend to keep with the times,” Lucius said. “Please, help yourself to the finger sandwiches and pudding—Mippy would be quite distressed if the trays return untouched.”

Feeling a bit peckish, Hermione selected a plate and picked a few cucumber sandwiches, a macaron, and a petit four. She took small bites, assuming that’s what elegant ladies were meant to do, and found the food exquisite in its simplicity. Mippy was an excellent chef.

“Everything is lovely, thank you,” she said after setting her plate down.

“I’m glad to hear you think so,” Lucius replied with a slight smile. After a brief pause, his tone shifted. “Miss Granger, if you don’t mind my directness, I wonder—how do you find my son? Do you believe him suitable to be your husband?”

Hermione choked on air, a flush rising to her cheeks. She glanced at Draco, who was glaring daggers at his father.

She cleared her throat. “I… think Draco is… fine, I suppose.”

“ Fine ? Oh, surely we can do better than fine , Draco. Perhaps you ought to read more Jane Austen—learn how to properly woo Miss Granger,” Lucius said, amused.

Draco said nothing, jaw clenched so tightly she feared he might crack a tooth.

“Look,” Hermione began, hoping to ease the tension, “I find nothing particularly off-putting about Draco as he is today . I just… barely know him, that’s all.”

“You went to school together for six years. I imagine something about him must’ve stuck,” Lucius pressed.

Hermione sighed and gripped the arms of her chair.

“I was a total bigot toward her in Hogwarts, Father,” Draco interjected bitterly. “I called her slurs, treated her worse than the dirt on my boots. Thank you terribly for reminding her of that.”

“I’m merely trying to have a frank discussion,” Lucius said coolly. “This is marriage we’re discussing. There’s no point dancing around it.”

Hermione raised her hand and gave them both a look that clearly meant stop talking and listen . They did.

She took a breath and spoke calmly. “Yes, Draco, you were terrible to me. To my friends. You did and said things that made me think very little of you. Part of me wonders why you’d ever want to marry me… But,” she continued, softening, “there are things I do know about you, things I saw outside the elitist persona you wore like armor.”

She softened a bit, her tone thoughtful as she spoke, sorting through pieces of information in her head about Draco in real time. 

“You’re intelligent and clever. You love potion work and are suited for it because you have a delicate hand and immense patience. Your friends mean everything to you, though you’d never admit it out loud. Your family name weighs on you like a burden, and for most of the time I knew you in school, all you wanted was to make your father proud. I think that mattered more to you than anything else. Maybe that’s why you were such an arrogant prick all the time.”

Draco’s eyes flicked toward his father, who looked oddly stricken. Perhaps even… guilty.

She pressed on.

“You love Quidditch. You’re brilliant on a broom—fearless. I wonder if you ever feel freer than when you’re in the air…”

She trailed off. Draco was staring at her with a mixture of awe and embarrassment. A blush crept up his cheeks.

“I think it’s commendable—what both of you did for the Order. I know it was mostly in response to what happened to Mrs. Malfoy—and I should have said this earlier, but I truly am sorry for your loss. I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like for both of you, having to pretend to support her murderer...”

She cleared her throat.

“Anyway, I think what you did was admirable regardless of the motivations behind your choices. I find the things being said about you in the press are cruel and unfair. I truly don’t want to see either of you harmed. And if marrying your son helps prevent that, then I’m open to it, Mr. Malfoy.”

She drew herself up a little straighter.

“But I won’t live in a home where my Muggle-born heritage is quietly resented. And I won’t raise children who are treated as less than their pure-blooded peers. That’s non-negotiable.”

Lucius was quiet for a long moment.

He regarded Hermione with a new kind of stillness—less haughty, more appraising. There was something in his expression that almost resembled…respect.

“I can assure you, Miss Granger,” he said finally, his tone more measured now, “that if you were to join this family, your heritage would never be used to diminish your standing here. Not by me. Not by anyone under this roof. Those days are behind us.”

Draco glanced sideways at his father, clearly surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Hermione could see it too—Lucius wasn’t just appeasing her. He meant it.

“And as for any children made from this union,” Lucius added, folding his hands atop one knee, “they would be Malfoys. First and foremost. No less than any ancestor in this lineage. That is my vow to you.”

Hermione met his gaze and gave a subtle nod. It wasn’t trust—at least not yet—but it was a recognition of the effort being made. And it was enough. 

For now.

She turned to Draco next, looking at him pointedly and waiting for him to say something in acknowledgment of everything she had just uttered. 

He straightened slightly in his seat, then gave a faint smile.

“You already said more about me than I ever expected to hear from you in one lifetime,” he murmured, not quite able to look at her directly. “But I’ll echo Father’s words. If you agree to marry me, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re not just tolerated here—you’re honored. And and any future children of ours, if you choose to have them, will be raised with love and absolutely cherished.”

Hermione blinked. She hadn’t expected Lucius to move her. She definitely hadn’t expected Draco to either.

She took a breath and took in everything that had been said so far between them, finding that she was pleased with the interactions and felt more secure in moving forward now with signing the agreement.The thought was still anxiety-provoking, but she felt like she heard and seen enough to warrant her consent. 

“Well then,” she said softly, “I suppose we’ll see how next steps go, won’t we?”

Draco’s lips curved ever so slightly.

Lucius reached for his teacup, gave her a courtly nod, and said, “I believe this has been the most productive tea we’ve hosted in some time.”

Draco muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “That’s because Theo wasn’t here.”

Hermione smiled despite herself. And for the first time since stepping foot through the gates of Malfoy Manor, she thought—

Maybe this won’t be so terrible after all.

Chapter Text

After tea finished, Draco stood and asked Hermione if she’d like a brief tour of some of the more impressive parts of the manor. She thanked Lucius politely for the tea, and he offered her a graceful bow before wishing her an enjoyable rest of her afternoon.

As oddly pleasant as tea had been with his father, Hermione was anxious to get a bit of distance. She needed space to breathe—and, more importantly, to actually get to know Draco without the weight of Lucius Malfoy’s scrutiny hanging over her.

She took Draco’s offered arm again, finding it surprisingly comfortable, and let him guide her through a long corridor lined with towering portraits of pale blonde-haired Malfoy ancestors. All of them seemed to eye her with the same scrutinizing, disapproving expressions. Draco paid them no mind.

Along the way, he pointed out some of the more historic elements of the estate—13th-century tapestries, original Greek marble statues, and busts of various gods and goddesses that had been carefully placed in alcoves. Hermione tried to absorb the details, but she could feel that Draco was still holding back, keeping himself slightly guarded around her. Understandable, perhaps. Familiarity would take time, even if they were already on a first-name basis.

Eventually, they stopped in front of a set of grand double doors. Draco turned to her with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I have to warn you, the library is quite a sight. Let me know if you feel faint upon taking it all in,” he said, clearly teasing.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I think I can handle it, Draco. Go on, then.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He smirked and opened the doors with a dramatic flourish, then guided her inside with a hand gently placed at the small of her back.

She barely had time to register the warm intimacy of his touch before her breath caught.

The sight before her was nothing short of magical.

For a long second, she couldn’t move or speak—she could only stare.

The massive library before her was breathtaking.

Soft, golden light filtered in from enchanted sconces and tall arched windows, dancing off the gilded molding and crisp white walls. The ceiling above was lofty and ornate, painted in soft cream and trimmed with gold filigree, swirling delicately like icing on a wedding cake. 

Towering shelves lined every wall, on both floors of the library, filled to bursting with thousands of books—leather-bound, cloth-wrapped, some charmed to gently glow or shift depending on who approached.

The second floor was adorned with white marble busts of famous witches, wizards, and philosophers on the carved railing. A spiral staircase wound up to the upper level, its railing inlaid with gold leaf so fine it shimmered when she moved. On the far end of the library, she could see elegant couches and chairs meant for sitting and reading on, as well as a few ornate desks meant for studying and taking notes. 

It wasn’t just a library. It was a sanctuary. A temple. A bibliophile’s dream.

Hermione let out a soft, stunned breath and took a few steps forward. “Merlin’s balls…”

Behind her, Draco chuckled. “Told you you might faint.”

“I might still.” Her voice was reverent now, barely above a whisper. “This is… the most beautiful library I’ve ever seen.”

She turned in a slow circle, head tilted back to take in every last detail. Her fingertips twitched with the urge to touch every spine, read every title, climb the ladders, and disappear for weeks.

“I’m happy to hear you like it,” Draco said, his voice softer now, more sincere. “Mum had it repainted and redecorated, and the ceiling was restored about ten years ago. Said a proper mind deserved a peaceful place to learn.”

Hermione’s throat tightened unexpectedly at that. “She had exquisite taste.”

Draco smiled slightly, and gazed at her while she continued to look around.

“I hope it will become your favorite place here.”

That made her pause. Slowly, she turned to look at him.

He met her eyes without flinching. “You’ll always have your own space here, of course. But this one… I thought you’d feel most comfortable in. You don’t have to love the manor. But maybe you can love this part of it.”

Something in her chest fluttered, sharp and unfamiliar.

She didn’t know what to say. So she smiled instead, and said softly, “Show me your favorite section.”

Draco gave her a rare, genuine smile before offering his hand. She looked at it for a beat before slipping her fingers into his. His skin was warm and soft, and oddly enough, it didn’t feel unnatural at all to be holding hands with him as he guided her deeper into the library and around a corner.

When they finally stopped, Draco reached up and pulled a dusty book from one of the higher shelves. He held it out to her, and Hermione’s breath hitched slightly when she recognized the title—a first edition of Bailey’s Rare Botanical Brews . She’d been itching to see one in person for years. Hogwarts didn’t even have a copy.

She let go of his hand and took the large volume reverently, flipping through the aged, delicate pages. Draco leaned against the shelf beside her, standing close, almost touching.

“This is the potions section,” he said, watching her with an expression of quiet fondness. “I’ve spent most of my time here over the years.”

Hermione didn’t look up as she replied, “I don’t know how you ever returned to your room. I’d sleep here every night—wake up with my face in a book.”

He chuckled but didn’t reply. She remained absorbed for another few minutes, until she realized he was silently watching her. A little flustered, she closed the book and looked up at him.

“Sorry. I’ve wanted to read this one for ages. It’s a rare find.”

He waved her apology off. “Feel free to get as lost in reading as you like in here. Honestly, I insist on it.”

She smiled. “Thanks.” The warmth in his tone was disarming, and she found herself oddly grateful for it.

She moved to hand the book back, but Draco shook his head. “Keep it for now. Borrow anything you like.”

“Really?” she asked, brows rising.

“Really. Anything you want, Hermione,” he said with a soft, sincere smile.

A blush rose to her cheeks, and she glanced down at the book before meeting his gaze again.

“Okay… would you mind if I looked around a bit? I want to figure out which sections to prioritize first.”

“Of course,” he said. “Let’s do a walkabout. I’ll point out all the sections, if you want.”

“Won’t that take hours? I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

Draco laughed, then reached out to take her hand again. He lifted it to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Darling,” he murmured, “you must know I hope one day soon you never leave.”

Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned, her heart fluttering at the unexpected sweetness of the moment.

And then her brain—ever reliable—kicked in.

“Wait… you don’t mean you plan to lock me in your manor and throw away the key, do you?”

Draco laughed outright and shook his head. “Remind me to better word my romantic advances with you in the future.”

She huffed, but didn’t pull her hand away as he gently tugged her farther down the aisle.

“Come on, Granger,” he said, glancing back at her with a grin. “Much to see.”

***

Two hours later, they’d compiled a stack of books nearly half Draco’s height for her to take home. He’d started out carrying them himself, but eventually resorted to levitating the pile as they continued wandering through the aisles, still hand in hand.

He’d indulged her thoroughly, explaining every notable section of the library until she was satisfied. They’d debated different academic topics, teased one another, and occasionally, Draco would lightly flirt with her. She was receptive, but didn’t make it too easy for him.

Overall, she’d had a genuinely good time with him, and that surprised her more than anything.

When they’d finally finished gathering her selections, Draco summoned Mippy and instructed her to place the books in a neat stack near the Floo in the entrance hall. With a snap of her fingers, the elf and the books vanished.

Draco then gently nudged her elbow, a silent prompt to follow him out of the library.

“Where to now?” she asked, curiosity piqued.

He glanced back at her with a small, knowing smile. “The conservatory. My second favorite place in the manor.”

She didn’t need to ask what the first was.

As soon as they stepped through the doors, she understood why he liked it. The conservatory was alive with lush greenery and exotic, magical plants, sunlight pouring through the glass ceiling in soft golden beams. The air smelled like jasmine and something warm and green and comforting. 

He took her to the center of it, where there was a white stone bench nestled beneath a delicate arch of flowering vines. The blossoms shimmered with enchantment, slowly changing colors in time with the sunlight streaming through the glass above them.

Hermione paused as he gestured for her to sit, the faintest nerves fluttering in her chest. It wasn’t like the library—this space felt more…intimate. The air around them was calm and still, the quiet only broken by the gentle magic rustling of leaves and the soft flutter of wings as butterflies drifted lazily between the blooms.

She took a seat on the bench and Draco remained standing for a moment, watching her with a look she couldn’t quite decipher.

“I come here when I need to think,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now. “It’s always calm, always warm. It reminds me of my mother… This was her favorite part of the manor. She spent hours here, perfecting her collection of rare plants and flowers.”

Hermione looked up at him, slightly surprised. “She had a green thumb?”

He gave a faint smile. “She did. The elves helped, of course… but she had a gift. It was even more beautiful when she was alive. Everything thrived under her care.”

He glanced around the space, the blooming vines and greenery vibrant and lush around them. “The elves still tend to it. They do their best, but… plants know the difference. They miss her hand.”

He hesitated for a moment, then moved to sit beside her, close enough that their knees brushed. The energy between them shifted—heavier now, charged. She glanced sideways at him, her heart picking up pace as his fingers fidgeted slightly in his lap, a rare show of nerves.

Then, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, velvet box.

Hermione blinked, her heart leaping into her throat.

He didn’t open it right away. Instead, he held it between them, voice quiet and steady.

“I know you never imagined marrying me. The idea must’ve sounded insane when it was first proposed to you,” he said, eyes fixed on the box. “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for—things I need to prove to you. I know it will take time for you to trust me, and I don’t expect that overnight. But please believe me when I say… that’s all I want. To be someone you feel safe with. Someone you feel you can rely on for anything…Someone you can hopefully grow to…love one day.”

Her lips parted slightly, her thoughts catching on the word ‘love’, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I meant what I said. I want this to be real. Because I genuinely want a life with you, Hermione.”

Then he looked up, locking eyes with her, and the breath caught in her chest. There was no arrogance in him now. No posturing. Just a man who had grown into a different person. Someone she could maybe, possibly, believe in.

He opened the box.

Inside was a gorgeous, and rather large oval-cut diamond set on a delicate gold band—elegant, and breathtaking. Her heart twisted with an odd sort of feeling of anxiety and excitement. 

Draco swallowed. “I’m not asking you to decide right now. I just…” He closed the box gently, his smile soft and almost self-conscious. “I wanted to offer this with sincerity and hope. For whenever—or if ever—you decide you want to put it on. Will you… consider making a real go of this with me?”

Hermione stared at the closed box, then back at him.

Stunned was putting it lightly.

She swallowed, staring into his expectant eyes. She wasn’t some doe-eyed, love-obsessed girl waiting to be rescued by Prince Charming. She never had been. She was Hermione fucking Granger—practical, resourceful, and independent. She got her own damn self out of trouble, thank you very much.

But… sitting here in this sun-drenched conservatory, surrounded by warmth and flowers, with Draco looking at her like she hung the stars—she found herself wanting to be soft and lean into the loveliness of the moment between them. Just for a moment.

“Draco…”

“Yes?”

“Ask me. For real.”

His brain visibly short-circuited at her words.

After a beat, he moved—slowly, almost reverently—down to one knee in front of her. She gripped the edge of the stone bench, heart thudding as he opened the box again and removed the ring.

Taking her left hand gently in his, he looked up at her and smiled, unguarded and earnest.

“Hermione Granger,” he said, voice low but clear, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She smiled—and saw his shoulders relax the instant she did.

“Yes, Draco. I’ll marry you.”

His grin was immediate and radiant. He slipped the ring onto her left ring finger. It fit perfectly.

A small pulse of magic sparked at the contact, humming faintly around her hand before settling into stillness. Her eyes met his again, and the moment felt suspended in time.

“I wonder if… would it be alright if I…” Draco faltered, not quite finishing.

She knew what he was trying to ask and nodded.

He exhaled slowly, then leaned in. His eyes flicked to her lips. One hand rose to gently cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly along her jaw.

Their eyes met and held each other’s gaze.

And then—he kissed her.

Soft and gentle, like she was something precious. No rush to deepen it. 

It was…really nice.

When he finally pulled away, his hand lingered in her hair, fingers threading lightly through her loose curls. He gazed at her like he was afraid she might vanish if he blinked.

And Hermione… well. She let herself feel a little enchanted.

Not swept away entirely, but gently suspended in something fragile and fleeting.

His scent still lingered in the warm space between them—oakwood and aged parchment, expensive musk cologne, and something softer underneath. Apples, she realized. Green ones. Unexpected and oddly familiar.

It was… slightly intoxicating. Or maybe it was just him. The way he looked at her, not like she was the press’s Golden Girl, or his swotty old schoolmate—but simply as Hermione.

She leaned in slightly to initiate another kiss, continuing to feel swept up in the moment, until the sound of footsteps approaching pulled her back to reality.

When she looked to her side, she saw a very tall man with dark, loose waves that brushed just past his ears, slightly tousled as though styled by the wind—or sheer indifference. His sapphire-blue eyes were impossibly striking, vivid against his fair skin and framed by thick, expressive brows that gave him an almost aristocratic sort of beauty… if aristocrats regularly looked like they hadn’t slept but still managed to smolder.

He was dressed somewhat casually, in a crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone, dark navy trousers, and expensive leather shoes. A cigarette hung lazily from his lips, and his posture was languid—entirely too comfortable for someone she’d never spoken with before.

Hermione blinked.

“Hello,” he said simply, voice rich and smooth—like velvet dragged over gravel. Then, removing the cigarette with elegant fingers and tucking it behind his ear, he added, “We’ve never been properly introduced. I’m Theo.”

Hermione rose to her feet beside Draco who stood with her, but before she could respond, Theo closed the distance and gently took her hand. He brought her knuckles to his lips for a brief, chaste kiss, then released her with a lingering glance at the ring now adorning her finger.

“So she said yes,” he said, more observation than question, his gaze sliding to Draco.

“Obviously,” Draco replied, his tone dry and laced with irritation. “You really couldn’t stay away for more than a few hours, Nott?”

“Truly, darling, I tried,” Theo replied with an unapologetic pout. “But I was far too anxious to meet her. Do be a dear and forgive me.”

Draco rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh.

“I didn’t realize one of Draco’s friends was here… Were you just hanging around the manor all day waiting to meet me?” she asked, a bit awkwardly.

“Yes, dreadfully boring, I might add,” Theo replied breezily. “Draco not-so-kindly barred me from the tea, so I was left to my own devices in my room until the appropriate time to make an appearance.”

“He lives in the manor,” Draco explained dryly. “A sort of house pest I haven’t managed to get rid of the past few years.”

Theo slung an arm around Draco’s shoulders and tugged him close with theatrical affection.

He’s oddly… comfortable with Draco , Hermione noted.

“Oh, don’t be so glib, Drake. What he means to say is that I’m practically a brother to him, and he simply adores having my colorful personality around to brighten up this funeral home of a manor.”

Draco gave him another eyeroll but seemed quite used to his behavior. Hermione’s lips quirked into a smile despite herself. Colorful was one way to put it.

She never remembered Theo Nott being quite so forward in school—or quite so handsome, if she was being honest. But then again, she’d spent most of her later years at Hogwarts too consumed by, at the time, unrequited feelings for Ron and the looming war to pay proper attention to boys like Theo tucked in Draco’s shadow.

“I don’t think we've ever spoken before at school, Nott,” Hermione pointed out. “It’s nice to know that Draco’s had a friend by his side all this time, even during the war.”

Theo smiled and then released Draco and boldly took both of her hands in his.

“Please, call me Theo,” he said smoothly. “As Draco is like a brother to me, I hope in time you’ll think of me as family too. It pleases me greatly that you’ve accepted this match, and I’ll do my utmost to make your time here as enjoyable as possible. It’s a stuffy place, but there’s fun to be had if you know where to look.”

He finished with a wink.

Hermione flushed, caught off guard by his sincerity—and his sheer boldness. Theo’s presence was entirely disarming, and not quite how she assumed one of his Slytherin pure-blood friends would receive her. She could already tell they’d get along just fine.

She gave him a small smile and nodded before he finally let go of her hands.

Draco, who’d been watching the entire exchange with a guarded expression, seemed to debate something internally before stepping forward and placing a hand on the small of her back.

“I was just about to take my fiancée on a tour of the more interesting parts of the manor,” he said, shooting Theo a look. “And since I know you’ll insist on tagging along, let’s get on with it.”

“Oh, lovely!” Theo grinned. “I can’t wait to show her the pool. Oh and the wine cellar!”

As Draco gently guided her out of the conservatory, Hermione’s mind snagged on the word he’d used.

Fiancée.

She wasn’t used to it. The label made her stomach flutter oddly, like a dropped pebble skipping across the surface of a pond.

And yet, it felt… nice.

To be someone’s person. In the realest sense.

What a whirlwind, indeed…

***

Back at Grimmauld Place, surrounded by more books than she’d have time to get through in a month, Hermione stood quietly in front of the fireplace, staring into space. Her mind felt distant, floating somewhere between dissociation and disbelief as she tried to process the day she’d had.

A minute later, the thunder of footsteps signaled Ginny and Harry rushing downstairs to meet her.

“I was about to make Harry send a team of Aurors to come save you!” Ginny exclaimed, eyes wide. “You were gone the entire day, Hermione! What happened?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Instead, she simply lifted her hand and showed them her engagement ring.

“Merlin,” Ginny breathed, rushing forward and snatching her hand to inspect the ring properly. “Look at the size of that rock! Honestly, I could see myself agreeing to marriage if I was given a ring like this.”

“Is that all it takes?” Harry teased. “An obscenely expensive ring?”

“Hush, Potter. This isn’t about us.” Ginny waved him off. “What’s with all the books? Did he sweeten the deal by buying you a bunch of rare tomes?”

“No… They’re from the Malfoy library, actually,” Hermione replied dreamily. “We walked through both floors of it, and he let me borrow whatever I wanted.”

“So he’s playing dirty pool to win you over,” Ginny muttered. “Slimy prat is cleverer than I gave him credit for.”

Hermione just shrugged as Ginny dragged her to the couch to continue her inquisition.

“So,” Ginny began again, “what was his father like? Cold and menacing as ever?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say he was warm and fluffy,” Hermione said slowly, “but… he was polite. Almost kind? Maybe that’s not the word. Sincere, maybe. I think he was genuinely trying to make me feel welcome. I came away from the interaction thinking… better of him, somehow.”

Ginny frowned. “Harry, get your wand. She’s clearly been Imperiused.”

Harry just gave her a dry look.

“I mean it,” Hermione insisted. “They were both perfectly agreeable to be around. I don’t know what changed them exactly, but… they’re different now. You’ll just have to trust my judgment.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes but didn’t argue further. “Fine. So you’re marrying the great ferret. When’s the wedding?”

“About a month and some change. Draco said he’d owl me after he spoke with Pansy to confirm the exact date. She’s the one planning it.”

“I’m sorry—Pansy? As in Pansy Parkinson? His ex is planning your wedding?” Ginny stared at her in disbelief.

Hermione sighed. “Yes. With Narcissa gone, Pansy aparently offered. I don’t know the first thing about planning a society wedding, and I don’t care to learn. It’s a lot of work, and I appreciate her handling it for us.”

“So you’re an ‘us’ now.” Ginny shook her head. “I can’t believe I survived a war just to see you align yourself with Malfoy. I’m glad Ron’s not here to see it.”

“Ginny, that’s not fair,” Hermione snapped. “I didn’t come up with this whole idea. I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“The right thing would be marrying for love, not out of duty,” Ginny began, but paused, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, ’Mione. I just don’t want to see you used as a political pawn. Harry and I both love you, and we think you deserve better than that.”

“Don’t lump me into this,” Harry said firmly. “I support Hermione in whatever she chooses. Even if that means marrying Malfoy, it’s her life.”

Ginny gave him a look, but he stood firm.

Hermione groaned and flopped back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. “When did life get so bloody complicated?”

“I think it stopped being simple around first year,” Harry said dryly.

“Yes, yes. Woe is us for having to fight dark forces since we were children,” Ginny muttered. “Now are you going to tell us anything else about what happened?”

Hermione raised her head, trying to piece together the blur.

“We had tea with his father. It was… nice, like I said. Then Draco took me to the library—we spent a couple hours there. After that, he brought me to the conservatory and… proposed.”

“You said yes?” Ginny prompted.

Hermione nodded. “I did. And then we… uh…”

“What—shagged up against the glass in broad daylight?” Ginny deadpanned, raising a brow.

“Obviously not!” Hermione huffed, face flushing. “He kissed me. Just once. It was… actually kind of lovely.”

“Did he taste like evil?” Ginny teased.

Hermione gave her a look. “No. He tasted like… green apples.”

That earned her a smirk and another raised eyebrow.

“And for the record,” Hermione added quickly, “there was no tongue. It was…I don’t know. Romantic, I guess.”

“Charming,” Ginny said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Truly, you’re living the dream.”

Harry chuckled. “Then what happened?”

“Well… then Theo popped up out of nowhere and joined us for the rest of the day. Apparently, he lives at the manor permanently.”

“Theo Nott? Doesn’t he have his own grand estate?” Ginny asked.

“He does, but for whatever reason, he chooses to stay with Draco. I thought it rude to ask why,” Hermione replied.

Ginny smirked. “Oh, I’ve got a few guesses.”

“Ginny…” Harry warned with a look.

“What? She’s going to find out sooner or later.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Find out what, exactly?”

“Just some old school rumors about their… closeness,” Ginny said vaguely.

Hermione leaned in, intrigued. “What rumors?”

“Well, you do know that Nott is kind of gay, right?”

Now that Ginny said it, Hermione realized that it did maybe make some sense for him now that she knew him much better. 

“How can someone be kind of gay?”

“She means he’s bisexual,” Harry interjected. “And Ginny, you shouldn’t be outing people.”

“It wasn’t exactly a secret at school. Most of the girls he shagged knew he fooled around with blokes too,” Ginny added.

“Really? How come I never knew any of this?” Hermione asked.

“Because your nose was always in a book, and when it wasn’t, it was stuck on Ron—or saving Harry’s arse,” Ginny said, deadpan.

Okay… she had a point.

“Alright, but what does Theo’s sexuality have to do with living with Draco?”

“I’ll let you think on it. Big brain like yours should be able to figure it out.”

Hermione paused, noticing Harry’s growing discomfort with the conversation.

She couldn’t mean… No. That didn’t add up. Draco dated Pansy for two years. He definitely liked women. There was no way he was gay. Right? 

Not that she was judgemental in that way, but it just didn’t feel like that was Draco’s sexual leanings.

“If you’re suggesting that Draco and Theo are gay lovers, I think you’re mistaken.”

“Well, I’ve heard from more than one person that they were seen kissing during their second year and perhaps beyond,” Ginny said. “And I personally saw Theo get handsy with him plenty of times. Not saying Draco’s not into women—I hear he’s had his fair share during the years—but I’d question their boundaries now that he’s going to be your husband.”

Feeling flustered, Hermione decided to change the subject. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have right now—not after such a strange, meaningful day. She’d felt real chemistry with Draco, and he’d promised her fidelity. That was enough… for now.

“Thanks for your concern, Ginny. It’s duly noted. Anyway, if you’re amenable to a change in topic, I was going to ask if you’d be my maid of honor. But seeing as you loathe my choice of groom…”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ginny immediately launched forward and hugged her. “Of course I’ll be your maid of honor. You’re my sister, no matter what idiot you decide to marry. No one’s ever going to be good enough for you in my eyes.”

“Thanks, Ginny. I love you, too.”

When they let go, Hermione and Ginny went into preliminary wedding talk. The rest of the evening was spent retelling the details of the manor tour and her observations about Draco thus far. 

The weight of the day slowly lifted.

Her friends—even begrudgingly—supported her. That mattered.

Draco still had work to do to win them over. But hopefully, they were on the right path.

She thought about how sweetly Draco had said goodbye to her that day.

“Until we see each other again, sweetheart,” he’d said, before pressing a final kiss to her knuckles and gazing at her with surprising softness.

They’d promised to meet again in a few days for a proper date, and—honestly—she was looking forward to it.

Maybe things were moving a bit fast. Maybe too fast.

But a part of her didn’t care.

She wasn’t in love with him. Not yet. That still felt far off.

But she was smitten.

And she liked him.

Because—well—he was likable . Okay?

The war was over. She didn’t want to live in the past anymore.

She’d survived. And when was she supposed to start living, if not now?

Right now , she decided.

Draco was kind. Sweet, even.

Yes, he hadn’t always been. The last time he’d been truly cruel to her had been over five years ago—but since then, he’d changed. He’d done the work.

Fuck it.

Hermione decided to stop poking holes in the scenario and just run with it.

But as she glanced down at the priceless ring on her finger again, she couldn’t help but wonder—

What, exactly, was she signing up for?

Chapter Text

The next day, Hermione sat lazily in bed, gazing at her engagement ring as it sparkled in the light—thinking about how it was both far too ostentatious and yet too beautiful not to wear. Then she began to wonder, somewhat guiltily, what kind of person she was becoming—someone impressed by a shiny rock, when she’d never cared much for fancy things before?

What would living at the manor do to her values and morals?

Was this the kind of person she wanted to be? Should she turn back now before it was too late?

That train of thought was interrupted by a sharp tap on her window.

An owl perched just outside, a letter in its beak, staring at her with uncanny focus. Hermione got up and opened the window, allowing the owl to hop inside and settle on her desk. She accepted the letter and gave the bird a gentle pat.

“Give me a moment… I think I’ve got a jar of treats somewhere… Oh, here it is.”

She unscrewed the lid and offered the owl a treat, which it devoured greedily before letting out a satisfied hoot and flying back out the window.

Hermione sat back on her bed, turning the envelope over in her hands. Her name was written in elegant, looping script.

From the Desk of Draco Lucius Malfoy

Darling,

I hope this note finds you well.

I’ve spoken with Pansy, and she’s set the wedding date for the 31st of August. I hope that’s not too soon. Shacklebolt, ever subtle, strongly suggested we not delay. That said, I can’t pretend the thought of calling you my wife sooner rather than later doesn’t appeal to me.

If you have any concerns or would prefer a later date, please don’t hesitate to let me know—I only want you to feel comfortable and happy moving forward.

A quick warning: Pansy mentioned she plans to stop by Grimmauld Place today to discuss some wedding matters. Consider this a courtesy notice. As you may recall, she’s not particularly known for gentle delivery or small talk. Please excuse her in advance.

Let me know if you need anything—truly.

Yours,

Draco

P.S. How’s the reading going? I’d love to hear your thoughts on any of the books you chose.

A smile spread across Hermione’s face as she finished reading. He was quickly becoming someone she looked forward to hearing from. 

She was about to sit down to write a reply when a sharp voice echoed from downstairs:

“Granger! Get your arse down here—we’ve got business to discuss!”

It was unmistakably Pansy. Thank the gods that Ginny wasn’t home right then. 

Hermione groaned and got up from bed. Luckily, she was already dressed in jeans and a jumper. She pulled on her trainers and hurried down the stairs.

When she reached the sitting room, she found Pansy standing confidently in the center of the room—polished and beautiful as ever. Her sleek black bob swished as she turned to appraise Hermione with a critical eye before locking on the ring on her finger.

Without asking, she snatched Hermione’s hand and examined it with the intensity of a professional jeweler.

“Oval-cut diamond with a hidden halo of diamonds underneath… VVS1, D in color, roughly eight carats. Hmm. Draco did a solid job picking this one from the vaults. I would’ve gone with a platinum setting myself, but perhaps he thought gold would suit your coloring better.”

She released Hermione’s hand and began to circle her slowly, like a designer evaluating a mannequin. Feeling incredibly uncomfortable, Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight, standing stiffly as Pansy’s sharp eyes took in every inch of her.

“Hello to you, too, Pansy…” Hermione muttered dryly, trying to mask her unease.

“You’re a size six?” Pansy asked, already halfway around her back, completely ignoring the greeting.

“Um… yeah, normally,” Hermione replied, voice tight with wariness.

Pansy hummed thoughtfully, stepping around to her front again and narrowing her eyes.

“C cup? Hard to tell under that frumpy jumper you’re wearing, but it seems you’ve filled out a bit since school.”

Hermione blinked. “Yes… Am I being assessed like a prized heifer before the wedding?”

“Funny, Granger,” Pansy said, not looking the least bit amused. “No, I’m deciding what style of wedding dresses to select for you to try on. Turn in a circle for me.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Hermione gave her a slow spin, arms still tightly crossed over her chest.

“You have a nice hourglass shape and a solid arse,” Pansy said clinically. “I’ll be sure to pick some form-fitting options. Alright, let’s take a seat and talk.”

She gestured toward the couch in the sitting room like she owned the place. Hermione reluctantly followed, settling into the opposite end and sitting up straighter than usual, trying not to let Pansy’s cool confidence rattle her.

“If you’re going to ask what my intentions are with Draco—”

“Save it,” Pansy cut her off, waving a hand. “You’re not a Slytherin. You don’t have a conniving bone in your body. I know you’ve got good intentions, and I know you’re only agreeing to this because of Kingsley’s bloody muggleborn–pureblood reconciliation project.”

Hermione raised her brows, surprised by the bluntness.

Pansy leaned back and crossed her legs. “Marrying Draco benefits him greatly and you minimally. You obviously don’t care about wealth, and your reputation will take a solid hit from the union. So yeah—I don’t think you’re here to play games.”

That response shut Hermione up immediately.

“Well… when you put it like that, maybe I should send the ring back…” she mumbled, mostly to herself.

Pansy’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t joke about hurting Draco like that.”

Hermione lowered her gaze, her voice soft. “Sorry.”

The apology was quiet, but genuine enough to make Pansy seem at least mildly satisfied. She rolled her eyes but didn’t press further. Instead, she pulled a roll of parchment and a Quick-Quotes Quill from her handbag and let it hover in the air, poised to begin scribbling.

“I’ll need your guest list. I assume you want to invite friends and family to the wedding?”

Hermione hesitated. “Um… yeah, friends… I don’t… I don’t have any blood family that can attend.”

Pansy appeared slightly caught off guard. “May I ask why? It’s… rather odd.”

The words hit a nerve. Hermione felt the ache stir deep in her chest—grief she kept tucked in a box, high on a shelf in the back of her mind.

She swallowed hard and spoke carefully. “I had to Obliviate my parents before Voldemort took over the Ministry. It was the only way to keep them safe. By the time the war ended… there was no way to retrieve their memories. They live in Australia now. They don’t know who I am.”

The silence that followed was heavier than she expected.

Pansy didn’t offer pity, not exactly, but her expression shifted—less sharp, more… reserved. It was the closest thing to sympathy Hermione suspected she was capable of.

“Well,” Pansy said briskly, clearing her throat. “Friends?”

“Yes, um… Ginny and Harry, obviously. All of the Weasleys and their significant others. Gabrielle Delacour, Luna, Neville, the Patil sisters, Seamus, Dean, Shacklebolt, McGonagall, Severus, Andromeda Tonks, Cho, Susan, Oliver, Madame Pomfrey, and Aberforth Dumbledore,” Hermione listed, counting on her fingers as she went.

Pansy glanced over the list, then arched a perfectly manicured brow at her.

“That’s just under thirty people. That’s everyone you know?”

Hermione gave her a flat look. “Obviously I’m not inviting every single person I know to the wedding. Those are the ones I consider close friends—off the top of my head.”

“Snape is your friend?” Pansy asked skeptically.

“We became friendly during the war. After we found out he was working with Dumbledore all along.”

“Right,” Pansy muttered. “Well… any friendly acquaintances you’d like to include?”

Hermione paused, thinking. “Um… Viktor Krum and I still exchange letters every few months. Let’s include him as well.”

“Your ex? Draco’s going to love that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He was never my boyfriend. We dated a bit and kissed a few times, that’s all. Viktor’s been nothing but kind and supportive.”

“I’ll be sure to remind Draco to Occlude when he sees him.”

Hermione scoffed. “You can’t seriously believe he’s the jealous type.”

Pansy gave her a knowing look. “Draco is a dragon, Granger. He’ll want to hoard you for himself. Seeing a man you’ve kissed—even a nice one—won’t inspire warm, fuzzy feelings.”

Hermione blinked, thinking back to the flash of what she assumed was jealousy on Draco’s face when Harry had taken her hand the other day. He’d masked it quickly, but…

“Was he like that with you?” she asked curiously.

“Not particularly,” Pansy replied, matter-of-fact. “He never planned to marry me. I was just there to satisfy a need for sex and comfort during school.”

Hermione frowned. “Didn’t that make you feel… used?”

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Nobody uses me. It was mutual. I never intended to marry him either.”

“You Slytherins…” Hermione muttered under her breath.

“Anyway,” Pansy said briskly, “do you mind if I invite some of your extended acquaintances?”

“Like who?”

“Fellow Gryffindors from our year. A few members of the Ministry. Professors. Parents and siblings of your friends. That sort of thing.”

Hermione hesitated. “I suppose that’s fine. How many people are you planning to invite?”

“Hmm… three hundred, give or take.”

Hermione gawked. “Three hundred? Isn’t that a bit much?”

“It’s fairly standard for a Sacred Twenty-Eight wedding. The ballroom can hold up to five hundred.”

“Blimey,” Hermione muttered. “Alright… whatever you think is best, Pansy.”

“Excellent. Now, do you have a preference for wedding dress color?”

“Er… white?”

“Cream, ivory, off-white, champagne?” Pansy prompted.

Hermione groaned. “Just… regular white, I think.”

Pansy sighed, clearly disappointed, but moved on without comment.

“What about the fabric?” she asked, quill at the ready.

“What are the options? Sorry, I’m not really familiar,” Hermione admitted.

Pansy visibly had to summon patience before rattling off, “Lace, silk, Mikado, satin, tulle, organza, chiffon, crepe, charmeuse…”

“Um… something soft? Silky, maybe? I’d like something simple and elegant.”

“Okay, boring, got it,” Pansy said, her quill writing furiously. “So no embellishments or beading?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Noted.” She gave a tight nod. “If you don’t mind, I’ll handle everything else—the colors, theme, flowers, linens, place settings, cake, invitations, music, wedding arch… all the important bits.”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly. “Wow, I didn’t realize weddings were so… involved.”

“Yes, well,” Pansy replied coolly. “Luckily for you, I was raised to plan events like this. Everything will be tasteful, of course.”

“Would it be possible to include some Muggle elements?” Hermione asked. “Like tuxedos instead of robes?”

Pansy considered it for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Alright. Tuxedos it is.”

Hermione exhaled, relieved. “Thank you.”

“Now, who’s in your bridal party?”

“Ginny’s my maid of honor. I was also thinking of Luna as a bridesmaid. I haven’t had a chance to ask her yet, though.”

“You’ll need at least two more.”

“Okay… Fleur, and…” Hermione hesitated, wanting to offer her an olive branch of sorts. “Would you like to be a bridesmaid, Pansy?”

Pansy froze, clearly not expecting the question. For a moment, her expression wavered before she quickly composed herself. “Alright.”

“Draco’s groomsmen are?”

“Theo and Blaise,” Pansy answered. “Pick two of your boys to round out the list.”

“Draco doesn’t have any other male friends?”

Pansy snorted softly. “Draco doesn’t really do friends. We all grew up in the same social circles—he has Theo, Blaise, and me. That’s basically it. The Greengrasses are friendly, but not close. I half expected him to marry Daphne or Astoria one day, to be honest.”

Hermione considered the idea of him marrying someone else and found that she surprisingly felt put off by it. She wasn’t jealous exactly, but she was starting to think of Draco as hers… 

“Oh. Did he ever… No, never mind. That’s none of my business.”

“He shagged Daphne a few times. Casually, of course.”

“Of course,” Hermione muttered. “Do all you Slytherins end up shagging each other at some point?”

Pansy flicked her hair dismissively. “Sex isn’t that big of a deal in my world. Slytherins don’t wait around for true love to lose their virginity, and they certainly don’t commit to one person for life without… a little experience.”

“How very… unemotional of you.”

“Emotions get you hurt,” Pansy said simply. “They make you vulnerable. If you want to survive in this world, you learn to shut it all off and grow thicker skin.”

Hermione shook her head. “I wouldn’t have lasted a day with you cutthroats.”

Pansy smirked. “That’s alright, Granger. Not everyone’s meant to be like us.”

She rolled her eyes. “Let’s do Harry and Neville for the other two groomsmen.”

Pansy nodded. “Alright. What about who’s walking you down the aisle?”

Hermione froze, emotions threatening to spill out as she thought about her father and the fact that he wouldn’t be the one to do it. She wouldn’t allow herself to break down in front of Pansy. 

Lock it back up, Hermione. 

“I hadn’t really thought about that. Um, maybe Harry could do both?”

“No,” Pansy said flatly, already moving on. “Let’s think of someone else.”

Hermione frowned, a little put off by the quick dismissal. “Fine… Perhaps Kingsley? Or Arthur.”

“Choose one. I don’t want to circle back to this—I’ve got enough on my plate.”

She considered it seriously for a moment, then said, “Let’s go with Arthur. He feels more like a father figure to me.”

“Fine,” Pansy replied, as if ticking a mental checkbox.

“You don’t think it’ll be weird? Him being Ron’s father and all?”

Pansy tilted her head and gave Hermione a look. “Granger, this entire thing is weird. Draco marrying a poor—”

“Hey, I grew up upper middle class!”

“—muggle-born witch he used to bully at school makes zero sense. But here we are. It’s not like Ron was your ex, and your ex’s father is giving you away. He just… died. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Pansy gave her an awkward pat on the knee, which Hermione assumed was her attempt at being comforting. 

“Thanks…” Hermione muttered.

“Anyway,” Pansy continued briskly, “if there are any other important details you want to include, owl me. Come to my house next Saturday at 1 pm and bring your bridesmaids. I’ll have your wedding dress ready to try on, and we can choose the bridesmaids’ dresses too. Color preference?”

“I don’t really know… Uh, gold maybe? That’s classy, right?”

Pansy actually chuckled. “Oh, you’re going to fit right into the role of Lady Malfoy. I can feel Narcissa turning in her bloody grave.”

Hermione gave a small snort. “I’ve already told Draco I don’t intend on being a proper society wife. I won’t need to learn all the rules and skills.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” Pansy drawled with mock pity. “How sweet. Tell me then, Hermione, how do you intend to bridge the divide between Muggle-borns and purebloods if you refuse to engage with them outside of this wedding?”

The question hit harder than she expected. Hermione had never imagined herself sitting down for tea with posh women like the Greengrass sisters or planning charity galas, but now… now she wondered if maybe she ought to. These weren’t just frivolous traditions—they were access points. Tools, even.

If people like her didn’t show up in these spaces, how would anything ever change?

She sighed deeply. “I concede that you have a point, Pansy. I hadn’t properly considered what you’re saying before. I’ll give it some thought.”

“Well, while you’re off thinking,” Pansy said with a sharp smile, “let me know if you’d like some etiquette lessons. Your manners are atrocious and your wardrobe is… concerning.”

Hermione gaped. “You’ve been rude this entire time—how is that okay?”

“Because I know you don’t care about all the rules, and we’re not friends. I adapt to the setting. I know how to behave accordingly when needed.”

Hermione grumbled but then sighed in resignation. “I know I’m going to hate myself for this, but… would you be willing to teach me some of that etiquette stuff? I’d rather learn from you than from some stuffy old purist pretending not to hate my guts. At least you’re honest about your disdain for me.”

Pansy quirked a brow in surprise, then softened—just a fraction. “I don’t hate you, Granger. I don’t particularly like you, but that remains true for most people I encounter. You’ve earned some points for being willing to help Draco, despite your history. That means… something.”

Huh, maybe she does have a heart. 

“So? Will you?”

Another dramatic sigh. “Fine. I’ll try to help you in between planning your bloody wedding. Meet me at Malfoy Manor tomorrow at noon. We’ll start then.”

“Why not at your place?”

“Because I may need Draco’s help. Also, Theo would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t allow him to be part of this.”

With Theo there, this might end up being a little fun after all. 

“Mmm. Alright. Thank you. Really.”

Pansy waved the gratitude away like it was a gnat. “Thank me by paying attention and learning quickly. That swotty brain of yours better be good for something.”

Hermione groaned. “How do you always manage to turn something nice into an insult?”

She smirked. “It’s a gift.”

Pansy retrieved her enchanted quill and parchment, tucking them into her handbag before turning toward the Floo.

Before she could go, Hermione summoned the courage to ask her about what she had talked about with Ginny yesterday, for clarification purposes and to hopefully save her and Draco from an uncomfortable conversation.

“Wait a tick, Pansy.”

Pansy stopped and turned back, one brow arched in bored expectation.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Hermione began hesitantly, “I wonder if you might answer a somewhat indelicate question I’ve been wondering about…”

“If you’re wondering how big Draco’s knob is, just know you might need some pain relief after the first time,” Pansy replied breezily, as though commenting on the weather. “You’ll get used to it.”

Hermione blanched, mortified. “No! That is not—Merlin—I wasn’t going to ask about that!” A flush crept up her neck as she shook her head. “It’s about…Theo.”

“Oh, his is even bigger,” Pansy said without missing a beat. “My quim would throb for days after we shagged. He likes it rough too, so—”

“Pansy!” Hermione nearly choked. “I’m not asking about their cocks, for Merlin’s sake! Stop taking the piss!”

“I’m not,” Pansy said, perfectly composed. “Those were factual statements. If they ruffle your delicate feathers, that’s just a bonus.”

That was way more information than she ever wanted to know about Theo, and way too soon for her to know about Draco. Gods, does she have any sort of filter?

Hermione let out a strangled sigh. “Forget it. I’ll just ask Draco.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “No, go ahead. Better to ask me than embarrass yourself with your intended. What do you want to know?”

Might as well get this over with so I don’t have to think about this topic again. 

Hermione hesitated, then forged ahead. “Ginny mentioned a rumor… about Theo and Draco. Were they ever in a romantic relationship? I just think—if I’m going to live with both of them—it would be good to know the truth.”

One corner of Pansy’s mouth curled upward. “Theo and Draco? No, they’ve never been in a relationship. They fooled around a bit when we were younger, but nothing since sixth year.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“Theo tells me everything. He can’t keep his big mouth shut. Thankfully, he finally stopped whining about Draco not letting him touch his cock a few years ago.” She paused, then added with surprising frankness, “To be honest, I think Theo’s been in love with Draco since they were kids. But Draco’s never returned those feelings.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “How do you think Theo feels about us getting married?”

Pansy shrugged. “He wants Draco to be happy, more than anything. It’s properly Gryffindor of him, really. He doesn’t have any ill will toward you. I think he rather wants to be your friend, for some unfathomable reason.”

Hermione smiled faintly, a flicker of sadness in her chest for Theo. She knew what it was like—loving someone who didn’t love you back, watching them be with someone else. He was truly being a good friend to be so supportive of the match. Maybe there was more to these Slytherins than met the eye. 

“Have any of you not shagged one another other at this point?” she asked wryly.

Pansy smirked. “None of us have shagged Blaise. He’s far more reserved than the rest of us in his romantic dealings.”

“Right.” 

At least one of them weren’t deviants….

“Draco was never cross with Theo for hooking up with you?” Hermione asked cautiously.

“If he was, he never said so,” Pansy replied, far too casually. “I don’t think he was particularly thrilled, but I never meant as much to him as you do. Plus, I convinced him once to have a threesome with Theo and me after he found out. That was quite enjoyable for everyone involved.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. Her brain short-circuited for a moment before she managed to blink.

“I—what—sorry, what?”

“Have you ever been double penetrated?” Pansy asked with a wistful smile, like she was reminiscing about a particularly good bottle of wine. “It’s divine.”

Hermione’s soul left her body.

Her cheeks turned scarlet. Her stomach twisted. She wanted to sink into the floor and never be found again. “Okay! Pansy, I think I’ve heard more than enough—thank you! I’ll… see you tomorrow.”

Pansy just shrugged, unbothered, and strolled toward the fireplace, pulling a small pouch of Floo powder from her designer handbag. “I do hope you grow out of that prudishness one day. You’re such a bore. Draco is a delightful fuck, and brilliant with his mouth. Would be a shame not to take advantage.”

Hermione practically shrieked. “PANSY. I’LL. SEE. YOU. TOMORROW.”

With an infuriating smirk and absolutely no shame, Pansy tossed the powder into the flames. “’Til then, Granger.”

The green fire swallowed her up, and Hermione stood there for a full thirty seconds afterward, rooted to the spot, completely unable to move.

Her mind felt like it had just been hit with a Bludger.

Double penetration. Draco’s mouth. A threesome. Pansy’s complete lack of shame. She needed a shower. Or to be Obliviated. Maybe both.

She groaned into her hands and made a silent vow to never, ever ask Pansy Parkinson an “indelicate” question ever again.

Chapter Text

Draco stood anxiously in front of the Floo in the manor’s grand entrance, flanked by Theo on his right and Pansy on his left. This wasn’t quite how he’d imagined seeing Hermione again, but at least he got to see her sooner than planned.

Pansy had explained (in her usual exasperated fashion) that Hermione requested etiquette lessons from her and, apparently, could use him as a buffer as Granger wore on her nerves, so he was to play good cop. Theo, ever the wildcard, had insisted on joining and would undoubtedly derail the lesson at some point. Still, Draco was curious to see how it would all play out.

At precisely twelve o’clock, the fireplace whooshed to life with a swirl of green flames. Hermione stepped gracefully out of the hearth, wearing a soft yellow dress and matching cardigan. Her curls were loose but artfully tamed, and she looked like an angel in his eyes.

Draco stepped forward, lips curving into a soft smile.

“Hello, love,” he murmured.

Hermione returned the smile, eyes lighting up as he reached to gently grasp her elbow and lean in to press a brief kiss to her cheek. She flushed delicately, and he privately cataloged it as one of his favorite sights.

“Hi, Draco,” she replied, clearing her throat as he stepped back. “I hope this isn’t pulling you away from anything important at work. I’d understand if you needed to be elsewhere.”

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else,” he reaffirmed. 

Pansy rolled her eyes with a theatrical sigh. “If we’re quite done with the pleasantries, can we get on with it? I haven’t got all day.”

“Don’t be such a bitch, Pans. She literally just got here,” Theo chided, stepping forward and taking one of Hermione’s hands in his own.

He pressed a gallant kiss to her knuckles. Draco, ever the picture of restraint, reminded himself that Theo had willingly taken an Unbreakable Vow—there was no real reason to be jealous. Not truly. Still…he didn’t love it.

Hermione didn’t seem to mind, however. She smiled up at Theo with sincere warmth.

“You look lovely as ever, darling,” Theo told her. “I’m sorry you have to endure this one today.” He tipped his head toward Pansy, who narrowed her eyes at him dangerously.

“It’s alright. She’s doing me a favor,” Hermione said with perfect diplomacy.

“Exactly. I’m the one being a godsdamned saint here,” Pansy huffed.

Before anyone could respond, she grabbed Hermione by the arm and whisked her away down the hall toward the drawing room.

***

Pansy all but deposited Hermione onto a velvet-cushioned settee in the drawing room before whipping out a slim leather notebook and a self-inking quill with an air of grim determination. She reviewed a list of items on a list she had previously written down, ready to cross things out as they went. 

“Right,” she said crisply, “we’ve got a lot to cover and I’m not repeating myself, so pay attention.”

Hermione glanced helplessly at Draco, who had taken a comfortable seat nearby with Theo and poured them both a cuppa. He could tell that Theo was just as entertained by the ordeal as he was. Draco gave her a lazy smile and winked, hoping she wouldn’t take the whole thing too seriously.

He honestly couldn’t care less whether Hermione became a “proper lady” by high society pureblood standards. He adored her exactly as she was, a little rough around the edges and stubborn as hell. But even he could admit there was utility in her learning a few tricks. His world was full of backhanded compliments and sharpened smiles. If she wanted to survive it mostly unscathed, she needed armor, and unfortunately, armor often looked like grace, poise, and knowing which fork to use with which course.

“Lesson the first,” Pansy announced, pacing like a general. “Posture. Sit up straight, shoulders back, and no crossing your legs at the knee—angle them to one side at the ankle. You’re not in a pub.”

Hermione quickly adjusted, mimicking Pansy’s posture. “Like this?”

“Better,” Pansy said, giving her a once-over. “Now, eye contact. You want to be confident but not aggressive. Smile, but don’t beam. That’s desperation. And speak in complete sentences. If someone cuts you off, wait. Interrupting is for men.”

Theo snorted into his tea. “She’s not wrong.”

“Moving on,” Pansy continued. “Next time you attend a formal event, you’ll likely need to navigate a receiving line. That means proper greetings. You bow your head slightly to someone of equal status, and you curtsy—yes, I said curtsy —to someone of superior station. Don’t roll your eyes at me, Granger, I saw that.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Hermione muttered.

“Your face said it for you,” Pansy shot back. “Now. The curtsy.”

Hermione stood reluctantly and attempted one.

“No. That’s a goblin’s bend,” Pansy barked. “Theo, show her.”

Theo stood and performed an exaggerated, sweeping curtsy, one hand delicately lifting invisible skirts.

“Like this, my lady?” he said, voice lilting with mock seriousness.

Hermione burst into laughter. Even Pansy cracked a smile.

“Alright, that was technically correct, if utterly ridiculous,” she said. “Hermione, try again. Slower this time.”

Hermione tried once more, more gracefully this time. It wasn’t perfect, but it passed.

“Good enough. Now sit.”

Draco leaned forward, one hand on his knee. “Are you teaching her how to survive entertaining members of the sacred-twenty-eight or a meeting with the bloody queen of England?”

“Both,” Pansy said without missing a beat. “She’s going to be thrown into the lion’s den, Draco. It would be prudent for her to know how to fit in and avoid giving people ammo. And she’ll need to know how to respond when someone inevitably passive-aggressively insults her over champagne flutes.”

Hermione grimaced. “People actually do that?”

“Only every bloody event,” Theo muttered.

Pansy pointed at Hermione again. “Now, the art of conversation. Small talk. It’s dreadful, but necessary. Topics include recent Ministry events, mutual acquaintances, Quidditch if you must, books if you can spin them as fashionable, and never politics—unless you’re baiting someone.”

Theo raised his teacup in mock salute. “Or unless you’re bored and in the mood to watch someone combust like a badly-placed Erumpent horn.”

Pansy ignored him. “Let’s move on to table manners. This, Granger, is where most half-bloods and Muggleborns show their upbringing. I trust you’ve used utensils before?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I’ve managed to feed myself successfully for the last twenty-something years, thanks.”

“Feeding oneself and dining are not the same thing,” Pansy replied sharply. She snapped her fingers, and a house-elf appeared with a silver tray, setting it carefully onto the low table between them. An assortment of fine china, silverware, and a delicate slice of cake was placed neatly before Hermione.

“Let’s assume you’re at a seven-course dinner,” Pansy said, gesturing at the arrangement. “Which fork do you use first?”

Hermione stared. “The… outermost one?”

Pansy tilted her head like a cat examining a mouse. “Correct—if you’re beginning the meal. But for dessert, if you bothered to look, you’d see the fork is above the plate. Honestly, Granger.”

“Oh, right…Um, can I eat the cake now?” Hermione asked, reaching for the fork.

“No,” Pansy snapped. “Not until everyone at the table is served. You never begin until the host picks up their utensil. Unless the dish is removed before they do—in which case, tough luck.”

“That’s… unnecessarily strict.”

“That’s etiquette,” Pansy said smugly. “Also, never reach across the table, never put your elbows on the table, and don’t slice all your food at once like you’re preparing to shovel it. Bite-sized pieces, one at a time. Dab your mouth with the napkin—not wipe—and if someone’s giving a toast, you raise your glass, even if you’re not drinking.”

Draco could see Hermione’s mind whirling with all the pieces of information Pansy threw at her at once. He’d grown up with these rules, so they were second nature to him, but hearing them listed out all at once did sound a bit overwhelming. He hoped Hermione wouldn’t end the engagement after today.

Theo muttered, “You missed the part about how you’re supposed to act like you’re enjoying your neighbor’s inane blather about portkey tariffs.”

“Oh, yes,” Pansy said sweetly. “Smile politely while silently calculating how many ways you could end the conversation without being rude.”

Hermione turned to Draco, brows lifted. “This is insane.”

Draco lounged back, arms crossed, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “It is, but you’ll get used to it, I promise.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll make sure to sit beside you at every dinner and whisper instructions as we go,” he reassured her.

She nodded but still seemed a bit concerned. Pansy proceeded to rattle off all the distinctions between each bloody fork, knife, and spoon with no opportunity for Hermione to ask her any questions. Draco leaned back in his chair, watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement. Hermione, to her credit, didn’t look nearly as horrified as he’d expected—just vaguely overwhelmed, like she was trying to mentally chart a map through a silverware forest.

“There’s the fish fork—slightly smaller, with a notch,” Pansy said briskly, tapping it with a manicured nail. “Salad fork is outermost on the left, unless it’s served after the entrée, which means it’s second. Dinner fork is larger—used for the main course. Dessert fork is placed horizontally above the plate, alongside a dessert spoon, if needed.”

She didn’t pause for breath.

“Soup spoon is the round-bowled one on the outer right, fish knife has a flat edge and is used more to push than to cut, and the dinner knife is for your main—don’t confuse it with the butter knife, which sits diagonally across your bread plate, top left.”

Hermione nodded slowly, like she was absorbing spell theory.  

“Anyway,” Pansy continued, “once the meal is finished, you place your fork and knife together, diagonally across the plate. Parallel. Not like you’ve just finished murdering the entrée.”

Hermione nodded, mentally filing it all away.

Pansy stood abruptly. “Up. You’re hosting tea next.”

“What?”

“You’re Lady Malfoy now—or will be. You’ll be expected to host teas, charity brunches, fundraisers, and probably some boring seasonal garden party with tiny sandwiches and too much pastel. You need to know how to play hostess.”

She glanced back at Draco, who gave her a small, encouraging nod.

“You’re doing brilliantly, darling,” he said. “Just don’t let her break you.”

“I won’t,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But if she corrects my posture again, I will hex her.”

“Just make sure it’s a silent spell,” Draco said. “We don’t want to seem uncouth .”

She giggled, and Pansy unceremoniously yanked her towards the tea set. 

***

After some extensive lessons on hosting, introductions, and table manners—during which Hermione looked increasingly like she was fighting the urge to commit murder—they eventually made their way down to the ballroom for dancing lessons.

Draco watched with barely concealed pleasure as she took in the grand room. The vaulted ceiling glittered with enchanted chandeliers, and the polished marble floor gleamed like ice. Music drifted softly from a string quartet charmed to play in the corner. He’d always thought the room too formal, too cold. But now, with her standing in the middle of it, hair slightly mussed from running her hands through it all afternoon, cheeks flushed from frustration, he found he didn’t mind being in here so much.

“This is…unreal,” Hermione muttered as she turned in a slow circle, taking in the intimidating expanse of the space. 

“Practically suffocating when it’s full of people,” Draco said, stepping up beside her. “You’ll be expected to dance at least twice during the wedding, so we might as well practice now.”

Hermione nodded. “What if I step on your feet? I haven’t danced something formal since the Triwizard Tournament, that was years ago.”

Theo snorted from where he was pouring himself a drink near the bar. “Darling, Draco wouldn’t let you make a fool of yourself. Also, if you manage to step on him, it’ll make the night that much more entertaining.”

Pansy clapped her hands, taking control of the moment again. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Draco, take her hand.”

He raised a brow. “Are we doing the Viennese waltz?”

“Obviously. I’ll raise the music,” Pansy said airily. “I don’t trust her to survive a full song without instruction.”

Draco stepped toward Hermione and held out his hand. She hesitated only a moment before placing hers in his. He felt the gentle warmth of her skin instantly.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “You’re not being graded.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she replied. “You probably learned this in the womb.”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

He placed his other hand lightly on her waist and guided her into position. Her hand settled on his shoulder, slightly tense, her brows knit in concentration.

“The key,” he said softly, “is to follow my lead. Don’t overthink it.”

She opened her mouth, probably to argue, but then caught the look in his eyes and—miraculously—nodded.

Pansy waved her wand, and the music began, slow and sweeping. Draco stepped forward, and Hermione followed. She was stiff at first, her steps awkward, but she wasn’t unteachable. He adjusted her hand slightly, corrected her posture with a light brush of his fingers along her spine, and after a few rounds across the floor, she was moving with him more naturally.

He could feel the moment her muscles relaxed, the tension ebbing from her shoulders. Her expression shifted from tight focus to something approaching enjoyment. He smiled.

“There,” he said. “Not so bad, is it?”

She gave him a wary look. “I’m not convinced yet.”

But she didn’t stop dancing.

They turned across the ballroom again, and Draco caught sight of Pansy watching them with critical eyes, arms crossed. Theo was now sprawled on a velvet chaise, swirling firewhisky in a crystal tumbler, looking deeply amused.

“I’d suggest you both stop looking so pleased with yourselves,” Pansy called out. “You’ve only learned the waltz. There are still loads of other dances to learn.”

Draco definitely wasn’t concerned in the slightest about getting the chance to hold her and dance with her for as long as possible. Her scent danced on his nose—warm amber, parchment, and a hint of lilac—familiar, comforting, and uniquely her .

They danced a little longer, slower now, more fluid. Hermione’s gaze lifted to meet his, and something in her expression softened, as if this closeness, this quiet coordination, surprised her…perhaps even delighted her. 

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to ruin the moment with something trite. He just held her, and they continued dancing.

Eventually, the music faded, and she blinked as if waking from a trance. She stepped back slightly, cheeks flushed.

“I suppose… that wasn’t completely awful.”

High praise, coming from Granger indeed.

“You’re a natural,” Draco said, reluctantly releasing her hand.

“I’m really not.”

“You’re not,” Pansy confirmed. “But you didn’t fall or cry, so… progress.”

Hermione shot her a look. “What’s next? Knife juggling?”

“Not unless you plan on joining the circus.” Pansy turned on her heel with a dramatic flourish. “Let’s move on to the next dance. The foxtrot.”

Before Draco could reclaim her hand, Theo sprang up like an overeager schoolboy and made a beeline toward them, his expression gleaming with mischief.

“I’ll take over from here, Draco. You know I’m lighter on my feet than you are,” he said, already tugging Hermione away.

Draco threw him a scowl and considered entering his mind to tell him off for snatching his bride away from him. 

“You’re also half-giant, and she’ll look like a pocket-sized porcelain doll next to you,” Draco snapped, watching Theo’s hand settle far too comfortably on her waist.

“Oh, hush, Drake,” Pansy interjected, rolling her eyes. “She’ll have to dance with other partners at some point, you know that.”

Draco sighed, long and loud, and raked a hand through his hair in frustration. He didn’t like sharing. Especially not when it came to her.

“This dance is technically more difficult,” Pansy went on, turning toward Hermione and Theo. “Lots of gliding, some intricate footwork. Let Theo lead and do your best to keep up. I don’t expect miracles.”

Hermione looked up at Theo, who was wordlessly guiding her hand into place.

“You won’t let me fall?” she asked, the barest flicker of nerves in her voice.

“Never, darling,” Theo said with an easy grin. “Trust me. This’ll be fun, I promise.”

She gave a tentative nod, and Pansy flicked her wand with an elegant flourish. The music shifted into a slow, gliding melody. They began to dance, and Draco had to remind himself not to glower. Instead, he crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby pillar, trying to appear disinterested.

But of course, he watched them like a hawk.

She was stiff at first, her shoulders tense, eyes cast downward in concentration as she attempted to mimic Theo’s lead. He, ever the performer, coaxed her into motion with a few murmured reassurances. Slowly, her movements began to match his—tentative but not graceless. She was trying, and Draco admired her for that.

Her hair bounced with every step, those lovely curls catching the light like threads of gold and bronze. Her cheeks were still pink from their earlier dance, and Draco thought, not for the first time, how infuriatingly lovely she was when flustered.

“See?” Theo murmured to her. “You’re already better than half the girls I’ve danced with.”

“That’s a low bar,” she said under her breath.

Draco let out a quiet huff of laughter. Pansy glanced at him out of the corner of her eye but didn’t comment.

The music carried them into a gentle twirl. Hermione stumbled slightly but recovered on her own, and Draco noticed the subtle tightening of Theo’s hand on her waist to steady her. Hermione’s brows unfurrowed just slightly. She was beginning to let herself be moved by the rhythm.

Then, with a wicked smirk, Pansy flicked her wand again.

The melody shifted abruptly—still a foxtrot, but now something livelier, with a quickened beat and sharper rhythm. It demanded more confidence, more flair, and definitely quicker footwork.

Hermione visibly startled. “Wait—what just happened?”

Theo just laughed. “Welcome to the quickstep portion, darling.”

“I didn’t sign up for this,” she muttered, her feet fumbling as she tried to match the pace.

“You’re doing fine,” Theo encouraged, swinging her into a smooth turn. “Just trust me.”

Draco watched as she struggled through the first few measures, her movements jerky and uncertain. But she didn’t stop. Didn’t give up. Her face was set in that determined little expression he was already growing fond of—the one that meant she’d sooner die than fail at something she’d committed to.

He had to bite back a smile.

“Enjoying yourself?” Pansy asked dryly, sidling up beside him.

“Immensely,” Draco said. “She’s going to murder you when this is over.”

“She’d have to catch me first.”

He chuckled, eyes never leaving Hermione as she began to get the hang of it, her movements growing smoother with each bar of music. Even as Theo twirled her again—perhaps a bit unnecessarily, the show-off—Draco could see the beginnings of confidence blooming in her posture.

And gods, she looked radiant.

Maybe this etiquette nonsense wasn’t so intolerable after all.

“What do you think, Pans? Will she pass?” Draco asked casually, eyes still fixed on the dancers.

Pansy crossed her arms, head tilting as she observed Hermione’s progress. “Perhaps. She’s a quick learner, thankfully. I reckon if I gave her a quiz on everything she’s learned today, she’d probably score decently. Still…” She glanced at him, her voice losing its sharp edge. “You know most of our kind won’t accept her, no matter how polished she is.”

Draco exhaled slowly, jaw tight. She wasn’t wrong.

Once the press got wind of their engagement, the backlash would be immediate and vicious. There would be no soft landing, no carefully curated approval. Not from their world. A Malfoy marrying a Muggleborn—unprecedented. Scandalous. A signal of change, yes, but one that would shake the foundations of wizarding high society.

His family had always been an institution as the wealthiest purebloods in Britain, arguably in all of Europe. Untouchable by design. Even after the war, even after all the shame and scrutiny, no one had dared challenge them outright. Not the Ministry. Not their peers.

But this… this could tip the scales.

He could already see the headlines. The whispers at galas. The masked contempt behind thin smiles. They would aim for Hermione, not him. They’d use her as a symbol of everything they feared was slipping through their fingers—tradition, bloodlines…control.

And Draco knew himself well enough to admit he wouldn’t take kindly to anyone disparaging her. His hands had seen enough blood during the war, and he wasn’t eager to stain them again—but he would without hesitation, for her. 

Perhaps if Hermione began forging ties now, made allies in the right places, it might soften the blow. A show of civility, of integration. Not for their approval—he didn’t give a damn about that—but for her safety.

“Pansy,” he said, voice lower now. “Have you spoken with Daphne or Astoria lately?”

She glanced at him sideways. “I actually saw Daphne last week. Why?”

“I was thinking… once the engagement is public, maybe you could arrange a very visible lunch. Take Hermione out with Daphne. Make it look…friendly.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Well, well. Look at you, Mr. Political. I was starting to worry this whole Gryffindor romance had softened that Slytherin brain of yours.”

Draco smirked faintly. “It hasn’t. I’m just choosing where to aim.”

“Hmm, alright, I’ll arrange it,” Pansy said with a calculating smile. “But you owe me even more now, Malfoy. And I fully intend to collect.”

Draco raised a brow. “What shall I give you? My firstborn?”

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, as if I’d want some snot-nosed blonde brat to look after. No, I want a match of my own—and I want you to figure out who’s to be my intended. And Merlin help you if it’s a bloody Weasley.”

He chuckled. “Surprised you’re craving a husband already. Is all this romance between me and my sweetheart making you jealous, Pans?”

“Hardly. You’re going to spend half your honeymoon in France teaching her how to shag. I’d rather Avada myself.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “No, I want someone experienced. Ruggedly handsome. Preferably at least somewhat intelligent. Make it happen, Malfoy.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” he said dryly. “Though why are you so sure she’s inexperienced?”

Pansy’s grin turned positively wicked. “Because when I mentioned to her yesterday that I’ve had both you and Theo at the same time, she nearly imploded. Turned beet red, stammered like a schoolgirl, and then practically shoved me out the door.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, come off it. You can’t blame me for wanting to get a rise out of her. She’s so naïve when it comes to that sort of thing. Poor thing could barely form a sentence when she tried asking me about you and Theo.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Brilliant. Now he’d have to clean up whatever mess Pansy had created for him.

Still, as his eyes drifted back to the ballroom floor, some of the tension eased from his shoulders. Hermione was spinning effortlessly in Theo’s arms, laughing as she caught her balance. Her chocolate colored curls continued to bounce with the movement, and the color in her cheeks made her glow. At least she was enjoying herself.

“I’d ask you not to reveal any more of our past sexual escapades, Pans,” Draco muttered harshly. “It’s a wonder I even need to tell you this.”

“Well, she asked me. I didn’t bring it up,” Pansy replied, feigning innocence.

“You think me daft enough to believe she asked if Theo and I had ever penetrated you at the same time?” he shot back, frowning, his eyes still fixed on Hermione.

“Well, not exactly… but she opened the door.”

“I see. She gave an inch and you took a bloody mile.” He shook his head. “If you intentionally torture my bride again, I promise there will be consequences.”

Pansy gave him a smirk. “The days of you giving me a spanking for being a bad girl ended long ago, Draco. You don’t scare me.”

“Oh, I could think of something,” he said with a warning edge. “Now behave. Theo’s making an effort to be her friend—you should do the same.”

“Theo is a gormless twit who’s easily impressed. I have higher standards.”

“You also have a hard time making female friends. Hermione’s a good person—she’s not like us. She’s not out to use you, and she’s not playing some game like the rest of our circle. If you gave her a chance, you might actually like her.”

Pansy crossed her arms and stewed for a moment before eventually relaxing—barely.

“Perhaps she’s not the worst Muggle-born I’ve met… She’s at least not dimwitted.”

“So you’ll consider it, then.”

She sighed and waved him off—about as close to agreement as he was ever going to get. Still, Draco hoped that in time she and Hermione might become true friends. Pansy may have been a snake like the rest of them, but she was fiercely loyal when it mattered. She’d never been warm or affectionate, but she cared more deeply than she ever let on.

Raised almost as harshly as Theo, at least emotionally, Pansy had grown up in a home where affection was scarce and expectations were sharp-edged. Draco doubted her parents had ever said a kind word to her. They’d raised her to be cold and calculating, their ambitions wrapped around her like vines, ever pushing her to trap Draco into marriage for the social cachet. But Pansy had never truly cared about playing by their rules.

He’d dated her at Hogwarts mostly to help keep her parents off her back, and he had felt something for her at the time, just not enough. They both understood, eventually, that they needed different things in a partner. Draco had grown up watching his father dote on his mother, treating her like a queen. He wanted that kind of softness in his own life. Pansy, on the other hand, needed someone who would challenge her, maybe even dominate her a bit. They simply weren’t compatible long-term.

They’d had decent sexual chemistry—good enough to hold things together for a while. But it all unraveled when Pansy caught on to the way Draco looked at Hermione when he thought no one noticed, and further when she realized he hadn’t been particularly bothered by her shagging Theo—the game losing its thrill for her.

Still, they’d transitioned back to friendship easily enough. She remained a constant presence in his life and one of his staunchest allies. He loved her in the same way he loved Theo or Blaise—even if she was the prickliest one of the bunch. One only had to see past her thorns to recognize the loyalty underneath.

Pansy eventually ended the music with a flick of her wand and waved for Theo and Hermione to come over.

Hermione glanced uncertainly at Draco, unsure whether to linger or leave. He stepped forward, brushing his hand lightly against the small of her back as he leaned in.

“Come up to the library with me when we’re done here. Just for a moment,” he murmured.

She hesitated, then gave a small nod, slipping her hand into his after he offered it to her.

“Decent job today. Seems you’re not a completely hopeless cause,” Pansy said, her tone begrudgingly approving.

“Thanks… I think?”

“Pish posh, you were magnificent!” Theo beamed at her. “I could dance with you for hours.”

Hermione smiled warmly. “Thanks, Theo. You’re a wonderful dancer. Honestly, you two make me look far better than I deserve to on the dance floor.”

“Only because you’re so lovely to watch in the first place,” Draco said, placing a chaste kiss to her temple. Her cheeks flushed, and he smiled.

With a roll of her eyes, Pansy turned sharply and strode toward the doors. “I’ll see you on Saturday. Practice everything we went over, Granger.”

“I’ve never seen Pansy behave that nicely before,” Theo drawled after she left, smirking.

“That was her being nice?” Hermione asked in disbelief.

“Practically a golden retriever by her standards. She barely insulted you at all,” he said.

“I think we were hearing different versions of her,” Hermione muttered.

Draco chuckled and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Ready to go up? I’ll apparate us and spare you the trek.”

“Oh, you’re stealing her away already?” Theo said with a dramatic pout.

Draco exhaled. “I’ll remind you that she’s not your fiancée, Theo. You’re lucky I let you see her at all.”

“Boys, there’s enough of me to go around,” Hermione joked—and immediately seemed to regret it as both men turned to her with identical smirks. She cleared her throat and looked quickly up at the chandelier.

Unbothered, Theo grinned. “Draco’s never been great at sharing. But don’t worry—once you’re living at the manor and he’s off playing businessman at Malfoy Enterprises during the week, we’ll have plenty of time together. You can show me your favorite books, tell me your war stories—and all the juiciest bits you’ve left out of the press. I’ll show you where they keep the best wine… and Draco’s baby pictures.” He finished with a wink. 

Hermione smiled at him. “That actually sounds lovely.”

She reached out and gave his arm a gentle squeeze, clearly delighting Theo, whose expression practically glowed with pleasure, like a dog who’d just been told he was a good boy. Draco, meanwhile, decided he’d reached his limit.

“I’ll make sure to take lighter days after we’re married,” he said, stepping in. “Come on, darling.”

Hermione gave Theo one last warm glance, then nodded—and in a blink, Draco apparated them away.

Chapter Text

He gave her a moment to take in the library again, watching the way her eyes moved over the high shelves like she was still in awe, just as she had been the first time. Then he guided her toward one of the sofas, hoping she wasn’t too put off by all that Pansy had said yesterday. Perhaps, if nothing else, it had cracked the door open for some honesty between them.

Things were still new. He could feel her lowering her defenses more each time they were together, but there was still a layer of carefulness between them. Politeness. As if they were both still trying not to scare the other off. He wanted more than that. He wanted ease, warmth. Something real. He’d take her yelling at him, even. Perhaps even prefer it to the dancing around each other they’d been doing thus far.  

She sat beside him on the plush couch, her knees turned slightly toward him. Close enough to touch. Her cheeks were still pink from dancing, and a light sheen of sweat lingered on her brow. Without thinking, Draco pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

She accepted it gratefully, dabbing at her face.

“Sorry,” she said with a faint laugh. “Dancing was more of a workout than I expected. That quickstep nearly took me out. I would’ve face-planted if Theo hadn’t caught me.”

“You handled it better than you think. I was impressed.”

“Really? I don’t think Pansy was.”

“She wouldn’t be. You’d have to be a world-class dancer to impress her—and even then, she’d probably find something to nitpick. Like your shoes. Or your posture. Or your existence.”

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. “How did you date her for two years? She’s impossible.”

Draco chuckled. “She has her good sides… if you squint hard enough.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She tried to hand the handkerchief back, but he shook his head.

“Keep it, love. For your future dancing endeavors.”

She rolled her eyes, but folded it neatly and tucked it into her bag.

“So,” she said, glancing around the room once more. “What did you bring me up here for?”

“I know you like it here,” he replied, watching her closely. “And I thought it might be the best setting for… a certain conversation.”

She looked instantly wary. “What kind of conversation?”

He cleared his throat. “Pansy mentioned some of what you two talked about yesterday, and I just… I wanted to reassure you about a few things, if you’ll let me.”

Her cheeks turned bright red. “Oh. Um. No—it’s fine. Really.” She waved her hands. “I don’t think I need to hear anything else on the matter.”

“I understand it’s an uncomfortable topic, and I know Pansy probably blindsided you…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I just want you to know—I don’t expect anything from you. Not like that. What I want is something different.”

She frowned slightly. “Different how?”

He sighed, letting his thoughts drift—lazy Saturdays spent wrapped in sheets, sharing the Prophet and stealing kisses. Reading together in the library. Riding across the grounds. Swimming at dusk. Laughter, softness, things he’d never had with anyone else.

“I’ve never thought of myself as a romantic,” he said. “Not because I couldn’t be—but because I’d never met someone I wanted to be that way for. But with you…” He looked her in the eyes. “I find myself wanting things I’ve never had before with someone. I want to sweep you off your feet, and I like that you’re letting me try, even though you’ve got every reason not to.”

He swallowed hard, then added quietly, “What I had with other girls was just to pass the time. If you’ll excuse my bluntness…I don’t want someone to just have meaningless sex with. I want you . All of you. I want to win your heart, Hermione. I just needed you to know that.”

Her eyes twinkled at him for a few long beats, clearly positively affected by his words. But then she seemed to catch herself, straightening slightly and blinking as if snapping out of a daze.

“That’s… lovely, Draco. I appreciate hearing it, truly. I am trying—really trying—to be open to feeling more for you. And I know we had that moment the other day, when you proposed, but…” She hesitated. “It’s all happening so fast. I just don’t understand how you could go from hating me to wanting me as your wife.”

She held up a hand before he could speak. “And I don’t mean that as me questioning the marriage—I just want to be honest with you.”

It was a fair thing to ask. She deserved the truth he’d hidden for years. But even so, dread coiled in his stomach to have to say it out loud after all the time he had spent concealing his feelings. 

He nodded slowly. “I understand. I can’t erase the past. I was terrible to you, and you have every right to question my intentions—”

“I’m not questioning your intentions,” she interrupted softly. “I just don’t understand the change of heart. That’s all. I’d appreciate it if you could explain it.”

“I’ll try,” he murmured.

He took a breath, heart pounding in his throat. “Do you remember when you broke my nose?”

Her eyebrows rose. “It’s one of my favorite memories. How could I forget?”

He laughed under his breath. “Ever since that day… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“You mean plotting my demise?”

“At first, maybe. But then I realized I was properly enamored. No one had ever stood up to me like that— really stood up to me. You didn’t care who I was or what name I carried. You were just… a force, and I knew I wanted you.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Pansy never put you in your place?”

“Pansy is… calculated. If she wants to hurt you, she waits for the perfect moment to strike, not in the heat of the moment. But you? You didn’t wait. You were furious, and righteous, and glorious. I realized I wanted you more than anyone else. It was an exquisite kind of pain, wanting something I knew I could never have—was never meant to have, really… Honestly, it bordered on masochism.”

Hermione blinked at him, taken aback. Her brow furrowed as she stood abruptly and began pacing in front of the sofa.

“But you kept treating me like dirt. Outwardly despised me. What am I supposed to make of that, Malfoy?”

The use of his surname hit him like a slap.

“If I’d acted differently, everyone would’ve known how I felt. And I couldn’t let that happen. I wasn’t ready to let go of everything I’d been taught. I thought if I buried the feelings deep enough, they’d disappear.”

“And when they didn’t?”

“Pansy broke up with me. Said I looked at you like a starving man watching someone else eat… She wasn’t wrong.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if all this is upsetting. I just thought… if we’re going to build something together, you deserve the truth.”

She was quiet for a long moment, something weighing on her before she finally exhaled and sat down beside him again.

“I’m not upset that you had feelings for me,” she said at last. “I’m upset that you had those feelings and still chose to treat me and my friends like scum. Just when I think you Slytherins have hearts, I’m reminded that you think courage is a liability. That kindness is a weakness.”

The jab struck deeper than she knew.

He bristled. “As if you would’ve trusted me if I’d been kind to you out of nowhere. You would’ve thought it was a trap.”

“That’s not the point!” she snapped, crossing her arms. “You did have a lot to make up for. You deserved to be iced out for a while. But doing the right thing means doing it even when no one’s watching. Not expecting a reward. Not just because it’s a smart strategy.”

Draco let out a long, pained sigh and slouched back against the couch.

“So… I’ve ruined it, then? You won’t want to be my sweetheart now that you know the truth?”

“Oh my gods, see? This is what I’m talking about!” She threw her hands up. “Just because I’m cross with you doesn’t mean it’s all over. I’m not some shallow girl who melts over shiny jewelry and flowery words. You said you wanted to earn my trust—well, here’s your chance.”

He glanced over at her, chastened, lips pressed in a tight line.

“I’m not going back on my promise to marry you,” she added, voice softer now. “But I am asking you to show me—not just say it—that you’ve changed. That you’re not just trying to win.”

He was quiet for a long moment, taking in everything she’d said, working to internalize it rather than lash out. He tried to shove all his spiraling fears—chief among them, the sinking feeling that she was slipping through his fingers—into neat little boxes in his mind.

But then she took his hand and held it firmly, grounding him.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Don’t do that. Don’t occlude. Not with me.”

He looked up at her, wary. “How do you expect me not to, when everything I am feels… wrong compared to you?”

“Don’t play the victim,” she said softly but firmly. “That’s not what I think of you. If it were, I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you.”

Draco sighed and shook his head, feeling the weight of defeat settle in his chest. He decided then that if they had a chance to survive, he might as well tell her the whole truth and see how she ended up taking it. At this point, it was 50/50 based on the conversation they’d had so far. 

“Do you know why I switched sides during the war?”

She tilted her head. “Because of your mother. What happened to her, right?”

A flash of pain in his gut surfaced, but his shields were still intact for that bit of trauma. 

“No. It was before that. Near the end of sixth year, when I was meant to kill Dumbledore.” His voice lowered. “I was scared. Terrified, really. I wasn’t a killer—not then…”

He exhaled, voice raw. “What stopped me, what made me start to change… was the thought of you. I realized that if I went through with it, if I actually murdered someone, you’d never be able to look at me again without disgust. And I couldn’t bear that. I didn’t want you to see me as a monster.”

He paused, swallowing thickly, the lump in his throat nearly impossible to push past.

“I knew Potter had figured it out by then—that I was a Death Eater. After he nearly killed me, I decided I had nothing left to lose. So I came clean. I hoped, somehow, that your side would find a way out for me.”

She was quiet for a while, clearly absorbing his revelations in real time. Draco feared he’d said too much—that once again, he’d opened the wrong door and pushed her further away. But she continued to hold his hand, her fingers warm and steady in his. That had to mean something… right?

At last, she looked up at him and hesitantly raised her free hand to his cheek, brushing her fingers gently along the edge of his jaw. Her eyes—deep, steady, impossibly kind—searched his with such intensity he could barely breathe. He was mesmerized, utterly still under her touch.

“You’re such a prat,” she said finally, her lips tugging into the smallest smile.

He couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his own mouth, the tension in his chest loosening in an instant. He brought his hand up to cover hers, holding it in place against his cheek before leaning in and resting his forehead lightly against hers with a long, quiet exhale.

They sat like that for a while—soft and still in their little moment—until she gently pulled away and straightened up.

“Can I ask you something?” she whispered.

“Anything,” he replied. “I’m an open bloody book, it would seem.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to their joined hands before meeting his again. “Have you ever… killed anyone? I won’t—I promise I won’t be cross. I just don’t want there to be any more secrets between us.”

Draco froze, the question slicing cleanly through his resolve. For a moment, he wrestled with whether to shield her from the truth, but how could he deny her? It was only right that she know what she was signing up for. She was aware that he was a Death Eater, both genuinely and as an act. But she didn’t know all he had to do in the war to survive. Frankly, he didn’t want to tell her everything either, but the facts were the facts. Draco wouldn’t keep his most damning sins from her. She deserved better than that—she deserved an out if she thought he was beneath her. 

“I have,” he revealed quietly. “No one who wouldn’t be rotting in Azkaban if they’d lived. I never had to spill blood from the other side, though; I was spared that bit of evil. Since I wasn’t directly on the front lines, I did the dirty work behind the scenes. Voldemort decided I had my father’s weakness, that I was only suited to politics. So I worked in non-wizarding relations. I survived because I was good at it… and because my father’s influence in the Ministry gave his regime a shred of legitimacy.”

She nodded slowly, chewing her bottom lip as she processed. He could see the wheels turning, could feel the weight of her judgment hovering in the air. He stopped breathing as he waited for her to say something. 

After a long, taut silence, she said simply, “Okay.”

He blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She paused. “Draco—”

“Oh, so you do remember my name?”

She gave him a pointed look and rolled her eyes. “I want to move on from the war. That’s the whole point of us getting married, isn’t it? So… let’s move on.”

Draco stared at her, his heart swelling with something painfully close to gratitude. He nodded, swallowing hard.

“You’re too good for me, Hermione,” he murmured as he gently pulled her closer.

“Only if you decide to become who you were before,” she whispered. “Be good for me now. ”

Then her lips met his.

It was soft at first. Hesitant. Like she was still testing the shape of the moment, still unsure if it would hold. But he leaned into her, cupping her cheek with one hand, and she didn’t pull away. Instead, she deepened the kiss with a quiet sigh that went straight to his chest. He felt his entire body vibrating at the contact. 

Draco responded in kind, threading his fingers through her curls as he drew her closer. Her body pressed against his, warm and alive and entirely too tempting. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat screaming that this was real. This was happening.

Her hand slid to the back of his neck, her fingers curling into the fine hairs there. He groaned softly against her mouth, the sound half frustration, half wonder. She kissed like she thought too much and felt even more—each movement deliberate, each breath caught on the edge of something deeper.

When they finally broke apart for air, she didn’t move far, just let her forehead rest lightly against his. It was so gentle, Draco might have cried from the relief he felt.

Her voice was a bare thread. “Your hands are trembling.”

He swallowed, fists clenching in her hair. “So are yours.”

They sat together in silence, chests rising and falling in time. He wanted to memorize this moment, to keep it close for when he inevitably screwed up again in the future.

Finally, Hermione drew back and looked at him, her expression soft. “You want to know a secret?”

He managed a smile. “Always.”

“I never fancied you back at school,” she began, “but… I did think you were very fit. And I always secretly hoped you’d grow out of your father’s shadow and grow as a person. If you hadn’t been such a twat, I might’ve been interested.”

“Really?”

She nodded with a smirk. “I might’ve let you steal a kiss or two if you’d actually flirted with me.”

“Just a kiss?”

She flushed, looking away with a small smile. “Maybe more…”

He couldn’t help himself. “Did you ever… with anyone?” he asked cautiously.

She swallowed, then looked back at him.

“I was with Ron for a long time, off and on… but we never…” She hesitated. “It’s a whole story. I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

He already didn’t. But perversely, he still wanted to know. If they were being honest now—laying everything bare—this was part of it.

“Tell me. If you’re comfortable, I can handle it.”

She shifted to face him more fully, her hand still in his.

“You have to promise not to overreact.”

Draco’s stomach twisted further. “Alright.”

She nodded, sitting up straighter.

“During the war, Harry, Ron, and I were on the run for a long time—living in the wilderness, moving around constantly. We were hunting Horcruxes. It was horrible. We were always hungry, always tired, always scared. At first, we couldn’t risk going into towns for supplies. We had one of the Horcruxes with us, and it… affected Ron the most. It kept whispering to him, telling him I preferred Harry. He got paranoid and angry. One day he demanded I choose between them—and when I chose Harry, he left.”

Draco blinked. “Just like that?”

“Yeah. Apparently, once he was away from the Horcrux long enough, he realized he’d been acting like a twat. He tried to find us for months, but we had enchantments hiding our camp. It wasn’t easy.”

“Serves him right,” Draco muttered. “He left you both to die.”

She gave him a look, but continued. “Anyway… Harry and I were completely isolated. We missed everyone. We were exhausted, constantly mourning, and carrying this awful burden. Every night we’d listen to the radio for names of the dead. The Horcrux was like a weight pressing down on us.”

Draco could feel where this was going and gritted his teeth, but said nothing.

“One night, Harry tried to cheer me up. A song came on the radio, and he danced with me. It was sweet—just a little escape. But at the end, he kissed me.”

She watched his face carefully. Draco’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to stay calm.

“And then?” he asked, voice tight.

“We kissed for like a minute, but then I started crying and we stopped. I felt guilty… Even though Ron and I had never defined anything. We hadn’t even kissed yet. But it was confusing. We were touch-starved. Lonely. It felt good for a second, and then it felt awful.”

Draco didn’t breathe.

“A few nights later, I crawled into Harry’s bed,” she admitted. “We didn’t do anything at first—he just held me. But I ended up kissing him again, and this time… it was better. We, um…” she blushed. “We touched each other a bit. But eventually I stopped it. I didn’t want to lose my virginity to my best friend, even if death felt like it was around every corner. I loved Harry, but not like that. He told me afterward that it felt almost like kissing his sister… which wasn’t flattering, but I basically felt the same. So we promised to survive, and to wait for the people who were truly meant for us.”

Like a sister, yeah right.

Draco let that sit for a moment, bile rising at the thought of Potter’s hands on her. Still, he couldn’t fault them for needing comfort. He hated it, but he couldn’t fault it.

“Is that… all?” he asked carefully.

She nodded her head. “That was the end of anything romantic, yes.”

“Did he get you off?” he asked abruptly before he could stop himself.

Hermione scowled and let go of his hand. “That’s a crude question, Draco. You’re not entitled to more than what I’ve chosen to share.”

So…that was a yes. He clenched his fist, resisting the urge to sneer. Then exhaled and tried again, remembering he wasn’t talking to a Slytherin and endeavoring to choose his words more carefully.  

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Please—go on.”

She studied him for a beat, then nodded.

“When Ron found us again, he destroyed the Horcrux with Harry. Things were okay for a bit, but then he joked one day that it was ridiculous to think Harry and I could’ve had something. We looked at each other guiltily… and he realized the truth.”

“He figured it out?” Draco asked.

She nodded. “Lost it. Screamed at us. Disappeared into the woods for hours. Came back with his hands all torn up and wouldn’t speak to either of us. We tried to explain, but nothing we said helped. I finally screamed at him that I was still a virgin and that it hadn’t meant anything; we were just lonely. That he shouldn’t have left in the first place. He saw that as me blaming him, which… I suppose I was.”

Draco exhaled slowly, astonished by the mess of it all. For once, he even pitied Weasley—until she kept going.

“After that, things were strained. He became distant, more with me than with Harry, even. When we eventually joined back up with the order, he started volunteering for increasingly more dangerous missions. I could hardly recognize the person he was turning into; he was so quiet, brooding all the time, like whatever he saw had changed him in a bad way… One night he came back bleeding from a mission and stepped into the makeshift potions lab where I was working, and kissed me—hard. Angry… It was kind of…hot…at first,” she blushed again, “but then he tried to… to shag me. I pushed him back and slapped him.”

Draco’s mouth went dry. “He tried to force himself on you?”

“No, no, he would never,” she shook her head vehemently. “I was kissing him back, but I didn’t want to take it all the way like that, not for the first time, and he didn’t realize until I slapped him. He apologized profusely, and we went back to something like normal and tried to make a real go of things. But he was different. Moody. Volatile. We were on and off after that. Sometimes he’d break it off and shag Lavender or whoever else was around.”

Draco scowled. “And you took him back?”

She nodded. “I felt like I deserved it. Like it was punishment for what happened with Harry. I wasn’t okay. I was grieving so many people. I couldn’t bear to lose Ron, too.”

He closed his eyes. Gods, what had been done to her to make her believe she deserved that kind of pain?

“But you did lose him.”

She nodded again. “He saved my life in the final battle. Took a curse meant for me. And died because of it.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t talk about it. Some hurts… they never heal.”

Draco didn’t speak right away. Couldn’t. There was a lump in his throat the size of a boulder, and his hands had curled into tight fists in his lap, trying to contain the overwhelming rush of emotion her words had stirred. Not just jealousy or anger—though both simmered faintly in the background—but something more profound. Sorrow, perhaps, for the weight she’d carried all alone. For the way she’d tried to make herself smaller, more tolerable, more forgivable, even in the face of things that had never been her fault.

He reached for her hand again, slowly, giving her the chance to pull away. She didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she said softly, her eyes not quite meeting his. 

He squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore, you know. You have me now.”

She looked at him, eyes glassy but not yet spilling over. “I don’t want pity.”

“It’s not pity,” he said quietly. “It’s… care. You’re the most important person in my life, Hermione. If you’re in pain, I’m in pain.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath, and for a moment they just looked at each other, a tentative truce hanging between them. Then she leaned in—not rushed or hungry, just drawn by the gravity of shared pain—and kissed him again. It was gentle, grateful, a wordless thank you for holding space for all the broken parts of her.

Draco kissed her back just as softly, his hand resting against her cheek, thumb lightly brushing the skin beneath her eye.

When they parted, she stayed close, resting her head on his shoulder.

He let out a quiet breath and wrapped an arm around her. “I’m sorry for everything you went through during the war,” he murmured. 

“Thank you,” she said into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m sorry for what you went through, too.”

They sat there in silence for a long while, wrapped in quiet understanding, the library around them hushed and bathed in golden light. 

He wondered if she trusted him more now, if she would allow herself to believe in him with their truths now laid bare. It meant a lot that she opened up to him like that and that she had taken comfort in him. It was a start, and he was pleased with the turn of events of the day. 

His last thought after he guided her to the floo, and watched the green flames take her away, was that he hoped he could protect her from ever going through anything like the war ever again… 

Chapter Text

The past four weeks had flown by, and Hermione could hardly believe the wedding was just a couple of days away.

Draco had made good on his promise to woo her, taking her on several dates over the course of the month. Each time, he presented her with a single, impossibly perfect red rose, enchanted never to wilt. She had over a dozen of them now in a vase on her nightstand at Grimmauld Place.

Their outings ranged from dinners at elegant restaurants—both Muggle and magical—to long walks in shaded parks or quiet afternoons wandering museums. The latter, especially, had won him points with her. He showed a real interest in the Muggle world and its history, something she never expected from a Malfoy. When news of their engagement broke, it made going out more difficult—they were followed everywhere by reporters—but Draco still found ways to plan lovely, mostly private escapes.

He brought her to the manor often as well, and they spent time exploring the grounds or strolling through the conservatory. Whenever she finished a stack of borrowed books, he would lead her back to the library and let her browse at her own pace, patiently waiting while she chose more to take home.

They kissed often and curled up together whenever opportunity allowed, but things remained relatively chaste between them. She could tell he was being careful, not wanting to push too far too soon, and she appreciated that. Honestly, though, if he had pushed a little harder, she might’ve let him.

He was… lovely with her. Gentle. Sweet. Thoughtful in ways she had rarely experienced. Ron had cared for her, deeply, but he’d always been too caught up in his own pain—haunted by the war or wounded by what happened with Harry. He hadn’t been able to offer her the kind of tenderness Draco gave so freely now.

Still, when she thought of Ron, she tried to remember the best of him. She understood that love during wartime was messy. If they’d had a chance to grow together outside of all of the madness, perhaps things would’ve been different. Maybe he would’ve been softer with her. She’d never know for sure—and that was… okay. The hurt lingered, but being with Draco was slowly stitching over the scars.

Theo had become a welcome presence in her life, too, along with—surprisingly—Draco’s other friends. Blaise was polite and charming, with a sly sense of humor that made him easy to be around. And Pansy… well, Pansy was still Pansy. But Hermione could tell the sharpness in her tone had dulled somewhat. There was a little less bite in her jabs, a little more effort to be her version of nice.

And in fairness, Pansy was helping. A lot . Between wedding planning and teaching her how to navigate the often absurd world of pureblood society, she was putting in real work. Hermione could hardly complain about the occasional backhanded comment when the woman was doing more than anyone else to prepare her for what came next. She’d nearly complimented her the other day—almost—before Pansy caught herself and abruptly changed the subject.

The press had been… mixed. Some headlines were flattering: Golden Girl Engaged to Wizarding World’s Most Eligible Bachelor, Most Lavish Wedding in a Century to Be Watched by All. Others were less kind: Sham Marriage? Is Malfoy Buying the Golden Girl’s Hand to Rehabilitate His Name?

Hermione mostly ignored the papers. She didn’t have the time or energy to worry about public backlash. The whole point of the marriage was to show the world that it could move on. Eventually, she hoped, the rest of them would catch up.

Meeting Daphne had gone far better than Hermione expected, especially with Pansy at her side. The posh blonde had fawned over her engagement ring and seemed genuinely entertained by all the wedding details. Daphne was far more restrained than Pansy, and in truth, she reminded Hermione a little of Narcissa. Their small talk started cautiously, but by the end of the meeting, Daphne had offered warm congratulations and even invited Hermione to her estate for tea sometime soon.

The press adored the outing. The photos published were flattering: three elegant witches smiling warmly at one another, as if they’d always been friends. Things, against all odds, were going… surprisingly well.

Which was, frankly, suspicious.

When had anything in her life ever gone smoothly long enough for her to truly relax? She couldn’t even remember. The calm made her uneasy.

She turned her gaze to her wedding dress, hanging quietly in her wardrobe. Unzipping the garment bag, she reached in and glided her fingers along the ivory fabric—silky, structured, and perfect. Exactly what she wanted.

When she first tried it on, Ginny had told her she looked like an angel. She remembered staring at her reflection and, for once, agreeing. The dress featured a strapless, impeccably tailored bodice that hugged her form through the waist and hips before flaring out in a clean, sculptural line just below the thighs.

It was elegant in its simplicity, but it wasn’t without drama. It came with a detachable oversized bow that doubled as a train, tied just-so at the back of her dress, cascading softly behind her. The bow wasn’t just decorative—it was a statement. Bold, romantic, and, according to Pansy, absolutely necessary if Hermione intended to stand out in such a minimalist design.

Pansy had also insisted on buying her matching ivory satin stilettos, each heel adorned with a delicate spray of crystals. A small act of defiance against Hermione’s request to avoid anything embellished. The shoes were stunning—Hermione couldn’t blame her.

The bridesmaids’ dresses were a soft blush pink and had a silhouette similar to her own gown—strapless and fitted through the waist and hips, flaring slightly with a drape of sheer tulle over the shoulder that flowed gracefully down the back.

With Draco’s help, Pansy had borrowed some elegant jewelry from the Malfoy vaults for the bridesmaids. Hermione, however, insisted on something simpler for herself—just a pair of diamond studs. Pansy had, naturally, been annoyed.

As for Draco’s ring, she had taken charge of it herself, despite his insistence on handling everything. They compromised on her using raw materials from the family vaults, and she commissioned a jeweler to craft a simple gold band with a single baguette-cut emerald at its center. Inside, she had the band inscribed:

Forever Your Darling, HJG.

She hoped he’d like it.

Just then, a knock on the door pulled Hermione out of her wedding-day musings.

“Come in,” she called absently, her eyes still on the dress as she slowly zipped the garment bag closed.

Harry stepped into the room and came up beside her, placing a warm hand on her shoulder.

“You’re going to make a beautiful bride, ’Mione.”

She smiled, leaning against him lightly. “If first-year me could see this—marrying Draco Malfoy of all people…” She shook her head, amusement flickering across her face.

He nudged her toward the bed, and they sat down together. He took her hand in his.

“Does he make you happy?”

“You know… he really does. I quite like him. A lot.”

Harry looked at her thoughtfully. “Do you… love him?”

Hermione considered this for a moment. “I have love for him—he’s been so good to me, and he’s grown so much as a person. I don’t think that I am in love with him yet… but I want to be someday. I think it’ll come with time. It’s only been a month, after all.”

He grinned. “He hasn’t bought your love with all the books you’ve borrowed?”

She laughed. “No, but it helps.”

They both chuckled.

“Oh, and this ring,” she said, holding up her hand to admire it. “I’ve grown rather fond of it. If we ever fell into ruin, he’d have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers to pawn it.”

Harry smiled warmly. “You know, I found my mum’s old engagement ring in the Potter vaults. It’s not as grand as yours, but… I think Ginny would like it.”

“Oh! You should propose at my wedding! Catch her while she’s all weepy from the vows and full of champagne. Tell her it can be a long engagement—she deserves to have a beautiful ring as well.”

“You don’t think that’s tacky? Proposing at your wedding?”

“Nonsense. I insist. Bring the ring, find a quiet spot, and go for it. Theo could help you plan if you like—you’ll see him tomorrow night at the rehearsal dinner.”

Harry considered it for a moment, then nodded with a grin. He cupped her cheek, kissed the other, and pulled her into a tight hug.

“You’re squishing me,” she said with a soft laugh, rubbing his back.

“Hey, I want in on the hugging, too,” came Ginny’s voice from the doorway. “What are we celebrating?”

“Just Hermione being brilliant,” Harry said, extending an arm for her to join.

Ginny joined them on the bed, and the three friends stayed wrapped up in each other for a long, comforting moment.

“As much as I love this group hug,” Hermione eventually said, “I need to breathe.”

The others let her go with a laugh, and she leaned back against the headboard, tucking her legs to the side. Harry stretched out a leg at the foot of the bed, Ginny sliding between his legs while he wrapped his arms around her.

“So,” Ginny said bluntly, “are you going to shag him on the wedding night?”

Hermione shrugged. “I think so…Is it awful the first time?”

“Hmm… wouldn’t say it was awful,” Ginny replied, then turned to glance at Harry.

“Don’t look at me. I thought it was bloody brilliant.”

“You would, Potter—you’re a bloke.” Ginny chuckled, turning back to Hermione. “It might hurt a bit, but I bet the ferret knows what he’s doing. He’ll go slow.”

Hermione nodded slowly, thinking that was probably true. “Who usually does the contraceptive charm? I’m not ready to pop out a Malfoy baby yet.”

“Thank Merlin for that—I’m not ready to be an aunt,” Ginny said, wrinkling her nose. “Just ask him to cast it.”

“What if I’m terrible the first time?” Hermione asked, a bit of panic edging into her voice. “What if that’s how he remembers our wedding night forever?”

Harry shook his head. “Hermione, he’s a bloke. There’s almost nothing you could do that he wouldn’t enjoy. Let him do all the work. You’ll be fine.”

“So, what… I lie back and think of England?” Hermione asked dryly. “Sounds boring. And he’s so… experienced.”

Flashes of what Pansy told her about their sex life at school came to mind. Hermione always worked to excel in everything at life, and this wasn’t exactly something she could master by just reading about it in a book. Field experience was absolutely required.

Ginny smirked. “It’s not like you and Ron never did anything. I can hardly believe that.”

Hermione flushed, thinking about the times Ron tried to get her off with his fingers up her skirt. Sometimes he succeeded with some bit of guidance from her. She’d gone down on him once or twice, but he never lasted long… 

“But we didn’t have sex, I told you. Every time we tried, something interrupted us. Or he was too in his head… It just didn’t happen. I think he was still angry with me...”

“Gods rest his soul, I loved my brother, but he was a bloody idiot sometimes,” Ginny said, shaking her head. “Running off to shag girls he didn’t even love, just because you and Harry shared a few depressing moments together? It was war. Shit was dark and scary. Honestly, if I hadn’t been stuck with my parents the whole time after they made me leave school, before you lot came back from your prolonged camping trip, I might’ve tried shagging someone else, too. Maybe even Neville, he’s not bad looking these days.”

“Hey, I’m right here,” Harry reminded her.

“Yes, darling,” Ginny replied sweetly, “and I so love only ever having had your cock, but do be realistic.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, and Harry sighed, rolling his eyes.

Hermione laughed, then sobered. “Anyway… I can’t pretend I’m not nervous about our wedding night. But I trust him. And you’re right—it’ll be fine. Honestly, I should be more anxious about tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner. I convinced Pansy to keep it small—just the wedding party plus Bill —but I’m still worried. Can you imagine Slytherins sharing a meal with our lot back at school?”

“They’re a cliquey bunch, that’s for sure,” Ginny said. “And Pansy’s still quite the bitch, based on the little time I’ve spent around her during the dress fitting at hers.”

“She’s not so bad once you get to know her,” Hermione said, defending her with a shrug. “I think her attitude’s just a defense mechanism—she’s grown up with people constantly trying to gain the upper hand.”

Ginny threw her a scowl. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to like her. I refuse to be replaced by Pansy bloody Parkinson.”

“Relax. You and Harry are still my best friends. That hasn’t changed. I just… understand her a bit more now,” Hermione explained, then changed the subject. “Ginny, are you sure your dad’s okay with giving me away?”

“He loves you. Of course he is. He’s not thrilled about your choice of groom—same as me—”

“I know, Ginny. You hate his guts. You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Hermione said dryly.

“There’s still time, you know,” Ginny teased. “You could sell that ring and move to Aruba. Get yourself a little villa on the beach. Harry could set up a portkey—we’d visit every weekend. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

Hermione protectively cupped the ring with her other hand and clutched it to her chest. “Even if I broke off the engagement, I’m keeping the ring. Draco said it’s mine no matter what.”

“Alright, Gollum.” Ginny snorted. “Merlin’s beard, Hermione, I think you’re too attached to that thing.”

“I should never have let you read that muggle book,” Hermione muttered, but then smiled. “Can you blame me, though? Look at it.”

She slid the ring off and handed it to Ginny, who slipped it on and admired it with wide eyes. Harry glanced at her hand and smiled, clearly imagining Ginny and him being engaged.

“Okay,” Ginny admitted, “you’re right. It’s stunning. But you really wouldn’t rather have the couple hundred thousand galleons instead?”

Hermione tilted her head. “What would I even do with the money? I live here for free. Harry pays for everything, pretty much. Before Draco, I was planning to get a job next year just to cover my hair products and a few new books.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Alright, sister-wife. You’ve been entirely too spoiled since the war. I can hardly recognize you.”

Hermione grinned. “I think of it as payback for all the times I saved Harry’s arse.”

Harry held up his hands. “Fair enough.”

***

It was the night of the rehearsal dinner, and Hermione was staring at herself in the mirror of her future bedroom, just across the hall from Draco’s. Pansy had asked her to come to the manor early to help her get ready, because apparently Hermione couldn’t be trusted to perfect her appearance on her own. She was wearing something that Pansy had picked out for her without asking: an off-the-shoulder white dress that hugged her curves and fell just below the knee. The white strappy heels she wore, although very pretty, were incredibly uncomfortable.

Pansy had allowed her to do her own hair for the night, after Hermione agreed that if Pansy didn’t like it, she would allow her to redo it. Over the years, Hermione had learned how to tame and define her curls through trial and error with different products and a bit of magic. Her hair was quite long now, coming down to her chest—and even longer when straightened.

When she was finished, Pansy eyed her critically for a few moments before rolling her eyes and muttering, “It’ll do.”

Her reluctant friend (?) moved on to doing her makeup, using a bit of magic in the process. Hermione tried to pay attention so she could replicate the steps in the future. She couldn’t expect Pansy to show up for every event she had coming up, after all.

When she was done, Hermione could hardly recognize herself and found herself staring at the elegant woman in the reflection. Pansy came up behind her and added a simple necklace with a pearl pendant, a pearl bracelet, and earrings to complete the ensemble.

“There,” she said. “You almost look like a proper lady now. Draco will cream in his trousers when he gets one look at you.”

Hermione sighed. “Must you make everything sexual, Pans?”

Pansy shrugged, utterly unrepentant.

“These shoes are going to end me by the time dinner’s finished. The walk to the dining room alone is going to be brutal,” Hermione complained.

“Have you never performed a cushioning charm before?” Pansy asked her as if she were mentally deficient.

“Oh… That’s a good idea. I’ve never worn heels this uncomfortable before, so it hadn’t come to mind.”

She moved to fetch her wand, but Pansy waved her off and did it for her. Her feet instantly felt better, like she was walking on cushy clouds.

“Thanks.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. She seemed to hate being thanked. Hermione wondered why, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

“Um… Pansy?” Hermione asked hesitantly. “Out of curiosity, why do I have a different room than Draco?”

“It’s how it’s always done,” Pansy answered smoothly. “The lord and the lady always have separate rooms. Narcissa had one too—but hers was connected to Lucius’s through a sitting room, instead of being across the hall. A lot of society marriages are arranged, and if you didn’t like your intended, you likely only shagged him when it was time to procreate. And it gives the lord the privacy to have a mistress. Of course,” she added, “Malfoy men don’t stray, so that’s hardly ever been a thing in this manor.”

“Has that always been a value of this family?” Hermione asked, brow furrowed. “I can’t imagine it’s common among the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

“It’s less about love and more about keeping the line pureblood. Malfoys don’t have bastards. But…” Pansy paused briefly, and her voice softened just a touch. “I will say—as far as true love goes—Lucius did seem to love Narcissa very much.”

It was the most seriously intended comment Hermione had ever heard from Pansy, so she took it at face value.

“It must have been devastating for him when she died,” Hermione said softly, a note of sympathy in her voice. She hadn’t given Lucius’s grief much thought before, but now she found herself imagining how lonely he must feel without Narcissa.

“I’m sure he’s paid for some form of entertainment to distract him from his grief over the years,” Pansy replied breezily. “Malfoy men are passionate—I doubt he’s stayed celibate all this time.”

“Well, that’s his business. Doesn’t make the loss any less great,” Hermione replied, instinctively defending her future father-in-law.

It was still… weird, thinking of Lucius as family now. She certainly didn’t view him as any sort of father figure. In fact, he’d kept himself scarce during the entire month leading up to the wedding. She’d only seen him once or twice in passing—each time greeted with polite detachment before he excused himself. She figured Draco must’ve told him to keep his distance, but it made it harder to grow more comfortable around him if he was never around in the first place.

“I suppose,” Pansy said with a shrug. “Anyway—ready to head down? It’s almost time.”

Hermione took one last look around her room, admiring the pale blue walls trimmed with gold and the tall marble columns flanking the space. The canopied bed stood crisply made, its heavy brocade drapes pulled back to reveal tufted upholstery. A cluster of pink velvet chairs surrounded a low table near the fireplace, and a vanity in the corner held a fresh bouquet of flowers. A grand chandelier cast a soft, steady glow over the polished wood and large mirrors. Everything was beautiful—intentional in its elegance, with just enough softness to feel like a lady’s room.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Let’s go.”

Pansy paused to give herself one last once-over in the mirror, touching up her lipstick and smoothing her sleek black dress. The plunging neckline made a statement, and somehow, her stilettos were even taller than Hermione’s, but she walked in them with effortless grace.

Just as they stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind them, Draco emerged from his room across the hall. He was dressed in a sharp, dark blue suit that fit him like a dream, and the way he looked at Hermione made her heart skip.

He smirked, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe. Pansy elbowed her knowingly, and Hermione did her best to ignore her.

Draco stepped closer, leaned in, and brushed a kiss to her cheek. His voice was a low whisper in her ear. “You look beautiful, darling.”

She blushed, a soft smile tugging at her lips despite herself. 

Then he turned to Pansy, giving her a once-over and raising a brow.

“For Merlin’s sake, Pans, did you have to look like a streetwalker tonight?”

“I’m wearing a gods-damned pink frilly dress tomorrow,” she shot back, nose in the air. “I get to look how I want tonight.” She huffed and strutted off down the corridor, heels clicking confidently.

Draco offered Hermione his arm, and she took it as they followed behind.

“I think she looks really nice, actually,” Hermione said, giving him a sideways glance. “You could’ve kept that comment to yourself.”

Draco smirked. “Remind me to tease you later for defending her.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

They made it downstairs to the dining room, and Hermione was in awe at how beautiful and intimate it all looked. The long, polished mahogany table was dressed in pristine white linen, delicate bone china edged in gold, and crystal goblets that sparkled under the warm glow of the enchanted chandelier overhead. Tall taper candles floated midair above the table, flickering gently, while soft, magical music played faintly in the background.

A lush floral arrangement of white roses and deep green foliage ran down the center of the table, artfully woven around the floating candles. Name cards, written in elegant calligraphy, marked each seat. The seating was just as she and Pansy had planned—balanced and thoughtful, with couples seated together and friends interspersed evenly. Draco sat at the head of the table, with Hermione beside him.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“Pansy outdid herself,” Draco murmured back, brushing his hand lightly against the small of her back.

She looked up at him and smiled when he leaned down to kiss her temple.

Theo sauntered in first, looking as handsome and self-assured as ever. He strode over with a dramatic flourish and held out his arms.

“You look positively radiant, darling. That dress is sensational.”

Hermione grinned and stepped into his arms for a warm hug. Theo always gave the best hugs—he was generous with his affection, and it was clear he adored her, maybe even favored her among his friends. Pansy always wriggled out of his grasp, and he was far more cautious around Blaise. She’d seen him hug and kiss Draco on the cheek, affection Draco tolerated but rarely returned, often with an eye roll. No, Hermione was the only one who indulged Theo fully, because he deserved it. He was kind and pure with her—no games, no Slytherin bullshit.

She was well aware that Draco wasn’t thrilled about anyone else touching her, even his best friend, but she chose to ignore his frown. Theo was dear to her, and she wouldn’t hurt him by pulling away.

When she returned to Draco’s side, he immediately slipped a possessive arm around her waist and pressed a pointed kiss to her temple. Theo rolled his eyes and went to find a drink and chat with Pansy.

“Honestly, Draco. You need to relax,” she muttered under her breath.

“If he were anyone else, I’d hex him for being so familiar with you. You’re mine ,” he responded in a low voice, firm but not angry.

She sighed. His possessiveness would always be the least appealing part of him. Still, she knew Draco would ultimately yield to her, desperate not to lose her. So she let it go.

Guests began to arrive shortly after. Blaise came first, greeting Draco with one of those manly back-pat hugs and offering Hermione a polite kiss on the cheek. Then Harry and Ginny arrived. Hermione hugged them both warmly, and Draco, wisely, offered a polite nod. Harry surprised them both by extending a hand and giving Draco a firm handshake and a brief pat on the back. It was a kind gesture, and she appreciated it—especially given that, despite their alliance during the war, they hadn’t interacted much since.

Draco was a bit stiff in response, but took the handshake. She made a mental note to ask him about it later.

Fleur arrived next, radiant as always, with Bill by her side. Then Luna came in with Neville. Hermione greeted everyone warmly, hugging her friends and thanking them for coming.

They found their seats as planned. Draco at the head, with Hermione beside him. Theo sat to her left, Harry directly across from her, Ginny next to Harry, and Luna next to her. Further down, Bill and Fleur were on one side, and Blaise, Pansy, and Neville on the other. Apparently, Draco had intentionally seated Neville next to Pansy, hoping something might spark between them. Hermione had her doubts, but she let it be.

Once everyone had a glass of champagne and conversation began to flow, Draco stood and raised his glass. Hermione felt a flutter of nerves. So far, everything had gone smoothly—but it was still early…

“I want to thank all of you for joining me and my beautiful bride tonight,” Draco began. “I know not all of you know me well, and I intend to change that. You’re here because you’re dear to either Hermione or to me, and I take bonds of friendship seriously. So if the future Mrs. Malfoy thinks highly of you, I will do my best to make you think of me as better than some oversized ferret.”

He looked pointedly at Ginny, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

Ginny smirked. “We’ll see.”

Laughter rippled down the table.

Draco turned back to the group, his voice softening.

“We’re all here tonight because Hermione took a chance on me and said yes. In these past few weeks, I’ve been reminded—not that I ever forgot—that she’s brilliant, clever, and sharper than a goblin’s blade. But more than that, she’s kind and incredibly generous. She’s chosen to see past the worst in me and somehow managed to bring out the best.”

He paused, emotion flickering just beneath the surface.

“I want all of you who love her to know that I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy and keep her safe. To never allow an ounce of discomfort in her life. She has had to be strong for so many years, and I want her to know nothing but softness when it comes to her life with me. That is my promise to all of you.”

She gazed at him, heart beating in her chest, feeling truly touched by his words. Tears threatening to spill. No one had ever said such beautiful words like that about her, especially in front of her loved ones like this. She was about damn ready to swoon. 

He raised his glass a little higher, looking directly at her. “To the future Lady Malfoy—may she only know happiness from this day forward.”

She couldn’t help the tear that slipped down her face, as she smiled at him and took in the perfect moment.

“Here, here,” Theo chimed in.

“To the future Lady Malfoy,” Harry added with a grin.

“To the future Lady Malfoy,” everyone echoed with cheers, raising their glasses in unison before taking a drink.

After Draco sat back down, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly.

“That was lovely, Draco,” she beamed at him.

He smiled and brought her hand to his lips, placing a reverent, lingering kiss to her knuckles. Their gazes locked. If they’d been alone, she would’ve thanked him quite differently—but that would have to wait.

Soon, the first course appeared on the table, and everyone eagerly dug in. The food was delicious, and conversation flowed easily. Theo, ever the charming storyteller, regaled the group with tales from his and Draco’s school days—how they once stole the Sorting Hat on a dare and spent the evening chatting with it in the Slytherin common room.

“He has a rather filthy mouth when he’s not sorting children,” Theo said with a grin. “Told us that Harry should’ve been placed in Slytherin, but there was enough Gryffindor in him to honor his request. We had a good laugh about it.”

“Please,” Ginny interjected, “Harry wouldn’t have lasted a day in Slytherin. He’d have spent all his time lecturing you lot about being a bunch of slimy, backstabbing bastards.”

“I don’t know, Gin. I think I could’ve survived for a bit. I can be cunning and determined,” Harry chimed in.

“Yet you have no sense of self-preservation,” Pansy added smoothly. “That’s basically the cornerstone of our House, right, Draco?”

“She’s not wrong, Potter. Your kind can’t resist flinging yourselves into mortal peril even when there’s no chance of success,” Draco agreed, smirking.

“Well, it’s worked out for me so far. Then again, I am the Chosen One,” Harry shot back, just as smug.

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re alive because my bride is a bloody genius and pulled you out of every dire mess you ever got into.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that—it’s true,” Harry chuckled, tearing into a roll.

“If I may,” Hermione said with a smile, “Harry did need my help at times, but he also happens to be the bravest person I’ve ever known. He’s a brilliant duelist and far more resourceful than people give him credit for.”

“Yes,” Luna said serenely, nodding. “And he has a very noble aura. It flickers sometimes when he’s anxious, but it always steadies when someone he loves is in danger. He is a true lion.”

“Good thing he had Hermione to back up his aura with actual knowledge and spells, otherwise he wouldn’t have survived first year,” Ginny added, tossing him a fond look.

Harry gave her a mock scowl, then leaned in to kiss her forehead.

“My girlfriend is my fiercest advocate,” he said wryly.

“Yes, darling. Fierce for the truth as well,” she replied, kissing his cheek.

The conversation flowed smoothly from there, full of laughter and teasing. To Hermione’s quiet relief, everyone seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves. Whenever she glanced at Draco, she found him already watching her, his expression soft and transfixed. She smiled softly back at him and squeezed his hand beneath the table. His eyes looked like mercury in the low light—hypnotic and endlessly deep. She could stare at them for hours…

After dinner, Draco rose and gestured for everyone to follow him to the conservatory, explaining there were flowers that only bloomed at night. He offered Hermione his arm, as always, and led the way. She noticed Theo offer Luna his arm and Neville—surprisingly—offering his to Pansy, who looked mildly amused but took it nonetheless.

The conservatory was glowing with soft, floating orbs that illuminated the space just enough to preserve its dreamy ambiance. The glass ceiling revealed a clear night sky, stars twinkling above them. Draco pointed out a few exotic plants now in bloom. Everyone was impressed—but no one more than Neville, who observed each flower like it was a rare gem. Pansy raised a brow at first, but eventually indulged him, letting him explain the most interesting specimens.

 Maybe Draco had been right about them after all.

The space was large enough to allow for some privacy, and once guests began to wander, Draco gently pulled Hermione into a quiet corner. His arms wrapped around her waist as he looked down at her with a pleased smirk.

“How am I doing?”

She arched a brow, smiling back. “Hmm… I’d give you an O for Outstanding.”

He grinned, then leaned in to kiss her. It wasn’t heated, but it easily could have gone in that direction. Even surrounded by others, it was easy to forget the world when she was this close to him. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, holding her close. She sighed and melted into him, content in his arms.

“I can hardly wait until we’re married,” he murmured into her hair. “I want you all to myself.”

She chuckled into his chest, he truly did remind her of a dragon hoarding his gold.

“You already have me, Draco. But you’ll need to share me a little. I have friends who still want me around, you know.”

He sighed dramatically. “An unfortunate side effect of loving you—all the people in your world who love you almost as much.”

She gasped softly at the word. He hadn’t said it before—that he loved her. But she felt it, deep in her bones, in every way he looked at her, touched her, fought to be worthy of her. He had told her once that he had wanted her for years now. But now she knew his feelings had grown into something much more profound.

She looked up at him, heart fluttering. She wasn’t ready to say it back. Not yet. Not fully. He deserved more than a half-truth. He deserved her whole heart, freely given. And he would have it—soon.

Reaching up, she cupped his cheek tenderly. He leaned into her touch as if it were instinct.

“You’re in my heart, Draco,” she whispered. “Just give me a little more time to fill it entirely with you.”

He nodded against her palm, eyes fluttering shut as he breathed her in. He looked utterly at peace with her answer, and she exhaled a soft sigh of relief.

After a few moments wrapped in each other’s arms, a pointed throat-clear interrupted them.

Hermione turned to see Harry standing behind them, Ginny hovering a few steps back.

“I wonder if I might steal your fiancé for a quick word,” Harry said smoothly. “Ginny spotted a lovely cluster of orchids she’s dying to show you.”

Hermione glanced back at Draco, noting the subtle furrow of suspicion in his brow. She gave a small shrug, then leaned in to whisper, “Play nice.”

He rolled his eyes but pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before letting her go.

She joined Ginny, who promptly looped their arms together and whisked her away.

“Why does Harry want to talk to Draco?” Hermione asked under her breath.

“He just said he wanted to have a quick word, maybe try to make nice since they’re practically going to be related,” Ginny replied with casual indifference.

Hermione frowned. She didn’t love the idea of them talking without her present. Draco had been cool and composed around her, but who knew how he’d be when left alone with Harry? Still, she tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.

They joined the others, and someone handed her another glass of champagne. She took a few sips before setting it down, already feeling the effects—two glasses at dinner had been enough. She usually didn’t drink to excess.

The enchanted plants still seemed to be the center of attention amongst her guests, some glowing or changing color when touched. She spotted Pansy perched on a bench beside Neville, gazing at him like a girl besotted. He had his arm slung casually along the back of the bench behind her, the two of them clearly wrapped up in their own private moment.

Ginny had turned her attention to Bill and Fleur, chatting through the logistics of the next day’s bridesmaid duties. Hermione tuned out slightly, not wanting to spiral into stress about tomorrow’s events.

Theo eventually caught her eye and strolled over, offering his arm now that Luna had wandered off with Blaise. Grateful for the distraction, Hermione took it.

“Is tonight everything you dreamed, darling?” Theo asked as they began to stroll through the conservatory.

“It was lovely. I owe Pansy so much.”

“I’m glad to know you enjoyed yourself, my sweet. Honestly, I expected your friends to be a bore, but they’re rather delightful. Especially that Luna—she’s strange, but genuine. I like her.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Theo, you’re not allowed to shag my friends.”

“I don’t want to shag everyone I like, darling. I’m not as depraved as Pansy or Draco would have you believe,” he said loftily—then smirked. “Although, if she offered, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Theo!” She elbowed him in the ribs.

“Why does Pansy get a pass to seduce Neville, then? I’d wager she’ll have him in her bed by tomorrow night.”

“That’s different. She actually wants a relationship. You just want another notch on the bedpost.”

“Perhaps I’ve changed,” he said airily. “Watching you and Draco so deeply in love—it’s rather inspiring.”

Hermione blushed and didn’t correct him. “If you’ve really changed, then you won’t jump into bed the first chance you get. You’ll take your time. Like Draco has with me.”

Theo stopped walking and gave her a look. “You really believe Draco wouldn’t have shagged you on day one if you’d let him? My sweet Gryffindor…how I adore your innocence.” He reached down and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

Her blush deepened. “He’s a gentleman with me. Maybe not with anyone else, but he is with me.”

Theo smirked but didn’t argue, continuing their leisurely stroll.

“Are you nervous about the wedding night?” he asked.

“A little,” she admitted with a shrug.

“He knows what he’s doing, don’t worry. We figured out a charm back in fourth year that helps with the, ah…discomfort girls tend to experience the first time. Works wonders.”

Interesting…

“Oh… well, I guess that’s helpful.” She hesitated. “Theo, can I ask you something?”

“Anything, darling.”

“You don’t think Draco will be… disappointed that I’m not experienced? I obviously don’t compare to Pansy or anyone else he’s been with.”

Theo halted again, turning to face her with uncharacteristic seriousness.

“Hermione, Draco’s never been in love with anyone but you. It’s not about experience, or knowing how to take a cock like a seasoned courtesan—it’s about connection. He’s never had anything truly intimate before. But with you? He lets himself be vulnerable, and that means everything. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he blows his load after the first few thrusts. Poor bastard’s been pining for you for years.”

Hermione flushed hot at the mental image, a tingle shooting down her spine.

She sighed. “Okay…Thanks, Theo. I should always talk to you about this kind of thing. Pansy scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

“Don’t tell her this,” Theo said in a whisper, “but she scares the shit out of me too. I used to think she’d decapitate me like a praying mantis after we shagged.”

They both burst into laughter and wandered back to rejoin the others.

Chapter Text

There were three things Hermione was certain of—Draco Malfoy loved her, this wedding had cost more galleons than she ever wanted to know the full cost of, and Pansy was exactly two minutes away from losing it with her.

They’d been arguing for fifteen minutes over her hair. Pansy had insisted on an up-do. Hermione wanted to wear it down—natural curls, maybe half-up, half-down. In the end, they “compromised” on leaving it down, with Pansy straightening it first and then adding polished waves. It wasn’t really a compromise, but Hermione knew when to pick her battles, and she was losing this one.

At least her hair wouldn’t be flat.

Pansy wielded her wand like a weapon, perfecting Hermione’s hair and makeup with ruthless precision. She was a force of nature when it came to glam. Hermione half wished she cared more about that sort of thing. She admired girls like Pansy and Daphne, who took such care with their appearance. But she’d always put her energy into other things—spellwork, theory, Arithmancy, things that she could actually master. 

Still, she wanted to look beautiful today for Draco. He deserved a pretty bride.

Her bridesmaids were gathered in her room at the manor, all wearing matching pale blush silk robes—except hers, which was white. Ginny was insisting she eat something while Pansy worked her magic.

“Maybe feed her some champagne, too. She’s practically vibrating,” Pansy muttered as Ginny popped a strawberry between Hermione’s lips.

Hermione gave her a pointed look, which was summarily ignored.

“Not the worst idea,” Ginny agreed. “I could go for some bubbly myself.”

She crossed the room and popped the cork on the bottle of Dom Pérignon that Mippy had chilled for them, then poured everyone a glass.

“Should we toast?” Fleur asked with a smile.

“You’re the maid of honor, Ginny,” Hermione said, as Pansy applied lip liner. “Go on.”

Ginny grinned. “I’ll be giving a toast tonight, too, but I never run out of nice things to say about my best girl. To Hermione—may her marriage be long, and her ferret always flush with galleons!”

The group laughed and clinked glasses.

“To Hermione!”

Luna stepped closer, tilting her head as she examined Hermione thoughtfully.

“You look very elegant,” she said dreamily. “Though I do miss your hair when it was a bit wilder. There was something very unique about it then—it reminded me of a lion’s mane. Fierce and untamed.”

Pansy froze mid-powder application and stared at Luna like she was absolutely mental.

Hermione smiled despite the fact that she very much did not enjoy the way her hair would frizz up like that when she was younger. “Thanks, Luna. But I think Pansy would Avada me herself if I walked down the aisle looking ‘untamed.’”

“I promised Draco I’d be civil, so I’m going to keep my opinions to myself,” Pansy said, through clenched teeth, returning to her makeup application.

“You don’t have to censor yourself around me,” Luna replied, taking a sip of champagne. “I find honesty refreshing. Most people spend so much time dressing up their thoughts to be palatable, it gets exhausting trying to figure out what they really mean.”

“Well, at least we can agree on that, Lovegood,” Pansy remarked. “Okay, I’m done. You’re ready for your dress.”

Hermione caught her reflection in the mirror. Elegant waves, flawless makeup, silk robe cinched at the waist. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her—polished, radiant, like someone out of a bridal magazine. Her lashes were longer than she was used to, her features softly sculpted and glowing.

Makeup really was transformative…

“Pansy, are you sure Draco’s going to recognize me?”

“He’ll take one look at your bum and know exactly who you are. Now come on—let’s get you in your dress.”

Pansy crossed the room to unzip the garment bag, and Fleur stepped in to help her lift the dress with practiced grace.

Hermione stood, slipping off her robe—and immediately, the room fell into a stunned hush, all four women raising their brows in unison.

“‘Mione, you look incredible ! Did you pick out this whole sex kitten setup?” Ginny asked, eyes wide as she turned to Pansy.

“Of course I did,” Pansy said smugly, giving Hermione a once-over. “Just a little inspiration to help her properly seal the deal tonight.”

She threw Hermione a wink, making her blush.

Beneath the robe, Hermione wore a delicate lace-detailed bustier with garter straps clipped to sheer thigh-high stockings. Pansy had pushed hard for a thong, but Hermione had drawn the line there—they’d settled on cheeky lace panties as a compromise.

She doubted she needed to look this…sexy, in order to consummate her marriage, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt. 

“I feel like I’m starring in someone’s very elaborate fantasy,” Hermione muttered.

“You are,” Pansy said breezily. “Draco’s.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. The nerves in her belly twisted tighter, though whether it was from excitement or anxiety, she couldn’t quite tell.

“Alright, alright,” she said, waving them on. “Let’s get me dressed before I chicken out and elope.”

“No one’s letting you out of this wedding,” Pansy warned. “I’ve invested way too much time making this day perfect.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Ginny teased. “I can have you on the other side of the planet in no time.”

Pansy shot her a look sharp enough to cut glass. Ginny just raised her glass with a smirk.

“I would never do that to you, Pans,” Hermione said quickly. “Forget Draco—even he’d get over it eventually. But you? You’d never speak to me again, and I really don’t want to be on your bad side.”

That seemed to placate Pansy, who simply sniffed and moved on.

Fleur and Pansy carefully helped her step into the gown, lifting the skirt to avoid snagging the delicate lace of her lingerie. The bodice settled around her like a second skin, hugging her curves and cinching her waist just so. Pansy fastened the tiny pearl buttons with practiced precision while Fleur expertly tied the oversized bow in the back and smoothed the train. Ginny helped her put on her shoes.

“Okay… turn around,” Ginny said, her voice suddenly breathless.

Hermione did.

“Oh, wow,” Luna murmured, gaze soft and dreamy. “You look like a fairy queen.”

“You look absolutely amazing,” Ginny agreed, eyes misty.

“A princess,” Fleur added with a glowing smile.

Even Pansy, who rarely handed out compliments unprovoked, stepped back and nodded, clearly pleased. “You look perfect. Totally worth the battle to get you in line.”

Hermione turned back to the mirror, her breath catching in her throat.

The gown was… stunning. The ivory silk had a subtle sheen, draping over her body in a way that was both regal and romantic. It enhanced her figure without being flashy, elegant without being fussy. She looked older, poised. Hermione opted not to wear a veil, thinking it would be more comfortable to go without. Still, she looked very much like a bride.

Ginny stepped up beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. “You ready?”

Hermione met her eyes in the mirror. Her voice was quiet, but sure.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I really am.”

***

Draco stood in Theo’s room, nursing a glass of whiskey as his groomsmen finished getting ready around him. Pansy had instructed them to gather here—this wing of the manor was far from the bridal suite, minimizing the risk of him accidentally running into Hermione before the ceremony.

He was trying—unsuccessfully—to calm his nerves.

It wasn’t cold feet, not even close. He was wildly eager to see Hermione in her wedding gown, to speak the vows that would bind her to him in name and magic. But this would also be their first time appearing as husband and wife before the larger wizarding world. Outside their inner circle, no one had truly seen them as a couple yet.

And thanks to Pansy’s relentless efforts, everyone would be watching.

She’d invited nearly every member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight who wasn’t rotting in Azkaban and still held decent social standing. The Minister and several heads of department had RSVP’d. Professors. Order members. Classmates. Former rivals. The guest list was borderline absurd, but nearly everyone accepted the invitation.

Draco suspected that at least some of them didn’t support the union at all and were just showing up out of morbid curiosity—wondering whether the Golden Girl would really go through with marrying him. That, or they just wanted the free food and spectacle. And given that Pansy had been given full financial reign, it was a spectacle.

He hadn’t blinked at the cost, and neither had his father. Lucius had been entirely on board with making the wedding a public reclamation of their power and status after the war. And Draco? He didn’t care about the optics. He just wanted one thing known by the end of the day:

Hermione was his wife. And under his protection.

He glanced at the antique clock on Theo’s fireplace mantle—nearly time to head to the ceremony.

Across the room, Potter was chatting with Blaise and Longbottom, all of them in remarkably good spirits. Draco watched for a moment, still not quite used to the sight. Their conversation yesterday had gone surprisingly well—better than he could have imagined.

Potter hadn’t just welcomed him into his family—he’d gone a step further and offered something unexpected, the truth. He’d given Draco permission to enter his mind using Legilimency, to clear up any lingering doubts or grudges about what had happened between him and Hermione during the war. Apparently, he was hell-bent on avoiding another Weasley-style fallout.

Naturally, Draco took him up on it. He wasn’t an idiot.

What he found surprised him—there was love for Hermione, yes, but it was all infuriatingly noble. Platonic. Loyal. Deeply affectionate in the way one might feel about a sister or a comrade who’d dragged you through fire and back. And underlying all of it was a steady pulse of devotion—for Ginny, not Hermione. That girl, he loved just a touch more, in the way that mattered.

And as much as it pained Draco to admit it, Potter turned out to be… well, decent. Honest. Loyal. The kind of Gryffindor who actually earned the hype.

He’d left the man’s mind feeling begrudgingly impressed. And for the first time, he didn’t entirely hate the idea that they might, eventually, become friends.

Sort of. Maybe.

Theo came up behind him, pulling Draco from his thoughts with a warm hand on his shoulder and a quiet voice in his ear.

“Do you feel ready?”

Draco gave a small nod and knocked back the last of his whiskey before turning to face him.

Without needing to ask, Theo stepped in to tie Draco’s bow tie and adjust his suit jacket, hands smoothing the fabric with practiced ease. Then he rested both palms on Draco’s shoulders, steadying him.

“I’m proud of you, Drake. You turned out alright, despite… well, everything. And you bagged the loveliest girl I’ve ever known. I know your mum would be proud. Maybe she’s even watching.”

Draco nodded, jaw tightening. He didn’t often let himself linger on how much he missed his mother—it was too heavy. But today, he hoped she could see him. And he hoped Hermione was managing the absence of her own parents, too.

Theo pulled him into a hug, and for a moment, Draco let himself lean in. They’d stayed up late the night before with Blaise, drinking and reminiscing, talking about the past and the strange future ahead. There had been no wild bachelor party—Theo hadn’t even bothered suggesting anything involving scantily clad women. Draco had no interest in looking at anyone but Hermione. She, in turn, had spent one last quiet evening at Grimmauld Place, wanting nothing more than sleep and stillness.

When Theo finally stepped back, he grinned.

“You look good. The most handsome snake I ever did see.”

Draco smirked and straightened Theo’s bow tie next. “You’re a good friend, Theo. I hope you fall in love one day—with someone else, mind you—and I get to be your best man at your wedding.”

“Here’s bloody hoping,” Theo said with a wink. “Though, just for the record, I moved on from you ages ago, darling.”

Draco gave him a dry, skeptical look, then clasped his shoulder. “You know that, aside from my dear Hermione, you’re still the most important person in my life, right?”

“Likewise,” Theo replied smoothly. “You’re second in mine. Right after her.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Naturally.”

A knock at the door stole their attention just before Lucius stepped inside, already dressed to perfection, although he was surprised to see that his father had opted not to wear dress robes, instead getting with the times and wearing a tux like the rest of them. 

“Gentlemen, it’s time,” he announced.

“Let’s get you married,” Theo said, slinging an arm around Draco’s shoulders and guiding him toward the door.

They all shuffled out of Theo’s room together, but Lucius held up a hand.

“Might I have a word with my son?” he asked pointedly, eyes flicking to Theo.

“Of course,” Theo replied, releasing Draco. “We’ll walk ahead, lads.”

Once the others were a few steps down the hall, Lucius approached and placed a hand on Draco’s arm.

“I wanted to check in with you, son. See how you’re holding up. I know it must be… difficult, not having Narcissa here to see you marry.”

Draco shook his head, clearly uninterested in a heartfelt moment with his father.

Their relationship had remained strained ever since the war. Draco held Lucius mostly responsible for his mother’s death, for dragging the family into Voldemort’s orbit in the first place. He didn’t exactly hate his father, and he didn’t wish him harm either, but being around him was… complicated. Painful, even at times. Lucius had become quieter since the war, more remorseful, always careful not to press too hard. These days, their conversations rarely strayed from work or the occasional inquiry after Hermione. The manor was big enough, however, that they could avoid each other most of the time, and Draco preferred it that way.

“I’m fine, Father,” Draco said evenly. “But thank you for your concern.”

Lucius sighed and let go of his arm. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I love you, son. I’m proud of the man you have become, and I wish you nothing but happiness in your marriage. I hope, in time, we can repair what’s been broken between us. That is all I want.”

Draco crossed his arms. “And I imagine a few heirs to carry on the name wouldn’t hurt either?”

Lucius frowned. “I want you to have children because it is the purest kind of love there is. You love your wife for her beauty and brilliance, for her courage. But your children? You will love them no matter who they are or what they become—none of the matters at the end of the day. A father’s love is unconditional, at least mine is.”

Draco scoffed in disbelief. 

“Funny,” Draco said coolly. “I hardly ever saw this version of a father growing up. I was always one misstep away from one of your signature looks of disappointment.”

Lucius gave him a pained look.

“Yes, I failed you as a father,” he admitted quietly. “It’s one of my greatest regrets—second only to the larger mistakes we both know too well...I thought I was preparing you to succeed in our world… but I see now I went about it all wrong. I can’t change the past, but I hope you’ll allow me to be part of your future, my dear son.”

Draco considered his father’s words, half annoyed that now—on his wedding day—was when Lucius had chosen to get emotional. He could tell he was being sincere, but the pain and resentment Draco still carried couldn’t just be put down, not yet. Still… he could secretly appreciate the effort, and he knew his mother would have wanted him to take the olive branch.

He still hadn’t spoken to her portrait in his parents' sitting room yet. His father did, daily, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to face that painted echo of her. It wasn’t really her. Not truly. And whatever comfort Lucius found in it, Draco wasn’t ready for that.

He’d had his own portrait made just before his twenty-first birthday. He kept it hidden in his closet and spoke to it more than he cared to admit. It was… cathartic. The portrait had mentioned, more than once, that his mother would like a word. Draco had told him to piss off each time. The painted version of himself would roll his eyes and drop it.

He turned back to his father. “Tell me something honestly, Father. What do you really think of Hermione? Do you still call her a Mudblood in your head? I’ve never bothered to ask because I truly don’t give a toss what your opinions are—as long as you keep them to yourself. But since we’re having this little heart-to-heart, I’d like to know how much distance I’ll need to put between you and my wife moving forward.”

Lucius straightened, his expression shifting from guilt to something more measured, composed, and calculating.

“I’ve already said that I approve of this marriage.”

“Oh, yes. The politician’s line. All in favor for optics and alliances. But what do you actually think?”

Lucius studied him for a long moment before folding his hands behind his back. “Yes, it’s a politically advantageous match. I won’t deny that. And… yes, part of me mourns that our line will no longer be pure—”

“There it is,” Draco said sharply. “Knew I’d get the truth eventually.”

Lucius held up a hand. “Let me finish. Despite that, I think she’s extraordinary. If you were ever going to marry outside the pureblood circle, she would be the only acceptable choice. And I intend to make sure she knows how highly I think of her… in time. Understand, Draco—I’m a relic of a world that’s ending. But I am trying not to stay trapped in it.”

There was a beat of silence between them, heavy but not hostile.

Lucius smoothed his cuffs. “Now, shall we go? I’ve no intention of making Miss Parkinson cross. You know how she gets.”

Draco nodded, taking in his father’s response as they walked forward to rejoin the others. A part of him pitied Lucius—the way he’d been indoctrinated as a child, seduced by rhetoric about blood purity and reclaiming power from Muggles. It was easy to trace the path that led him to the Dark Lord’s side, misguided as it had been. But Draco knew his father had never been truly cruel.

Lucius had no appetite for violence or torture. He’d grown up with soft hands and sharp robes, skilled in spellwork but untouched by war. He craved influence and prestige, not violence. He liked to be respected, and yes, he did enjoy being feared to some degree—just not like Voldemort, who had terrorized his way into power.

Still, Draco’s pity only stretched so far. His father’s cowardice and choices had left scars, especially on his mother, even before she died. Some wounds, no matter how much time passed, didn’t heal cleanly.

But today was about new beginnings.

Today, he would marry the love of his life.

And he couldn’t bloody wait.

***

She stood nervously beside Arthur, her arm hooked through his, her fingers clenching the bouquet just a bit too tightly. The nerves were unbearable—fluttering in her chest, pressing against her lungs, threatening to rise in a wave of nausea. She’d never liked being the center of attention, and in a matter of seconds, every eye would be on her.

She swallowed hard.

You can do this. It’s just walking. Down an aisle. In front of everyone you’ve ever met, and a ton of people you haven’t. In a gown you can barely breathe in.

Her stomach flipped.

Merlin, help me.

And yet—despite it all—the only thing that kept her from bolting was the image of Draco at the end of the aisle. Calm. Steady. Waiting for her like he always did. That thought alone was enough to steady her breath, if only just.

Pansy—and her carefully selected team of stylists and planners—had outdone themselves. The courtyard had been transformed into a dreamscape. Blossoms in every shade of cream, blush, and violet tumbled from trellises, while wild wisteria curled along floating strands of fairy lights that bobbed gently in the breeze. Hermione could feel the magic in the air—subtle, soft, but undeniably present. The entire space shimmered with a quiet kind of enchantment.

The aisle ahead of her was blanketed in charmed petals, leading to a breathtaking arch that looked as though it had been coaxed from the ground by hand—woven with ivory roses, pale lavender, and gold thread that caught the afternoon light like it had been kissed by the sun.

Pansy was right, Hermione thought. This is the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever seen. And it’s somehow mine.

Elegant chairs stretched in perfect rows down either side of the aisle, each one adorned with miniature bouquets tied with trailing silk ribbons. The courtyard’s stone walls rose around them like protective arms, cloaked in ivy that rustled gently in the wind. The open fourth side gave way to an endless lawn where white peacocks wandered, unfazed by the gathering crowd, as if they’d been born into this kind of grandeur.

Hermione took another breath and glanced sideways at Arthur, who patted her arm reassuringly.

“You look beautiful, my dear,” he said quietly, his voice warm and tears in his eyes. 

She smiled at him, grateful that he was here to support her despite everything. Please don’t cry, or I’ll start crying, and then Pansy will actually murder me for ruining my makeup.

As the enchanted music swelled softly in the distance, signaling that it was almost time, Hermione pressed her feet into the stone beneath her, grounding herself.

You can do this. Just breathe. Just focus on him.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be…”

She nodded, and Arthur gently guided her toward the grand double doors. They opened magically with a soft creak and a shimmer of golden light, revealing the transformed courtyard and the sea of guests now rising to their feet.

A hush fell over the crowd.

Hermione barely registered the hundreds of faces turned toward her. She could feel the weight of their gaze, but they blurred into the background—mere noise against the sudden, crystalline clarity of the aisle and the man waiting at its end.

Draco.

He stood tall beneath the floral arch, tuxedo flawlessly tailored, a white rose pinned to his lapel. But it was the look in his eyes that stole her breath—the way his gaze widened, like he’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. His lips parted slightly, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe.

The music swelled—distant, dreamy.

Her hand tightened around Arthur’s arm as her legs carried her forward on instinct more than intent. As they walked the petal-strewn aisle, time seemed to slow. She caught glimpses of familiar faces—Molly dabbing at her eyes, Kingsley offering a warm smile, Pansy watching with fierce satisfaction, and Theo grinning beside Draco. But all of it faded compared to the way he looked at her.

Like she was magic itself.

Halfway down the aisle, her nerves vanished. All that remained was the rhythm of her heartbeat—and the look in his eyes.

She smiled.

And he smiled back, like they were the only two people in the world.

When she finally reached him, Arthur kissed her cheek and gently placed her hand into Draco’s. His warm fingers curled around hers like they were made to fit. She passed her bouquet to Ginny, and they turned to face the officiant standing beneath the arch, wand poised gracefully at her side.

“You may be seated,” the officiant said gently.

Chairs shifted quietly as the guests sat, all eyes fixed on the couple beneath the canopy of wisteria and light.

“We are gathered today beneath the open sky, surrounded by magic and intention, to witness the union of Draco Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jean Granger,” the officiant began, her tone ceremonial and clear. “Two individuals, powerful in their own right, choosing to walk a shared path.”

She turned toward them, eyes kind but sharp. “This is a magical bond, ancient and true. As your vows are spoken and your intentions sealed, your magic will answer—recognizing in one another not a mirror, but a match.”

With a flick of her wand, a golden ribbon appeared—soft and glowing, as if spun from starlight. It floated gently down, curling around their joined hands in a delicate loop. The ends shimmered faintly at their wrists.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” the officiant said, “do you willingly bind yourself to Hermione Jean Granger—mind, body, and magic—choosing her today, and all your tomorrows, for the rest of your days?”

“I do,” Draco replied, voice steady, gaze never wavering from hers.

The officiant turned to Hermione. “Hermione Jean Granger, do you willingly bind yourself to Draco Lucius Malfoy—mind, body, and magic—choosing him today, and all your tomorrows, for the rest of your days?”

“I do,” she said, voice catching slightly on the edge of emotion.

The ribbon pulsed, responding to the truth in their words. A soft golden light shimmered outward from their joined hands, washing over the aisle like a quiet blessing.

“Then by your magic and your word, let this bond be sealed.”

The officiant traced a slow arc with her wand, and the ribbon vanished in a burst of light, absorbed into their skin. For a moment, faint golden lines danced across their joined hands before fading.

With another flick, two velvet boxes appeared midair. One floated toward Draco, the other to Hermione. They caught them with practiced grace.

“These rings,” the officiant continued, “are a symbol of loyalty, partnership, and fidelity to this union.”

Draco opened his box and withdrew a gold band inlaid with diamonds. He took Hermione’s hand gently, reverently.

“Repeat after me,” the officiant prompted, and Draco echoed her words, gaze locked on Hermione.

“With this ring, I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, take you, Hermione Jean Granger, to be my wife—to have and to hold, from this day forward. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, until death do us part.”

Hermione blinked back tears as she retrieved the ring she had made for Draco and slipped it onto his finger.

“With this ring,” she said softly, “I, Hermione Jean Granger, take you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, to be my husband—to have and to hold, from this day forward. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, until death do us part.”

And as she said the word love , she felt it—real and true, blooming in her chest. Maybe it was the magic. Maybe it was the moment. But she knew, with steady certainty, that her love for him would only grow from here.

Their rings shimmered with a soft, golden light, subtle yet undeniably magical.

A hush fell once more.

“By word, by magic, and by will,” the officiant declared, “you are bound. I pronounce you united in magical union. All rise, and welcome the new Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.”

As the guests rose to their feet, a warm breeze stirred the courtyard, rustling delicate petals around them. She found Draco’s gaze again and melted into it.

“You may now kiss your bride.”

Draco didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply, passionately. Like he’d been holding his breath for years and could finally exhale. She barely registered the swell of music or the cheers around them. For a few perfect seconds, the world fell away.

When he finally pulled back, both of them grinned and just gazed at each other for a beat. She then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again—gentler this time, but just as true. The crowd erupted once more.

Looking out over their guests, Hermione was overwhelmed to find nearly every face lit with genuine joy. Even Ginny was dabbing away tears. Theo beamed beside them, eyes suspiciously shiny.

Draco shifted and offered her his hand. She took it, fingers intertwining effortlessly as Ginny passed her bouquet back.

He leaned into her ear. “You look exquisite, Mrs. Malfoy.”

She blushed, smiling as he kissed her temple and led her down the aisle. Petals rained gently above them, falling from enchanted blossoms as they walked hand-in-hand.

Midway down the aisle, a photographer called for one more.

Without missing a beat, Draco swept her into a graceful dip and kissed her again—slow, dramatic, utterly swoon-worthy.

The crowd loved it.

Hermione giggled as he pulled her upright. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“I got caught up in the moment, darling,” he said, smirking. “And can you blame me?”

She shook her head, laughing softly as they walked the rest of the way together, toward the open doors and the ballroom beyond.

Toward everything waiting ahead.

Chapter Text

Once inside the ballroom, Draco wasted no time. He pulled Hermione into a quiet corner, tucked between two marble columns, the low hum of music and mingling guests fading behind them. She giggled, breathless, as he backed her up against the wall and claimed her mouth in a kiss that had been waiting hours to happen.

He groaned into her lips, threading his fingers into her hair, his other hand gripping her waist. She melted into him instantly, arms circling his neck, their bodies fitting together with ease.

She was so bloody beautiful he thought he might combust. Hermione was soft and yielding in his arms, her lips parting for him, her quiet whimpers sending lightning straight to his groin. He deepened the kiss, losing himself in her warmth until sheer willpower forced him to pull back before he ruined the hours of effort that had gone into her bridal perfection. There would be time later tonight, if she was ready. And judging by the way she pressed closer, breath catching, she just might be.

He leaned back slightly to take her in. Her hair was styled in loose waves, not her natural curls as he’d hoped, but still stunning. Her makeup was soft, elegant—thank Merlin, Pansy had taste.

“Sweet Salazar,” he murmured, eyes raking over her, “you look like an angel plucked from the heavens. How am I supposed to survive the rest of this bloody reception without ravishing you?”

Hermione smiled, amused and fond.

“Just remind yourself that Pansy will actually murder you if you mess up my hair and makeup.”

“She’d make it hurt, too. Probably start with a well-placed Cruciatus.”

He bent to claim another kiss—just once, quick and tender—before resting his forehead against hers.

“Are you happy, darling?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing her cheek.

She nodded. “Very.”

“No regrets?”

She hesitated, just a second, then looked up at him with a small, sincere smile.

“Only one.”

His brows lifted. “Name it, pet. I’ll fix it.”

“I wish I’d told you before the ceremony… that I love you. I realize that now.” Her voice was quiet, but steady. “I don’t want you thinking your wife doesn’t love you.”

Her confession knocked the breath from his lungs, and instinct took over before words could form. He caught her mouth again, more fiercely this time, pouring everything he felt into it. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she welcomed him with abandon, gripping his lapels tightly.

She was intoxicating. He couldn’t stop. He slid his hands down her back, then lower, bunching up her gown enough to lift her off the ground. She wrapped her legs around him without hesitation, and he pressed her against the column, grinding against the heat of her core through all those damn layers of silky fabric.

She moaned softly into his mouth, her breathing turning ragged, her body arching into him in all the right ways. His restraint snapped taut—Merlin, he was trembling. He’d waited so long, wanted her for so long, that now it felt like bloodlust. He didn’t want to let go.

He nearly gave in.

Until—

“Draco, you better not be shagging her in there—we have photos to take!”

Pansy’s voice rang through the air like a spell blast.

Hermione froze in his arms. She pulled back, wide-eyed, looking exactly like a teenager caught snogging in a broom cupboard.

“Just a bloody minute, Pans!” Draco shouted over his shoulder.

“Over my dead body!” she snapped back, heels clicking furiously toward them.

Draco sighed heavily and set Hermione down with regretful care, smoothing her dress while she fidgeted in panic. He gently ran a hand through her hair, checking the damage.

“You still look amazing, darling,” he promised.

“Merlin’s fucking balls , Malfoy!” Pansy shrieked, appearing around the column like a fury. “You’ve gone and messed her all up!”

She seized Hermione by the arm and dragged her toward a nearby table and sat her down, muttering curses under her breath. Draco watched with amusement as Pansy whipped out her wand and performed a flurry of touch-ups—fixing Hermione’s lipstick, smoothing the wrinkles in her gown, taming the tousled strands of her hair.

When she was finally done, she spun on Draco with a look that could flay skin.

“You had one job. Wait a few bloody hours before you try to shove your tongue down her throat. That’s it. A few hours. And if I have to fix her up one more time tonight, so Salazar help me, I’ll hex your bollocks off before you even get the chance to shag her. Am I perfectly clear?!”

Draco raised his hands in surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Crystal.”

Pansy glared at Draco a moment longer before turning to Hermione with a dramatic sigh.

“Honestly, I expected better from you, Granger.”

Hermione stood, guilt written all over her face, and took Pansy’s hands gently in her own.

“I’m sorry, Pans. We just… got swept up in the moment. I promise I won’t let it happen again. Should we go join the wedding party for pictures?”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but nodded. Interestingly, she seemed far less sharp with Hermione than usual. Perhaps she was finally softening toward her.

Hermione gave her a small smile, then returned to Draco, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm and looking up at him expectantly.

“All right, Mr. Malfoy. Let’s get this over with.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Malfoy,” he replied with a wink.

Pansy scoffed and spun on her heel, leading them toward the gardens with the air of a woman who would suffer zero changes to her precisely planned event. 

***

The reception began in the grand ballroom after cocktail hour resumed outside. The ballroom was now transformed with towering floral arrangements and floating candles that shimmered like stars above the guests. When Draco and Hermione made their entrance, they were met with cheers and applause. Hermione still felt nervous under all the attention, but the moment Draco spun her across the dance floor for their first dance, the rest of the world faded away. His strong arms guided her with confidence, grounding her even as her dress swirled around them. He leaned in to steal a few kisses during the song, each one making her heart flutter.

After they took their seats, the toasts began.

Hermione felt a flicker of nerves as Ginny stood and raised her wand to magically amplify her voice—but she trusted her best friend not to roast Draco too badly. Mostly.

Ginny stood tall and confident before the crowd of hundreds, her tone poised but playful.

“Good evening,” she began. “Some of you may know me as the Chosen One’s girlfriend, or the only girl in the Weasley family. But tonight, I’m proud to stand here as maid of honor to my best friend—and sister in my heart—Hermione Malfoy. You may also call me Ginerva or Ginny, if you’re fond of me.”

A soft ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“I was asked to make a speech to toast the happy couple, and I will try to do so without too many jabs about old school rivalries—tempting as they may be.”

Draco smirked and raised his glass toward her, prompting another round of chuckles.

“I’ve known Hermione for nearly a decade now. In all that time, I can honestly say I’ve never seen her as happy as she is now—with him.” She glanced toward Draco. “My friend has always been the smartest person in the room, the one with all the answers, the one you go to when you’re lost. She’s a force, a perfectionist, a genius but with the kindest heart you’ll ever know, and yes—she’ll absolutely tell you off when you’re being an idiot. But these days, I see something new in her. A softness. A quiet kind of joy. And even I have to admit, that has everything to do with her new husband.”

Hermione looked at Draco, who smiled back at her. 

“Despite all the history before them coming together—and let’s be honest, some very valid reasons to have doubts—I look at Hermione now, and I can’t help but feel grateful she found her match. Someone who sees her, supports her, and clearly adores her. So yes, he’s a Slytherin. But even I can admit he was the right choice.”

More laughter followed. She smiled warmly, lifting her glass.

“I love my friend more than words can say, and I wish them both nothing but magic, mischief, and a lifetime of happiness. To the bride and groom.”

“To the bride and groom,” the crowd echoed, rising in a chorus of clinking glasses and applause. Ginny walked over to Hermione and gave her a warm hug, and even allowed Draco to give her a polite kiss on the cheek in thanks before she sat back down. 

Theo stood next, clinking his glass lightly before casting a casual sonorus charm on himself. He gave a crooked grin as all eyes turned to him.

“Well, this is a bit surreal, isn’t it?” Theo began, grinning. “If you’d told me even five years ago that Draco Malfoy would snag the brightest witch of our age—a girl he’s been head over heels for longer than I’m allowed to admit—I’d have laughed myself sick and told him it might happen in his dreams.”

A few chuckles rippled through the crowd. Draco rolled his eyes.

“But here we are,” Theo continued, gesturing around the elegant ballroom. “And not only is he married to her, but I can see just how deeply she cares for him in return. Well played, mate. Seriously.”

He turned to Hermione, offering a small, sincere smile.

“Hermione, I’ve known Draco since we were boys. He’s been my best mate through thick and thin, through very tight spots—and, of course, many hilarious shenanigans I’m not legally allowed to repeat.”

More laughter.

“I’ve seen the version of Draco the world sees—aloof, sharp, refined, ruthless. And I’ve seen the real him. Loyal to a fault. Fiercely protective. The kind of person who would sacrifice everything for the people he loves—and he loves you. More than he’s ever loved anything or anyone in his life.”

He glanced at Draco, his voice softening slightly.

“I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. It’s like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever asked himself. You ground him. You balance him. And frankly, you terrify him a little—which is good for him.”

More laughter. Hermione smiled, and Draco lifted a brow, amused.

“I’m not much for sentiment,” Theo added with a shrug. “But I’ve watched the two of you grow into something real. And if that’s not worth raising a glass to, I don’t know what is.”

He lifted his champagne flute.

“To Draco and Hermione—may your life be filled with passion, patience, and just the right amount of chaos to keep things interesting.”

“To Draco and Hermione,” the room echoed, bursting into applause, laughter, and warm cheers. 

Theo walked over and wrapped them both in a hug, sneaking in a quick kiss on Hermione’s cheek before sliding into the seat beside Draco.

Hermione sat down as well, turning to Draco and gently cupping his cheek as she pulled him in for a kiss. He pressed his lips softly to hers, then rested his forehead against hers for a brief, quiet moment.

The clinking of glass interrupted them.

Startled, Hermione looked up to see Lucius standing—elegant as ever, polished and composed, about to speak. She turned back to Draco with a questioning look, surprised by the unscheduled toast. He hadn’t mentioned this. Draco simply sighed and shrugged, slipping his arm behind her chair, his expression unreadable as he watched his father.

Lucius’s voice rang clear through the room.

“We’ve already heard two lovely toasts tonight, so I’ll keep mine brief so we may enjoy the exquisite dinner ahead. I simply wish to say that I am deeply grateful to my daughter-in-law for choosing to marry my son, whom I am immensely proud of and support in every choice he makes.”

He turned to Hermione, his gaze steady.

“My dear, I confess there was a time I misunderstood what strength truly looked like. But I see now—it lies in compassion, in conviction, and in the quiet power of brilliance wielded with grace. You’ve brought out something in my son no one else ever could, and for that, I am eternally in your debt.”

Hermione’s breath caught slightly as Lucius looked at both of them now, his words surprisingly sincere.

“Your union has my blessing, my respect, and my hopes for a long and joyful life together. To the bride and groom—may your years ahead be filled with safety, contentment, and enduring devotion.”

He raised his glass. “To the bride and groom.”

“To the bride and groom,” everyone echoed once more, raising their glasses in unison.

Hermione sat stunned for a moment, staring at the elegant, composed man who had just spoken. Lucius’s silver eyes met hers—cool, steady, and, for the first time, something almost like genuine recognition. She raised her glass and took a sip of champagne, hoping her expression conveyed her gratitude. He gave her a subtle nod before glancing at Draco—who remained unreadable—and returning to his seat.

She knew Lucius’s words carried more weight than mere congratulations. That short speech was a deliberate signal to the rest of their pure-blood peers that he endorsed the marriage, when he really could have said nothing at all. Hosting the wedding at the manor, allowing the family name to be shared—those actions alone had spoken volumes. But the public statement? That was calculated and meaningful. Lucius never did anything without intent. 

Still, she couldn’t help noticing Draco’s silence.

She reached out and laid her hand on his thigh, gently nudging him until he looked at her.

“That was kind of him, wasn’t it?”

Draco shrugged, his expression tinged with cold detachment. “People would’ve talked if he hadn’t said something.”

The sharp dismissal caught her off guard. He didn’t sound grateful or even particularly moved. Hermione studied his face, trying to read the nuance behind his carefully neutral tone. In her eyes, Lucius had done something significant. For all his rigid pride and decades of prejudice, he’d stood before a ballroom full of pure-blood elites and publicly given their marriage his blessing. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

“You don’t think he meant it?” she asked gently.

He paused. Then, without meeting her eyes, he took her hand and began absently playing with her fingers. “He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean,” Draco admitted. “But that doesn’t mean he deserves a bloody parade for not being a twat.”

His words were clipped, but not cruel. Still, the bitterness laced beneath them unsettled her. She frowned, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

She hadn’t pushed too much about Lucius—not in the lead-up to the wedding, not even during her visits to the Manor. Draco had deflected or changed the subject anytime his father came up, and she’d let him. Maybe she shouldn’t have. Maybe she’d mistaken silence for peace, distance for resolution.

Weren’t they on good terms? She’d assumed so. But the tension in Draco’s jaw told a different story.

He wasn’t angry. Not exactly.

But he wasn’t at ease either. And now she wasn’t sure which one mattered more.

“Draco…” she said softly. “He’s your father.”

“I know, darling,” he said with a weary sigh. “Let’s not waste tonight thinking about him, alright?”

Before she could press further, the first course materialized on their plates, pulling her attention away. She decided to revisit the conversation another time. Across the ballroom, she spotted Lucius in quiet conversation with Severus, who was seated beside him. Knowing they were friends eased her tension slightly—it was comforting to see that Lucius at least had a familiar, if not friendly, presence beside him tonight.

The reception continued on, and the food was excellent, the conversation light and full of warmth. She laughed with Ginny and Harry, and Draco kept brushing her knuckles with kisses when no one was looking.

Still, the anticipation was building. Every time she caught Draco watching her with that smoldering heat in his eyes, it set her skin alight. By the time dessert was served, she could hardly sit still.

When it was time to cut the cake, she carefully fed Draco a forkful with a demure smile. He responded by using his fingers to place a bite into her mouth, his touch lingering against her lips. Her cheeks flushed instantly, and the crowd responded with laughter and a few teasing whistles. He stole a kiss that still tasted like frosting, leaving her breathless and dazed.

Eventually, the dancing began. Pansy swept Hermione off to the powder room to remove her bow and detachable train, making the dress lighter and more manageable. They walked back arm-in-arm, and Pansy filled her in with a wicked grin.

“Things with Longbottom are going well. He’s much cleverer than I gave him credit for.”

Hermione grinned. “Do you like him?”

“I don’t know,” Pansy replied coyly. “But he’s fit as hell. I can feel the muscle through that suit.” She leaned in. “Might drag him upstairs for a quick shag.”

“Pansy!” Hermione laughed. “Please don’t use him. He’s one of my closest friends.”

“Oh, just because I want to use his cock doesn’t mean I don’t fancy him as a person,” Pansy said matter-of-factly. “He’s… forthright. No games. I’m not used to that.”

“He’s a Gryffindor,” Hermione reminded gently. “You don’t need tricks with him. Just be honest with your feelings. He’ll respect it.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “If I ever have these mysterious feelings you speak of, I’ll consider it. But for now, go. Your husband looks like he’s about to combust waiting for you.”

Hermione smiled and pulled her into a hug, which Pansy accepted begrudgingly.

“Thank you for everything,” Hermione said sincerely. “I don’t think I could ever repay you for all you’ve done.”

To her surprise, Pansy didn’t scoff. Instead, she gave her a crooked smile.

“Well, you are my friend now, somehow. Despite all my best efforts.”

Hermione blinked. “Wait, are you saying you like me?”

“If you ever repeat that, I’ll deny it,” Pansy warned. “But… yes. You’re annoyingly likable.”

Hermione beamed and embraced her again—this time warmer and tighter.

“Have a good time, Pans,” she whispered in her ear. 

Pansy let go and winked before sauntering off toward Neville, who looked at her like she was everything he wanted—tonight, and maybe beyond.

Draco closed the distance between them and swept Hermione into his arms with practiced flair, pulling her into a waltz. She barely registered the steps, too busy losing herself in the depths of his liquid mercury gaze. He looked hungry for her, and it sent a delicious shiver down her spine.

She melted into his arms, time slipping away as she surrendered to the moment. Eventually, Draco leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, hands firm at the small of her back.

“I love you, darling,” he murmured, voice rough with feeling. “So bloody much it burns.”

She bit her lip, overwhelmed. The force of her emotions nearly brought tears to her eyes—she wanted him in every way a person could want another.

“Draco…” she breathed.

A throat cleared beside them. Theo stood nearby with a mischievous grin.

“You’ve kept her prisoner long enough tonight, Draco. Allow me a dance with your wife.”

“I love you, but piss off, mate,” Draco shot back, spinning them away. But Hermione pouted up at him.

“Just one dance, Draco. You can’t commandeer me all evening. I’d like to dance with Harry, too.”

Draco growled softly but sighed in defeat. He pressed her close for one last deep kiss that left her head spinning, then relinquished her with a huff. Theo ignored his glower and took Hermione’s hand, leading her back onto the floor.

“You look divine, my darling,” he said warmly. “I’ve never seen a more stunning bride.”

She flushed. “Thank you, Theo. What’s the mood been like among the guests? Anyone ready to storm the manor with pitchforks over Draco marrying a Mudblood?”

Theo frowned. “Don’t call yourself that. I’d hex anyone who dared utter that word about you.”

His tone made her believe him.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “I’ve desensitized myself to it. I refuse to let it have power over me.”

Theo gently rubbed her back. “From what I’ve seen and heard, everyone’s been impressed, saying you look radiant. That the two of you look like you’re actually in love. I think it surprised some—realizing this wasn’t a political match, but a genuine one.”

“Surprised in a good way?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. I’ve even seen a few jealous glances, and plenty of pureblood parents trying to calculate how they’ll outdo this wedding when they marry off their daughters and sons.”

Hermione laughed. “Good luck.”

Theo spun her elegantly. When she returned to his arms, her tone turned more serious.

“Theo… what’s the current state of Draco and Lucius’s relationship? I feel like there’s a distance between them...”

He raised a brow. “Darling, you’re only now noticing that?”

She gave a small shrug.

“To put it plainly—Draco hasn’t forgiven him for Narcissa’s death. And truthfully, I’m not sure he ever will.”

Hermione nodded, the puzzle pieces clicking into place—Lucius’s absence during her recent visits, Draco’s tight-lipped silence on the matter.

When the song ended, Theo kissed her cheek and congratulated her again before heading off toward a pretty witch who had been eyeing him all night. Harry stepped in next, greeting her with a crooked smile.

Their dance was filled with laughter, especially as Hermione gently corrected his footwork. By the end of the song, he wasn’t half bad at leading. They hugged tightly, and he whispered that he wished her all the happiness in the world.

She kissed his cheek, and just as another guest began to approach her, Draco returned, sliding his arms around her waist possessively.

“No one else gets to dance with you tonight, wife.”

A thrill sparked in her at his words. “I’m sure George or Fred would like a go.”

“I’m sure they would,” he said flatly.

“Draco…”

“You’re my witch, and I don’t share. Theo and Potter were my limit.”

She sighed but melted back into his embrace. He brushed her hair aside and pressed a kiss to her neck—tender, lingering, not overly sexual but still enough to make her knees wobble.

A wave from Molly and Arthur caught her attention, and she nudged Draco to let go. He guided her over with a warm hand on her lower back, and it never left her again for the rest of the evening.

The Weasleys, including Percy, Charlie, and the twins, greeted her warmly—aside from Arthur, Ginny, and Bill, who’d already done so. Part of her had feared not everyone would come, considering her history with Ron and the Malfoys’ past disdain for “blood traitors.” But they all came. They shook Draco’s hand, offered their congratulations, and even Fred and George’s jokes were more teasing than biting. Their show of support made her heart feel unbelievably full. 

She moved through the crowd, greeting old friends—Dean, Seamus, Cho, and the Patil sisters. Most still looked faintly stunned that she’d married Draco Malfoy of all people, but their smiles were genuine, and with each embrace and kind word, her heart grew lighter.

Viktor approached next, and she caught the flash of disdain in Draco’s eyes as she hugged him warmly. The two men exchanged a stiff, begrudging handshake before Viktor offered his congratulations and thanked her for the invitation to the wedding. He introduced his new girlfriend, Nadja—an impossibly stunning woman who looked like she belonged on the cover of Witch Weekly . Nadja smiled politely, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Viktor promised to keep writing to her, and Hermione assured him she would do the same. She’d always enjoyed his updates about life in Bulgaria and his Quidditch career, and their friendly exchange of sweets—his local delicacies for the Weasleys’ newest inventions—had become something of a tradition.

Not wanting to prolong the encounter, Draco soon guided her toward other guests. They stopped to chat with the Greengrasses, who were warm and complimentary, commenting on her beauty and the elegance of the wedding. Kingsley beamed at them with unmistakable pride and introduced them to several department heads from the Ministry. Everyone greeted them politely.

Draco, however, seemed cautious as they neared various pure-blood families. Though some clearly vied for their attention, he subtly steered Hermione away, uncertain, perhaps, of how she’d be received. She let him lead, but she noticed the protective tension in his posture.

She spotted Andromeda and watched as the older witch made a beeline toward her. They had grown friendly during the war—Hermione and the others staying with her at times—and Andromeda’s quiet strength had always left an impression. There was something serene about her, a kind of composed grace that softened her otherwise formidable bearing. Now she was raising her grandson alone in the wake of losing both Tonks and Lupin—yet another grief Hermione had tucked away in a corner of her mind.

Andromeda looked as poised as ever, her pureblood upbringing evident in her mannerisms, though she seemed a little lost in thought as they approached. She embraced Hermione warmly and offered her sincere congratulations on the marriage. Then she turned to Draco, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You’ll always be my nephew,” she told him gently. “I hope we can have a real relationship now, with the war behind us.”

Draco received her kindly, to Hermione’s quiet relief. The two had never truly spoken before—Andromeda had long been shunned by both the Black and Malfoy families for marrying Ted, who had also perished during the war—but it seemed those old wounds were finally beginning to heal. She offered a soft acknowledgment of Narcissa’s passing and assured Draco that his mother would have been proud to see him so happy—and in love—with Hermione.

They shared a quiet, heartfelt moment before Hermione caught sight of Severus and McGonagall across the room. With a parting hug for Andromeda, she gently tugged Draco’s hand and led him in their direction.

“Hermione, my dear,” McGonagall beamed, pulling her into a warm hug. “You make such a lovely bride. And your groom—what a handsome match.” She held Hermione’s arms and asked gently, “Are you happy, dear?”

Hermione glanced back at Draco. “Dreadfully. I’ll have to be locked up at St. Mungo’s soon for delirium.”

They both laughed, and McGonagall smiled knowingly. “Who would’ve thought? My two brightest students marrying each other. It’s rather romantic, don’t you think, Severus?”

“Ah, yes,” Snape deadpanned. “My most insufferable student paired with my underachieving godson. A perfect match.”

Hermione smirked. “Just because I was as clever as you, Professor, doesn’t make me insufferable.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Draco, remind me—what do you see in her?”

Draco curled an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. “I’m merely in it for her looks, obviously.”

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh. “Well, congratulations nonetheless. It does… please me to see the two of you so content.”

Hermione grinned. “Careful, Professor. You’re sounding sentimental.”

“Hilarious.”

McGonagall ignored him. “Hermione, have you given any thought to Severus’s offer for the Muggle Studies post? Perhaps not this term—but next year?”

She had received multiple offers since the war: the Wizengamot, prestigious Ministry appointments, a spot at St. Mungo’s. But Hermione had shelved them all, craving just one quiet year. A year to rest. To mourn. To heal.

Still… Hogwarts had always felt like home, and perhaps if Draco was open to teaching as well so they could spend more time together, it wouldn’t be the worst idea. Surely Lucius could spare him at work. 

“I wonder, Professor,” she said playfully, “if you’d consider hiring my husband as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor? We could commute from the Manor together, perhaps stay some nights if necessary.”

Draco raised an amused brow but didn’t protest.

“If he’s interested,” Severus replied, “I’d consider it. Though I doubt he’s ready to stomach the pay cut.”

“I’d donate my salary,” Draco replied smoothly, “to an elf rights fund. In honor of my wife.”

Hermione giggled, her heart full.

“Then it’s settled,” McGonagall said brightly. “I look forward to calling you both Professor Malfoy one day.”

Hermione looked up at Draco, who met her gaze with a soft smile.

“Whatever my wife wants,” he murmured in agreement.

***

The night ended with fireworks on the lawn, brilliant bursts of color igniting the velvet night sky. Guests gathered outside, faces turned upward in awe as the display unfolded in a symphony of light and the soft thud of explosions in the distance. Hermione chose not to toss her bouquet into the crowd; instead, she walked it over and placed it directly in Pansy’s hands. The other witch blinked in surprise, then gave a sly smile and turned toward Neville, who grinned back at her with unmistakable warmth.

Draco wrapped his arms around Hermione from behind, pulling her close as they watched the fireworks. He murmured soft endearments into her hair, his voice low and content. She leaned back into his chest, her fingers loosely laced with his. When she caught Harry gently pulling Ginny away from the crowd, toward the quiet of the rose garden, she gave him a small, knowing smile. He met her gaze and smiled back, nerves written all over his face. She hoped Ginny would say yes. She wanted them all to find the kind of joy she was wrapped in now.

The fireworks were dazzling—an enchantment in every sense of the word, shimmering in shapes and hues that made the air crackle with magic. It was, without a doubt, the most spectacular display she’d ever seen. The guests seemed just as captivated. Well, everyone except Theo, who had a stunning witch clinging to his arm, both of them tipsy from too much champagne. As he sauntered past them, he threw Hermione and Draco a cheeky wiggle of his eyebrows. The woman giggled, swaying into his side, and the two disappeared back toward the manor.

Draco dipped his head to her ear, brushing his lips against her skin. “I’ve been good all evening, my love,” he whispered. “Can I finally have you now?”

A thrill went through her, fluttering low in her belly. She bit her lip, heart pounding, and nodded—then hesitated just enough to tease him.

“Don’t we need to say goodbye to our guests? Some kind of send-off?”

Draco groaned, burying his face in her neck. “It’s our bloody wedding. If we want to do an Irish exit, we can.”

Hermione glanced over and caught Pansy mid-snog with Neville, his hand on her bum and her fingers curled tightly into his lapels. She made eyes at her friend when she broke for air, then darted her gaze toward Draco and back again, silently pleading for her to understand her meaning.

Pansy sighed, rolled her eyes dramatically, and waved them off with one hand before promptly returning to her own very involved entertainment. With Pansy’s silent blessing, Draco wasted no time. He grasped Hermione’s hand, pulled her out of sight behind a hedgerow, and with a firm crack , Apparated them away.

Chapter Text

They arrived just outside his bedroom when, without warning, Draco scooped her up into a bridal carry. Hermione let out a startled squeak, then laughed, curling her arms around his neck and nestling against his shoulder.

“You’re really committing to tradition, huh?” she teased.

He smirked, kicking open the door with practiced ease. “Of course. You’re mine now.”

He carried her across the threshold and straight to his large four-poster bed, setting her down with tender care atop the plush comforter. For a moment, he didn’t move—just stepped back and let his gaze linger on her, eyes sweeping over every inch like he was trying to memorize her.

His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but she could feel the tension radiating from him, like he was holding himself back with every ounce of control he had.

She leaned back on her elbows nervously, suddenly shy under the intensity of his stare. “Are you just going to stand there, or…?”

He was on her in an instant—hands catching her wrists, pinning them softly to the bedspread as he kissed her, deep and sure. She tasted champagne and something sweet on his lips, and her breath caught.

“Mine,” he growled against her neck, his voice rough with want. His hands moved to her waist, sliding under the boning of her bodice with reverence.

She moaned softly, arching up to meet him. “Yours,” she breathed, no hesitation in her voice.

He trailed kisses from her jaw to her ear, pausing only to grin against her skin as her cheeks flushed. “We can stop anytime, darling,” he murmured, giving her an out.

“I don’t want to,” she said, cheeks still pink. “But… would you mind if I freshened up in your bathroom first?”

“Of course,” he said softly, pressing one last kiss against her lips, then gently helping her to her feet. As she crossed the room, she could feel his gaze following her. When she turned to look, he was leaning lazily against one of the bedposts, hands in his pockets, watching her like she was the only thing that had ever held his attention.

She hesitated at the bathroom door, then turned back. “Could you, maybe… help me out of this dress?” she asked, a little breathless, nerves and anticipation tangled in her voice.

Draco pushed off the bedpost with purpose, his eyes gleaming as he crossed the room to her. He didn’t say a word—just stepped behind her, fingers brushing her shoulders as he slowly gathered her curls to one side, baring the delicate line of her neck. She shivered.

His lips ghosted over her skin as he reached for the first button on her gown. “Tell me if I should stop,” he murmured, his breath warm against her.

“Keep going,” she whispered.

One by one, he undid the tiny pearl buttons, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. Each release of pressure sent a jolt of anticipation through her, the fabric loosening inch by inch. When he reached the zipper at the small of her back, he drew it down slowly, the soft rasp of it unzipping loud in the silence between them.

The gown slackened around her body, the heavy Mikado silk now clinging only because she held it up, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. The back of her lacy bustier was now exposed, along with a hint of the delicate waistband of her knickers. She could feel his gaze on her—hot, possessive, drinking her in.

“I want to take it off in the bathroom,” she said softly, not quite turning to face him. “Is that okay?”

Draco’s hands slid down her arms, his touch a promise rather than a demand. “Whatever you want, sweeheart.”

She clutched the bodice tighter and glanced over her shoulder, offering him a flushed, teasing smile before disappearing into the bathroom, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. A flurry of emotions surged through her—excitement, lust, love, fear, anticipation. Her stomach was in absolute knots. Steeling herself, she began the process of getting ready.

She slipped off her shoes and carefully stepped out of her dress, folding the heavy fabric with care and placing it neatly on the oversized marble counter. After relieving herself on the toilet, she used the bidet for a brief rinse, then washed her hands and patted herself dry with a towel.

Next came the mirror check. Her hair was still mostly intact, and her makeup had held up surprisingly well. It would do.

She stood there for a moment, taking in her reflection—the lacy, delicate lingerie hugging her frame. It suddenly felt like a lot. Was it too much? But walking out completely naked felt… abrupt. No, this would have to do.

She spotted mouthwash on the vanity and quickly swished and spit, wanting to feel as fresh as possible.

Okay, Hermione. Now or never. Don’t be a coward. You can do this. So what if you’re a virgin and he’s ridiculously experienced? He’s your husband. It’s going to be fine.

She gave herself one final glance, straightened her shoulders, and opened the door.

Draco was sprawled across the bed when she stepped out. He’d lost the suit jacket, his tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt was halfway unbuttoned, and his shoes were gone. When their eyes met, he sat up sharply, his gaze trailing down her body with a stunned, strangled sound that escaped his throat. His expression turned wolfish—like he’d never seen a woman in lingerie before.

She couldn’t help the flicker of pride that stirred in her chest.

He extended a hand toward her. “Come here.”

She crossed the room slowly and stood between his legs, her heart thudding against her ribs.

He wrapped his arms around her hips and pressed his cheek to her stomach, exhaling a deep, contented sigh. She cradled his head gently, one hand threading through the silky strands of his pale blonde hair, fingers gliding over the soft texture.

After a moment, he looked up at her and smiled, warmth written across every line of his face.

“You’re a bloody angel, you know that? Dressed in white lace just for me.”

Hermione flushed, biting her lip as a smile tugged at her mouth.

“You’re all mine?” he asked, voice low and vulnerable.

“Yes, Draco. Always…” she whispered, her words intended as a promise.

There was something fragile in the way he asked—like he still couldn’t quite believe someone could belong to him, could choose him. It felt like her answer stitched something together inside him that had been unraveling for years. But it was healing for her, too. Being his felt grounding, like a steady, constant warmth she could lean into.

So far, marriage had felt quite nice, and she found herself hoping—quietly, fiercely—that the feeling would last. 

He grinned and let one hand drift to the waistband of her lacy knickers, fingertips brushing lightly over her skin.

“You’re going to be the death of me, wearing things like this,” he murmured. “It’s like you want to test my resolve to ravage you thoroughly before I even get my fill.”

His words, paired with the heat of his touch, sent a tremor down her spine. She swallowed hard.

“You don’t need to… do anything special,” she said, a little breathless. “We can just… be with each other.”

Draco smirked up at her, his eyes dark with affection and something more primal. He shook his head slowly.

“No, love… I think I need to properly wreck you tonight before we get to just being.”

Her breath caught, and she felt a rush of warmth flood her core at his promise.

“Um… maybe we could start slow?” she offered, voice small. “I don’t know if I can handle… all of that.”

His expression softened instantly. He reached up and cupped her cheek, thumb stroking along her skin.

“I promise I won’t do anything you won’t like, Hermione,” he said, voice hushed and reassuring. “I love you. I just want you to feel good, okay?”

She nodded, believing his words and wanting to lean into the moment and allow him to take the lead. 

Draco stood and guided her gently toward the bed, his hands steady but soft, like she was something fragile and precious all at once. Hermione climbed onto the mattress, her skin already flushed with anticipation as she lay back against the pillows, heart fluttering wildly.

He followed her down slowly, bracing himself on his forearms as he hovered above her, light grey eyes locked on hers. Then he kissed her—slow, exploratory, and deep. His lips were warm and soft against hers, tongue brushing hers in languid strokes that made her toes curl. There was no rush in him, just patient, simmering devotion.

When he finally moved to her neck, she gasped quietly, tilting her head to give him access as he placed kisses along the column of her throat, his mouth warm and worshipful. She felt the tickle of his breath as he made his way down, nuzzling into the tops of her breasts where they spilled out over the edge of her lacy bustier.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice husky as his fingers found the back of her bustier. “This might be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. But I’d like to see all of you now.”

She nodded, cheeks warm with blush and desire. Hermione tried her best to stuff down any nervousness she had of him seeing her naked for the first time.

His fingers were sure but gentle as he unclasped the garment and slowly peeled it away, letting it slide down her torso, revealing her breasts fully to him. His eyes dropped, and he just… stared. Utterly entranced. Like he was trying to commit every inch of her to memory. It made her nervous but excited at the same time. No one had seen her naked before. 

“Merlin, Hermione,” he breathed. “You’re divine.”

He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the swell of one breast before drawing a peaked nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. Hermione moaned, her back arching slightly beneath him. One hand came up to cup her other breast, his fingers toying with the neglected nipple—stroking, flicking, coaxing soft gasps from her lips. After a long moment, he shifted, giving the same devoted attention to the other, taking his time, as if cataloging every reaction he could draw from her body.

Then, slowly, he began to move lower.

His mouth left a trail of kisses down her stomach, and when he reached her hips, he paused to run his hands along the tops of her thighs, just brushing the garter straps. With practiced ease, he unlatched each clip, letting the bustier slip the rest of the way off. She was left in only her delicate lace knickers and thigh-high stockings, and from the way his eyes darkened, she could tell it was doing something to him.

He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, then another, and then finally his fingers moved to touch her over the damp lace of her knickers. She jolted, the contact achingly light.

“So wet for me already,” he said, voice low with awe. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

She whimpered as he rubbed slow, maddening circles over her clit, the lace only adding to the sensation.

“Draco,” she breathed, hips shifting, seeking more. “Please…”

He looked up at her from between her legs, eyes dark and glinting with mischief.

“Can I take these off, darling?”

Hermione nodded, almost frantically, her breath caught in her throat. “Yes. Please.”

With careful hands, he slid the knickers down her hips and legs, tossing them aside. Now she lay before him in just her thigh-highs, her body bare, open, and trembling under his gaze.

Draco sat back on his knees for a moment, just looking at her—his eyes roaming slowly, as if he couldn’t believe she was real. The intensity of it made her shiver. She squirmed slightly under his attention, both self-conscious and deeply aroused, and he smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than her.

He dipped forward, his lips brushing softly against the inside of her thigh—barely a whisper of contact. Then another kiss, higher this time, lingering just long enough to make her breath catch. He took his time, tracing a slow, deliberate path up the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

By the time he reached the apex of her thighs, she was already writhing, her hips shifting instinctively, aching for more. He gently guided her legs farther apart, his touch both tender and commanding. Cool air kissed her most intimate places, making her shiver—and still, he didn’t touch, not yet. He simply gazed at her for a long, breathless moment, like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And then, finally, his mouth was on her.

Hermione let out a broken gasp as his tongue slid between her folds, hot and soft and maddeningly slow. He licked her gently, tasting her like it was his favorite thing in the world, and she was certain she’d never felt anything so overwhelming.

His hands slid beneath her thighs, lifting her legs to rest over his shoulders as he anchored her in place. Then he buried his face between her legs, tongue flicking over her clit with slow, practiced precision—drawing sounds from her she didn’t know she could make. He teased her with maddening control, giving just enough pressure to make her gasp, to make her writhe—but never quite enough to let her fall over the edge.

“Draco,” she whimpered, clutching the sheets, her body shaking with every flick of his tongue.

He hummed against her, the vibration making her jolt. Then he pulled back just slightly, breath warm against her as he spoke.

“So wet for me,” he said, voice thick and rough. “You taste like heaven.”

She whimpered again, and he chuckled low in his throat before diving back in—licking, kissing, sucking her clit with increasing pressure, his tongue relentless and skilled. One hand slid up to her breast, squeezing gently, thumb flicking her nipple again, and the sensation made her vision blur.

It was too much. It was perfect.

Her legs trembled around his shoulders, and she felt the tension building in her core, winding tighter and tighter as he worked her with devastating tenderness.

Her fingers found his hair, tangling in the soft strands as she rocked against his mouth, the pleasure cresting higher with every stroke of his tongue. Draco adjusted his grip on her thighs, pulling her closer, anchoring her to him as he continued his slow, unrelenting assault.

Her breath was coming in sharp gasps now, her body straining toward the edge. Every flick of his tongue over her clit, every suck, every teasing circle—it all sent her spiraling. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was doing it to her . Taking his time. Worshipping her.

“I—Draco—I think I’m—” she choked out, hips jerking as the wave built.

He didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down, dragging his tongue in firmer strokes, humming low in his throat, his eyes flicking up to watch her fall apart for him.

The tension snapped with a cry. Her whole body arched as the orgasm tore through her—white-hot and overwhelming. Her thighs clenched around his head, her fingers gripping his hair, her breath stuttering as pleasure flooded every inch of her.

He held her through it, mouth softening into gentle kisses as she rode the aftershocks, her body shivering beneath him.

When she finally relaxed, boneless and glowing, Draco pressed one last kiss to her inner thigh before slowly rising back up to hover over her.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her with a look that was equal parts tender and hungry.

“Still breathing?” he asked with a smirk, brushing a strand of hair from her flushed cheek.

She gave a breathless laugh. “Barely.”

“Good.” He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his tongue, which she found only aroused her further. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Draco kissed her deeply, his mouth possessive and sure, stealing the breath from her lungs. One hand cradled her jaw, his thumb brushing softly across her cheek as if she were something precious. He kissed her like he was rediscovering her, like he was falling in love with her over and over again.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes met hers—dark, molten, full of purpose. Without a word, he began to trail soft kisses down her body again, lips brushing her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. She sighed beneath him, feeling like absolute jelly yet excited for whatever was next to come. 

By the time he settled between her thighs, she was already aching.

His hand slid up her inner thigh, and then she felt the gentle press of a single, long finger slipping inside of her with minimal resistance due to how wet she was for him. Hermione gasped—his touch was slow, careful, exploring.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, voice low. “Merlin, you feel incredible. So warm and tight around my finger...”

She whimpered, hips lifting instinctively to meet the movement of his hand. Her body welcomed him eagerly, but it wasn’t enough—she needed more.

“Draco…”

His eyes flicked up to hers, full of heat. “Tell me what you need, love.”

She swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “More. Please.”

He rewarded her with a slow smile, and then she felt the delicious stretch as a second finger joined the first. Her mouth dropped open in a gasp.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his free hand sliding up to rest on her belly, grounding her. “Just relax for me.”

He began to move his fingers, curling them slowly with each thrust. It wasn’t long before he found the spot deep inside her that made her cry out, her entire body jolting in pleasure.

“There you are,” he breathed, pressing again, and again, each stroke sending sparks shooting through her.

Her thighs trembled, and he adjusted his angle just slightly, keeping the pressure steady as his thumb drifted up to stroke her clit—soft, teasing circles that had her writhing beneath him, panting, moaning, completely undone.

“Gods, Hermione,” he groaned, watching her come apart. “You’re so perfect like this. I want to watch you come on my fingers, darling. Let me see you fall apart.”

It didn’t take long.

Her release crested fast and hard, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as pleasure pulsed through her in waves. Her body clenched tight around his fingers, hips rocking helplessly as she rode the high, completely at his mercy.

He didn’t stop until she was trembling, her breaths ragged, her body spent and glowing.

Draco slowly withdrew his fingers, eyes glued to her as if he’d just witnessed something sacred. He brought his fingers to his lips and sucked them clean, groaning low in his throat as he tasted her again.

“You’re absolutely exquisite,” he murmured, voice thick with need.

She could barely register what he was saying anymore. Her mind was too hazy, body trembling and oversensitive from the waves of pleasure he’d already given her. But beneath it all, one thought pulsed loud and clear.

She wanted him. Now.

She reached up with shaking hands and began to unbutton his shirt, fingers fumbling slightly in her urgency. Draco chuckled low in his throat but didn’t stop her, just watched her with a look that made her feel completely undone.

When she parted the fabric, revealing his pale, ridiculously toned chest—lined with faint, scattered scars—she leaned in to press a kiss to his sternum, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath her lips. Her hands slid lower, exploring the firm planes of his abdomen, until she reached the undeniable strain pressing against the front of his trousers. Her breath caught, heart thudding as anticipation curled low in her belly.

She unfastened his belt and unzipped him with slow precision, her eyes flicking up to his as she pushed his trousers down his hips. He wiggled out of them fully, and now only his boxer briefs remained, barely containing the thick outline of him.

Hermione reached out, brushing her hand against the bulge, and felt how hard—and big —he was. The heat of him radiated through the thin fabric, and just the feel of it sent a fresh rush of desire pooling low in her belly.

Draco hissed softly at her touch, his muscles tensing beneath her fingers.

Biting her lip, she moved to tug the briefs down his thighs, and when his cock was finally free, she froze.

Her eyes widened.

Oh.

Pansy hadn’t been exaggerating.

He was—well—substantial. Thick, long, flushed at the tip, and already leaking. She blinked, a little dazed, as her thoughts scrambled to catch up.

Draco let out a soft laugh and leaned in to kiss her, clearly enjoying the stunned expression on her face. His lips were warm and familiar, and it helped ground her again, pulling her out of her head and back into the moment.

She felt him press against her hip—hard, heavy, desperate. Her hand drifted between them, wrapping around the base of him, and she marveled at the weight of him in her palm. She stroked gently, teasingly, enjoying the way he groaned into her mouth.

But then he caught her wrist, gently but firmly, and pulled her hand away.

“If you keep doing that,” he rasped, voice strained with restraint, “I’m going to come in your hand. And that’s not how I want our first time to go.”

She nodded wordlessly, and Draco smiled, brushing a soft kiss to her lips—gentle, sweet, grounding. Then he pulled back slightly, rising to his knees above her. One of his hands came to rest just below her navel, warm and steady.

He whispered the contraceptive charm, his voice low and sure, and she felt the soft hum of magic spread across her lower belly, comforting and protective, like a shield laced with warmth. She exhaled slowly, feeling safe with him.

“There’s another charm,” he said gently, his thumb brushing across her skin. “It’ll numb you—just a little. It won’t last long, but it can keep it from hurting when I… when your hymen breaks. You might feel less sensation at first, but it’ll pass.”

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding again. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

“I know, love.” He dipped down and kissed her again, then whispered the charm against her skin.

She felt the magic bloom again—subtle and warm, a faint tingling sensation that settled low in her core and radiated outward. The tension in her body eased slightly, replaced by a calming sense of anticipation.

Draco positioned himself between her thighs, his cock thick and flushed as he guided it to her folds. He didn’t enter her yet—just rubbed himself slowly along her slit, coating himself in her arousal. The head of his cock dragged gently across her clit, and she cried out softly, her hips twitching upward.

He grinned against her skin. “Reckon I could make you come again without even putting it in,” he murmured, voice thick with admiration.

Hermione couldn’t even form words. She nodded helplessly, lost in the sensation, her body arching beneath him, chasing more.

“So responsive,” he praised, kissing her collarbone. “Every little touch… you’re so bloody perfect.”

She gasped as he continued to tease her clit with the head of his cock, sliding slowly, back and forth, drawing more slick from her body with every pass. Her legs trembled, and just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he shifted, nudging gently at her entrance.

“I’m going to go slow,” he promised. “Just tell me if you need me to stop.”

She nodded, meeting his eyes with quiet trust.

Then he began to push in—slow, steady pressure parting her as he entered. She felt a deep stretch, the fullness almost overwhelming, but the charm dulled any sharp edge. There was pressure, yes, but not pain—just the sense of something giving way inside her.

He paused. “You alright?”

She nodded again, voice caught in her throat. “Keep going.”

He pushed a little deeper, and she felt something tense inside her, and then release. It didn’t hurt. It was more like a shift, a threshold passed. His expression was tender, focused entirely on her.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Another slow push, and he sank deeper still, though not all the way. She gasped, overwhelmed by the fullness.

“I feel… so full,” she breathed.

“I know, love,” he murmured, stroking her hip. “The charm’s still working—your body’s adjusting.”

“But I want to feel you,” she said softly. “All of you. It’s too much and not enough… Please undo the charm.”

Draco shook his head gently. “Not yet. Let it wear off a little longer. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

And then, with one last slow thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.

Hermione gasped at the stretch, the pressure, the unbelievable fullness. He held still inside her, giving her time, his hands caressing her sides, his lips brushing hers.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against her mouth, kissing her deeply as her body slowly adjusted to him.

He stayed still, buried to the hilt as Hermione clung to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, breath shallow and fast against his neck. She felt stretched to her limit, but the magic dulled the sharp edges, leaving only a dull pressure and a growing ache—not painful, just intense.

Draco kissed her slowly, deeply, grounding her in the warmth of his mouth and the steadiness of his presence. His fingers stroked her sides, her waist, the curve of her hip—anchoring her, reminding her that he was there, that she was safe.

“Doing so well, sweetheart,” he murmured between kisses. “So perfect around me. I can feel you gripping me—tight as a vice.”

A soft whimper escaped her throat, and he smiled against her cheek, pressing another kiss just below her ear.

“Do you want me to move?” he asked gently, his voice a little strained now, like holding still was taking everything he had.

She nodded, whispering, “Yes. Please…”

He pulled back slowly, almost halfway out, and then pushed in again with a careful, rolling thrust. Her breath hitched. The pressure inside her shifted, different now—fuller, deeper, more deliberate. And though the charm still dulled some of the sensation, little flutters of pleasure began to ripple through her.

He moved again—slow, steady—and she arched beneath him, body beginning to open to him more easily with each stroke.

“That’s it,” he murmured, watching her closely. “Let me love you, Hermione.”

She moaned softly, nails dragging lightly down his back as she nodded her head.

The charm was beginning to fade, and she could feel more now—his length dragging along her inner walls, the subtle ache giving way to pleasure, growing stronger with every slow thrust. Her body clenched around him, seeking more.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath ragged. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, “I’m not going to last with you squeezing me like this.”

She smiled faintly, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him deeper.

“Then don’t hold back,” she whispered. “I want to feel everything .”

He groaned, deep and guttural, and picked up the pace slightly—still gentle, but firmer now, each thrust hitting a little deeper, rubbing against the spot inside her that made her toes curl.

She gasped, her head tipping back against the pillows. “Draco—there—right there—”

“I’ve got you,” he affirmed, voice tight. “I know exactly what you need.”

And then he reached between them, fingers finding her clit once again—soft circles, timed perfectly with each precisely angled stroke. She shattered.

The orgasm rolled through her unexpectedly, stronger than the last, her body jerking beneath him, thighs trembling as she cried out his name. Her walls clenched around him again and again, and he cursed under his breath.

“That’s it—fuck, that’s it—you’re so perfect when you come for me…”

Hermione was still shuddering beneath him, her body pulsing around his cock, when Draco groaned—a low, broken sound from deep in his chest. Her climax had undone him. He was barely holding on.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he rasped, his rhythm faltering as her inner muscles clenched around him again, milking him. “You feel… so fucking good…”

She pulled him closer, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders, pressing her lips to his neck as he began to thrust harder, yet still carefully, now driven by something primal. The tenderness remained, but it was laced with hunger now, the sharp edge of urgency.

“I’m close,” he whispered against her ear. “Fuck—I’m so close, love…”

She kissed his jaw, his cheek, then found his lips. “I want you to,” she breathed, trembling. “Come inside me.”

That did it.

With a strangled groan, he pushed deep, burying himself to the hilt one final time. His body tensed above her, muscles taut, and then she felt the warmth of him spilling into her, pulse after pulse. He moaned her name into her skin like a prayer, hips twitching as he emptied himself, undone completely.

He stayed there, chest heaving, his weight braced on his elbows, forehead pressed to hers as the waves of his orgasm finally faded.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The only sounds in the room were their ragged breaths and the slow return of their heartbeats to something resembling normal.

Draco smiled first—soft, blissed out, in awe.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, voice hoarse with emotion. “Really, truly mine.”

Hermione nodded, blinking up at him with glassy eyes. “And you’re mine.”

Draco kissed her lips sweetly, taking his time before slowly easing out of her and pressing a lingering kiss to her temple as he did. Hermione winced faintly at the emptiness, but the ache was fading already, replaced by a warm, sated heaviness that settled deep in her limbs.

He murmured something soft and affectionate as he rose, disappearing for a moment into the bathroom. She let her eyes flutter closed, body sprawled across the tangled sheets, too relaxed to move. When he returned, he brought a damp cloth and cleaned her gently, taking care not to startle her, his touch reverent even now. She wondered why he didn’t use a spell, but decided she preferred him doing this himself; it felt more intimate. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded as he tossed the cloth aside and slid back into bed beside her.

He pulled the sheets over them both, then tucked her into his chest, one arm curling tightly around her waist as her head rested in the crook of his shoulder. His scent was familiar—clean, sharp, distinctly him—and it soothed the last frayed edges of her nerves.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, his breath stirring her hair.

“I’m perfect,” she murmured, lips brushing his collarbone. “You?”

He chuckled lightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Completely wrecked. And completely in love with you.”

She smiled into his skin, her heart full, her body still humming from everything they’d shared. The room had quieted, the fire in the hearth casting soft flickers of light across the walls. Safe. Warm. Hers.

Hermione let out a long sigh, her fingers lazily tracing circles on his scarred chest as sleep began to pull her under.

“I love you, Draco,” she whispered.

He held her closer. “I love you more.”

And with that, Hermione drifted off, wrapped in his arms, in his scent, and in the soft certainty that she was exactly where she belonged.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hermione woke feeling absurdly content, still tucked into Draco’s arms. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up smiling like this—maybe never, if she was being honest. Last night had been the best night of her life.

The wedding had been beautiful, absurdly over the top, yes, but also surprisingly intimate. And Draco… Draco had been everything she could’ve hoped for in a partner—sweet, patient, attentive. He’d made her feel cherished. So, of course, part of her kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She shook off the thought and gently slid out of bed. He was still sound asleep, and her bladder was making its own urgent demands. She found her knickers and slipped them back on before grabbing the bustier off the floor and deciding against it. No need to keep looking like a lingerie model for the next few hours, she’d prefer something more comfortable. Preferably something that didn’t scream I was thoroughly shagged last night.

Tiptoeing into his closet, she expected a row of button-downs and maybe an old Quidditch jersey. What she found instead was… a showroom. Massive, well-lit, and lined with sleek rows of dragon-hide shoes, tailored suits, pressed shirts, and a glass case filled with expensive watches and cufflinks. It was less of a closet and more of a personal menswear boutique. Honestly, it could double as a luxury flat.

She was too distracted by all the options to notice the portrait at the far end of the closet. So when a throat cleared behind her, she assumed Draco had followed her in.

“Sorry,” she said, not turning around, “just needed a shirt. Do you have one that doesn’t look so gods-damned expensive? Maybe an old Quidditch jumper?”

“Other side of the closet,” his familiar voice replied smoothly. “Top row, toward the back.”

She nodded and turned to find the sweater before freezing in place.

It wasn’t Draco standing there. It was, rather, a painting of him. A stunningly lifelike one. The portrait version stood casually, arms crossed, wearing an impeccable suit and a wicked grin. He was beautiful, just as her real husband was. 

“Granger,” he drawled, his eyes flicking over her bare chest. “I must say, your tits are absolutely divine. Same goes for your arse. Who knew that was hiding beneath your robes all those years?”

Hermione shrieked and instinctively covered her breasts. “How long have you been staring at me half-naked?!”

“The entire time you’ve been in here,” he said with a wink. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice me sooner. I’m hardly a miniature.”

Her eyes narrowed at the nearly life-sized portrait. “When were you made exactly?”

“About five months ago. He never mentioned me?”

She shook her head, still covering herself. The real Draco had kept a lot of things to himself, but this seemed… personal. Maybe even private. Should she even be talking to his portrait? Perhaps this was something he wanted to keep to himself… 

“I see the wheels turning, love. Don’t make a whole thing of it,” Portrait!Draco said breezily. “He just likes talking to me. Helps him think. Easier than spilling everything to Theo.”

“Is that… often?”

He shrugged. “I play therapist. He tells me things about you. It’s a fair trade.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with me, as well?”

He smirked. “He’s in love with you. And I’m an echo of him, so yes, of course I am. Sadly, I haven’t had the opportunity to enjoy you myself.”

Hermione blinked, then softened. “Would it help if I had a portrait made too? So you could visit her sometimes?”

His expression shifted—less smug, more sincere. “I’d really like that, Granger. Thank you.”

Touched by the unexpected vulnerability, she stepped forward and pressed her palm to the canvas. He mirrored her gesture, and for a strange, silent moment, it felt almost real.

“Is it terribly dull, being a portrait?” she asked him.

“Not really. I don’t spend all my time in here. The manor has hundreds of paintings—I visit a few exotic scenes, talk to some of our more tolerable ancestors. I’ve learned a lot about the family in a short time.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder if Narcissa’s painting is somewhere in the manor. Draco’s never mentioned it.”

“She’s here,” Portrait!Draco confirmed. “Two versions, actually. One from when she was seventeen, another from just after I was born. He doesn’t speak to either.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think he’s ready. He knows it’s not really her. It would just reopen wounds he’s trying to let heal.”

Hermione nodded slowly. She wasn’t sure whether speaking to a portrait of a loved one who passed would be comforting or painful. The enchantment supposedly drew from a person’s essence. A magical echo of themselves from that point in time. Maybe that’s why Draco enjoyed talking to his portrait so much, it was probably cathartic; the only person he could be his truest self with. Honestly, she could barely tell the difference between the two.

She wandered off to find the sweater, mind still whirring with the implications. Once she located it on a high shelf, she turned to slip it on.

“No chance you’ll flash me one last time before you put that on?” the portrait asked cheekily.

She walked back over, sweater in hand, and gave him a warning look. He just stared shamelessly at her bare breasts.

“Do you… wank in your frame?” she asked, half-teasing, half-serious.

He grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Do you even have all your… parts?”

He raised a brow. “Of course. I was painted a man, not a eunuch.”

She considered that. “And purely for academic interest—do you get aroused?”

He gave her a dry look. “Granger, I’m staring at you topless. Take a guess.”

“Fascinating,” she murmured. “Do you feel pain?”

He paused to think. “Not that I’ve noticed. Though I imagine if you set me on fire, I’d feel it.”

“No chance of that,” she assured him, finally tugging on the oversized sweater. “You’re too amusing.”

“Good to know I’m entertaining,” the portrait smirked at her. “While you’re here, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,” she said, dragging a small chaise closer to the canvas before sitting down.

“Would you have married the Weasel if he hadn’t died in the war?”

She blinked, surprised, then let the question settle. It wasn’t one she hadn’t considered before—of course she had—but not since she’d been with Draco. Not seriously. The answer was more complicated than a simple yes or no.

“Maybe,” she admitted. “I don’t know if it would’ve worked, honestly… He changed so much toward the end. We both did. I loved him, and I know he loved me too, but it was hard. We fought all the time. And he never really forgave me for kissing Harry.”

“Did you forgive him for being an absolute twat with you?”

She thought about it for a beat, then gave a small shrug. “I didn’t hold it against him. Even now... I think things might’ve been different if the war hadn’t dragged on so long. He told me once that he’d killed a few Death Eaters… and it haunted him more than he could admit.”

Portrait!Draco nodded, almost respectfully. “Didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Why do you ask? About whether I’d have married him,” she asked softly.

He tilted his head. “He talks to me sometimes, about how things feel too good to be true. That eventually, the universe is going to realize he wasn’t meant to be happy. That he doesn’t deserve you, and that maybe Weasley will come back from the dead and take you away from him.”

She shook her head firmly. “Even if that happened—which it won’t—it wouldn’t change anything. I made a vow. I’m his wife now.”

Portrait!Draco gave her a small, satisfied smile. “That’s exactly what I told him, sweetness. Don’t worry. He’ll get over the self-doubt eventually. Probably around the same time he realizes you’re not going anywhere.” He paused, then added cheekily, “So… did you give him the shag of his life last night?”

Her face flushed, and she ducked her gaze, lips twitching. “I think he enjoyed himself.”

“I did,” came the familiar voice from behind.

She turned to find the real Draco standing in the doorway, dressed only in his boxer briefs, hair tousled, eyes warm. He held his arms open, and she rose instinctively, running toward him and falling into his embrace. He wrapped her up tightly in his arms, nuzzling his face into her hair with a deep sigh.

“Good morning, wife.”

“Good morning.” She smiled against his chest. “Sorry—I needed a shirt.”

“You’re welcome to anything in my wardrobe, darling,” he murmured. “Especially if it’s in Slytherin green.”

She giggled and pushed up onto her toes to press a kiss to his mouth. When she pulled away, he was looking at her with soft, adoring eyes.

“Oh gods, I forgot—I need to pee. Is there an extra toothbrush in the bath?”

“I set one aside for you already, love.”

She beamed at him, kissed his cheek, and after waving goodbye to his portrait, dashed off to the loo.

***

“Just had to talk to her, didn’t you?” Draco said, disapproving as he eyed his portrait.

Portrait!Draco shrugged, entirely unapologetic as he crossed his arms.

“She came in here. What exactly did you expect?”

“That you’d piss off and give her some privacy.”

“What, and pass up the chance to admire her naked? Don’t be daft.”

Draco rolled his eyes and turned to grab a fresh shirt from the wardrobe.

“She’s gorgeous, by the way. Absolutely perfect,” the portrait added, almost dreamily.

“I know,” Draco muttered as he buttoned up his crisp white shirt.

“Blow your load on the first stroke?” his portrait teased with a wicked grin.

“Almost. She’s so bloody tight… better than I ever dreamed.” He smirked to himself, abandoning his trousers and heading toward the closet door with a different idea in mind. “Might just have her again before breakfast.”

“She said she’d get a portrait made of herself—for me. So I can have my own Granger to visit,” Portrait!Draco called after him.

Draco paused in the doorway and glanced back, brow arched.

“So you can shag a version of her and skip out on talking to me when I need you? How exactly does this benefit me?”

Portrait!Draco glared.

“I could always stop showing up entirely, you know. I don’t have to chat with you.”

“And I could always have you burned,” Draco replied evenly. “Poof. No more you.”

The portrait rolled his eyes and waved him off.

“Go shag your wife, you prick. And send her in here again sometimes, would you? She’s much better company.”

***

Hermione finished in the bathroom and walked back into the room. Draco was seated on the chaise in front of his bed, now wearing a white button-up shirt with several buttons undone. He tapped the space next to him, beckoning her over. She smiled and crossed the room to him, settling beside him and lifting her legs to rest across his lap. Her hands found his arms while his settled at her waist. She couldn’t help but notice how strong his thighs looked beneath her and how the morning light highlighted the chiseled lines of his body.

She then looked around and really took in his room for the first time. The walls were painted a pale blue, trimmed with gold molding that shimmered faintly in the sunlight pouring through towering windows draped in rich, pleated velvet. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting soft reflections on the marble fireplace and polished floors. The bed was grand, with a curved velvet headboard in a deep ocean blue, flanked by delicate nightstands topped with crystal lamps. A pair of armchairs sat on a thick navy rug in the center of the room, and across the way, a writing desk faced a balcony where sheer curtains moved gently in the breeze. Just behind the wall where the bed sat was an attached sitting room—elegant and quiet.

She’d half expected his room to be dark, maybe green or black, not this light, refined blue. She could see his mother’s influence in the space and wondered if it had looked this way when he was a child—his childhood bedroom.

Draco nuzzled into her neck, trailing light kisses along her skin that made her squirm a little in his lap.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Hmmm… A bit sore. A sort of reminder that I’m no longer a virgin,” she replied playfully.

He looked up at her and smirked. “Too sore to go again?”

She blushed and bit her lip, warmth already pooling low in her belly. “Perhaps we should wait a bit… Is that okay?”

“Of course, my darling. Although I’m happy to please you in other ways besides putting my cock in your quim.” He licked his lips, not hiding his intentions.

She blushed deeper and buried her face in his shoulder, suddenly recalling just how thoroughly he’d brought her off with his tongue last night.

“I haven’t showered yet,” she murmured.

“You say that as if it’s supposed to stop me.”

She pulled back to look at him. “I’d prefer to be… fresher. Down there.”

He smirked again. “If that’s what you want, darling. Though I’d happily lick your quim clean of my come if you’d let me.”

The thought shot through her like lightning, making her cheeks burn hotter. He was so godsdamned sexy. How were they ever going to leave this bedroom now that she knew exactly what he could do to her?

“Draco… was I… good, last night?” she asked hesitantly. “I want you to be as pleased as I am with you.”

He froze, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“My darling,” he said firmly, “last night was the best night of my life—and quite frankly, the best shag as well. You were perfect. I couldn’t be more pleased with you. Don’t you ever think anything less of yourself.” He paused, his voice softening. “I’ve never made love to anyone before. I’ve never wanted to. You’re the first—and the last—to ever have that from me.”

She smiled back at him, happiness flooding her at his words. Merlin, he was sweet and romantic. How did she get so lucky?

She nodded and leaned in to kiss him. He threaded his fingers into her hair, deepening the kiss with a low, contented sound in his throat. His mouth moved against hers with purpose—slow but intense—until she felt dizzy with the heat building between them.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid his hands beneath her thighs and lifted her effortlessly, carrying her the short distance to the bed. She giggled softly, clinging to him as he laid her down at the edge, her back sinking into the plush duvet. He knelt on the floor in front of her, his hands smoothing down her legs before gently parting them.

His gaze flicked up to hers, full of reverence and hunger. She bit her lip, chest rising and falling, heart pounding. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her knee, then lower, trailing his mouth along the inside of her thigh with deliberate slowness. The warmth of his breath, the scrape of his stubble—it all made her shiver.

When he reached the edge of her panties, he paused, hooking his fingers around the delicate lace and slowly easing them down. She lifted her hips to help, nerves and arousal tangling deliciously in her gut. He slid them past her knees, then let them fall to the floor beside him.

He didn’t rush. He kissed the soft skin of her inner thighs, alternating sides, savoring her. By the time his mouth hovered just over her center, she was already trembling, one hand tangled in the sheets, the other resting in his hair.

“Okay?” he murmured, voice low and rough with want.

She nodded, unable to speak, her breath catching.

He smiled softly, then dipped his head.

The first touch of his tongue made her gasp. He started slow, teasing strokes that had her legs tightening around his shoulders. He moaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, and began working her in earnest—licking, tasting, learning what made her hips jerk and her breath stutter. One of his hands came up to rest on her stomach, grounding her as she writhed beneath the attention of his mouth.

She lost track of time, lost track of everything but the fire he was building inside her with each deliberate, reverent stroke.

And just as her fingers clenched tighter in his hair, her voice catching in a half-formed plea, they heard a knock at the door.

Draco didn’t flinch.

He kept going, his mouth relentless, as though he hadn’t heard a thing.

“Breakfast is in thirty minutes, lovebirds,” came Theo’s unmistakably smug voice through the door. “Please show up so I can say goodbye before you two run off to France.”

Hermione’s head fell back against the bed with a strangled sound between a laugh and a moan. “Okay, Theo!” she called out, her voice breathy and uneven, barely managing the words through clenched teeth and gasping breath.

Outside the door, Theo chuckled and walked away, but Hermione could hardly register it. Draco hadn’t stopped. If anything, the interruption had made him more determined, more focused—his hands tightening around her hips as he drew her closer to his mouth, dragging her back toward the peak she’d been so close to.

She gave up on words, on decorum, on anything but the heat he was building with every stroke of his tongue.

The world fell away again, and she came hard.

Her back arched off the bed, a cry catching in her throat as pleasure surged through her like a tidal wave. Her fingers fisted in Draco’s hair, hips trembling beneath the strength of her release. He didn’t stop—not right away. He eased her down gently, slowing his movements, his hands steady on her thighs as he gave her one last kiss just above her sensitive center.

Hermione collapsed against the mattress, flushed and breathless, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. Draco looked up at her, lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction—and something else too. Devotion. Adoration, she realized. The kind that made her stomach flutter even after the high had passed.

“You’re wicked,” she whispered, voice still shaky.

He smirked as he climbed up onto the bed beside her, stretching out and pulling her into his arms. “You say that like it’s a complaint.”

She buried her face in his chest, laughing softly. “Definitely not a complaint.”

He kissed the top of her head and held her close, their bodies tangled together on the silk sheets, the world outside the door forgotten for just a little longer.

***

After they had showered separately in their own rooms—Hermione insisting they make it to breakfast on time—and dressed properly, they made their way down to the informal dining room. Of course, “informal” at Malfoy Manor still meant gilded sconces and crystal, just a slightly shorter table.

Waiting for them were Theo, Pansy, and, to Hermione’s surprise, Neville, who had apparently stayed the night as well. Pansy had already pilfered something from Hermione’s closet, which she’d discovered that morning was fully stocked with designer clothing. Neville, for his part, seemed to have borrowed clothes from Theo—fortunately, they were about the same height and build.

Hermione greeted Theo warmly, hugging him. “Where’s your witch from last night?”

“She was a lovely shag,” he murmured into her ear, “but I escorted her to the Floo early this morning. If you ever meet someone I’m actually seeing, assume it’s serious.”

She shook her head with a smile and released him to greet Neville.

“You look… rested, Neville,” she teased.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “I hope it’s okay that I stayed the night. Pansy said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Hermione placed a hand on his arm and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Of course it is. You’re welcome here anytime.”

Draco, seated at the head of the table, gave a distracted nod of agreement while sipping his coffee and reading the Prophet. Pansy leaned over his shoulder to peek at the paper.

“Wedding of the Century: The Malfoys Are Truly in Love,” Pansy read aloud with barely restrained glee. “The press is eating it up. You two really sold it last night.”

She preened and floated over to the buffet to select a scone and some clotted cream. Neville joined her at the dining table when she sat down, resting his arm along the back of her chair. It was sweet, Hermione thought, how comfortable they already seemed together.

Hermione took her place beside Draco after he stood to help her into her seat. She chose to eat a bowl of porridge and added fresh strawberries and honey. Theo slid into the seat across from her, a full English breakfast on his plate. Together, they peered at the paper in Draco’s hands, watching the enchanted photograph of Draco dipping her into a kiss just after the ceremony. They really did look happy—and it warmed her, knowing the happiness was real.

“You did it, Drake,” Theo said playfully. “Whole wizarding world’s jealous of you, mate.”

Draco smirked, folding the paper and setting it aside. He reached for Hermione’s hand and brought her knuckles to his lips for a kiss.

“Let them be jealous,” he murmured, his gaze locked on hers. “I’m the only one who gets to have you.”

She blushed and looked down, the corners of her mouth tugging up despite herself.

“Stayed up all night shagging, did you two?” Theo asked casually, sipping his coffee with a raised brow.

Hermione gave him a glare. “Don’t be crude, Theo. We’re having breakfast.”

“Oh, please,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes. “We all stayed up the whole night shagging. It’s hardly a secret.” She leaned a little closer to Neville, who was clearly trying not to laugh.

Just then, footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Lucius entered the room. As always, he was impeccably dressed, his long blond hair tied back with a velvet ribbon. Despite the intimacy of the moment, Hermione suddenly felt nervous, like she was trespassing in a space that wasn’t quite hers yet. The manor didn’t feel like home—not yet.

Lucius gave a small bow when their eyes met, then nodded to his son and the others.

“Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy. Son. Miss Parkinson. Theo. Longbottom,” he greeted, hands folded neatly behind his back. “I trust you all slept well.”

“Father,” Draco replied simply, barely glancing up.

“Morning, Lucy,” Theo chimed in cheerfully. “I, for one, slept divinely—in between a very luscious witch’s ample bosom.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. She stared at Theo, horrified that he was being so… Theo… in front of Lucius Malfoy. But Lucius didn’t even blink.

“Ah,” he said, “so there weren’t any handsome young men at the party worth buggering. Pity.” He offered Theo a mock look of sympathy before strolling to the buffet to fix himself a plate.

“There were,” Theo replied breezily. “But this one stole my attention. Kept staring at me with bedroom eyes across the ballroom. Practically had to shove her through the Floo this morning to get her to leave.”

“If there’s a next time, invite her for breakfast,” Lucius said as he set his plate at the far end of the table and took his seat. “It’s very ungentlemanly not to offer something to eat before you send her off. I’d wager you don’t even know her name.”

Theo furrowed his brow. “It was Meredith, I think… no, wait… Margaret? No—Maggie. She said to call her Maggie.”

“You’re horrible,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “You are absolutely not allowed around any of my single female friends.”

“What about your male ones?” Pansy muttered. “He’s just as bad with men.”

“Thankfully, as far as I know, none of them would be interested.”

“You’d be surprised,” Theo replied with a wicked grin.

“You’re incorrigible,” Hermione sighed.

Theo just shrugged, unbothered.

“If we’re quite done discussing Theo’s whorish proclivities,” Lucius interjected smoothly, “might I ask what your plans are for the honeymoon?”

Hermione looked to Draco, who nodded.

“We’ll Floo to the château in France this afternoon,” he said. “I imagine we’ll stay a week, maybe two—depending on what my wife prefers.”

“Provence is lovely this time of year,” Pansy added. “I’m sure you’ll want to stay longer.”

Hermione perked up with an idea she hoped Draco wouldn’t mind too much.

“Perhaps we should invite our friends to join us for the second week?” she suggested, flashing him an encouraging smile. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Draco stared at her, clearly unconvinced.

“Come on, Drake,” Theo chimed in. “You’ll have thoroughly shagged her by the week’s end, and the château is big enough for everyone to get lost in anyway.”

Draco sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’d love to work on my tan,” Pansy said breezily. She turned to Neville with a sly smirk. “Do you have any plans, Longbottom?”

“I told you to call me Neville,” he replied, leaning in to kiss her temple. “And no—I’m free.”

Pansy gave him a pleased little smile and went back to her scone.

“Perfect,” Hermione said brightly. “I’ll invite Ginny and Harry. I’m sure he can get a few days off work, and Ginny’s not starting the season with the Harpies until the end of the month.”

Draco groaned quietly. “Darling, it’s our honeymoon. Not a group trip.”

“Yes, and we’ll still have the first week to ourselves. That’s plenty of alone time,” she said sweetly, knowing she was pushing it.

“It’s not nearly long enough,” he muttered, realizing he was losing this battle.

“Now, now, Draco,” Lucius said smoothly, not looking up from buttering his toast. “You’ll find that a happy wife makes for a happy life. Let her bring her friends. Make it a bit of an adventure.”

Hermione gave Lucius an appreciative glance. Draco, in turn, scowled at both of them.

***

Once breakfast concluded, Draco tugged at Hermione’s hand, clearly eager to retreat upstairs to his room. But she gently pulled back.

“Go on ahead without me?” she asked. “I’d like a word with your father first.”

Draco eyed her warily, brows knitting. “Are you sure?”

She nodded with a small smile, and he sighed, leaning in to kiss her forehead before Disapparating.

Lucius stood a few feet away, watching her with mild curiosity, clearly unsure what she wished to speak to him about, but willing to oblige.

“It’s a lovely morning,” he said after a beat. “Might we take a stroll while we talk?”

Hermione nodded and followed him through the manor doors into the garden. Ever the gentleman, he offered his arm, and she accepted it. The gravel crunched lightly beneath their feet as they walked beneath sculpted arches of blooming roses and tall hedges trimmed to symmetry.

“How did you find the wedding yesterday?” Lucius asked politely.

“It was wonderful—really. Better than I ever imagined. Pansy’s a gifted planner.”

“Yes,” he said with a trace of fondness, “we were fortunate to have her assistance indeed.”

Hermione felt a flutter of awkwardness—being alone with Lucius for the first time—and yet, she was determined. She wanted to see past the mask, to find the man beneath the polished exterior. She believed he was in there, somewhere—guarded, but not unreachable.

“Lucius…”

“Mrs. Malfoy,” he replied automatically.

She gave him a look. “Please, call me Hermione.” She hesitated, then added, “When you say ‘Mrs. Malfoy,’ it sounds like you’re talking about Narcissa.”

A flicker of discomfort passed through her, and she looked away. “Sorry… I didn’t mean that to sound careless.”

He patted her hand gently where it rested in the crook of his arm. “You may speak of her with me. I have… more of a handle on my grief than Draco does.”

“That’s partially why I wanted to talk,” she admitted.

They reached a small stone bench nestled under the shade of a flowering tree. She gestured toward it, and he nodded, leading her over before they both sat.

Hermione leaned in slightly, heart fluttering. His grey eyes—so like Draco’s—watched her steadily, but there was something deeper in his gaze. A kind of restrained sorrow that tugged at her empathy.

“I know your relationship with Draco is… strained,” she began gently, “and I’d like to help. If I can.”

Lucius raised a brow, clearly surprised by the offer.

“Draco has every right to feel the way he does,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter. “I’ve made a great many mistakes… ones I’ll pay for the rest of my life.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It broke her heart a little. Lucius had done terrible things, yes—but he had also turned away from his past and had tried to be better. She believed in redemption, in second chances—no one was completely blameless. If she could give him a chance, perhaps Draco could too.

Hermione reached out slowly and placed her hand over his, where it rested on the bench. He tilted his head slightly but didn’t pull away.

“I know you made mistakes. You were once someone I thought of as an enemy,” she said honestly. “But I’ve seen the change in you—and I know it hasn’t been easy. I don’t think Narcissa would want you and Draco to stay at odds. What was the point of surviving the war if you can’t count on your family afterward?” She shook her head. “Since she’s not here to bring you back together, I’ll have to try on her behalf.”

Lucius’s expression softened. For a long moment, he said nothing—just watched her with quiet appreciation. Then he gave the faintest smile and nodded.

“You truly are a remarkable girl,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop being impressed by you.”

Hermione flushed slightly at the compliment and offered a quiet smile in return, warmth blooming unexpectedly in her chest. She withdrew her hand and smoothed her skirt, a small gesture to ground herself. There was something in the way Lucius spoke—measured, sincere—that reminded her of Draco, the same quiet ability to make her feel seen, appreciated.

She leaned back on the bench, letting her gaze drift across the perfectly manicured hedges, the marble fountains trickling softly in the distance. The breeze tugged at the loose strands of her hair, cool against her cheeks, and for a moment, the world felt calm. Steady. As if even here—at Malfoy Manor—she could begin to feel at home.

“What’s it like,” she asked after a beat, “growing up with so much wealth and privilege? I can’t imagine it.”

Lucius’s gaze followed hers to the gardens. “You don’t think about it when you’re young. It feels… normal. Everyone around you has the same. It wasn’t until I got to Hogwarts that I understood the differences.”

“When you first became a snob, you mean,” Hermione teased.

He turned his head toward her, one brow arching. “Perhaps that’s the word. Though if you can believe it, Draco was far more boastful than I ever was when he was younger. The Malfoy name alone was enough to let people know I was worth at least ten times what they were.”

Hermione tilted her head, thoughtful. “That must’ve made it hard to find real friends. If everyone just cared about your name, not you .”

Lucius was quiet a moment, the question seeming to settle over him. “Most people, yes. But not all. I made friends with Severus… he was something of a project, at first. I became a sort of mentor for him and later he became a confidant in return.”

“Despite him being a half-blood?”

“Yes,” Lucius said, his tone even. “Pure-bloods were already becoming uncommon, and he was in my House. I saw how James Potter and Sirius treated him. I encouraged him to fight back. He was brilliant, even then—tough. Never let anyone see him cry.”

He glanced down at his hands, a shadow flickering in his expression. “I fancied Narcissa the moment I saw her. She was a year behind me. We were friends for a long time before courting. She was always the closest person to me. Her sister Andromeda was too, for a time...”

Hermione watched him carefully. “And yet… you shunned her when she married Ted.”

“Yes,” Lucius admitted quietly. “I did. I couldn’t understand how she could go against our family’s traditions. Narcissa and I both loved her—but we didn’t believe we could defy our parents… so we stopped speaking to her. Another regret.”

“She spoke to Draco at the wedding,” Hermione offered gently. “She wants a relationship with him. Maybe… you should write to her.”

Lucius exhaled slowly. “After all this time? She’d likely return the owl unopened.”

“You don’t know that unless you try,” Hermione said, turning toward him. “Some people are willing to forgive—if you give them a reason to. If you try.”

Lucius was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed somewhere in the garden, on nothing in particular. A breeze rustled the hedges, and Hermione gave him time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost contemplative.

“I used to think I had all the time in the world to make things right. To fix what I broke. But life doesn’t wait for you to come to your senses. By the time I realized how much I’d lost it was already too late.”

Hermione looked over at him, her expression soft. “It’s not too late. You’re still here. You still have choices…and you can make the right ones.”

He turned to look at her again, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “You sound like Narcissa.”

She smiled gently. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He didn’t respond at first, but something in his face shifted—like a wall slowly lowering. “She was the best of this family,” he said quietly. “Stronger than anyone, smarter too... She carried the burden of our family’s reputation for years, protected Draco from things I didn’t see until too late… She would have liked you, you know.”

Hermione blinked, a little stunned. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said firmly. “She would’ve admired your strength. Your intelligence. Your unfailing kindness, even towards people that don’t deserve it like me...”

Hermione looked down at her hands in her lap, touched in a way she hadn’t expected. When she lifted her gaze again, she asked softly, “Do you ever talk to Draco about her?”

Lucius gave a small shake of his head. “Not as much as I should. He avoids it. I think he fears breaking apart if he lets himself remember too clearly.”

“That’s exactly why he needs to talk about her,” Hermione said gently. “He loved her so much, but he holds everything in—occludes way too much, so he doesn’t have to feel the pain of it all. I notice it even though he tries to hide it from me.”

Lucius exhaled through his nose. “He unfortunately learned that from me… And perhaps he’s right not to lean on me for support. I wasn’t the husband Narcissa deserved. I didn’t keep her safe. And I certainly wasn’t the father Draco needed. But I want to be better—for both of them.”

Hermione reached over again, squeezing his hand. “Then show him that. Don’t stop trying to reach him. He’s stubborn, but he needs his father; you’re all he has left.”

Lucius studied her for a moment, then nodded once. “You may be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

“I’m certainly the most persistent,” she said with a teasing smile.

That earned her the smallest chuckle—a dry, elegant sound she realized she hadn’t heard from him before. It was nice.

Just then, the faint sound of footsteps on gravel interrupted the quiet. They both turned to see Draco approaching from the path between two hedges, his silhouette sharp in the sunlight.

“There you are,” he said, tone casual, though his eyes flicked between them with veiled curiosity. “I was beginning to think you’d run off with my father.”

Lucius smirked. “Tempting. But alas, I’d prefer not to be the cause of patricide, son.”

Hermione laughed softly as she stood, brushing her hands down her skirt. “We were just having a bit of a heart-to-heart.”

Draco’s eyes lingered on her, warm and searching, then briefly flicked to his father. “Everything alright?”

Hermione stepped beside him and took his hand. “Better than alright.”

Lucius rose to his feet with grace and nodded to them both. “Enjoy France. And do take the second week to rest. Friends or not.”

Hermione gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Lucius.”

Draco gave a tight nod but didn’t speak. Not yet.

As they turned to walk back toward the house, Hermione leaned into Draco’s side. “I think he’s trying,” she murmured.

Draco glanced back once over his shoulder, watching his father disappear around the hedge.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m just not sure I’m ready to forgive him yet.”

“You don’t have to be ready,” she said. “You just have to be willing to try.”

Draco gave her hand a squeeze. “You make that sound so easy.”

Hermione smiled. “It’s not. But neither is being a Malfoy.”

He huffed a soft laugh and pressed a kiss to her temple. “That’s why I married a Granger.”

Chapter Text

Hermione took in the stunning château and felt her breath catch. The property and grounds were nothing short of breathtaking. It wasn’t quite as enormous or imposing as the Manor, but it was still large and picturesque, like a small castle tucked into the countryside.

Nestled in the heart of Provence in the south of France, the ivy-covered stone façade shimmered under the afternoon sun. Its grey slate roof was crowned with four turreted towers, giving it the unmistakable air of something out of a storybook. Lush gardens unfurled from the base of the steps, perfectly manicured and arranged in elegant symmetry—rose bushes blooming in soft pinks and whites, lavender stretching in neat rows of purple, and cheerful bursts of yellow marigolds lining the gravel paths.

At the center of the grounds stood a wide, circular fountain. Water sparkled as it cascaded gently around a bronze statue of a mermaid, her arms reaching skyward in a graceful arc as though beckoning the clouds. The soft burble of water mixed with the floral scent in the air, creating a peaceful sort of magic Hermione hadn’t realized she needed.

She could hardly believe this was their private honeymoon destination.

“Draco…” she said softly, eyes wide. “This place is… It’s like something out of a dream.”

He stepped beside her, hands tucked in his pockets, surveying the grounds with a small, proud smirk. “My great-grandfather bought it decades ago as a summer home, though no one’s really lived here in years—just the elves who keep it running. I thought we could use the privacy. And the weather.”

She turned to him, her gaze warm. “It’s perfect.”

“Good,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “Because I intend to have you in every room of this place before the week’s up.”

She snorted, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. “Charming.”

“Just a personal goal,” he said, completely unrepentant.

Perhaps it wasn’t the worst idea… But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t going to make him work for it a little. 

As they reached the steps leading back inside, Draco’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back, the grand front doors swung open on their own. A cheerful house-elf in a tidy bow tie appeared with a deep bow.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,” he squeaked. “We’ve prepared the master suite for your stay. If there is anything you be needing, just call for Tibsy.”

Hermione smiled warmly. “Thank you, Tibsy. Everything looks beautiful.”

The elf beamed with pride and vanished along with their luggage with a loud pop , leaving the doors open to reveal a sunlit foyer inside.

Draco extended his hand toward her like a true gentleman. “Shall we, madam?”

She laced her fingers with his, her heart fluttering. “Lead the way.”

Draco began the tour, starting with the main floor. The château had an elegance to it, refined but not ostentatious like the Manor. It still carried the air of wealth, but there was warmth here too—a softness to the place that made it feel like it could actually be a home.

There were eight bedrooms, including a spacious master suite with tall windows overlooking the vineyards and a luxurious marble bathroom complete with an enormous soaking tub.

The formal sitting room featured ivory walls, tasteful artwork, velvet chaises, and a carved stone fireplace. The salon was brighter and more relaxed, featuring a mix of antique and modern furnishings, as well as large windows that let in generous light. It felt like a place meant for quiet mornings and long conversations.

Next, he led her to the library, tucked behind arched double doors. It wasn’t as grand as the Manor’s, but it had charm—a single-floor room lined with bookshelves on three sides, filled with worn spines and rich wood. A brass-railed ladder slid across the shelving, and plush chairs and a reading sofa faced the windows.

“You like it?” Draco asked, watching her reaction closely.

She turned, beaming. “It’s lovely.”

His smirk widened, clearly pleased.

Across the corridor was the formal dining room, with a long walnut table that could seat twelve comfortably. The ceiling above them was painted with a mural of constellations. Next came the breakfast room, a smaller, sun-drenched space that has a cozier feel.

They passed through a parlor, where a sleek black piano stood near a set of tall windows, framed by rich green drapes. Hermione found herself staring at the ebony and ivory keys for a few long moments, trying to remember the last time she played.

“You play?” he asked, raising a brow.

“I’m a little rusty,” she admitted, grinning. “But yes.”

She made a mental note to dabble with the piano at some point. 

The wine cellar was tucked discreetly off the kitchen stairwell, and the study—lined with dark wood, leather chairs, and a heavy desk—sat just off the main hallway.

It was all a little overwhelming, in the best possible way. She could picture them here—spending lazy mornings in the breakfast room, curled up in the salon with a book, or hosting friends in the dining room. Overall, it seemed like a lovely place to spend the summer, when you’re rich and are into that sort of thing. Which, admittedly, she was now. 

Draco pulled her towards a pair of tall French doors that opened onto a stone terrace facing south, basking in full sunlight for most of the day. The terrace was framed with ivy-covered trellises, potted citrus trees, and elegant wrought-iron furniture with soft green cushions. A pair of lounge chairs sat toward the edge, perfect for sunbathing or sipping wine with a book in hand. Beyond the terrace, the land sloped gently toward the vineyards, rows of grapevines stretching in immaculate symmetry toward the horizon.

Hermione flopped onto one of the cushioned lounge chairs, letting her new, Pansy-selected white sundress fan out around her as she leaned back and turned her face to the sun.

Draco wandered over, standing above her with a familiar smirk—one that made it obvious he was mentally undressing her.

“You know, some of us burn in the sun,” he remarked dryly.

“My poor darling,” Hermione replied, cracking one eye open. “Whatever will you do while I’m out here tanning?”

“I suppose I’ll have to hole up in the library, longing for the warmth of the sun on my alabaster skin and my wife by my side.”

“You’re not that pale,” she teased. “Do find yourself an umbrella.”

With a soft pop , Tibsy appeared, promptly conjuring a large umbrella and positioning it beside the lounge chairs. With another snap, two chilled drinks appeared on a silver tray, garnished with delicate swirls of lemon peel. Tibsy bowed and vanished once more.

Draco took a seat, straddling his lounge chair with a sigh of contentment, sipping his drink as his gaze swept over the sunlit garden. Hermione took a sip from hers and hummed in approval.

“Mmm, this is lovely. What is it?”

“French 75. Gin, lemon juice, simple syrup, and champagne.”

“I’ll definitely be having more of these.” She let her head fall back against the chair. “Did you come here often as a child?”

“Every summer,” he replied. “Theo came regularly. Sometimes Pansy and Blaise, as well. Less suffocating than the manor. And the weather’s infinitely better. I always preferred it here, though England feels more like home.”

Hermione grinned. “I’m sure you and Theo enjoyed the French wine—and the French girls.”

Draco chuckled. “Both were quite enjoyable at the time. But nothing compares to an English rose.” His smirk turned suggestive.

“Very suave, dear.”

“I learned from the best. Theo’s always been the charming one. I’ve had to lean more on smolder and brooding.”

Hermione considered that, then nodded. “Yes, you do have a quiet, arrogant, bad boy thing going that I’ve grown rather fond of.”

He smiled as he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, rolling his sleeves up before reclining beside her. She tried not to ogle, but it was difficult—he was unfairly fit, all lean muscle and understated masculine grace, every movement fluid and confident in a way that made her stomach flutter.

The faded outline of his Dark Mark peeked out beneath the cuff of his rolled sleeve, its edges ghostlike against his skin. It never bothered her to see it. If anything, it only added to the depth of him—proof of how far he’d come. Her eyes lingered for a beat in quiet acknowledgment before drifting up to meet his smirk.

“Good to know I still excite you, darling.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of exciting… I had the unexpected pleasure of meeting your portrait earlier. Planning to tell me about him at some point?”

“Eventually,” he said smoothly. “Though I prefer to keep some things to myself. Besides, I can’t trust him not to blab to you.”

Hermione made another mental note to sneak into the closet when they returned and ask Portrait!Draco more questions. 

She raised a brow. “So you’re admitting to withholding things from your wife?”

“Anything you ask, I’ll answer truthfully. But there are things I haven’t shared because I doubt you’d want to hear about them.”

Hermione’s curiosity flared. “Such as?”

He studied her for a beat, clearly weighing what would deter her from digging deeper.

“Perhaps what it’s like getting sucked off by Theo,” he said casually, “or how many werewolves I’ve killed.”

Her mouth opened slightly before she turned away, cheeks flushing, and took a long sip of her drink.

She definitely wasn’t eager to hear about his wartime dealings that involved death, though the mention of him and Theo’s past sexual activities sent a surprising jolt straight to her core. She knew things had happened between them, but she’d never asked for details. It wasn’t her business. Still… it was intriguing…

“You’re right,” she muttered. “I’d rather not hear about either… at least not right now.”

He raised a brow but said nothing, and for a while, they let the quiet stretch between them, broken only by the summer breeze, the distant chirping of birds, and the scent of lavender drifting in the air.

Hermione closed her eyes, already deciding they’d need to come here on weekends, once they returned home. It was too lovely to leave behind for good. She sipped her drink and basked in the warmth of the sun, thinking absently about her own future children growing up on the property during the summers…

Eventually, Draco broke the silence. “As much as I’m enjoying our solar bake, my love, what say we head inside for a thoroughly satisfying afternoon shag?”

Hermione barked a laugh. Nice try, Draco. “So much for charm and subtlety. You might as well ask me to wank you off right here.”

His eyes gleamed. “Would you?”

She hurled her floppy hat at him, which he caught with a grin.

“Let’s go inside,” she said, standing and stretching. “I’m getting peckish.”

He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to say something cheeky.

“Peckish for food,” she warned, raising a hand to stop him.

“Pity,” he muttered, still grinning as he followed her inside.

***

They spent the rest of the afternoon laughing and chatting, sharing a leisurely lunch in the dining room before wandering hand in hand through the gardens and rows of lavender. Later, they curled up together on the library sofa, each with a book in hand, perfectly content in the kind of quiet intimacy Draco never thought he’d have with someone else.

He’d done his level best to entertain his new wife, though, truthfully, it hadn’t taken much effort. Hermione seemed utterly charmed by the château—from the flowers to the architecture to the cozy, sunlit corners of the library. She glowed here, relaxed and radiant, and being the one to bring her that sense of ease filled him with a smug sort of satisfaction.

Her company was easy, as always. There was no need to perform, no stiff pleasantries or pressure to impress. Just the two of them, wrapped in the kind of comfort he hadn’t known he needed. He felt much lighter when it was just the two of them, like his head was less compartmentalized—freer. 

By nightfall, after a sumptuous dinner of grilled sea bass, roasted vegetables, and wine that actually deserved the cellar it came from, Draco leaned back in his chair and decided to take a chance and casually suggest they take a hot bath together.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, pretending to consider the offer seriously. Then she broke into a grin and gave a teasing nod of consent.

He could’ve kissed her then and there. In fact, he did, and she, of course, melted in his arms. 

He hadn’t touched her properly since early morning, and it had been pure torture. Every time he’d reached for her hips or tried to kiss her neck, she’d swatted him off—more enchanted by the château’s architecture or the scent of blooming lavender than by his wandering hands. Draco could tell she was playing a game of cat and mouse, and it only made him want her more.

But now he had her attention again, and he planned to make the most of it since she finally seemed to remember how much fun they could be having in between touring the grounds.

They made their way to the master bath, and Draco took his time with her—peeling away each layer of clothing like she was a priceless gift he’d never quite believed he deserved, but somehow was allowed to unwrap anyway. He started with the thin straps of her sundress, dragging them down her shoulders with maddening slowness, letting the fabric glide over her skin until it pooled at her feet.

She shivered, not from cold—he could tell—but from the heat of his gaze as he drank her in. Every new inch of exposed skin only seemed to stoke the fire in his chest.

She didn’t rush him. Just gave him that knowing little smile—the one that always made his pulse race and his control slip by degrees. He leaned in, kissed her collarbone, then the hollow of her throat, trailing downward with agonizing slowness. When he reached the delicate clasp of her bra, he undid it with practiced ease and let it slide down her arms.

His breath caught the moment her breasts were bared to him—full, pert, and maddeningly perfect. Merlin, he loved the way they looked. He cupped them reverently, savoring the warm weight in his hands, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they tightened into soft peaks. She arched into his touch with a soft gasp, and he swore under his breath.

There was nothing more addictive than the way her body responded to him—so open, so eager. It was enough to unravel whatever restraint he had left. She gasped when he grazed her taut, rosy nipple with his mouth, but he didn’t linger. Not yet. Teasing her was half the pleasure.

Her knickers were the last to go. He dropped to one knee and slid his fingers into the lace, slowly easing them down her thighs with quiet reverence for her and the hourglass shape of her body. He kept his eyes locked on hers, letting the delicate fabric fall to the floor as if it were some ceremonial offering.

He kissed her inner thigh lightly, possessively, before rising to his full height. Then, without fanfare, he began to undress himself. He didn’t rush either. Unbuttoning his shirt one slow snap at a time, toeing off his shoes, unbuckling his belt, and sliding his trousers down.

He saw her watching—her eyes wide, fixed on him as if mesmerized. And when his cock sprang free, already thick and hard with anticipation, he didn’t miss the way she audibly swallowed, a lovely flush spreading across her cheeks. The corner of his mouth curled in a slow, wicked smile.

He stepped into the tub first and settled against the back, the warm water lapping gently at his skin, fragrant with lavender and bergamot. Reaching out, he took her hand and guided her in with care, watching as she eased herself into the steaming bath. Her skin glistened in the candlelight, a soft sheen of moisture catching the curves of her body. Her curls were pinned up in a loose twist, with a few damp tendrils escaping to cling to her neck. The heat had already flushed her skin a delicate rose, and she looked—utterly and completely—divine.

Draco wrapped his arms around her and drew her gently against his chest. The water sloshed softly as her body settled against his, fitting so seamlessly it felt almost too good to be real—her back to his front, her head nestled beneath his chin, her legs sprawled over his, her arse resting snugly against his groin. It was effortless. Natural.

For a long moment, they didn’t speak. They just breathed, the quiet intimacy between them humming like a spell. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the side of her neck, drawing a soft sigh from her lips, and let his hands drift—over her thighs, her belly, the curve of her arms—everywhere but where he knew she was beginning to ache for him. She melted back into him with a contented hum, simply savoring the closeness.

“Tell me a secret,” she murmured after a long, indulgent silence, their bodies warm and loose in the scented water.

“Any particular topic?” he asked, voice low, lips brushing the curve of her shoulder.

“Something from school. About me.”

He hummed thoughtfully, sifting through years of memories until one rose to the surface—vivid and immediate, his most favored one.

“I was absolutely besotted when I saw you in that periwinkle dress at the Yule Ball,” he said at last. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you for weeks. I had dreams about it—about you.”

She turned her head slightly, just enough for him to see the flicker of surprise in her eyes. “Really? I always assumed you thought Pansy looked best that night. You must’ve liked her dress too.”

“I couldn’t even tell you what color her dress was,” he admitted. “I didn’t look at anyone else. You walked down those stairs, and everything else disappeared for me…Blue was my favorite color for a year after that.”

She went quiet for a moment, her thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his hand resting on her stomach.

“I thought you looked handsome and that you were an excellent dancer,” she said quietly. “I noticed you, too.”

“You did?” he asked, his tone soft and boyish despite himself.

She nodded, her voice soft. “You were hard to miss—always the most attractive bloke in any room. Still are, really.”

Draco felt a flicker of satisfaction at her words. He’d always known he was good-looking—had been told as much since he was a child. His mother’s friends used to pinch his cheeks and coo about his “angelic face,” and by the time he hit puberty, he learned just how easily that face—and the body that came with it—could get him what he wanted.

It had never been difficult to charm a girl, to slide into her knickers if he was interested. But back at Hogwarts, the one girl whose knickers he actually wanted to be in had been utterly uninterested in him—loathed him, in fact.

He hadn’t understood it back then, of course. Blamed her for being too uptight, too stubborn, too righteous. But the truth eventually became painfully clear—he’d made himself unlovable to her. He’d pushed her away with cruelty and arrogance, and it wasn’t until much later that he realized the problem had never been her. It had always been him.

“Though to be fair, you and Theo are probably the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen… well, aside from your father.”

He blinked. That caught him off guard. His father? He didn’t even have time to react before she visibly winced, clearly realizing what she’d just said. Her blush was immediate.

“Though I don’t think Theo really… blossomed until later on,” she added quickly, as if to cover the awkwardness by redirecting the conversation back to his friend.

Draco didn’t respond right away. He just smirked faintly, mentally bookmarking her comment about his father for later. He was used to it—girls being impressed by Lucius. He looked enough like the man that it was no surprise the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. More than once, he’d brought dates to the manor only to catch them sneaking glances at his father, sometimes even attempting a bit of flirtation. Lucius, of course, never indulged it—he only ever had eyes for Narcissa, who had been a stunner in her own right. His friends had often made inappropriate comments about her, too.

So no, he didn’t take offense at Hermione’s slip. It was only natural that she found his father attractive, given that she also found him attractive. He just found it mildly amusing, and maybe he’d tease her about it later.

Draco chuckled. “Theo had one last growth spurt at seventeen. Started training with me, learned how to style his hair, stopped slouching. Always had his charm though—never had a problem finding someone to snog behind a tapestry.”

“I believe it.” She gave a lazy smile. “I was very wrapped up in Viktor at the time, of course. But I remember thinking it was stupid how attractive and talented you were when you were such a prat. A real waste.”

He laughed softly. “The real waste was all those years I missed having you because of my own bullshit. Pureblood arrogance, pride, all of it.”

There was a beat of silence before he added, quieter now, “I thought of shagging you in that dress more times than I care to admit.”

She snorted. “I wouldn’t have let you, you know. I was far too young. Plus, that dress cost my parents a fortune. There’s no way I would’ve let you ruin it.”

He would have had her begging him to ruin her that night if he had his way…

“Careful, darling,” he murmured against her ear, “that swotty brain of yours is showing again. If you’d been mine back then, I would’ve found a way to get a taste. I wouldn’t have even wrinkled your dress.”

“I doubt it… When exactly did you lose your virginity?” she asked, her tone light but laced with curiosity.

“Summer before fourth year. And no, it wasn’t Pansy.”

He’d never forget Amélie and her sister Colette, both witches he had that summer at different times. The teenage version of him felt like he hit the bloody jackpot when the two slightly older French sisters took an interest in him. Amélie, doing him the favor of relieving him of his virginity, then later that summer, having Collette as well. He was able to last an entire five minutes, too, which, for his first time, he was quite proud of, even with Theo watching the memories and teasing him about his restraint. 

She twisted slightly to glance back at him, brows raised. “That’s far too young.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Perhaps. But I’ve no regrets. Not about that.”

“You Slytherins…”

“You really think your house was any different?” he teased, raising a brow.

“I never saw anything remotely like what Pansy’s told me went on in the Slytherin common room,” she replied primly.

If she only knew how many Gryffindor girls he and his friends toyed with behind closed doors… 

Draco chuckled. “Darling, how often was your head not buried in a book to notice?”

She scoffed and turned to glare at him, but amusement sparkled in her eyes. “Often enough to notice you—and your perfect hair.”

His grin turned devilish. “You think my hair is perfect?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know it is.”

He did, but hearing her say it fluffed up his ego quite nicely. 

She leaned back against him again, and he reached forward to twirl a damp loose curl between his fingers. “Have I told you how much I adore these curls? I used to fantasize about playing with them… tugging on them… grabbing a fistful while I drove into you.”

He threaded his fingers through the thick, damp mass of her hair, slow and deliberate, before giving a gentle tug. Her head tilted back onto his shoulder, exposing the long line of her neck to him—vulnerable, trusting. A soft moan escaped her lips, and the sight nearly undid him.

He kissed her neck slowly, deliberately, letting his lips linger as he tasted the skin just below her jaw. His free hand slid up her torso, fingers gliding over her ribs before settling over one of her breasts. He gave it a firm squeeze, loving the way it filled his palm, then brushed his thumb over her nipple in slow, lazy circles.

She moaned—a low, needy sound that sent a jolt of heat straight to his cock—and writhed in his lap, her slick skin sliding against his under the water. The way she responded to him never failed to undo him. Every sigh, every twitch of her hips, every fluttering breath that escaped her lips—it all made him want to ruin her in the most exquisite ways.

He latched onto a sensitive spot just beneath her ear and sucked, marking her gently. She gasped again and her hands flew to his thighs, nails digging into his skin as if anchoring herself.

“Draco,” she whispered, voice thick with need. “Please… touch me.”

That was all the encouragement he needed.

His hand slid back down, away from her breast, tracing a path along her stomach, his fingers dancing lower until he grazed her slit under the water. He felt the heat of her even through the bathwater, felt the way she twitched when his fingers brushed her folds. He teased her there, barely skimming her entrance before sliding up to circle her clit with slow, measured strokes.

Her breath hitched, and then she moaned again, louder this time, grinding back against him shamelessly, making his cock feel amazing. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her body pliant in his arms as he toyed with her expertly, every touch coaxing more pleasure out of her.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he murmured into her ear, his voice thick with want.

He kept his touch maddeningly slow, circling her clit with featherlight strokes that had her squirming in his lap, her thighs clenching and shifting under the water.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispered against the shell of her ear, his voice low and sinfully smooth. “The way I touch you… The way I take my time teasing out your pleasure.”

She whimpered, hips twitching beneath his hand, and he grinned against her skin.

“I can feel how wet you are for me already, even under the water. You’ve been aching for it all day, haven’t you?”

She gasped, nodding helplessly, and he kissed her again—slow and decadent along her throat—before sliding his hand lower, teasing her entrance with the lightest brush of his fingers. He didn’t push in yet—just dipped in the tip of one finger before retreating again, resuming slow circles over her clit.

She let out a strangled sound, both frustrated and desperate, her hands gripping his thighs tightly, nails digging into his skin.

“Draco,” she moaned, nearly breathless. “Please…”

“Please, what, love?” he murmured, his tone deliciously cruel. “Use your words.”

“Touch me… properly,” she panted. “Stop teasing…”

“Mmm. I don’t know…” he drawled, dragging his fingers deliberately slow across her clit again, making her hips jerk. “I quite enjoy watching you unravel.”

With his other hand, he released her hair and reached down and gently coaxed her thighs farther apart beneath the water, baring her completely to him. The openness of her position—the way she let him handle her, spread her—drove him half mad.

“There,” he whispered, fingers slipping back down to her entrance. “That’s better.”

He eased one finger inside her, groaning softly at the way she clenched around him, then added a second, curling them just enough to make her hips buck. She cried out, head falling back, completely undone in his arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. “You feel so fucking perfect. Tight, hot… Mine .”

He began circling her clit again more intentionally with his thumb while his fingers pumped in a slow, steady rhythm. Her moans grew louder, her body trembling against him as the tension built.

“That’s it, darling. Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

She arched, her hands clutching his thighs, breath hitching, and then she broke—shattering in his arms with a breathless cry, her body pulsing around his fingers as he coaxed her through every wave.

He held her tight, kissing her temple, whispering soft things as she rode out her release.

“I love watching you come apart like this,” he murmured, voice thick with awe. “Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She didn’t say anything—clearly too blissed out to think, let alone speak. He let her come down from her high in peace, gently rubbing her arms, pressing lazy kisses to her shoulder and the side of her neck as she melted back into him. He loved this—holding her like this after, when she was soft and satisfied, utterly undone by his hands. It made him feel… whole. Settled. Content in a way he’d never experienced before.

He’d never been a selfish lover—no one could accuse him of that—but in the past, his goal had always been efficiency. Get her off, get himself off, move on. It had been transactional more than tender, no matter how skilled he was.

But with Hermione… it was different. He didn’t just want to please her—he needed to. He wanted her to crave his touch, to think of every time they made love as something meaningful. He loved her so completely it almost scared him, and this—loving her with his touch, his body—felt like the most honest way to show it.

“Draco?”

“My love?” he replied instantly, voice low and warm against her ear.

“Could we… Do you think we could…” She trailed off, her voice barely a whisper.

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you, darling.”

She hesitated again, clearly still working on building the confidence to be direct with him. “I want you… Inside of me,” she said finally, her voice hushed. “Should we go to the bed?”

His cock twitched at her words, a wave of heat rolling through him at how much she wanted him. But he didn’t rush her. Instead, he smiled, kissed the curve of her neck, then her cheek, slow and affectionate.

“I can slip inside you right here,” he murmured, nuzzling her. “If that’s alright with you.”

She bit her lip, cheeks flushed, and nodded. 

“Alright then, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Come sit up in my lap. Knees bent, bracketing my thighs… That’s it—yes, just like that.”

She adjusted herself slowly, her breathing uneven, her fingers curling lightly against his thighs as she settled over him. But she didn’t turn to face him, just stayed with her back to his chest, as he’d asked. Hermione had already taken a contraceptive potion before they left the manor, which lasted thirty days, so he skipped doing the charm. 

“What if I don’t know what to do?” she whispered, her vulnerability so raw it made his chest ache. “I wasn’t on top the last time we…”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her shoulder. “That’s alright. You don’t need to know anything. If it feels better, I’ll thrust up into you, nice and slow. But try sliding along me first—just a little. See how it feels. I’ll love anything you do, I promise.”

She exhaled shakily and gave a tiny nod, and he stroked her hip in reassurance, murmuring softly against her skin. “Just do what feels natural, whatever feels good for you.”

She nodded again, cheeks still flushed, breath soft and uneven. Draco could feel her nerves—her hesitation—but also her trust. That trust meant everything to him.

He steadied her hips with gentle hands, his thumbs stroking soft circles over her skin. “Take your time,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

She lifted her hips slightly, fumbling for the right angle, and he adjusted beneath her just enough to help. He felt the warm press of her entrance against the tip of his cock, and they both stilled for a moment—just breathing.

Then, slowly, cautiously, she began to lower herself onto him.

Draco bit down a moan as her tight heat began to envelop him, inch by inch. His hands tightened instinctively on her thighs, but he didn’t rush her, didn’t thrust—just held her steady as she sank further.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered hoarsely, mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re doing so well… gods, you feel incredible.”

She whimpered softly, bracing her hands on the edge of the tub in front of her, and he could see the tension in her shoulders as she adjusted to the stretch.

“You’re taking me so well, darling…don’t rush it,” he murmured, voice thick with restraint and awe. “Just breathe… let yourself feel it.”

She did. He felt her exhale shakily, then slowly and carefully sink the rest of the way down, her hips finally pressing flush to his. Her head dropped back against his shoulder with a low gasp, her body trembling slightly as she adjusted to the full weight of him inside her.

“Draco,” she whispered, almost disbelieving. “You’re so… deep.”

He nuzzled into her neck, kissing her there. “I know, love. And you’re perfect. So perfect like this.”

She began to move after a moment, lifting herself slowly—experimentally—and then sliding back down with a shaky exhale. He groaned softly, guiding her hips as she did it again, and again, gaining confidence with each roll of her body.

“That’s it…” he rasped, utterly spellbound. “Just like that… gods, you’re beautiful.”

Her moans grew louder, her pace more sure, and Draco could feel the way her body clenched around him each time she took him deep. Her hands gripped the edge of the tub harder, her rhythm faltering only when the pleasure took her by surprise, and he was there every time—holding her, grounding her.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, voice low and tight with pleasure.

“Yes,” she gasped. “So good…”

She twisted slightly, angling her hips, and he nearly lost it from the sensation.

He moved his hands from her thighs and kept them firm around her waist, letting her set the pace. This was her moment—he just wanted to give her everything.

She moved more confidently now, rolling her hips in slow, steady circles, each glide sending a jolt of pleasure up his spine. Her hands were still braced on the edge of the tub, knuckles white from the grip, but the tension in her body had melted into something fluid—graceful. She was stunning like this, completely lost in the feel of him.

Draco’s eyes were locked on the way her back arched slightly, how her soft little sounds fell from her lips with each movement. He tightened his grip just enough to keep her steady, his thumbs stroking along her waist as if to say I’m here. You’re safe.

“Look at you,” he murmured into her ear. “Taking me so well...”

She whimpered, and he could feel how much that praise affected her—how she clenched around him tighter at the sound of his voice. Merlin, she liked being talked to. He leaned in again, brushing his lips over the side of her neck as he continued to whisper.

“You feel like heaven, sweetheart… Like you were made for me.”

She made a choked, needy sound and pressed herself back into him, grinding her hips a little harder. He let her set the rhythm, only lifting his hips slightly to meet her thrusts, never overwhelming—just supporting, matching her pace.

“Draco,” she gasped, voice trembling. “I—oh—gods, I think I’m close…”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, bringing one hand down between her thighs. He found her clit easily and began to circle it with practiced, careful pressure—just enough to tip her over the edge.

“Come for me, love,” he murmured. “Let go. I want to feel you fall apart around me.”

She let out a broken moan, her movements stuttering as the pleasure overwhelmed her. Her whole body went taut in his arms, a soft cry tearing from her throat as she came—tight and wet and shaking around him.

Draco held her through it, kissing the side of her head, murmuring softly in her ear as her climax rocked through her.

“That’s it… you’re alright… so good for me…”

She slumped back against his chest, breathing hard, her skin flushed and damp from more than just the bath. He gently stroked her arms, kissed her shoulder, and held her close, feeling a ridiculous warmth settle in his chest.

He hadn’t even finished yet, focusing hard on holding himself back for her—but he didn’t care. This was better. She was better.

“You alright, my love?” he asked, his voice low and rough, still inside of her.

She nodded, trying to catch her breath. “That was… incredible.”

His lips brushed her temple. “You’re incredible.”

“Did you… come?” she asked softly, her voice still breathless against his jaw.

Draco smiled, brushing his knuckles along her flushed cheek. “No, sweetness. Not yet.”

She shifted slightly in his lap, a hint of concern flickering in her eyes. “Should I keep going?”

He shook his head gently. “No, that’s alright. Watching you come undone on my cock was more than enough for me. We can take a break if you like.”

Her pout was immediate and utterly disarming. “But I want you to...”

He blinked, heart tripping a little at the way she looked at him—so earnest, so eager to give. Merlin, she was so bloody perfect.  

“Whatever my princess wants,” he murmured, grinning as he leaned in to kiss her—slow and sweet, tasting her contentment on her lips.

But when she pulled away, he saw it—that calculating look in her eye. Her mind was already spinning with a plan.

“Drain the water,” she said suddenly, climbing carefully off of him, shifting around, and kneeling at the other end of the tub facing him, her bare skin gleaming in the low candlelight.

He raised a brow at her, surprised. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Cast a warming charm then,” she countered, smirking in that wicked way that always went straight to his cock.

His lips twitched in amusement. Bossy little witch.

With a flick of his fingers, the water vanished, and a gentle heat settled over them both, his wandless charm taking hold. She looked ethereal kneeling there—naked and unbothered by him staring at her body, her curls beginning to frizz slightly from the steam, her body flushed and still glowing from her earlier climax.

She crawled toward him with intent, her eyes locked on his, and then lowered herself between his legs. Draco watched, breath hitching, as she braced her hands on his thighs and leaned in, her lips parting as her tongue flicked out to trace along the underside of his length.

“Fuck, Granger,” he rasped, his hands immediately finding her hair.

She hummed in response, clearly pleased with herself, and took him into her mouth with a slow, deliberate suck that made his vision blur at the edges. Her mouth was warm, wet, and so damn eager—he could barely think.

Her fingers gripped his thighs, nails biting into his skin once more as she took him deeper, letting him slide down her throat in smooth, practiced motions, covering the rest she couldn’t fit in her mouth with her hand and stroking him; she’d clearly done this before. He groaned low in his chest, letting his head fall back against the marble tub wall.

She was relentless—his clever girl—using her mouth like it was a spell meant to ruin him. He could feel the pressure building fast, too fast, and knew there was no stopping it, he was already almost there from when he was inside her quim. 

“Hermione,” he gasped, hips twitching despite himself. “You’re— fuck —you feel so good… So good… Darling… I’m not gonna last…” He struggled to speak but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to give her a warning. “Sweetheart, do you want me to take it out of your mouth before I come?”

She looked up at him through tear-brimmed lashes, her eyes impossibly warm even as they watered from the effort of sucking him off—and shook her head, never breaking her rhythm.

Merlin. That was all it took. 

His breath stuttered in his chest, and he felt his control slip with devastating speed. The sight of her like that—utterly devoted and his —sent him careening over the edge.

His breath caught in his throat as his release hit him hard, a guttural moan ripping from his chest as his fingers curled into her hair—not to pull, but to anchor himself. His entire body shuddered with the force of it, hips jerking involuntarily as wave after wave rolled through him.

It wasn’t just pleasure—it was her. It was the sight of her on her knees for him, the feel of her mouth, and the trust in her eyes, the way she gave herself so completely.

It was emotional. Intimate. Overwhelming in the best, most terrifying way.

She stayed there, holding him through it, until he finally sagged against the tub, completely spent.

He opened his eyes to find her looking up at him, licking her lips with a small, satisfied smirk.

He let out a low chuckle and reached for her. “Come here, you bloody goddess.”

She crawled back into his lap and curled against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Best bath of my life,” he murmured.

She laughed softly. “Mine too.”

And there, in the drained tub of a centuries-old French château, with their limbs tangled and hearts full, Draco Malfoy realized—he’d never been happier in all his life.

Chapter Text

Draco had made good on his promise to have her in every room of the château—and, by week’s end, it felt like they’d made use of nearly every surface as well. He was passionate and insatiable, yes, but also deeply attentive and breathtakingly tender. Hermione had never imagined making love could be like this—so consuming, so freeing, so intimate that it sometimes left her breathless.

Several mornings, she’d woken to find him between her thighs, feasting on her like she was the only thing in the world worth worshipping. It was a rather spectacular way to wake up. And as the days passed, she’d grown more comfortable in her own sexuality, indulging in her desire for him without hesitation. Draco never tired—always ready, always eager—and he adored praising her, making her feel treasured, beautiful, and wanted. She basked in it.

No one had ever made her feel the way he did—so wholly adored, both physically and emotionally. Sometimes it was too much in the best way. Sometimes, the way he touched her, held her, looked at her, made her cry from the sheer overwhelming depth of it.

Their daily rhythm was indulgent and slow: waking up late, making love, lingering over breakfast, more lovemaking, long walks through the gardens. One afternoon, Draco had dropped to his knees, lifted her sundress, and pleasured her against a hedge without preamble. Another day, he took her among the lavender fields, making her scream his name into the open air. They browsed the books in the library, only for him to press her over a shelf and whisper in her ear how wicked she was for taking his cock in the very place he used to fantasize about her back at school.

Oftentimes the sex was slow and reverent, full of whispered confessions—how much he loved her, how beautiful she was, how lucky he felt. Sometimes it was rougher, and she wanted that too. At first, he’d held back, clearly worried about pushing her too far, but she’d urged him on, told him she could take it, and Merlin, she had. Even when he was slamming into her, he never stopped murmuring sweet things, endless praise falling from his lips. And afterward, he’d hold her like she was precious, pressing soft kisses to her face and stroking her skin gently as if she might vanish if he let go.

If she hadn’t been on the contraceptive potion, she was certain she’d be pregnant by now. One night, after a particularly intense round of lovemaking, while they lay tangled in silk sheets and bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, Draco had whispered to her how much he wanted to see her with his child someday. How beautiful she’d look with a rounded belly, carrying their baby. She wasn’t quite ready for that just yet—but the image made her smile. She’d kissed him, promised him that one day, she would give him a child. He’d held her tightly after that, murmuring soft words into her hair until he drifted off to sleep with her tucked safely in his arms.

The following Sunday, the château’s entrance hall flared green with Floo flames as their friends began to arrive.

Harry stepped out first with Ginny in tow, both smiling brightly. Ginny beamed, holding out her hand to show off a sparkling new engagement ring.

Hermione squealed and wrapped her in a warm hug. “Congratulations!”

Harry pulled her into a hug next, grinning. “It’s about time, yeah?”

Then came Pansy and Neville. The two looked surprisingly comfortable together—Pansy actually smiling as she leaned slightly into Neville’s side. It was the most at ease Hermione had ever seen her.

Lastly, Theo and Blaise arrived together, both looking well-rested and entirely too smug. Luna, unfortunately, wasn’t available to join them. The moment Theo spotted Hermione, he crossed the room in seconds and swept her off the floor effortlessly, like she weighed nothing, in an unannounced, enthusiastic hug, spinning her around until she laughed.

“Darling, I missed you terribly! Don’t ever leave the manor this long without me again,” he declared dramatically after setting her down and wrapping his arms around her, burying his face into her hair.

Hermione laughed, still in his arms. “Theo, I was gone for a week. ”

“Yes, and it was excruciating, ” he insisted, still refusing to let her go.

Draco crossed his arms, one brow raised in warning. “You have two seconds to release my wife, Nott, or I’m hexing your bollocks off.”

Theo grinned and merely turned her around so he could wrap his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“And how, dear Draco, would you manage that with her in the way?” he asked with mock innocence.

Hermione arched a brow, looking back at him. “So I’m a human shield now?”

“Never, my sweet,” Theo cooed, brushing a loose curl behind her ear with far too much tenderness for Draco’s liking.

A low growl rumbled from Draco’s direction.

“Nott, let her go before Draco flays you alive and ruins the rugs,” Blaise said casually, not even glancing up from brushing ash off his sleeve.

Harry and Ginny exchanged bewildered glances, clearly not used to Theo’s antics. Pansy, meanwhile, looked wholly unbothered—too busy whispering something in Neville’s ear that made him flush and bite his lip.

“Fine, fine,” Theo relented with a theatrical sigh, pressing a kiss to Hermione’s cheek before releasing her with a final squeeze.

She returned to Draco, who promptly turned her around and wrapped his arms around her waist possessively from behind, eyes narrowing at Theo like he might lunge at any moment.

Tibsy popped in just then, offering a silver tray filled with glasses of chilled rosé lemonade before vanishing again with all the luggage in tow.

“Shall we give you the grand tour?” Hermione offered brightly.

“Yes, do show us where you hide the bodies, Malfoy,” Ginny teased.

“Oh, I had them cleared out just before you arrived,” Draco responded smoothly.

“I’d like a tour,” Neville added politely.

“I suppose I’ll come too, even though I could give the bloody tour myself,” Pansy said, linking her arm through Neville’s.

***

After the tour, the boys disappeared into the salon to drink, smoke, and play billiards, while Hermione, Ginny, and Pansy made their way to the terrace to sunbathe.

Tibsy kept their drinks freshly topped off, and the breeze was divine—warm and fragrant, carrying hints of lavender and rosemary from the garden.

Hermione felt wonderfully content. Her alone time with Draco had been blissful, but having her friends here now brought its own kind of joy.

“So,” Ginny began, smirking over the rim of her glass, “how was it the first time?”

Hermione blushed, fond memories flooding back of their wedding night. “It was… really lovely. He’s very patient and considerate.”

“Sounds absolutely boring,” Pansy drawled, lowering her sunglasses to give her an unimpressed look.

“It was her first time,” Ginny shot back. “What did you expect, Parkinson? That he yank her hair and bend her over straight away?”

“Mmm, now that does sound delightful,” Pansy purred. “Neville loves grabbing me whenever he pleases and shagging me senseless over any surface he can find. He’s left the most divine handprints on my arse.”

Hermione and Ginny both blinked at her, wide-eyed.

“What?” Pansy said with a shrug. “Too much? I never can tell with you Gryffindors.”

“That was definitely more than I ever needed to know about Neville,” Ginny muttered, taking a large sip of her drink.

“Yeah, Pans. We’ve known him since we were eleven,” Hermione added, grimacing.

“And? I’ve known Draco even longer, and I could still pick his cock out of a line-up,” Pansy said breezily. “Theo could too.”

Ginny stared back at her, shocked, and Hermione just sighed and pivoted, she was used to Pansy’s crassness. “How was the proposal, Ginny?”

“Oh, it was magical,” Ginny refocused and gushed. “He proposed during the fireworks. Told me he loved me too much not to make it public that he wanted me to be his wife. It was a whole thing—romantic and sappy and perfect. I said yes, on the condition that we wait at least a year so I can focus on my career.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Hermione said, genuinely beaming.

“Let’s see the ring,” Pansy cut in.

Ginny slipped it off and handed it over. Pansy inspected it critically, then gave a small nod of approval before returning it.

“Emerald cut, approximately four carats, platinum setting, eye clean. Actually rather tasteful. I forget sometimes that Potter’s father’s side was pureblood—and loaded.”

“Yes, though not quite as much as Hermione’s husband,” Ginny teased. “Still, I’d go mad never having to work another day of my life. No offense.”

“Ginny, you know you don’t actually have to work, ” Hermione pointed out. “Sirius left Grimmauld Place to Harry, and he makes more than enough as a senior Auror. Plus, his vault’s still full.”

“Yes, well. I’m using some of it to completely redo the townhouse—it’s practically haunted and drab beyond belief. So, a little extra income won’t hurt.”

“Pansy should help you,” Hermione offered casually. “She has brilliant taste.”

Pansy shot her a withering glare.

“Don’t worry, Parkinson. My mum’s helping,” Ginny said smoothly. “I got it sorted.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Pansy, silently nudging her to be gracious.

Pansy sighed dramatically. “Fine. I suppose I could pop by and offer some guidance. The shopping’s better in London anyway, so it wouldn’t put me out of my way.”

Ginny looked a bit surprised at the offer but nodded. “That’d be nice of you. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Pansy muttered, adjusting her sunglasses again.

“How are things going with Neville—aside from all the shagging?” Hermione asked lightly, peeking over the rim of her glass, a teasing smile playing at her lips.

Pansy stretched out on her lounger, catlike and unbothered. “Well, the shagging is exceptional , I think that’s worth highlighting.”

Hermione rolled her eyes with a laugh. “Yes, Pans, but do you actually like him?”

That earned a pause. Pansy tilted her head back, eyes hidden behind her oversized sunglasses, and went unusually quiet. A warm breeze danced over the terrace, rustling the lavender bushes and the hem of Hermione’s sundress while the silence lingered.

“He can be… sweet,” Pansy finally said, voice uncharacteristically thoughtful. “But not overly so. He’s… dominant. Doesn’t let me get away with being a brat. He calls me out when I’m being overly crass or flippant. I think he likes that I’m a snake—but he’s still very much a lion.” She shifted her head to glance at them. “It’s weird. But we somehow work. I think… I might actually like him.”

“You say that like it’s an affliction,” Ginny quipped.

“Being attached is an affliction,” Pansy said flatly, exhaling dramatically. “It makes you vulnerable. Dependent. But… I think perhaps I’m safe with him.”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged a knowing glance before Hermione fixed her gaze back on Pansy.

“Neville’s always had a good heart,” she said. “He’s grown into someone who knows his worth—doesn’t let people walk over him now. He doesn’t always talk much, I think the war hardened him, but when he has something to say, everyone listens. I’m proud to call him my friend. And if you’re with him, you’re definitely safe.”

“I agree,” Ginny added, her tone a touch gentler now. “I don’t know how the two of you make any sense, but if Neville’s interested, he means it. He’s not the type to play games.”

Pansy leaned her head back again with a slight smile on her lips. “Well, he certainly enjoys playing some games.”

“Yes, we know ,” Ginny groaned and rolled her eyes, “he’s an excellent bloody shag.”

“And has a stunning cock,” Pansy added with a devilish smirk.

Ginny sat up abruptly, brushing imaginary lint off her skirt. “Perhaps we should go join the boys in the salon, ‘Mione. I’m suddenly very interested in whiskey and cigars.”

“Just because your man doesn’t know how to pleasure you—”

“And you’ve come to that conclusion, how , exactly?” Ginny shot back with a glare.

“I’m assuming he’s only ever had you?” Pansy replied with a judgmental raised brow.

“Just because he’s not a slag like your Slytherin lot doesn’t mean he’s not a good lover.”

“Well, experience does help, you know,” Pansy responded casually.

“Pansy,” Hermione said sharply, sitting straighter. “You’re crossing a line. Apologize to Ginny.”

Pansy groaned and waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. I’m sorry I said something you found distasteful. I’ll… reconsider what I say around you in the future.”

Ginny didn’t bother responding. She stood, stiff with irritation, staring at Hermione a moment before shaking her head. “I’m going to join the boys. I’ll see you both later.”

“Ginny…” Hermione pleaded.

Ginny didn’t look back. “Just leave it, ‘Mione. You’re clearly part of the snakes now.”

As soon as she was out of earshot, Hermione turned sharply to Pansy. “You had to push it, didn’t you?”

“She’s too sensitive,” Pansy huffed. “I hardly said anything worth storming out over.”

Hermione sighed. “Why do you do this? Ginny could easily be your friend if you weren’t such a bitch all the time.”

“Being a bitch is my default setting. People can accept it or fuck off.”

Hermione took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I care about you, Pansy, and I see through the prickly exterior. You push people away before they get too close. You test them.”

“Oh, brilliant, Granger’s a mind healer now,” Pansy muttered, but she didn’t pull away.

“I can just… read people a little. Ginny’s not trying to screw you over. She’s assertive like you, yes—but she won’t put up with being disrespected. You insulted her fiancé. You owe her a better apology.”

Pansy stared off for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Perhaps,” she said eventually. “But I still think she resents me for becoming your new best friend. Girls are competitive. I don’t think she likes being replaced.”

“She’s not petty, and you’re not a replacement. You’re an addition. And if anyone was ever going to replace Ginny, it’s Theo.”

“Oh, he’d love that,” Pansy smirked.

“Don’t tell him. His ego’s already unbearable.”

They both laughed, and Pansy relaxed further, twining her fingers with Hermione’s. “I don’t like most girls. But I guess Ginny is… tolerable. And clearly, you plan to keep her around…Fine. I’ll try to make things right—for you. ”

Hermione grinned and slid onto Pansy’s lounger to hug her. “I knew you had it in you to be a good person.”

“I’d rather Avada myself than be a good person. I’m just being a good friend to you.”

Hermione chuckled. “I’ll take it. I seem to bring out the moral compass in all the snakes around me.”

Pansy snorted. “And we all conveniently keep that compass pointed toward you.”

Hermione shook her head and shifted to sit in front of her, their fingers still lightly linked. 

After a few beats, Pansy asked her, “Do you mind? That we’re still morally grey deep down?”

Hermione tilted her head, considering. “I probably should mind. But no. Not really…I would’ve minded before the war. But now… I don’t know. I watched people I care about die. Thought a lot about getting revenge...I’m not perfect. I don’t expect anyone else to be.”

They were quiet for a long moment.

Finally, Pansy asked, “The Death Eater who killed Ron… are they dead?”

Hermione nodded slowly. “Yes. Bellatrix. Molly got her. Quite spectacularly, I might add. She can be quite terrifying…I’m glad I wasn’t the one to kill her. I think that would have been the last straw to break me if I had to take on that death…Even someone as vile as her, who actually deserved it.”

“I would’ve killed her for you,” Pansy said casually.

“Pans…”

“No, really. I’d have found a way to get her taken out. Set her up, let the Dark Lord do it himself. Easy.”

Hermione shook her head. She didn’t doubt for a second that Pansy could’ve pulled it off. But still… the casual, ruthless way she said it always unnerved her a little.

“I’m glad I’m not your enemy.”

“You should be,” Pansy said with a grin. “If I’d ever joined the Death Eaters, they’d have won.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Pansy reached over and smoothed a curl on Hermione’s head. “When are you going to let me straighten your hair? I’ve got a spell that’ll make it sleek and shiny.”

“You know Draco loves my curls.”

“Draco’s an idiot.”

Hermione sighed. “Fine. You can do it—once—before the trip ends.”

Pansy beamed and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Finally!”

“But only after you apologize to Ginny properly.”

“I will,” Pansy said with a dramatic sigh, standing and tugging Hermione up with her. “Come on. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

***

Pansy kept her word and made good on her promise to play nice with Ginny. For the rest of their stay at the château, the two managed to form a sort of tentative truce—one that gradually teetered into something approaching actual friendliness. Of course, neither would admit they were warming up to each other, but the occasional shared smirk or sarcastic comment aimed at someone else gave them away.

The group spent their days eating incredible food, drinking far too much delicious French wine, and indulging in all manner of shenanigans. Hermione introduced them to Muggle karaoke, and they took turns singing songs together with reckless abandon—it was a riot. They stayed up late most nights, and a few times even fell asleep out on the lawn, entertaining each other with magic, stories, and wine until they passed out under the stars.

It was, in every sense, a magical time—Hermione felt young again, unburdened in a way she hadn’t since she was a child. The week was so full of laughter and lightness that everyone agreed to stay on another week. Harry managed to get the time off without much fuss—no one ever said no to the Chosen One.

One of the highlights of their second week was a day trip to Saint-Tropez. They spent the morning wandering through the town’s upscale boutiques—Pansy and Ginny predictably got into a spirited row over shoes—then had lunch at a seaside café with stunning views of the marina. The afternoon was spent lounging on the beach, where Theo immediately set his sights on a pair of topless sunbathers and, to no one’s surprise, had remarkable success. Within minutes, he was charming them in fluent French, reclining between the two like a smug Adonis while they fed him fruit and laughed at everything he said. Pansy rolled her eyes and muttered that he was insufferable in France, while Blaise took notes.

The real adventure began when Hermione convinced Draco to rent them a Muggle yacht for the afternoon. At first, he grumbled about the engine noise and lack of magical navigation, but relented the moment she whispered something in his ear that made his ears go pink about how she would reward him later. Out on the water, they drank chilled rosé and sunbathed on the deck. 

Eventually, someone dared Blaise to jump in the water, and soon they were all diving off the back of the boat. The water was shockingly cold—Hermione shrieked as she surfaced, Pansy let out a string of French curses as she swam over to cling to Neville who didn’t seem bothered, and even Theo yelped like a kicked Kneazle before pretending it was fine. Draco refused to get in at first, stubbornly clinging to the deck with a scowl—until Harry gave him a firm shove overboard and leapt in after him with Ginny, both laughing as Draco resurfaced sputtering. 

After drying off and napping under the sun, they returned to the château sun-kissed and tipsy, buzzing with salt and laughter. But the night was still young—and Theo and Blaise had other ideas.

They tended to disappear some nights together to go “cruising for a piece of arse” in the local town nightclub. Hermione tagged along a few times to drink with them and act as wingwoman—Draco flatly refused to go, not the least bit interested in getting drunk with a crowd of sweaty Muggles. It was always a spectacle. Theo was absurdly charming when he wanted to be, barely needing more than a glance from those vivid sapphire eyes before he had someone—man or woman—dragging him into a back room or the loo. He always came back slightly disheveled and wearing a smirk.

Blaise tended to chat with her for a while before politely excusing himself to flirt with a girl who made eyes at him. But she was never alone for long before Theo came back and pulled her up from the bar to dance with him. He was a riot to dance with—unafraid to look silly, always game for spinning her dramatically and letting her lead sometimes. They laughed until their sides hurt, and sang along to Lady Marmalade together at the top of their lungs, requesting it over and over until people started complaining.

Theo was definitely more handsy with her when Draco wasn’t around—holding her hand often, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her cheek—but he never crossed a line, and she trusted him, so she didn’t much mind how affectionate he was. Sometimes she worried that Theo was painfully lonely, and that was why he latched onto her so quickly. One night, she asked him why he lived at the Manor with Draco, and he admitted that his own estate held too many bad memories from his abusive father that he didn’t want to relive. His manor never felt like home the way Draco’s did.

“So why don’t you just sell it?”

They were lying on the grass under the stars, a little tipsy and surrounded by the soft buzz of laughter in the distance. Draco lay beside her, half-drunk and sleepy from all the wine he’d had that night. The others were scattered around the grounds—off in corners snogging or casting ridiculous spells at one another.

He stared up at the sky. “I’ve thought about it. But it’s been in the Nott family for generations. Selling it would feel like a betrayal.”

“So get married and fill it with children. Make new memories,” Hermione suggested.

He smiled and shook his head. “I’m not ready to be someone’s husband, my darling. Still have some more wild oats to sow.”

“Theo, you’ve shagged plenty of people by now. Maybe it’s time to finally get serious… perhaps it would do you good to have a partner in life.”

He reached for her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles before pressing her palm to his chest. “I have you and Draco. That’s enough for me—for now.”

She sighed and let the topic go for now. Theo was clearly still working through his attachment issues. He was, in many ways, like Pansy—only letting a select few into his inner world. And although he was always sweet and friendly, unlike Pansy, he never let anyone else truly in. Too scared of being hurt. That’s why he never spent more than one night with anyone.

Draco groaned beside her, opening his eyes and looking over at them before dragging his hand down his face.

“Nott, for Merlin’s sake, do remember she’s my wife.”

“And I’ll remind you that I made the vow, Draco,” Theo said smoothly, not even looking away from the stars. “You’ve no reason to be so bloody uptight.”

Hermione furrowed her brows and looked back at Draco, letting go of Theo’s chest.

“What vow?” she asked sharply.

Draco didn’t respond immediately. His face was slack with wine and sleep. “Don’t worry about it, love. It’s nothing.”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” she said, her voice sharpening like a blade. “What vow?”

“Just tell her, Drake. No use in withholding it from her,” Theo chimed in, lifting himself onto his elbows and raising a brow like this was all just mildly amusing.

Draco groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m too smashed for this conversation, my love…”

Hermione shot him a look so sharp it could have sliced through glass, then turned her glare to Theo, who offered a sheepish smile as he reclined beside her. She sat up fully, spine straight as a rod.

“I made an unbreakable vow that I’d never make any attempts to go after you sexually or romantically for as long as Draco is alive,” he admitted, tone far too casual for the weight of what he’d just said.

Hermione’s eyes snapped back to Draco. “And why on earth was making this vow necessary?” Her voice was cold, clipped, her jaw clenched.

Draco rubbed his eyes with both hands, clearly regretting everything. With a resigned breath, he pushed himself upright. “Accio sober-up potion,” he muttered, wand raised.

Hermione folded her arms, tapping one finger against her elbow impatiently as she watched the little vial zoom through the air. When it landed neatly in Draco’s hand, he downed it in one swift gulp. They waited a few beats in tense silence before he finally looked her in the eye.

“Darling, it’s Theo…”

“That’s the explanation I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to give me?” she asked, tone steely.

“I feel as though my answer is self-explanatory,” he said with an exasperated look. “I needed the potion for the follow-up questions.”

Hermione gave him a flat stare. “It’s one thing not to trust your best friend not to try to get in my knickers, but it’s another thing entirely to not trust me, Malfoy.”

“I do trust you,” he said quickly, his voice gentling. “I just… I couldn’t bear it if I had to constantly worry about him crossing a line, with him living at the manor and spending so much time with you. I’d never be able to relax.”

“Theo isn’t some untamed beast. He can control himself.”

“Yes, because he controls himself so well when he’s constantly holding your hand when he thinks I’m not looking.”

“Draco…”

“I’m right here, you know,” Theo interjected dryly.

“Shut up, Nott,” Draco growled, shooting him a venomous look.

“Don’t speak to him like that!” Hermione snapped, turning fully toward Draco, eyes blazing.

Draco sighed heavily and crossed his arms, looking skyward as if asking the stars for patience. “Look, Hermione, try to understand it from my perspective. He shagged Pansy for nearly a year while she was mine. I forgave him because I was never in love with her, and he knew that, but it still happened behind my back. And you—you are the love of my life. You’re lovelier than any woman I’ve ever known, and he knows it. Can you really blame me for being protective?”

Hermione groaned and threw her hands in the air. “Possessive is truly more the word…”

“If it were up to me, I’d lock you in my room and never let you leave my sight. But apparently that’s ‘frowned upon’ these days,” he added with a smirk. “I trust you. I just… don’t trust anyone else. Not even him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but please try to understand.”

She stared at him for a long moment, heart thudding, trying to decide whether to yell or sigh. In the end, she sighed.

They’d never fought before—not really—and despite how brassed off she was, she didn’t want this to become something bigger than it needed to be. She didn’t believe the vow was necessary. Theo had never made her feel uncomfortable, never once made her feel like his feelings for her were anything but platonic. But if this nonsense helped Draco sleep at night…

“I’m very cross with you right now, husband.”

“I know, darling. How can I make it up to you?”

“For starters, don’t do anything like that ever again with anyone… Who was the bonder?”

“Blaise.”

She’d have some words for Blaise later for not telling her. 

“Of course it was…Alright, let’s go to bed. I shall consider your punishment on the walk over.”

Draco smiled carefully and got to his feet, offering his hand to help her up.

She slapped it away and got herself up.

Theo dropped back onto the grass with a theatrical groan and stretched out under the stars.

“Theo, you go to bed too,” Hermione ordered, brushing off her skirt.

“I might just stay out here. It’s peaceful.”

“It’s peaceful inside the château as well.”

“My room’s right next to Pansy and Neville,” he said flatly. “They don’t always remember to cast silencing charms.”

“Then cast your own.”

“I like to hear Pansy come sometimes. Helps me wank.”

Draco threw his hands up, gesturing wildly. “You see?”

Hermione sucked in a long, calming breath through her nose before grabbing Theo’s arm and hauling him up from the ground.

“Why am I always surrounded by little boys who need mothering…” she muttered under her breath, dragging them both inside.

Chapter Text

Months passed, and Hermione found herself settling into a quiet, unexpected rhythm at the manor. Most weekdays, Draco left for Malfoy Enterprises, occasionally swapping days with his father so he could stay home and spend time with her. On the days he was away, Theo kept her company, and as always, was endlessly entertaining, surprisingly insightful, and always up for mischief or meaningful conversation.

Often, they’d lose entire afternoons in the vast manor library. Hermione could vanish into its shelves for days if left to her own devices, and Theo—despite his reputation as a rakish troublemaker—was far more intellectual than he let on. He actually enjoyed devouring books alongside her, though he hid it beneath layers of charm and sarcasm. Gods forbid anyone think he was a bookworm. 

They’d often pick out a couple of books, curl up on the couch, and read in companionable silence. Sometimes, Theo would rest his head in her lap while they both read, or she’d tuck her perpetually cold feet beneath him for warmth. Draco would occasionally find them like this and, without a word, send a stinging hex Theo’s way until they separated—then promptly wedge himself between them with a pointed look.

She fell into other habits as well, such as taking dips in the indoor pool, practicing piano in the acoustically-engineered music room, visiting the horses in the stables, chatting with Draco’s portrait, or wandering the grounds with Lucius’s gentle Scottish deerhounds—Helios and Gwenie (short for Gwendolyn)—trotting faithfully at her side. 

Blaise and Pansy visited often, sometimes with Neville in tow (whom her friend was now quite serious about), and her other friends dropped by on occasion. Still, Hermione usually preferred to visit Harry and Ginny or Luna instead, knowing they weren’t as comfortable in the manor. But over time, it had quietly become home to her despite how ridiculously grand it was and the fact that she was still finding new rooms.

Every morning, she, Draco, Theo, and Lucius took breakfast together. Conversation flowed easily over tea and toast—plans for the day, musings about whatever book she was currently reading, playful bickering between Theo and Draco, and the slower, more cautious exchanges between father and son. Their relationship remained tinged with tension, but both were making an effort. Draco was more receptive now to Lucius’s attempts at reconciliation—though it often took a subtle nudge (or not-so-subtle glare) from her to keep him on track.

Lucius, for his part, was around more often than he had been when she and Draco were merely courting. She’d frequently catch him in passing throughout the manor, and their encounters always began with a warm greeting and easy conversation. When the weather allowed, they would stroll through the gardens together. Hermione found him composed, thoughtful, and disarmingly intelligent—his wit was sharp and clever, never obvious, as he seemed to find crass humor distasteful. Their rapport deepened over time, and he gradually began sharing quiet glimpses into Draco’s childhood—his close bond with Narcissa, small acts of mischief, and painful truths from the war that Draco rarely spoke of.

When Hermione shared things in return, Lucius surprised her by truly listening, especially when she spoke of her parents.

He offered—without fanfare or expectation—to pay for the finest mind healers in hopes of restoring their memories. She’d gently declined, feeling that too much time had passed. Too many years lost. How could she explain what she had done? The choices she had made? Her parents were safe and happy, living a quiet life in Australia. She’d checked on them from time to time—most recently, with Harry.

They’d posed as a couple, interested in buying the house next door, and were invited in for tea. Her parents didn’t recognize her. They were kind, gracious, and complimented Hermione and Harry on being a “lovely couple.”

She held it together until they left. Smiled politely, made small talk, even thanked them for the tea. But the moment they stepped out of her parents’ home and the door closed behind them, the weight of it all came crashing down. She broke.

Harry caught her as her knees buckled, wrapping his arms around her as she sobbed into his chest. He didn’t say much at first—just held her, letting her cry, one hand gently stroking her hair, the other gripping her waist like he could anchor her to the earth. When her cries quieted into hiccuping breaths, he finally spoke.

“They’re safe, Hermione,” he said softly. “They’re happy. You did what you had to do. You saved them.”

She shook her head, tears still streaking down her face. “I stole their lives, Harry… I took everything from them.”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “You gave them a life. A future without fear. That’s not theft, Hermione. That’s love.”

She collapsed into him again, grateful but unconvinced, grief curling in her chest like a second heartbeat.

After they returned to the manor, and after managing a quick goodbye, she wandered the estate until she was lost in more ways than one. Eventually, she sank down at the base of an old tree, clutching her knees, weeping for all that had been taken, all she had chosen, and all she could never fix.

Lucius found her an hour later.

He didn’t speak. Just gently helped her up, silent and steady, and offered her his arm. She clung to it. He only broke the silence once, to softly ask if she wanted him to Apparate them inside. She shook her head. She needed the walk to steady herself before seeing Draco. She didn’t want to worry him.

She leaned her head gently against Lucius’s strong arm, silent and distant, and let the tears dry on her cheeks as they walked slowly back toward the manor. The silence between them was a comfort—Lucius didn’t press or offer empty words. He simply walked at her pace, letting her hold on as tightly as she needed. The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet, and the sun had just begun to dip beneath the horizon, bathing the estate in a warm, golden glow. By the time the towering silhouette of the manor came into view, Hermione had mostly composed herself, her eyes puffy and red but dry, her breathing even again.

When she stepped inside, Draco and Theo were waiting for her in the front hall, both wearing matching looks of concern that made her throat tighten all over again. She forced a small, brave smile as she straightened her shoulders. “Sorry I was gone so long,” she said lightly, as if she hadn’t been a sobbing mess barely an hour earlier.

Draco was by her side immediately, brushing her hair back and searching her face, but she shook her head gently— not now. Theo didn’t press either; he simply stepped forward and pulled her into a quiet, grounding hug, holding her just long enough to steady her before letting go. He gave Draco a small nod and stepped back as Draco wrapped his arms around her and guided her upstairs.

Once in his room, she lay down on the bed, and Draco gathered her close, spooning her from behind. He pressed soft kisses to her forehead and cheeks, whispering gentle reassurances—that she was safe, that everything was okay, that he was there, and that when she was ready, they could talk about what happened. She didn’t speak. She only cried silently, her tears soaking into the pillow, and eventually drifted into sleep. She didn’t wake until late the next morning.

That day, Draco enchanted their wedding rings—so she could summon him at any time, and so he’d always know where she was. It made her feel a little safer, a little more grounded. When she was ready, she opened up to him about visiting her parents with Harry. About how difficult it had been. How the guilt gnawed at her constantly for having obliviated their memories. How she missed them fiercely, even though she’d shoved those feelings deep down for years, trying not to drown in them.

“I can never replace your parents, my love,” Draco said gently, cupping her cheek. “But I am your family now. And you will never be alone again. I promise you that.”

She held onto him tightly and let the words fill her. He was her husband, yes—but he also felt like home. So did Theo, and Harry, and the handful of others who loved her so fiercely and without condition. She was lucky, she knew that. But the loss of her parents was still a wound that hadn’t healed—and perhaps never would.

Draco encouraged her to reconsider meeting with specialized mind healers to explore the possibility of restoring their memories. This time, she agreed to at least speak with them. To weigh the risks, not just for her parents’ mental well-being, but for her own peace of mind.

But Hermione wasn’t the only one quietly struggling.

Some nights, Draco would thrash in his sleep—crying out, sweating, kicking at the sheets. She’d hear him whispering broken pleas: “Not my mother, please—punish me instead,” or “No more blood… please no more blood…”

She would wake him gently, whispering softly, touching his cheek until the wild look in his eyes faded and he remembered where he was, that he was safe. That the war was over. That she was his wife, and she was right there.

He would exhale shakily and bury his face in her chest while she held him. Rarely, he would cry. But when he did, it shattered her. He never wanted to talk about it. Said it was better left alone. She disagreed, but she respected his boundary. Still, it worried her, the way he kept the trauma so tightly locked inside.

They were both a little broken in their own ways. But the cracks rarely showed. Day-to-day, they were genuinely happy in their marriage, and Hermione found herself falling more in love with Draco all the time.

He wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t either. But over time, she learned to navigate his complexities. He was quick to temper—never with her, but still intense. He was deeply jealous. Possessive. Not just when Theo touched her, but anyone, really—except for his father, who never did more than offer his arm to her and always treated her with old-world courtesy. 

Still, it was abundantly clear to her that Draco was a dragon, and she was his hoard.

He could also be evasive at times. Withholding. Sometimes, when she’d ask him questions, he’d dodge them or redirect until she pressed him hard enough for answers. One day, she found him in his study with Harry, their conversation hushed and tense. When she asked what it was about, Draco deflected and claimed he was late for a work meeting. Harry offered no explanation either, and even Ginny didn’t know what was going on. It lingered in the back of her mind—whatever it was, they were hiding something.

Still, Draco was endlessly loving and attentive. Devoted in a way that made her feel like the center of his world. He worshipped her—she felt it every time they made love. He always made it primarily about her pleasure, and some days, they wouldn’t leave their room, wrapped up in each other for hours on end between naps and meals. It was intense. Consuming. But she had never felt so alive.

When they did eventually emerge, Theo would all but explode with pent-up energy and demand her attention like a starved puppy. His emotional neediness had quietly morphed into a kind of codependence, one she knew wasn’t healthy—but she couldn’t bear to deny him the comfort she could so easily offer him.

Once, she tried to confront him about his walls—how he pushed people away under the guise of detachment, even though he clearly longed so deeply to be loved. But he deflected, cracked a joke, changed the subject—what all of the Slytherins around her tended to do. 

Until one night, after a few too many drinks, he finally confessed what she’d always suspected, that he had never truly gotten over his unrequited love for Draco. And now that Draco was married, he forced himself to keep new boundaries. No more lingering touches. No more curling up beside him like before. It hurt, and he missed the closeness, but he respected their marriage and Draco’s devotion and unwavering fidelity to her. He laughed when she brought up the irony of the lack of boundaries he had with her, and explained that it was different because he wasn’t in love with her; he didn’t want her in the same way he wanted Draco. 

“Wouldn’t that just make it worse for you, though, in the past?” Hermione asked gently. “Receiving crumbs of affection, knowing it never meant to him what it meant to you?”

Theo stared at the fireplace, finishing the last sip of his firewhiskey before murmuring, “I’d rather live in the illusion of what could have been than never feel anything at all.”

She found his answer excruciatingly painful to hear. 

“Oh, Theo…”

She opened her arms, and he crawled into her lap on the couch without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head on her thigh. She stroked his hair softly, threading her fingers through the dark, wavy strands.

“Theo, please… I’m begging you. Find someone who can love you back the way you love them. You deserve that. You deserve to be happy.”

He sighed, quiet for a long moment, holding onto her tightly. Then, finally, “It feels… terrifying. Opening up like that with someone new.”

“You don’t have to do it all at once,” she said, her voice tender. “You can go at your own pace. In parts. Take your time. It’s not a race. You don’t have to rush into it like Draco and I did. In fact, you shouldn’t. We were lucky it worked out.”

He looked up and gave a small, wistful smile. “Draco never would’ve let you slip away. He would’ve become whatever you needed him to be, just to keep you. Fortunately, you seem to love him just as he is.”

She smiled softly. “I do.”

“Still,” she added more firmly, “you need to move on. You’re living in a stunted adolescence, and it’s time to grow up. I say that with love.”

“I love you more, my darling,” Theo murmured, laying his head back down on her thigh. “Something Draco and I share.”

“That’s not true,” she said gently. “I love you both. The same way you both love me.”

He snorted. “Would you kill for either of us?”

She hesitated. “That’s hardly the best measure of love—whether I’m willing to give away pieces of my soul.”

“You and Draco already have my entire soul,” Theo said quietly. “I’d give it willingly if it meant saving either of you. And I know Draco feels the same about you. I’ve seen it. In his head.”

Hermione blinked. “So I was right… you two have been doing secret Legilimency behind my back.”

“And in front of you as well, darling,” Draco’s voice cut in from the doorway, giving her another one of his heated, jealous stares. 

Theo lifted his head and met Draco’s eyes with an unimpressed look before slowly releasing Hermione and sitting upright again.

“Come, wife,” Draco said, offering his hand. “I’d like to shag the remnants of Theo’s touch off your body now.”

“Must you say it like that?” Hermione sighed, though her lips twitched with amusement as she stood and walked over to him.

Draco grabbed her possessively, eyes dark with want. “No,” he said, voice low, “but I do need to shag you senseless.”

The devilish glint in his smirk made her pulse flutter.

“Would you mind terribly,” she asked sweetly, “saying goodnight to Theo first?”

Draco sighed. “Goodnight, Nott,” he said dryly.

Theo waved a lazy hand from where he was lounging on the couch.

Hermione leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Give him a kiss goodnight.”

Draco gave her a look—part amused, part exasperated—but when she nodded with soft insistence, he rolled his eyes and relented.

With a sigh, he walked over to Theo, who was once again stretched out across the couch like an overly pampered cat. Without a word, Draco grabbed the blanket from the armrest and draped it casually over Theo’s legs. Then he leaned down, cupped his cheek with one hand, and held his gaze for a beat—something almost tender passing between them.

He pressed a kiss to Theo’s forehead, lingering a moment before pulling away and murmuring, “Sleep well.”

He turned and walked back to Hermione, taking her hand in his. Together, they quietly slipped out of the room.

When she glanced back, Theo hadn’t moved. He was still sprawled out lazily, head resting on the cushion, but his eyes glistened—and the look he gave her was full of quiet gratitude.

***

April 30th, 2002

Draco had been receiving letters for months.

At first, they were little more than idle threats—crude insults scrawled in shaky script, sealed with obscure pureblood sigils that reeked of desperation. He’d scoffed, tossing them into the fireplace without a second glance. Crackpot ramblings from bitter traditionalists. Nothing more than noise.

But then the letters changed.

Ink that scorched the parchment. Envelopes that hissed when opened. One note arrived soaked in something that looked like blood, its message written in jagged, violent strokes:

You’ve shamed your name. Soon, you’ll answer for it.

Still, he hadn’t told Hermione.

She was happy. Settled. And for once in her life, at peace. After everything she’d endured during the war, he couldn’t bring himself to drag her into the shadow looming behind him—not unless it became something real. Something unavoidable.

So he said nothing.

Instead, he watched. Waited. Reinforced the wards, quietly enchanted new protections over the windows and doorways. Modified the Floo security system. He even took to carrying his wand more tightly in hand, even within the manor walls. If Hermione noticed the stiffness in his posture or the way his eyes flicked too often toward the windows, she didn’t press.

But late at night, when sleep evaded him and the threats echoed in his mind, Draco couldn’t help but wonder if the sins of his past—or of his name—would ever truly let him go.

Their wedding had brought a rare swell of goodwill to the Malfoy name. In the months that followed, Hermione quietly spent hundreds of thousands of galleons on charitable causes, including healing clinics, orphanages, reparations for war victims, and research into improved prosthetics. When the donations were leaked to the press, the story exploded. The brilliant Muggle-born war heroine turned Lady Malfoy was suddenly the wizarding world’s most famous philanthropist—admired, applauded, and adored. Their public image softened, transformed. Draco’s name, once met with suspicion, was now met with cautious curiosity.

But not everyone celebrated.

On the side of light, some still whispered that Draco had escaped true justice—that he didn’t deserve his happy ending. And in the darker corners of pureblood society, their union was viewed as betrayal. A Malfoy heir marrying a Muggle-born witch was unforgivable. Other prominent families began following their example, marrying outside the sacred twenty-eight, and the Malfoys were blamed for the shift.

The discontent simmered beneath the surface, quiet, but growing.

He never let Hermione leave the manor unaccompanied anymore. If he couldn’t go with her, he’d gently nudge her to invite Theo or check if Potter was free. Theo, despite his insufferable habits and charming aloofness, was fiercely protective when it counted and an excellent duelist. And Potter—well, Potter was an Auror with a martyr complex. He’d throw himself in front of a curse for her without hesitation.

She also had her enchanted ring, linked to his, which allowed him to know her location at all times and come to her instantly if needed. It helped. But not enough.

Lucius tried to reassure him. The manor’s wards were ancient and formidable, rivaling Hogwarts in strength. No one could hope to breach them, and if by some miracle they did, it would set off a dozen alarms. But Draco’s instincts wouldn’t be soothed so easily.

He knew too well what fear looked like dressed as loyalty.

Harry gave him updates on lingering Death Eater activity—names like Mulciber Jr., Rodolphus Lestrange, Selwyn, and Macnair. All still at large. Rumors whispered of a new order forming from the ruins of the old—extremists who refused to accept the changing world.

That worried Draco most of all.

Because he knew Rodolphus Lestrange had a reason to come for him.

In the final days of the war, Draco had executed Rabastan Lestrange under Voldemort’s orders. But it had been his idea—his scheme. He framed Rabastan for deliberately letting a group of imprisoned Muggle-borns escape. Voldemort, suspicious and unraveling, accepted the lie without question and sentenced him to death.

Draco carried out the sentence swiftly and without remorse.

Rodolphus had watched. Had known. And he’d sworn that one day, Draco would pay for what he’d done.

Now, with letters arriving in blood and whispers of a new uprising, Draco feared that day was coming—and he felt helpless to stop it. He had already made certain arrangements in case the worst should happen, determined that no matter what, his wife would remain safe. That was all that mattered.

He was deep in thought during dinner when Hermione cleared her throat and gave him a look—pointed, expectant. Clearly, something was on her mind.

“I’ve been thinking about your upcoming birthday, dear husband,” she said with a small smile.

“Oh, have you, darling? What about it exactly? Aside from the fact that I’ll finally catch up to you in age—if only for a few short months.”

“Age is just a number, Draco,” she dismissed.

“Not when you’ve reached my age,” Lucius interjected smoothly with a ghost of a smirk.

“You’re what, late forties? That’s hardly ancient,” Hermione replied, waving off the comment.

“Hmm, if you say so,” Lucius said mildly, taking another bite of food.

“You could easily find yourself in the knickers of a witch half your age, Lucy,” Theo added with a sly grin.

Lucius raised an unimpressed brow. “Are you saying you find me handsome, Nott?”

“Oh, you know I do. That’s not even up for debate,” Theo said with a wink. “You hardly look a day over thirty-five. I do wish you’d share your skincare routine.”

“It’s purely genetics,” Lucius replied, deadpan. “Though I do take great care to condition my hair,” he added, casting an amused glance at Hermione.

It was always nice when Lucius let himself be a bit less formal. Hermione gave him a smile in return.

“Well, back to your birthday,” she said, redirecting. “I’d like to throw a gala in your honor. And instead of gifts, I was hoping everyone would donate to a trust fund for the new healing wing at St. Mungo’s. We could raise funds to refurbish the entire hospital, really.”

Draco stared at her, full of fondness. His wife—ever the altruist—even when it came to his birthday. Merlin, he loved her for it.

“The idea’s intriguing,” he said, “but… I’m not sure about hosting it here.”

“Why not? What’s the point of having a manor with two ballrooms if we never use them?” she asked, furrowing her brows.

He glanced at his father, who immediately understood. With security still a concern, Draco didn’t want hundreds of guests wandering through the manor, having the opportunity to plant Merlin knows what in their home.

“Perhaps it would be better held elsewhere,” Lucius said smoothly. Then, turning to Theo with a subtle tilt of his head, “Nott, would you consider hosting this gala at your estate?”

Theo blinked, caught off guard—but Lucius’s pointed stare made resistance futile.

“My dear Draco,” he said, plastering on a smile, “I’d be honored to host your birthday gala. I’ll contact Pansy at once and begin planning.”

“Thank you, Theo. How generous,” Draco replied sweetly, blowing him a kiss, which Theo pretended to catch and tuck into his pocket.

Hermione gave all three men a suspicious look, clearly sensing something they weren’t telling her. Eventually, she sighed and reached for her wine.

“Let’s focus on inviting the wealthiest donors you know. I already promised St. Mungo’s we’d raise several hundred thousand galleons.”

“I’ll match whatever is raised that night,” Draco said, squeezing her hand. “Don’t worry.”

“I’ll contribute a quarter million,” Lucius added smoothly, glancing toward Theo.

Theo groaned. “Don’t look at me—I’m already throwing the party.”

“Nott, you’ve got a hundred million galleons sitting in your vaults,” Draco drawled. “Don’t be stingy. It’s unbecoming.”

“Fine,” Theo grumbled. “I’ll toss in fifty thousand. For Hermione.”

“Hearing you lot casually throw around numbers like that will never stop disturbing me,” she muttered.

“Do you have any idea what your rings are worth? Your diamond studs and the diamond bracelet I gave you for your birthday? You’re practically a walking vault, darling,” Draco said, smirking.

She blushed but waved him off. “It’s for charity, so thank you all. I can’t wait to celebrate you, love.”

Draco lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “And I can’t wait to take off your dress at the end of the night.”

The heat in his voice made her blush deepen, and he felt his pulse stir in response.

“In fact,” he said, standing up, “I believe I’m finished with dinner. And it seems you are too.”

He rose and tugged her gently to her feet. Lucius stood as well, offering a polite nod, while Theo smirked into his goblet.

“Goodnight, gentlemen,” Draco said, guiding his wife from the room.

As soon as they were in the hallway, Draco apparated them directly into their bedroom without a word. The moment her feet touched the floor, he had her backed against the wall, caging her in with his arms, his eyes smoldering.

For a beat, he didn’t touch her. Just stared—gazed at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. His wife. His. Every curve, every inch of her, belonged to him, and Merlin, it undid him.

“You always look so bloody beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough and low.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t get a word out before his mouth crashed against hers—hungry, possessive, full of longing he’d barely restrained all evening. His hands slid down to her hips, gripping hard, dragging her flush against him so she could feel how much he wanted her.

Her gasp gave him just enough space to trail kisses along her jaw, down the curve of her neck. He bit lightly at her pulse point, then soothed it with his tongue, smiling when she moaned.

“I’ve been thinking about this all bloody evening,” he confessed, his hands already pushing her dress up over her thighs. “Watching you… smiling like that… knowing what’s mine under all that silk…”

She clung to his shoulders as he lifted her off the ground, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He carried her to the bed and laid her down carefully—like she was something precious, something breakable. And then he hovered over her, drinking in the sight of her splayed beneath him.

Slowly, deliberately, he began to undress her—undoing each clasp, each layer, with reverent fingers. He wanted to savor her, not rush. She was flushed and panting already, her eyes glazed with need, but he still took his time.

When she was bare beneath him, he just looked at her for a long moment.

She reached for him. “Draco…”

“I know what you need,” he said, voice hoarse. 

He undressed quickly, shedding his clothes with practiced ease, and settled over her again—skin to skin, breath to breath. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone as he kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, his mouth moving against hers with reverence.

He trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat, savoring the shiver he drew from her. His hands roamed her body—strong, deliberate—palming her breasts, teasing her nipples until she arched into him with a quiet gasp. He took his time, worshipping every inch of her, rediscovering her like it was the first time.

One hand slid down her stomach, fingers parting her thighs with ease. He slipped between them, stroking her with the perfect pressure, circling and teasing until she was panting beneath him. She was soft, warm, wet—utterly ready for him—and he growled low in his throat at the feel of her.

He kept going, slow and attentive, two fingers easing inside her while his thumb continued its rhythm. She moaned his name, hips lifting to meet his touch, and it took everything in him not to lose control right then.

When her breath hitched and she clenched around him, he slowly pulled his fingers out, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean with a wicked glint in his eyes. She always tasted like heaven. 

Only then did he position himself, tip of his cock brushing her entrance. He kissed her again, long and slow, and murmured against her lips, “Mine.”

He slid into her—inch by inch—with a slow, aching stretch that had them both groaning. He held still once he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to hers, letting her body adjust, letting himself breathe.

And then he began to move.

It was a steady rhythm at first—long, deep strokes that made her gasp and cling to him. He moved slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of her wrapped around him, the way her body welcomed every inch like she was made for him. She arched beneath him, nails raking down his back, and he reveled in the sharp sting—it grounded him, pushed him deeper into the haze of want.

She was so beautiful like this. Hair spread out and wild over the pillow, cheeks flushed, lips parted as she whispered his name over and over like a chant—like a prayer. He kissed her hard, swallowing the sound, one hand threading into her hair to keep her close, the other gripping her thigh tightly.

But it wasn’t enough.

He wanted more.

Breaking the kiss, he shifted, grabbing her other leg and pushing both thighs up slowly, folding her nearly in half. Her breath hitched at the new angle, a soft whimper slipping from her lips.

“Oh, you feel that, love?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “So deep now. You’re taking me so fucking well.”

He began to thrust again, deeper now, harder—but not brutal—still controlled, still measured. Every time he pushed forward, she gasped, her head tipping back, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Look at me,” he ordered gently, cupping her face. “I want to see your eyes when you come.”

She did as he asked—always did—and the sight of her, wrecked and open and his, made his control fray at the edges. Her body tensed beneath him, legs trembling as he drove into her again and again, each stroke coaxing her closer to the edge.

“That’s it, my darling,” he praised, breathless. “You’re perfect. So tight… so fucking good for me. My brilliant girl.”

She cried out softly, clenching around him, and he knew she was there, right on the precipice. He reached between them, circling her clit with deft fingers as he continued to move within her.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “Let me feel you.”

She shattered beneath him with a soft, broken moan, her body locking around his in waves. He groaned, forehead pressed to hers, nearly undone by the way she pulsed around him, the way she clung to him like he was her lifeline.

He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until he gave her every drop of what he had.

Her walls clenched around him again, and he nearly lost it right then—her body still trembling, her breath catching on little gasps as she came down. But he wasn’t finished.

He slowed his pace, drawing it out, pulling nearly all the way out before thrusting in again, deeper, rougher. She whimpered, oversensitive now, her nails digging into his biceps as her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, holding him close.

“Just a bit more, love,” he panted, voice ragged. “So close…”

She met his gaze, glassy and sated, and whispered, “I want it… please, Draco.”

That was all it took.

His rhythm faltered, hips snapping forward once, twice more before he came with a groan that tore from deep in his chest. He spilled into her with a shudder, burying his face in the curve of her neck, holding her so tightly he thought he might disappear inside her.

“Fuck, Hermione…” he breathed against her skin, lips brushing her shoulder. “You undo me.”

For a moment, neither of them moved—just the sound of their breathing, the warmth of skin on skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat finally beginning to slow.

He softened inside her but didn’t pull away just yet. Instead, he kissed her jaw, her temple, her eyelids as they fluttered shut.

“You’re everything,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Everything I never thought I’d have.”

Hermione hummed sleepily, content, her fingers trailing down his back. “I love you,” she murmured, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

He kissed her again, gently this time. “I love you more.”

Afterward, he held her close, both of them slick with sweat, limbs tangled. He buried his face in her neck and exhaled slowly, grounding himself in her scent, her warmth.

“I’ll never get enough of you,” he murmured, and meant it.

She stroked his hair and kissed his temple, and in the quiet that followed, all he could feel was her—her body wrapped around his, her breath soft against his skin, her love pressed into every inch of him.

Chapter Text

“What do you think?”

Hermione stood in front of Draco’s portrait in his closet, wearing a deep crimson, off-the-shoulder satin gown. The dress hugged every curve, with delicate pleating across the bodice and hips, and a high slit that climbed to just above mid-thigh. Pansy had helped her choose it from among the many designer options sent her way. Hermione liked the color—it worked well with her complexion and hair—but she couldn’t help worrying it was a bit… much.

Portrait!Draco regarded her silently, arms crossed, one hand stroking his chin. He made a wordless gesture with two fingers, signaling her to turn. She did, smirking.

“Well?”

“I can’t imagine he’ll be able to look away from your arse all night. Or your tits. And those legs…”

“That’s not what I asked,” she huffed. “Is it appropriate for a gala? Or will I be accused of looking like a harlot?”

“Who gives a toss when you look like that?” he said dismissively.

“Draco,” she said more firmly. “Please. I need an actual opinion. I don’t want my husband to see the dress before the event, and Theo isn’t exactly a source of practical feedback.”

“What did Pansy say?”

“She’s wearing a gown so low in the back it’s a breath away from exposing her bum. So, also not the best person to ask.”

Draco’s portrait hummed and took another long look, and she realized he wasn’t assessing the dress so much as undressing her in his mind.

“Draco…” she warned.

He sighed dramatically. “Alright, yes, Granger. The dress is stunning and acceptable. You’ll be the belle of the bloody ball.” He paused. “Would it be possible to have your portrait done looking like that?”

“You like it that much?”

He nodded with a faint smile.

She’d delayed the portrait for ages—first because she was adjusting to life at the manor, and second because she hadn’t found the right outfit. He never pushed her about it, especially since she visited him often. He had, however, made frequent not-so-subtle requests for her to show up nude or at least “scantily clad,” and she’d indulged him a few times—much to the real Draco’s amusement. He was surprisingly unbothered by his own painted self being a bit lecherous.

“Alright. I’ll schedule the sitting,” she said. “Hair up or down?”

She demonstrated both with a sweep of her hands.

“Up,” Portrait!Draco said after a moment. “With some curls falling. Your neck’s delectable—it’ll tease him all night.”

“You really think so?”

He arched a brow. “I’m him, you know.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the mirror, smoothing the gown down with both hands. After another beat, she nodded to herself.

“Alright. It’ll work. Thanks.”

She carefully stepped out of the dress and hung it back on its hanger, zipping up the garment bag before turning to grab her skirt and jumper.

“Leave those off,” the portrait said, eyes warm with mischief.

She shot him a smirk over her shoulder.

“It’s not fair—he gets to see you whenever he likes.”

She sighed but humored him, sinking onto the chaise in front of his frame, clad only in her strapless bra and knickers.

“What should I get him for his birthday?” she mused. “It’s only a few days away, and I still have no idea.”

“Nothing,” he said at once. “Wear some lingerie and shag him senseless. Perfect gift.”

She gave him a flat look. “There must be something other than my body he’d enjoy.”

“He’s rich, and he has you. He’s not wanting for anything else, love.”

Hermione bit her lip, thinking. Draco was impossible to shop for—he already owned everything he wanted. She didn’t want to give him a silly trinket or something overly sentimental. He knew she loved him. They told each other every day.

No—she wanted something meaningful, but different. Something that appealed to the part of him that was not so quietly possessive. Something just for him…

Slowly, her lips curled into a smile.

“What does he think about tattoos?”

Portrait!Draco raised a brow. “Aside from the horrific one still on his arm? I can’t say he’s overly fond… Why?”

“I have an idea. It’s a bit unconventional… but I think he’d like it. Promise not to tell?”

“Please. I hardly ever spill the secrets of our little chats.”

“Good,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Here’s what I’m thinking…”

***

His arms were wrapped around her waist, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder as they stood in front of the mirror. He whispered into her ear, quietly telling her how stunning she looked, how impossible it would be to keep his hands off her all night. She was a bloody vision in that deep red gown, and the thought of having to share her with a room full of people made his jaw tense.

He wanted to skip the gala altogether, but he knew she would have none of that.

Draco stared at her neck; she was missing one last thing.

“Wait here,” he murmured, and felt her nod, her lip caught between her teeth like she knew something was coming.

He stepped into the closet and retrieved the velvet box he’d stashed away, then returned and opened it slowly in front of her. Nestled inside was the necklace he’d had made—clusters of marquise and round diamonds arranged to mimic small flowers and leaves, delicate but striking. The matching diamond earrings in the same floral shape rested beside it.

He lifted the necklace carefully and fastened it around her neck, adjusting it so it sat perfectly against her collarbone. Her eyes widened in the mirror, and he felt something warm bloom in his chest. He never got tired of the way she looked at things like this, as though it still surprised her that someone might want to give her beautiful things.

She never asked for anything. Turned down new jewelry almost every time he offered, muttering that what she had was already too much. But he knew how she adored her engagement ring and the diamond tennis bracelet he gave her on their honeymoon. So he ignored her protests and did what he always did—got her what he thought she deserved.

Honestly, if he had it his way, she’d be dripping in diamonds every time she left the manor. But this piece… this was subtle. Elegant. Still enough to make a statement when she walked into the room.

He gently took out her old diamond studs and replaced them with the matching earrings, then ran his hands down her arms and met her gaze in the mirror again. She lifted a hand to the necklace, brushing her fingers along the curve of it before turning slightly to look at him.

“It’s beautiful, Draco,” she said quietly.

His smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He kissed her temple and replied, “No, you are, my darling.”

She smiled fondly back at him in the mirror. “Happy birthday, Draco.”

He grinned and tightly wrapped his arms around her again, nuzzling into her neck. It was already a better birthday than he’d had in ages. 

A knock at the door interrupted them.

“Are you both decent?” came Theo’s voice from outside.

“Come in, Nott,” Draco said distractedly, still focused on Hermione’s reflection as he pressed soft kisses down the side of her neck. She let out a quiet whimper, and he swore he felt it in his spine.

“It’s time to go down, lovebirds,” Theo called. “Stop pawing at your wife, Draco—you’re going to walk in with a tent in your trousers.”

“Too late,” Draco murmured against her ear.

She giggled and swatted him away, stepping over to greet Theo as he entered.

Draco adjusted himself with a muttered sigh and turned to face his friend.

“You look so handsome, Theo,” Hermione said warmly, smoothing his lapel and adjusting his tie. “Maybe tonight you’ll meet someone lovely enough to date.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. You look incredible, by the way. You’re going to drive Draco mad all night.”

“That was always the plan.” She winked at him, then wrapped him in a hug.

Theo hugged her back and dropped his cheek to the top of her head. Draco had to glance away before he lost his temper and cursed him.

“Let’s go before I cancel the whole thing and tear that dress off you,” Draco muttered as he stepped to the door and held out his arm.

She gave him a disapproving frown, but he merely raised a brow in response.

“You’re not dancing with him tonight,” he warned as she slipped her arm through his.

Behind them, Theo groaned.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Theo, you should be dancing with someone you fancy anyway. Don’t waste the opportunity—there’ll be plenty of eligible heiresses and bachelors tonight.”

“But what if I just want to find someone to shag? Maybe multiple someones…”

“Theodore,” she snapped, stopping to glare at him. “We talked about this.”

He crossed his arms with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll see if anyone catches my eye enough to want to shag them more than once.”

She rolled her eyes again, shaking her head before nudging Draco to keep walking.

Draco silently slipped into Theo’s mind. She’s trying to marry you off?

Dreadful, isn’t it? Theo responded in his head. I’d settle for a good fuck tonight, but she’s set on finding me a proper match.

Maybe it’d do you some good. And you could finally keep your hands off my wife.

Why would I stop when it drives you so bloody mad?

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, and Theo glanced back at him, wholly unrepentant.  

You’re lucky I’ve never found any fantasies of her in your head, Nott…

You’d have to dig through all the ones I have of you on your knees.

Draco rolled his eyes, recalling some of the more graphic fantasies he’d accidentally brushed up against over the years. Theo, it turned out, had a disturbingly vivid imagination when it came to bending him over every conceivable surface in the Manor or at Hogwarts. He once even skimmed over a scene in his mind involving the library ladder, silk restraints, and a bottle of aged firewhiskey. Draco had promptly slammed the mental door shut and urged Theo to occlude better, though he couldn’t blame him. He knew he had a fuckable looking arse, even caught Hermione staring at it whenever he walked around her starkers, to his delight.   

As if you’d be the top.

I would, and you’d fucking love it. I’d make it so good for you, darling.

With that giant cock of yours? It’s a miracle no one’s sued you for internal trauma.

I use a numbing charm and loads of lube, obviously. 

I wouldn’t let you fuck me if my life depended on it. There’s not enough lube in the world.

Yes, Draco…I’m aware. Theo sighed dramatically. 

“Would you both stop talking in your heads?” Hermione snapped. “You’re not nearly as subtle as you think.”

Both men had the decency to look mildly chastened and fell silent. But just before Draco closed the door on their connection, he sent one final thought.

I do want you to be happy, Theo. You know that, right?

Theo glanced at him, eyes softer now, and gave a small, wordless nod.

***

The gala had been going swimmingly, and Hermione had made it a point to charm and rub elbows with as many guests as possible. Based on the last count she’d received, the total pledged had already far surpassed her expectations, leaving her more than satisfied.

Of course, she also wanted to celebrate her husband’s twenty-second birthday—but why not kill two birds with one stone? She’d hate to throw an entirely separate gala just for fundraising. Small talk with rich people wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time, although it did fill her with a petty sort of satisfaction to know she was worth more than all the pure-blood snobs in attendance who secretly loathed her, combined.

Merlin, maybe she really was turning into a Slytherin after all…

She spotted Shacklebolt across the room and nudged Draco. He’d been dodging her owls about elf rights reform for weeks now, and she just about had lost her patience with the man. 

“Come with me. Time to corner the Minister.”

Draco raised a brow but followed her, clearly amused.

“Kingsley,” Hermione greeted dryly. “How good of you to show up.”

He gave her a measured look. “Hello to you as well…. Look, I know why you’re cross with me. I haven’t responded to your letters because—well—you’re not going to love my answer.”

“Which is?”

“We really should talk about this in my office. Call my secretary, and she’ll—”

“Kingsley,” she cut him off sharply, giving him a look that meant she wasn’t playing around. 

“This is hardly the time or place, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said in a hushed tone, clearly trying to redirect her. Draco looked entirely too entertained.

“Have you met my wife, Minister?” Draco drawled. “She’s not going to let this go.”

Kingsley sighed and gestured to a quieter corner. “Fine.”

They moved away from the crowd.

“There’s been feedback—pressures, really—from some of the more… influential members of your social circle,” Kingsley said delicately. “They’ve threatened financial consequences if we push legislation that abolishes indefinite elf servitude. And with the current political climate—”

“I haven’t read anything to suggest unrest,” Hermione interrupted, frowning. “If anything, our marriage and all the work I’ve done have helped move things forward.”

Kingsley gave a quick glance at Draco before returning his gaze to her. “Yes, well, for most of the public, that’s true. However—”

“I think we’ve monopolized the Minister’s time long enough,” Draco cut in smoothly. “We have several guests left to greet—and no shortage of curious eyes and ears nearby.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes but begrudgingly nodded, sensing there was more being left unsaid. She’d get it out of him sooner or later. It was only a matter of time.

“Minister,” she said with a polite curtsey.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Kingsley returned with a courteous bow. “Always a pleasure. Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco nodded and guided her away to greet more insufferable guests—most of whom had donated a small fortune that evening.

By the time they made the rounds, Hermione’s social battery was completely depleted. She turned to Draco, voice low.

“Dance with me. Please.”

He beamed. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They waltzed through several songs, his touch appropriately formal but his gaze smoldering. She could feel the heat of his anticipation—the same anticipation that echoed inside her. He’d already shagged her thoroughly that morning, knowing they wouldn’t get another chance until much later. She tried not to think about how long he’d spent between her thighs, making her come more times than she could count before finally sliding inside her.

Gods, just remembering made her ache.

When she finally needed a break, they rejoined their friends, who were gathered around a table drinking wine and laughing.

Pansy was draped over Neville, whispering in his ear. Ginny chatted animatedly with Luna and Harry. Blaise sat beside Daphne, listening attentively as she spoke. He’d mentioned they’d recently started dating—nothing serious yet, but promising. They’d been just friendly at Hogwarts, but apparently, he’d fancied her for years.

Hermione thought they made a lovely couple. Blaise really was a noble sort—for a Slytherin.

“Hello, birthday ferret,” Ginny greeted cheekily as they approached. “Having fun?”

Draco smirked and pulled out a chair for Hermione before settling beside her.

“Immensely,” he replied. “My wife is positively glowing—we’ve raised nearly half a million galleons for St. Mungo’s. Which, if I’ve done my math right, means I’m in for an absolutely spectacular birthday shag later.”

Hermione choked on her wine.

“Draco!” she hissed, her cheeks flushing a vivid pink. She shot him a sharp glare, though the corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. “You cannot say things like that in public.”

“Why not?” he said innocently, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. “Everyone here know’s I’d rather be shagging my wife right now than playing host.”

Ginny cackled while Blaise raised his glass in mock salute. “Happy birthday indeed.”

Hermione cleared her throat and changed the subject swiftly, determined to ignore the heat rising in her core.

“Where’s Theo?”

“Talking to Astoria,” Daphne said, nodding toward the edge of the dance floor.

They all turned to see the pair standing close. Theo smiled gently, and Astoria looked up at him with soft eyes. After a brief exchange, he offered his hand, and she took it. He led her to the floor for a dance.

“Not like him to flirt with someone in our circle,” Pansy observed.

“Maybe he’s finally ready to stop shagging around,” Neville said, rubbing Pansy’s arm affectionately. “Find something real.”

“They’re just dancing,” Blaise said. “I give it five minutes before he slips away to shag a waiter.”

“He’d better tread carefully,” Daphne added. “Astoria’s had a thing for him for ages.”

“Really?” Hermione asked.

Daphne nodded. “He is ridiculously good-looking—if you can ignore his reputation. I’m sure Mother would approve if he proposed. He’s the sole heir to the Nott estate and a pureblood. She’s been not-so-subtly reminding us not to follow in your footsteps and marry a Muggleborn or half-blood. No offense, Draco.”

“None taken, Daph,” Draco said with a chuckle. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to marry the brightest witch of our age.”

He leaned in and kissed Hermione’s cheek, making her smile despite herself.

Luna, who had been absentmindedly stroking the rim of her wine glass, piped up with a serene smile.

“Did you know thestrals hum to their mates when they’re in love? Very low, almost imperceptible. But if you’re very quiet—and very sad—you can hear it.”

A beat of silence followed.

“That’s… beautiful, actually,” Pansy said, looking vaguely alarmed by her own sincerity.

Luna nodded solemnly. “It is. Most magical creatures are far more emotionally available than wizards.”

“I once told Ronald he had the emotional range of a teaspoon, but I think Theo might be operating on another level entirely… Astoria’s lovely. He’d be lucky to have her,” Hermione added.

“Agreed,” Blaise said, nodding before flashing Daphne a smile. “Though I’ll admit, I’m biased—I’m trying to secure my own Greengrass sister. Wouldn’t it be something if Theo and I became in-laws?”

Daphne chuckled, her cheeks tinting pink. “So far, all you’ve secured, Blaise, is another date.”

“We’ll see,” he replied with a confident wink.

Hermione turned to Luna, curiosity lighting her eyes. “Luna, are you seeing anyone lately?”

“I am, actually. Rolf Scamander—we’ve been together a couple of months now. He couldn’t come tonight, though. He’s on assignment in the Himalayas tracking a new species of Occamy. He’s very devoted to his work.”

“Fascinating,” Hermione said. “I’ve always found Occamies interesting, but I’m particularly curious about Thunderbirds. Do you think he might be willing to share some of his grandfather’s research on them?”

“And here I thought you were obsessed with dragons, Granger,” Pansy muttered with a pointed smirk.

Hermione shot her a sharp look—mentally willing her not to spoil the surprise—and Pansy bit back her smile, saying no more.

“I’m sure he would,” Luna replied serenely, unfazed. “He loves talking about Newt. They were very close when he was a child.”

“Since when did you take such a strong interest in magical creatures, darling?” Draco asked her, his eyebrow arched in amused curiosity.

“I’m interested in a variety of subjects, I’ll have you know,” Hermione replied primly.

“As long as it’s not Divination,” Harry quipped with a smirk.

“Yes, I prefer things that have actual rhyme or reason to them—based on facts, not feelings.”

“I always thought Divination was complete rubbish,” Ginny added, rolling her eyes. “Professor Trelawney once told me I’d marry a red-haired stranger and live in a tower full of kneazles.”

“She told me I’d drown in a teacup,” Luna chimed in dreamily. “Which I suppose could happen, if the cup were enchanted and very aggressive.”

Everyone paused.

Draco leaned toward Luna. “If I ever come across a murderous teacup, I promise to duel it in your honor.”

“How chivalrous,” Luna replied serenely. 

“To strange prophecies and stranger friends,” Blaise said, raising his glass.

The table clinked their glasses together, laughter ringing out as if they’d all shared some private joke. Hermione shook her head with a smile, marveling at the surreal turn her life had taken—sitting at a posh gala, draped in priceless jewelry, curled up beside Draco Malfoy, and surrounded by people she never would’ve imagined calling friends five years ago.

Life was truly strange.

They all continued to laugh and chat, Theo and Astoria eventually joining the group. Hermione didn’t miss the lingering glances the pretty brunette witch cast in Theo’s direction—or the way he seemed to welcome them, openly flirting with her in front of the others. Perhaps he was finally ready to turn over a new leaf after all.

A soft throat-clear behind her caught Hermione’s attention. She turned to see Lucius standing just behind her, looking as polished and regal as ever in a black suit threaded with silver detailing that shimmered subtly under the chandelier light. A slight smile played at his lips. Severus stood a few paces behind him, his expression unreadable as always.

“I wonder if I might steal your wife for a dance,” Lucius said to Draco, his tone smooth. “Severus would like a word.”

Draco gave Hermione a quick glance and a nod, rising with her. “Of course.”

Lucius held out his hand, and Hermione placed hers in his gracefully, allowing him to lead her toward the dance floor. As they moved away, she glanced back and caught Draco giving her a wink before turning to speak with Severus.

The music shifted to something slower, more elegant, and Lucius guided her with practiced ease. He held her respectfully close, his hand resting lightly at her waist, and for a moment they simply moved in silence, surrounded by the glittering swirl of the gala.

“You look radiant tonight,” he said at last, his voice low enough that only she could hear it.

“Thank you,” she replied, offering a polite smile. “And thank you for your generous donation earlier. It’s going to make a real difference.”

“I have no doubt,” Lucius said. “Though I must admit, I find the cause far less compelling than the woman who’s championing it.”

Hermione blushed, biting back a smile. He could certainly be charming when he wanted to be. There was still something about Lucius that made her a bit nervous—but not in the way she used to fear him. He was easy to get along with now, almost disarmingly so, yet she never forgot how dangerous he could be when you landed on the wrong side of his favor. It always felt like he worked meticulously to maintain his composure, as if he were keeping some dragon buried deep inside from ever seeing the light of day.

“You’ve become quite the advocate for reform, Mr. Malfoy,” she replied coolly. “It’s…surprising.”

“Times change,” he said, his tone even. “And some of us are learning to change with them.”

They danced for a few more measures in comfortable silence, Hermione’s thoughts drifting to wondering about the conversation Draco and Severus were having away from her. But for now, she stayed present, gliding across the floor with the elder Malfoy as the candlelight flickered like starlight around them.

“You’re an excellent dancer,” she said lightly.

He looked down, and the corner of his mouth lifted just so—a subtle tell she’d learned to read by now. He was pleased.

“I was trained as a gentleman from a young age, as was Draco. Proper dancing was always a requirement.”

“Did Narcissa enjoy dancing?”

He nodded. “She did. She was gifted in Ballet, actually. She gave it up when we married, but sometimes I’d catch her at the mirror, slipping into poses. Always had remarkable posture.”

Hermione could picture it easily—Narcissa, poised and graceful, her movements refined and exact. She imagined how natural she and Lucius must have looked together, elegant and in sync. They must have understood each other deeply.

“Lucius… do you think you’ll ever remarry?”

He paused, considering. “I don’t know if I have it in me to fall in love again, if I’m being honest. I don’t know if I trust myself to be the kind of husband someone would deserve, not after how badly I failed her.”

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look. “I disagree. I think you’d make a wonderful partner—but at the very least, perhaps companionship. A girlfriend, even?”

He let out a soft huff of amusement. “At my age? I doubt it. But I appreciate the sentiment, Hermione.”

“You’re still an eligible bachelor,” she insisted. “And you look young. You are young—you talk as if you’re already in your sixties.”

“Time has a way of getting away from you. One moment, you’re young and reckless. Then you blink, and decades have passed. You’ll be a mother before you know it. Your priorities will shift, and you’ll understand.”

She sighed. “Maybe… Still, I’ll bring it up again with you. You deserve happiness, Lucius. We all do.”

“Give me grandchildren, and I’ll be happy enough.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m far too young to be a mother.”

He arched a brow, amused. “You already are one. To everyone around you.”

She tilted her head, curious.

“I notice things,” he murmured, leaning in, voice low at her ear.

Did he now…

“Well, I am good at pushing people to be better,” she replied, then gestured toward Theo and Astoria, who were still locked in close conversation, laughing.

“That was me, by the way—after several heartfelt talks with Theo.”

Lucius raised a brow, impressed. “Convincing Theodore to consider settling down is no small feat. However did you manage it?”

“I can be quite persuasive when I want to be,” Hermione said proudly.

“Perhaps he’ll finally move back into his estate and marry the girl. One can only hope…”

“Lucius,” she warned gently.

“He brings all manner of men and women into my home like I’m running a bloody brothel. It’s distasteful. It shames his family name.”

“Well, to be fair, his father did most of that already.”

Lucius sighed, conceding the point with a nod. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt him to develop higher standards.”

“Can you blame him? He grew up without a drop of affection. Of course he looks for it—fleeting or not—wherever he can.”

Lucius gave her a long, unreadable look. “I think he primarily tries to find it in you, my dear.”

She stilled, caught off guard by the bluntness of his words.

“He’s lonely,” she said quietly. “And I humor him.”

“If you were my wife,” Lucius said, voice cool and firm, “I wouldn’t tolerate you ‘humoring’ him at all. No other man would dare touch you. I’d kill them first.”

The way he said it—so calmly, so matter-of-fact—sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just possessiveness; there was something unmistakably dominant, even dangerous, in his tone. Something that Draco, for all his fire, didn’t carry in quite the same way.

She swallowed, schooling her expression. “I see where Draco gets it from…” she murmured.

Lucius raised a single brow but said nothing. The music came to an end, and he released her hand with impeccable grace, offering her a slight bow before turning and walking away.

Moments later, she felt familiar arms slide around her waist from behind. Draco pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“Miss me, wife?” he murmured against her ear.

“Always…” she replied, a bit breathless.

“Have I told you your bum looks absolutely divine in this dress?”

“No, but your portrait did,” she said with a giggle.

He let out a sigh. “So the bastard saw you in it before I did. I ought to turn his portrait to face the wall in retaliation.”

“Don’t you dare. I’ve grown rather fond of him.”

“It’s cute, really—how you’ve befriended a smug, painted version of me.”

“I’d say we’re more than friends. He’s seen me naked.”

“Oh, I know,” Draco responded with a chuckle. “He quite enjoys telling me in vivid detail how exactly he’d like to shag you senseless. Perhaps I’ll do him a favor and take you right there in the wardrobe. I’m sure he’d enjoy the show.”

Her breath caught. She bit her lip. “That sounds… naughty.”

He growled low in her ear. “I haven’t even scratched the surface of all the naughty things I’d like to do to you, love.”

She wondered exactly what those things might be and found herself feeling nervously excited.

“You think I’m afraid?” she challenged, arching a brow.

Draco chuckled, dark and sinful. “I think you forget how debauched I was before you tamed me. I try to shag you properly as my wife, not some common slag who bends over for anyone and takes it in every hole.”

A flush crept up her neck at his words. For all their passion, Draco had always been careful with her—attentive, tender, occasionally more forceful but never too rough; always checking in with her and holding back a little. Sometimes she wondered if he’d ever fully let go, if he would finally give in to his deepest desires…Perhaps her gift would entice him. 

“I have a gift for you,” she said coyly, glancing over her shoulder. “But you’ll have to wait until we’re alone to unwrap it.”

He groaned like a man on the edge. “Merlin, woman, are you trying to kill me?”

She grinned and leaned into him. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little anticipation? There’s still cake and farewells.” 

He grumbled into her hair. “Torture, all of it. You’re all the dessert I’d ever want,” he added more softly. “I could lick you up all night.”

Her breath hitched, and she felt heat pool low in her belly.

“Just a little longer, husband,” she whispered. “Be patient.”

***

After the party finally wound down—after Theo’s perfectly timed toast wishing him a happy birthday and Hermione’s eloquent, heartfelt speech thanking everyone who had contributed to the St. Mungo’s trust—Draco wasted no time. He guided his wife through the Floo at Nott Manor, and once they were home, he immediately Apparated them to his bedroom with a soft crack of displaced air.

The moment his feet touched the rug, he exhaled slowly. It was over.

The night had been a resounding success by all visible accounts, but his body still carried the weight of unspent adrenaline. He’d had a dozen undercover Aurors discreetly stationed throughout the ballroom and estate grounds—all of them personally vetted—and had reinforced the wards on Theo’s property himself. While Nott Manor was nearly as secure as his own, Draco had learned long ago never to take safety for granted. Especially not when Hermione was involved.

He had remained on edge for most of the evening, always scanning the crowd for a glint of hostility, a flash of wandlight, the wrong expression. But the attacks never came.

No one had dared make any underhanded comments about his wife’s blood status—not with him at her side. And to his surprise, many had interacted with her graciously. Some had even seemed sincere. It still felt strange, watching notoriously stiff purebloods soften under Hermione’s charm, but it was hard not to. She was radiant, witty, sharp, and gracious without being saccharine. Every bit the woman he’d fallen in love with. Every bit the woman they had never seen coming.

Still, he wasn’t naive. He knew full well there were some guests in attendance who would never accept her, not truly. Their smiles were too tight, their compliments too measured. Some of them would never see past the name Granger, no matter how many speeches she gave or millions she raised.

But tonight, they’d kept their mouths shut. That was enough.

He was proud of her—furiously, achingly proud—and he was beyond relieved that the night had gone smoothly. But Merlin, he hoped they wouldn’t need to host another gala anytime soon. The strain of being so exposed, the constant fear that something might go wrong—it wasn’t worth it, not even for half a million galleons.

Draco glanced at Hermione, already slipping off her heels, her cheeks flushed from champagne and dancing, her smile easy and warm in the low firelight.

No, he thought as he began to unfasten his cufflinks, this night had been worth it.

But only because she was.

She was already barefoot, dress unzipped halfway, as she turned toward him with a look that made his blood thrum hot in his veins. Without a word, he crossed the room, took her face in his hands, and kissed her deeply, hungrily. It was less of a greeting and more of a claiming. She melted into him, her fingers gripping at his waistcoat before sliding it off his shoulders.

He made quick work of her dress, tugging the fabric down her arms and letting it pool at her feet. His mouth never left hers for long, only breaking contact to kiss down her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. By the time he’d undone her bra and stood back to admire her—breathless and flushed in nothing but her knickers—he was utterly undone.

But then, she placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him backward, coaxing him down to sit on the edge of the bed. She stood in front of him, her curls spilling over her bare shoulders, and gave him a playful, almost shy smile.

“I have a gift for you,” she murmured, voice husky with promise. “One that’s just for your eyes.”

His brow lifted, curiosity sparking in his gaze.

Hermione lifted her hand and made a small, practiced motion near her hip. A shimmer of magic rippled through the air, and the glamour vanished, revealing a delicate, black-inked tattoo just below the curve of her hipbone, nestled close to the edge of her knickers.

Draco inhaled sharply.

It was exquisite—a minimalist rendering of the Draco constellation, fine dots and faint lines arching gracefully across her skin. A small dragon—his dragon—flew through the stars in mid-motion. As he stared, the wings shifted ever so slightly, like a breath of wind had caught them. Then the image stilled once more, etched into her forever.

He stared, struck silent.

“You—” he tried, but the words caught in his throat.

Her eyes were soft, glowing with affection. “I wanted something… just for you. So you’d always know I was yours.”

His heart clenched.

He reached out and touched the ink, tracing one fingertip over the dragon’s wing. At his touch, it stirred again, as if alive—magic responding to magic. He had given her his name, his ring, his home. But this… this felt like her branding herself in return, of her own volition. It was ownership, yes—but not the kind he demanded. The kind she gave freely.

It was the most intimate gesture anyone had ever given him, and he felt something deep in him crack open.

Draco growled low in his throat, possessive and reverent all at once. He hauled her against him, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss before guiding her back onto the bed. She laughed breathlessly, flushed and radiant, as he crawled over her—his eyes molten, all restraint slipping.

His hands roamed with practiced reverence, fingers splayed across her ribs, down the curve of her waist, gripping her thighs as if grounding himself in the reality of her. Then he slid down, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach, his breath hot and shaky against her skin.

When he reached her hip, he stilled, his pulse thundering as he stared at the tattoo more closely.

“Fuck, Hermione…”

He touched it first, reverently, and watched the enchanted dragon fly through the constellation again before curling back into stillness. Then he lowered his mouth to it, kissing the mark deeply, with slow, decadent pressure. Again. And again.

She whimpered, fingers diving into his hair, clutching tight as her hips arched toward his mouth on instinct.

“Mine,” he growled against the tattoo, the claim dark and fervent, hands tightening on her hips and feeling like he might lose his mind if he didn’t anchor himself in her.

Hermione’s breath caught—sharp and broken—her thighs instinctively parting beneath him. She bit her lip and nodded, voice lost to the ache pooling between them.

He looked up at her, ravenous and unguarded. “You did this for me.”

“For you,” she whispered, dazed. “Only you.”

That undid him.

Draco surged up and kissed her, fierce and consuming, and then pressed her back into the mattress like a man starved. His hands gripped her thighs, his mouth everywhere—neck, collarbone, breasts—until she was gasping beneath him.

“I’m going to show you exactly what this means to me,” he rasped into her skin, trailing one hand back to the tattoo and tracing it slowly, possessively. “And I’m not going to stop until you feel it in every inch of your body.”

Hermione moaned and dragged him back to her lips, clearly desperate for him, easing out her knickers and wrapping her legs around him.  

He smiled against her throat—wicked and hungry—and began to worship her like she’d just given him the stars.

Chapter Text

August 31st, 2002

They celebrated their one-year wedding anniversary in Provence with their closest friends. For nearly a month, Draco and Hermione had enjoyed the warmth of the chateau and indulged in their time alone before they were due to begin their new roles as professors at Hogwarts the following day. Their friends had arrived two weeks ago, giving the couple privacy at the start—something Hermione was considering turning into a tradition. She hoped they’d all return to the chateau each summer for years to come.

In total, Ginny, Harry, Blaise, Daphne, Pansy, Neville, Theo, Astoria, Luna, and Rolf had come to stay. The past two weeks had been an absolute delight, filled with laughter, lazy afternoons, and drunken nights under the stars. It felt almost like their school days again—except this time, they all genuinely got along and could come and go as they pleased.

Blaise and Theo were now in committed relationships with Daphne and Astoria, respectively, though interestingly enough, Theo had still asked for his own room at the chateau. He’d confided in Hermione that he hadn’t slept with Astoria yet, despite nearly three months of courting.

He was trying to be a proper gentleman and take things slow, worried that rushing into bed might sabotage something real. He really liked her, that much was clear. He doted on her, made an effort with her, and seemed intentionally restrained. Hermione had even caught them snogging once in the library, and based on the heat between them, the chemistry was undeniable, so the fact that he was holding back this long from shagging her was a big deal.

Hermione had made an effort to get closer to Astoria as well. The younger witch was quiet, kind, and undeniably beautiful—pale skin, striking grey-blue eyes, and silky brunette waves. They made a stunning couple and Hermione hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t somehow fuck things up.

Things with Draco were as wonderful as ever. He even seemed to be looking forward to returning to Hogwarts—his old stomping grounds. Snape had agreed to relinquish the Defense Against the Dark Arts position to him. As headmaster, Snape had taken it over temporarily (since no one else wanted the cursed post), but now Draco was set to step in. Hermione, meanwhile, was preparing to teach Muggle Studies, a subject so often overlooked and improperly taught that she was eager to set it right.

They were to be given quarters at the castle for the weekdays and access to a heavily warded Floo that would only work for the two of them to return home when they liked, mostly on weekends.

But today—their final day of freedom—Hermione fully intended to enjoy it.

After a shared breakfast and a walk around the grounds, the girls took a large picnic blanket out to the lavender fields, complete with wine, cheese, and grapes. They lounged in the sun, watching the boys—and Ginny—zoom through the sky, playing a relaxed version of Quidditch overhead.

It was lovely watching Draco on a broom, so carefree and fast as he twisted and turned midair. He’d even flown down once to kiss her, trying to coax her up for a ride, but she declined—still not a fan of flying or heights. He pouted dramatically before soaring back into the sky to rejoin the game.

“So,” Pansy drawled from her spot on the blanket, swirling her wine, “are you finally going to seal the deal with Theo tonight, Tori?”

Astoria blushed, biting back a smile. “I don’t know… maybe. He’s been so careful with me. I’m not sure he wants to yet.”

Pansy looked unconvinced. “Of course he does. He just doesn’t want to scare you off with his massive pecker.”

Daphne snorted. Luna smiled serenely. Hermione rolled her eyes and shot Pansy a warning look.

“No, I think you’re the one who’s going to scare her off, Pans,” she said pointedly.

“I’m not scared,” Astoria said lightly. “I’d heard the rumors back at school… It’s not like it’s my first time. He just has a lot more experience than I do. I’ve only been with two other blokes.”

“Well, that’s still one more than me,” Hermione said with a playful grin.

“Aren’t you the least bit worried he’ll leave you for another man?” Daphne asked curiously.

Astoria shook her head. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind. I trust him to be faithful—he’s made that clear. And I may have mentioned I wouldn’t be opposed to a third, perhaps someday...”

Astoria’s cheeks turned scarlet, and she covered her face while the others giggled.

“It is quite hot seeing Theo with other men, I’ll admit,” Pansy added without shame. “I nearly came the first time I got him and Draco to snog in front of me back in school. Just watching it was enough. Two fit blokes getting intimate is my favorite fantasy.”

She took another sip of wine. “Well, aside from Neville tying me up and using me however he wants, but that’s more of a recurring reality these days.”

Everyone stared at her with a mix of shock and intrigue, and Hermione suddenly found herself considering whether learning Legilimency to view Draco’s memories might not be such a terrible idea…

“Have you ever seen them do… more?” Daphne asked, eyes alight with curiosity.

“I have,” Pansy said with a wicked grin. “But Hermione won’t want to hear about it.”

She gave Pansy a look. 

“You mean the infamous threesome?” Hermione groaned.

“Oh, I definitely want to hear about that,” Daphne said eagerly, leaning in.

“As would I—if you’re comfortable, Hermione, of course,” Luna added gently.

Hermione glanced at Astoria, who simply shrugged and gave a small nod. To be fair, she was morbidly curious but had never asked either of them for details. Not that she thought they wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing, especially Theo, but she didn’t want to dredge up the past with them when they were all trying to move forward. She felt the peer pressure to say yes, and also couldn’t help but wet her curiosity. 

“Alright, Pans,” Hermione sighed. “Do tell us about that depraved night.”

Pansy grinned, wicked and triumphant, before launching into the story, leaving no scandalous detail spared.

Apparently, Draco had confronted her about going behind his back with Theo, and they had—according to Pansy—a rather tedious conversation about their versions of what monogamy meant. She had floated the idea of a throuple, which Draco shot down immediately. He wasn’t interested in opening up their relationship like that. But when she instead proposed a one-time experience with Theo, all three of them together, he hadn’t rejected it outright.

It took weeks of coaxing, subtle suggestions, and the occasional half-joking remark before he finally gave in. They chose a night when everyone else would be partying in the common room, and they took the opportunity to spell the dorm room closed.

Pansy had undressed slowly, deliberately, putting on a show just for them as they watched with hungry eyes. She started with Draco—kissed him deeply—before eventually turning to Theo, who eagerly returned the attention. It escalated quickly, with Draco coming up behind her, teasing her body as Theo kissed her senseless from the front. At some point, she guided them both to kiss her at the same time, which apparently was messy and overwhelming in all the right ways. 

Then, according to Pansy, she’d pulled back and reclined on the bed, choosing to simply watch . Draco and Theo—entwined at that point, mouths hungry and insistent—were completely absorbed in each other. Their lips moved in sync, tongues sliding together, the kiss deepening as hands wandered—clutching at fabric, at flesh—fingertips skating over jawlines, hips, backs.

Theo had one hand firmly wrapped around Draco’s cock, stroking with an unhurried, maddening rhythm. His thumb swiped across the head now and then, drawing out a sharp hiss from Draco, whose entire body seemed to twitch with the effort of holding back. His spine arched slightly, muscles taut, and each exhale from his mouth was labored and heavy—half a growl, half a moan.

Pansy shared that she saw Draco open his eyes every so often, glassy and hooded, glancing back toward her—needing to confirm she was still watching, still reveling in the sight of them, because for him, the show was entirely for her benefit. And she was, utterly transfixed and nearly drooling from the sight.

“And what were you doing while they were snogging?” Daphne had asked, breathless.

“Touching myself, obviously,” Pansy had replied with a smirk. “What else does one do when presented with a front-row seat to that kind of debauchery?”

Hermione had flushed just listening to it, the sheer intensity of the image curling in her stomach like heat. It was wicked and a little shocking—and yet oddly captivating. She wasn’t sure if she was more surprised that he’d gone through with it… or by how much she wanted to see it for herself.

That image alone had nearly undone her, but it only got filthier from there.

At one particularly vivid point in the story, Pansy described straddling Draco’s face while Theo had his mouth wrapped around Draco’s cock. Even as he moaned into her, Draco slid his fingers between her cheeks, teasing and stretching her arse in preparation for what was to come while he tongued her clit. He proceeded to make Pansy come, and just before he could spill into Theo’s mouth, he begged him to stop, wanting to save it for her.

They’d taken their time with her, trading kisses and caresses, making her come multiple times with their mouths and hands before finally lifting her up between them. With her legs spread wide, they entered her together slowly—Draco behind, Theo in front—filling her to the brink. After letting her adjust to the fullness for a minute, they started doing alternating thrusts. She came fairly quickly from the overwhelming sensations and nearly blacked out, pleasure crashing over her so violently she forgot where she was.

And now, sitting in a field of lavender, drinking wine with her friends, Hermione watched as all their curious, scandalized, and amused expressions stared at Pansy, the only one still sipping her wine like it was just another Tuesday.

“Did they… you know, finish inside you?” Daphne finally asked, eyes wide.

Pansy gave a devilish smile. “They did after I came, almost at the same time. It was spectacular. If Neville was interested, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’ve never felt so deliciously full in my life. Of course, he’ll have none of sharing me with anyone else.”

The group erupted into giggles—some shocked, some amused—and Hermione glanced at Astoria with mild worry. The younger witch’s cheeks were deeply flushed, but thankfully, she didn’t look horrified. A good sign. For Theo’s sake.

“And you three never did it again?” Daphne asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“No,” Pansy replied, a little too casually. “Much to my disappointment. Draco wasn’t interested in a repeat performance. He enjoyed it at the time, sure—but he’s never liked sharing, not really. Especially not with another man. I’ve had threesomes with him and other girls a couple of times when we were together, and he vastly preferred that. With Theo, he did it because he knew it turned me on.”

Hermione arched a brow. “I’m sure Theo was thrilled to hear that.”

“Oh, he was a complete menace about it afterwards. Begged me for weeks to convince Draco to change his mind. Eventually, he let it go, but I know he replayed that night in his head for months,” Pansy said with a smirk.

They all fell into a thoughtful silence, digesting everything Pansy said as they watched the group overhead on their brooms—laughing, taunting, dipping and weaving through the air. She hoped that Draco and Theo’s friendship moving forward could have fewer complicated layers now that Theo was with Astoria, that he would let himself fall in love with her, and finally move on. 

As if on cue, Theo zipped by and blew Astoria a kiss. She smiled up at him, pink-cheeked and glowing.

“When I look at him looking at you,” Luna said dreamily, “his aura turns pink. He’s definitely smitten.”

Astoria smiled shyly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I think he is, too. I like him a lot. I always have…”

“You’d have pretty babies,” Luna added serenely. “Dark hair and blue eyes… very striking.”

Astoria nodded, though a flicker of something unreadable passed over her expression. Hermione noticed Daphne glance at her, brows slightly furrowed with concern, but said nothing.

Her attention was pulled elsewhere when Draco came flying toward her. He stood on his broom like it was nothing, grinning down at her with mischief in his eyes.

“You sure you don’t want a ride, my love? I promise I’ll make it worth your while,” he teased.

Hermione gave him a skeptical look. “Aren’t you in the middle of a game?”

“We’re done,” he said with a shrug. “Now we’re just fucking around. Come on—just one ride. I swear I’ll go slow.”

She folded her arms. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

Theo and Harry flew closer to flank him.

“‘Mione, you’ve flown plenty of times,” Harry said. “It’s not that bad.”

“Every single time was under life-threatening circumstances, and you know it,” she shot back.

“But did you die?” he grinned.

“Nearly!”

“Come on, you can handle it, sweetness,” Theo coaxed. “It’s really not that bad.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You have no sense of danger. You’d ride a hippogriff blindfolded if someone dared you.”

Theo clutched his chest like he’d been wounded. “I’m offended.”

Draco laughed. “How about this? Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. If you hate it, I’ll take you right back down.”

She sighed and looked at him—really looked. He wanted this, clearly. And truthfully, five minutes wasn’t a bad compromise…

“Fine. But if you break your promise and go fast, I swear to Merlin—”

“Consequences, I know,” he said smugly. “I might enjoy those.”

“You won’t,” she assured him flatly.

Before she could change her mind, he zoomed forward, scooped her up with one arm like she weighed nothing, and sat her sideways on his lap as they soared upward.

She screamed and buried her face into his neck. “DRACO!”

He only laughed, holding her securely as they climbed higher into the sky. Once he was satisfied with the height, he slowed and tilted his broom just slightly.

“Look,” he murmured. “It’s beautiful.”

She peeked with one eye and immediately regretted it. The château looked tiny below them.

“Draco, this is too high!”

“It’s fine, darling. Just focus on me,” he whispered, nuzzling her temple.

He dipped them slightly lower, and she relaxed—barely. He guided her chin toward him and gave her a soft kiss, but she was still too tense to melt into it.

“Why do you hate flying so much?” he asked gently.

“I prefer solid ground. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not an adrenaline junkie, I see.”

“Absolutely not. Three minutes left.”

He smirked. “Not enough time to shag, sadly…”

“Are you mad ?”

“…but I could probably make you come,” he added slyly.

“Draco—!”

“Do you trust me?” he asked seriously, his hand settling between her thighs.

She stared at him, breath caught.

“Of course I trust you, but—” she started, but her voice faltered when his fingers brushed along the inside of her thigh under her skirt.

“But nothing,” he murmured, nipping gently at her jaw. “Let me take care of you, love. You don’t have to do anything but feel.”

Her heart was pounding—not just from the height, but from the way he was looking at her. His gaze was steady, reverent, and so sure of her, of them.

She let out a shaky breath, shifting slightly in his lap. Her legs parted just enough for him to slide his hand between them, cupping her through the thin fabric of her knickers.

“Oh—Merlin,” she breathed, clutching his shoulders.

He smiled against her neck and kissed her pulse point, his fingers stroking her slowly, coaxing her body to relax as the wind whipped around them. Her head tipped back with a soft gasp when he found just the right rhythm, her hips beginning to move against his hand despite herself.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that.”

She buried her face in his neck again, half-hiding from the sky, half-surrendering to the sensation building low in her belly. The tension of flying, of being so high above everything, seemed to melt away under the firm, focused pressure of his hand.

He slid his fingers beneath the lace and found her slick with arousal, circling her with practiced ease.

“You’re soaked for me already,” he groaned, his voice rough with need. “My perfect girl… Always so responsive.”

Hermione whimpered, her face still pressed into the curve of his neck, trying to hold herself together while her body betrayed her—hips twitching forward, thighs trembling around his hand. The tension of flying, of being up in the clouds, seemed to blur into something else entirely—adrenaline mixing with arousal until she couldn’t tell them apart.

“Don’t you dare drop me,” she hissed, the threat barely audible through her panting breaths, her voice trembling on the edge of laughter and want.

“Never,” he murmured, and she could feel the smirk against her skin as he kissed below her ear, slow and deliberate. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever held this carefully.”

His fingers slipped lower to her entrance before slipping inside, pressing up against that bundle of nerves that drove her crazy, making her gasp—a desperate, broken sound that was swallowed up by the wind around them. He moved with infuriating control, pumping in and out of her several times before returning to her clit and circling her slowly, teasing her with just enough pressure to keep her on edge.

“Draco,” she whimpered, clutching at his shoulders like a lifeline.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing his lips across her cheek. “Let me take care of you, love. Just let go.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she melted into it as his fingers began to move in earnest, firm and precise, coaxing small, helpless moans from her lips as her hips began to move in time with his touch. Every nerve in her body was on fire, every ounce of fear drowned by the sensation he was building inside her.

“You feel that?” he murmured against her lips. “Your body knows who you belong to.”

She was too far gone to reply—her head was tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, breath catching on every stroke. The muscles in her belly tightened, coiling hard and fast.

“Fuck—Draco—I—oh, gods—”

His pace quickened slightly, knowing just what she needed, and his voice dropped into a dark, reverent growl.

“Come for me, Hermione,” he breathed into her ear. “Right here in my arms. Let me feel you.”

The words undid her.

Her body locked around his hand as the orgasm crashed over her, so sharp and sudden it stole her breath. She cried out, the sound lost against his shoulder, muffled by the way she buried her face into him. Her whole body trembled, her arms clutching him like she might fall—even though he held her tighter than ever, grounding her in his embrace.

He murmured soft, soothing things into her hair as she came down, his lips brushing against her temple while his fingers finally stilled. Her breathing was erratic, her body spent and still trembling slightly as he eased his hand away and wrapped both arms around her again, protective and warm.

“There’s my girl,” he said softly, kissing her hair. “You did so well.”

She didn’t respond right away, still curled against him, boneless and dazed.

Eventually, she exhaled a shaky laugh. “You are a menace.”

He chuckled, smug and deeply satisfied. “And yet, you let me fly you for longer.”

“You bribed me with an orgasm,” she muttered.

“I’d say it worked.”

She swatted him weakly, still flushed and breathless.

“Still think this was a bad idea?” he murmured.

“I think you’re insufferable,” she mumbled against his collar. “But… perhaps it wasn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

He grinned. “I’ll take it.”

They flew a little while longer, then eventually landed softly, the broom touching down near their friends. He helped her off and steadied her when her knees wobbled a bit. She swatted him with a flushed smile, cheeks pink from more than just the wind.

“If you ever tell anyone what just happened, I will hex your bits off,” she warned.

Draco chuckled. “Your secret’s safe with me, Mrs. Malfoy.”

She rolled her eyes but squeezed his hand, her heart still fluttering—not from the height, but from the way he’d looked at her up there.

Like she was the only thing that mattered.

***

They had a delicious dinner together that evening, full of laughter and glowing candlelight, with heartfelt toasts in honor of their one-year wedding anniversary. Hermione beamed at Draco, scarcely believing how quickly the time had flown. One year. It felt like both a blink and a lifetime.

Draco looked especially pleased that night and hardly took his hands off her. They agreed to only give each other sentimental gifts, and exchanged heartfelt love letters to be read at a later time, since it was the paper anniversary, after all.

Eventually, the group drifted out onto the lawn beneath the glittering night sky, tipsy and warm with summer wine. Luna created a twinkling light show with her wand, trailing silver stars and swirling auroras across the dark velvet sky, soon joined by the others, crafting their own versions with bursts of color and sparks.

Hermione sat nestled between Draco’s outstretched legs, his arms around her waist, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder as they stared up at the stars. She wondered how she got so lucky to have such happiness in her life, surrounded by friends, loved so deeply by a man she felt so utterly safe with.

For some reason, she briefly thought of Ron and wished him well wherever he was, hoping he had found some peace in his afterlife. A moment of survivor’s guilt passed through her mind, and she couldn’t help the tear that slid down her cheek, thinking about how she had everything because so many others had sacrificed everything.

Draco kissed it away without a word, holding her tighter.

“We both fought for this,” he murmured, voice low in her ear. “Let yourself have it, my love.” Somehow, knowing exactly what was going through her head.

She nodded and leaned further back into his arms, allowing a wave of peace to settle within her. He was right, and she hoped that being happy now somehow honored the memory of everyone she had lost in the war.

She glanced around the lawn, her eyes catching on Harry and Ginny wrapped in each other’s arms, laughing under the stars. Their wedding was just weeks away. Harry had sacrificed more than anyone she knew, and yet he still smiled, still looked forward to the future. His perspective had always been the same whenever they spoke of the war: that he wasn’t meant to survive, so since death hadn’t claimed him yet, he was going to make the most of the time he’d been given. For his parents. For Sirius and Remus. Even for Dumbledore—though they all had more complicated feelings about the man now.

He really couldn’t have been a little more transparent before Severus had to kill him? A topic for another time…

She saw Theo holding Astoria’s hand as they walked slowly together, stopping to kiss briefly before continuing on. They were sweet together. Watching them gave Hermione hope for her friend to find the same happiness she’d found with Draco.

“Do you think it’ll last?” she asked Draco quietly.

“Perhaps,” he said after a pause. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

“I hope it does. She’s good for him.”

Draco was silent for a moment before sighing. “I’m not sure she’s right for him in the long run.”

Hermione turned to look at him. “Why not?”

He hesitated. “I know something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. It’s rather private,” Draco said, his voice quiet.

“Of course. Tell me.”

“When I was fourteen, just before I started dating Pansy, our families tried to arrange a betrothal between me and one of the Greengrass girls. During the vetting process, it was discovered that Astoria carries a malediction.”

Hermione gasped. “She has a blood curse?”

Draco nodded. “It won’t affect her for a while yet, but eventually it will. She’ll weaken with time. If she has a child, it could accelerate the process. She likely won’t live to an old age.”

Hermione stared at him, the weight of the information settling in her chest. “Does Theo know?”

He nodded again.

“And he still wants to be with her regardless?”

“Theo doesn’t care about having children, and he doesn’t dwell on the future. He figures if he gets a couple of decades of good years with her, then it will have all been worth it. He’s not put off by the idea of a tragic love story. He just cares about being truly loved in the first place.”

Hermione shook her head, the idea unbearable. She leaned back into Draco, gripping his arms more firmly.

“If I ever lost you… I don’t know if I could ever move on from it. I’ve lost too much, Draco. It would be agonizing to know what it’s like to have what we have and then have it ripped away. I don’t think I’m strong enough to survive something like that.”

Draco leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to her cheek. “You’re the strongest person I know. You would survive. You have people who love you, who would help you through it. But I’m not going anywhere, not if I can help it.”

She took a deep breath and gave him a nod, but deep down, she knew—if she ever lost Draco, it would be her undoing. Nothing short of a miracle would ever pull her out of that kind of despair and grief.

As she looked up at the stars, she offered a silent prayer—that she would always know the love of her dragon, that he’d never leave her side. Not until she was old and gray, until time had done its work and she could meet death as a friend so that they could be together once more.

If only the universe were that kind… 

Chapter Text

The first few months of classes had gone fairly well, and Draco was starting to find his rhythm as a professor. When Hermione first proposed the idea of them both teaching at Hogwarts, he’d found it mildly amusing—until he realized she was completely serious. From that point on, he knew he’d have to fall in line. He’d never harbored any particular interest in teaching, but there was no way he was going to let his wife be away from him for days at a time—far from his protection and the safety of the manor.

Snape had assured him that the school’s wards were heavily reinforced and checked daily. Only students and thoroughly vetted guests could access the grounds. Even with those reassurances, Draco never felt fully at ease. But seeing how happy Hermione was in her new role helped him compartmentalize those fears.

Harry had recently shared that he was making some progress tracking down the remaining Death Eaters, though he hadn’t yet captured them. The rumors circulating in pureblood circles about a new uprising—one tied to the so-called New Dark Order—were vague and whispered. Despite interrogating a few suspects, Harry found that any incriminating evidence had been obliviated from their memories.

The last of Voldemort’s followers were cunning—careful to cover their tracks. The threat lingered in Draco’s mind like a shadow, always present. But thanks to years of practice occluding, none of it ever showed on his face, and he had been able to keep the truth from his wife.

So he focused on what he could control, which was being a decent professor and enjoying every moment he had with her when they weren’t teaching. At first, many of his students had been visibly afraid of him, but Draco had been blunt about his past. He even showed them his faded Dark Mark—earning curious questions from the younger students and, surprisingly, respect from the older ones.

He made it clear that he hadn’t always walked a righteous path, but he’d dedicated his life to atoning for those sins. And if anyone was qualified—aside from their headmaster—to teach them Defense Against the Dark Arts, it was him.

Gradually, he earned their trust. A small group of students—even a few outside of Slytherin—had begun to see him as a mentor. He couldn’t ignore the adoring glances some of his female students cast his way, something Hermione teased him about regularly. Apparently, he even had a fan club. They’d dubbed themselves the Malfoyettes —an absolutely mortifying discovery. A few had even dared to ask him personal questions, such as how much he was worth, what cologne he used, and when he planned to have children.

He typically answered with candor before redirecting everyone back to the lesson.

“More galleons than you could spend in five lifetimes,” he’d smirk. “One I had specially made in France.” And “whenever Professor Granger is ready.”

(They used her maiden name at school to avoid confusing the students.)

The girls would sometimes ask about their love story—whether he fancied Professor Granger back in school—and he’d answer without hesitation.

“I’ve been in love with her for a very long time,” he’d say smoothly, sending them into fits of swooning.

It was ridiculous, but sweet, and he couldn’t help but grin at the fact that he had, somehow, married his teenage crush.

Aside from the tedious work of grading essays and creating lesson plans, teaching came fairly easily to him, and he was beginning to genuinely enjoy it. It was a far cry from the monotonous work he’d done at Malfoy Enterprises. Fortunately, he’d managed to convince Theo to take over at least part-time to help out his father and also give his best friend something productive to do, especially now that Hermione wouldn’t be home to entertain him.

To Draco’s surprise, Theo had accepted with only minimal complaining. And now that he had his own pretty witch to spend his free time with, he didn’t seem to mind as much Hermione being gone. Especially now that him and Astoria were shagging. 

Theo still visited them at Hogwarts every few weeks, and Draco found that he truly looked forward to those visits—Hermione did too. Theo seemed lighter these days, optimistic even, as if he was finally looking toward a real future, and, somehow, he hadn’t scared Astoria off. Miraculous, really.

Today, Draco had invited both Theo and Harry to join him for a dueling demonstration—part of the dueling club Snape had restarted years ago—for a large group of eager students of all ages.

As soon as the students spotted Harry Potter leaning against the back wall with Theo, the entire room buzzed with whispers and excitement. Draco started the session, going over dueling etiquette and basic spells like Expelliarmus and Protego.

Draco turned to face the eager students, most of whom were practically bouncing on the balls of their feet to watch the demonstration he planned for the day. 

“As you’ve all read in your texts, the foundation of any proper duel is control, awareness, and defense. Flashy spells mean nothing if you can’t block what’s coming at you.” He glanced over his shoulder at Theo, who was now lazily lounging against the wall like he was about to fall asleep.

“Would you like to assist, Nott, or shall I summon a mannequin instead?”

Theo smirked and pushed off the wall, twirling his wand between his fingers. “You know I hate manual labor, but fine. Just don’t cry if I disarm you in front of your students.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Please. I’d be more worried about you tripping over your ego.”

That earned a few stifled giggles from the students, and Theo gave an exaggerated bow. “Your move, Professor.”

They faced off, spacing themselves evenly across the room. Draco turned back to the students.

“Watch closely. I’m going to start with a simple Expelliarmus. Note the stance, the wand grip, and the angle of the cast. These details matter.”

He flicked his wand with practiced precision. “Expelliarmus!”

Theo’s wand snapped out of his hand and skittered to the floor. He gave Draco a bored look. “Well done. I’ve never felt more inspired.”

“Pick it up and block me this time.”

“Your wish is my command.”

The next few spells were light and instructional—Protego, Stupefy, Rictusempra—each met with a crisp counter or dodge. Draco spoke as they moved, explaining footwork and form, and giving helpful insight. Draco had to admit, Theo was putting in some actual effort and made for a good visual example. The students were clearly riveted.

But then one bold Ravenclaw girl raised her hand and blurted out, “Can you show us something real? Like a proper duel?”

The others chimed in with agreement, and Theo raised an eyebrow. “You heard the girl. Let’s give them a show.”

Draco hesitated. “We’re here to teach, not terrify them.”

“Oh come on,” Theo drawled, already walking back into position. “They’re not toddlers, they can handle it. And besides, I promise not to bruise your pretty face.”

“Fine,” Draco muttered, suppressing a smirk. “No dark spells. No blood.”

Theo gave him a crooked grin. “No promises.”

The shift in energy was immediate. They raised their wands and bowed slightly to one another before beginning.

Then, in a heartbeat, they struck.

“ Expulso! ” Draco barked, forcing Theo to duck and roll with surprising agility. Theo countered with a Confundo, which Draco deflected mid-air, spinning on his heel and firing back a Relashio that sent sparks cracking toward Theo’s feet.

The classroom had gone silent save for the sounds of their spells clashing. The duel picked up speed, both of them circling, probing, testing each other’s reflexes. Draco fired a Petrificus Totalus that Theo shielded with a fluid wave of his wand, and then returned fire with a Ventus that blasted Draco’s robes backward.

“Getting slow in your old age,” Theo called out, breathing slightly harder now.

“I’m pacing myself. Wouldn’t want you to collapse from the effort,” Draco replied coolly, launching a volley of spells in quick succession. 

They danced through a blur of light and sound, their dueling styles distinct yet complementary—Theo more chaotic and improvisational, Draco precise and relentless.

Finally, Theo tried to catch him with a clever chain of misdirection spells, but Draco anticipated the feint and struck hard with a nonverbal Incarcerous. Ropes shot out and wrapped tightly around Theo’s legs, sending him toppling backward with a thud.

The classroom erupted in cheers.

Theo groaned from the floor, rubbing his side. “Well done, Professor Malfoy. You’ve humiliated me in front of two dozen children. I’ll never recover.”

Draco offered him a hand up, smirking. “You’ll live.”

Theo took it, brushing himself off as the students swarmed around them, gushing with questions and excitement.

“Now that,” one boy said breathlessly, “was brilliant!”

Draco straightened his robes and tried not to look too smug. “Let that be a lesson, then. Skill isn’t just in what you cast—it’s in knowing when to cast it.”

Theo elbowed him as they walked toward the back of the room. “You owe me a drink for that.”

Draco chuckled. “I’ll buy you a whole bottle.”

The energy in the room hadn’t even begun to settle after Draco’s duel with Theo—sparks still hung faintly in the air, and students were buzzing with excitement—when one of the second-years piped up, loud and eager:

“Professor Malfoy, do you think you can beat the Chosen One?”

A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, but Draco didn’t need to turn his head to know Harry was already grinning like an absolute menace. He could feel it—smug and bright. Some things never change.

“He could try,” came Harry’s casual voice as he pushed off from the wall with that infuriatingly easy gait of his. “We’ll see if he remembers how to play offense instead of hiding behind a classroom podium.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, already twirling his wand between his fingers. “Oh, you don’t want to experience me playing offense, Potter. We’re not kids anymore.”

Harry’s smirk deepened. “Try me.”

Draco’s lips curved into a dangerous grin. “With pleasure…”

From the side, Theo lifted his wand lazily. “Just make sure you don’t summon any snakes this time. Wouldn’t want to give the first-years nightmares.”

“Shut it, Nott,” Draco muttered, striding toward the dueling platform. The students scrambled to clear the area, gathering behind Theo, who cast a shimmering, wide-arching shield to protect them from stray hexes. He looked far too pleased with himself.

Harry stepped up to meet Draco in the center. Their gazes locked, the air crackling with anticipation.

“We doing this properly?” Harry asked, tone light but eyes sharp.

“Of course,” Draco replied smoothly. “The children are watching.”

A beat passed, then they both inclined their heads in mutual respect—formal, but with a flicker of amusement glinting in their eyes.

Draco struck first.

His wand cut through the air with elegant precision, sending a crackling red Expelliarmus not at Harry’s wand, but low and fast toward his feet. Harry jumped, laughing as he twisted in midair and rolled neatly to the side.

“Cheap,” he called, already retaliating with a crisp Impedimenta.

Draco sidestepped with a sharp pivot. “Effective.”

And then it began in earnest.

Spells flared, sharp and clean. Protego. Rictusempra. Flipendo. The duel escalated rapidly, each movement fluid, trained, and practiced yet tempered, them both knowing exactly how far they could push each other without truly drawing blood, though Draco felt his reflexes to push the boundaries flaring. Flashbacks of doing this for real during the war threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed the memories down and reminded himself that he wasn’t in survival mode any longer. 

The classroom echoed with delighted gasps and cheers as bursts of color lit up the space. One of Draco’s jets of blue light exploded near the ceiling with a boom that made several students duck.

“A bit less quick on your feet than I remember, Potter,” Draco called out as he swept aside a quick-fire Stupefy .

“You’re just used to Theo’s lazy wandwork,” Harry shot back, his voice almost cheerful as he darted around a flickering hex. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to outshine you too badly in front of your own students.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. He flicked his wand with a silent incantation—something fast and sharp that Harry dodged only by throwing himself into a slide across the platform, his trainers screeching faintly against the stone.

Draco was already moving, not wasting a second. Locomotor Wibbly burst from his wand and caught Harry just as he rose. Harry stumbled, his balance thrown, and in that brief moment of vulnerability, Draco was there—fluid and close, too fast for a counter.

He pressed the tip of his wand gently to Harry’s ribs.

A heartbeat passed.

“Checkmate,” Draco murmured, his voice low, smug, and far too satisfied.

The room erupted into wild applause, laughter, and groans of dramatic betrayal from the Potter fans.

Harry blinked, chest rising and falling from exertion. Then, with a grin, he stepped back and offered his hand.

“Well played, Draco.”

Draco clasped it, his smirk intact. “Naturally.”

From behind the shield, Theo gave a slow, sarcastic clap. “Bravo, boys. Very theatrical. Ten points to your combined ego.”

Draco turned to the students, who were now practically bouncing with excitement. “Let that be a lesson. When you have the opportunity to gain the upper hand, don’t hesitate and go for it. You have to be quick about it before they have a chance to recover.”

As the excitement for the duel was dying down and Harry clapped him on the back, Draco caught a flicker of movement near the door. He turned—and there she was.

Hermione stood in the doorway, looking as beautiful as ever with her hair up in a French twist, arms folded, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. She’d clearly seen the whole duel, and the amused glint in her eye said she was proud of him—and definitely planning to say something about it later. 

He lifted an eyebrow at her, tilting his head slightly in invitation.

She just smiled wider.

One of the students, Thomas Whitby, a loud third-year with zero impulse control, blurted out, “Professor Granger! You should duel him next!”

Hermione arched a brow. “Should I?”

The room broke into excited chatter.

Draco held back a groan. “I don’t think—”

“Oh, come now,” she interrupted sweetly, already stepping into the room. “What’s wrong, darling? Afraid of being bested by your wife in front of your students?”

The class oohed collectively, like a pack of tiny wolves scenting blood.

He exhaled through his nose and looked skyward for patience. “I hadn’t planned on ever dueling you, darling.”

“I know,” she said, wand already in hand. “But the students deserve a bit of fun, and I have the time on my hands.”

She stepped up to the dueling platform with a bounce in her step that made it clear she’d been hoping for an opportunity like this all day. He faced her slowly, dragging it out just enough to show he wasn’t fully on board—yet.

“I’ll know if you’re holding back,” she warned.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he said, quietly, just for her.

“Good,” she replied, voice velvet-soft. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t at least try to win.”

They bowed. Wands raised. The room hushed.

She struck first, a sharp, quick Petrificus Totalus that he dodged only by diving low and casting a Protego to deflect the spell into the wall. It scorched a streak across the stone, and several students gasped.

He came back up with a silent hex that Hermione blocked with practiced ease, the shimmer of her shield charm flickering like a second skin. She answered with a stunner, then a Mimblewimble tongue-tying curse, but he sidestepped both, sending a jinx back that briefly tangled her robes around her ankles.

She cut through them with a slice of magic and grinned. “Really? Dress-hexing? That’s your strategy?”

“It’s worked before.”

They kept going, fast and fluid, both dueling with tight precision and bursts of showmanship—enough to keep the students engaged, but not so much that they’d end up on opposite sides of the hospital wing. At one point, their spells collided midair in a sizzling crackle of sparks that showered gold across the classroom, and Draco felt a genuine thrill in his chest.

Gods, she was brilliant.

And then, just when he thought he had her cornered, she dropped to one knee, flicked her wand upward with a whispered Expelliarmus , and sent his wand flying out of his hand and neatly into her own.

Silence fell.

Hermione walked forward, holding both wands delicately in her fingers, her smile equal parts smug and radiant.

The students burst into applause, some even standing to clap.

She offered his wand back with a kiss to his cheek—soft, warm, and maddeningly brief.

“Well dueled, darling,” Hermione murmured, lips brushing close to his ear.

Draco accepted the returned wand with a low, reluctant nod, though the proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“Remind me never to duel you again,” he muttered under his breath.

Hermione smirked. “You never stood a chance.”

As the last of the students trickled out with lingering glances and giggles, Draco waved his hand and shut the classroom door, then gestured for his friends to follow. He led them to the front of the room, leaning casually against his desk while Theo roamed about, poking through cabinets like he owned the place. Harry and Hermione took up positions across from Draco, propping themselves against a row of student desks.

“I see you’ve gotten the hang of teaching,” Harry said, folding his arms across his chest. “Are you enjoying it so far?”

Draco gave a nonchalant shrug. “It has its highs and lows. The students can be amusing—when they’re not trying my patience.”

“Oh, don’t let him fool you,” Hermione cut in, her tone teasing. “He loves it. He practically glows when his favorite students get something right.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t bother denying it…she was right after all. 

Harry glanced around the room, nostalgia softening his features. “Mental how small it looks now, isn’t it?”

“I know,” Theo agreed, still snooping through a drawer. “It’s wild that you and Hermione are the ones teaching now. Full-circle stuff.”

“I don’t think it’s wild at all,” Hermione said with a matter-of-fact air. “I always pictured myself at the front of this class.”

All three men turned to look at her with identical smirks. Hermione frowned.

“What? I knew more than most of the professors here by third year.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, ’Mione,” Harry said, grinning. “It was at least by second year.”

She swatted his arm, earning a laugh.

Theo gave up his rummaging and sauntered over to her side, leaning against the desk and slinging an arm around her shoulders with an exaggerated sigh.

“You could run the whole bloody school, darling. Want me to get rid of Snape? Say the word.”

“As tempting as that is, I’ll pass,” Hermione replied dryly, shaking her head.

“Thank Merlin,” Draco drawled. “I barely see you as it is. Don’t go adding a headmistress workload on top of everything.”

Draco would always support his wife in anything she wanted to do in life, but he’d rather she not take on more bloody responsibility that would take her away from him. It was already hard enough not being able to have her whenever he liked. 

Hermione ignored him and turned to Harry. “So, how’s married life?”

“Oh, same as before we got married—ridiculously wonderful,” Harry said with a warm grin. “Ginny’s thrilled the renovations are finally done. She’s been nesting like mad. She wants to host a brunch soon—says we’re long overdue.”

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione said, beaming. “Let us know when and we’ll be there.”

The Potter wedding had been, in Hermione’s words, incredibly lovely. Somehow, despite all his attempts not to get too close to Harry, Draco had ended up as best man. Hermione, of course, was maid of honor.

The ceremony was held at the Burrow—humble and quaint by his standards. Hermione had offered the manor or the château, but Ginny had insisted on marrying at her family home for reasons Draco couldn’t quite understand, though he suspected it might have been for her parent’s comfort level.

He’d never spent so much time surrounded by so many Weasleys, and keeping all their names straight—especially the oldest brothers—had been a task. Still, Harry had never looked happier, and Hermione cried through most of the ceremony, watching her two best friends tie the knot.

During the toasts, she made a quiet, heartfelt mention of Ron and how proud he would’ve been to see Ginny marry Harry. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Draco had wished the newlyweds well and gifted them a honeymoon at the château. He’d originally wanted to give them something that actually cost him money, but Hermione had gently reminded him that Harry and Ginny wouldn’t want anything too over-the-top.

They had seemed genuinely touched by the gesture. Even Ginny, who had softened toward him over time, had offered him a rare, sincere smile. The two of them had settled into something resembling a sarcastic friendship—unexpected, but oddly comfortable. Pansy had also somehow become the Weaslette’s friend over time, which was particularly surprising to him. So much had changed since he’d married Hermiome—all of it for the better.  

Harry looked over to Theo. “And how’s corporate life treating you?”

Theo gave a dramatic sigh. “Utterly dull, most days. Thank Merlin for Astoria. She drops by for lunch sometimes—that’s the highlight. Lets me shag her in my office now and then, too.”

Hermione gave him a scandalized look and pinched his arm, making him yelp and drop his arm from her shoulders.

“At work? That’s completely inappropriate, Theodore.”

“As if you two aren’t sneaking off into empty classrooms,” he shot back with a grin.

If fucking only… Despite how much she’d changed after the war, his wife was still a stickler for rules, especially at Hogwarts. 

“We absolutely are not!” Hermione snapped. “We keep all personal matters to our quarters, thank you very much.”

“Not for lack of trying on my part,” Draco muttered, feigning innocence as Hermione shot him a warning glare.

Harry couldn’t stop laughing.

“Not even in the Restricted Section?” Theo goaded. “Draco used to love—”

“Thank you, gentlemen, for attending today’s demonstration!” Draco interrupted, his voice suddenly bright and professional. “So sorry, but I’ve just remembered I’ve got a pile of parchments to grade.”

He had no desire for his wife to hear about all the girls he messed around with in that very spot, especially considering the fact that he’d tried to shag her there not even two nights ago, and almost succeeded. 

He looked to Hermione with faux sweetness. “Darling, would you be so kind as to see them out?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, clearly seeing through the act, but huffed and stood anyway. “Coward,” she muttered as she brushed past him.

Draco followed them to the door, catching her hand before she could leave. He tugged her gently toward him and pressed a quick, warm kiss to her lips.

“Love you, sweetheart,” he murmured softly.

She softened immediately. “Love you.”

***

Theo had asked for a word alone with Hermione as they left the classroom. Harry gave her a warm hug and Theo a nod before heading off toward Snape’s office, leaving the two of them in the hallway.

She guided Theo through the winding halls to the private quarters she shared with Draco. Once inside, she slipped off her outer robes and curled up more comfortably on the sofa in their sitting area. Theo sprawled out beside her, stretching his long legs and staring silently at the fire crackling in the hearth for a long moment before finally speaking.

“I think I’ve come down with a horrible case of being in love, darling,” he said at last, his voice low and oddly serious. “And I haven’t the faintest clue what to do about it…”

Hermione’s whole face lit up. “Are you serious? You really love her?”

Theo gave a glum nod, like it was some kind of affliction rather than a gift.

Hermione grinned, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Theo, that’s wonderful! I’m so delighted for you both.”

He didn’t return the smile. “That’s the thing… what if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately. “Of course she does. She’s just waiting for you to say it first.”

“How do you know that?”

Was he really that daft?

“I just do. It’s obvious.”

He exhaled slowly, still not fully convinced. “I’ve never been in love with someone who could actually love me back. I keep thinking… what if she wakes up one day and realizes I’m not enough for her? That I’m not worthy of her?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Why on earth would you think that?”

He gave a helpless shrug and looked away. She didn’t let him.

Hermione put on her ‘resolve face’ and tugged him gently to face her. “Theo Nott, you are a good man. You have the biggest heart. You’re thoughtful, loyal, charming when you’re not being an idiot, and Astoria sees that. She loves you for who you are—not who you’re pretending to be. Do you know how rare that is? To be loved exactly as you are?”

He was quiet for a long beat before nodding faintly. “She’s… everything. I’ve never felt more… seen . I don’t have to pretend with her. I don’t have to be clever or cold or funny… I can just be . And on top of that, she’s kind, patient… and hot as all hell.” He gave a shaky laugh. “Gods, Hermione, I really love her.”

Hermione smiled at him warmly. “Do you think you want to marry her?”

“Maybe. Someday…” He paused. “I’d need to work up to it. Luckily, she’s not in a rush. She told me she doesn’t care about getting married—she just wants to be with me for however long she has left.”

It was so fucking tragic Hermione could cry just thinking about it. Why was her friend such a glutton for punishment?

Hermione’s thumb stroked his knuckles. Her expression turned pained. “I adore Astoria, but I wish you could’ve fallen for someone without an expiration date…”

“We all have one,” he noted softly. “We just don’t usually know when it is. She still has some good years left, and I try to focus on that. I want to make the most of now while I can.”

But what about after…?

“And… what about kids? Are you still sure you don’t want any?”

“I’ve never been particularly interested in continuing the Nott line,” Theo said with a small shrug. “But… she wants one, she told me. We haven’t talked about it in depth, but I’m hoping I can persuade her otherwise when it comes up again.”

“And if you can’t?”

He looked at her, eyes soft. “Then I’ll do it. Whatever makes her happy. That’s all I care about.”

She stared at her friend and knew he meant those words deeply. How could someone break themselves into so many pieces for other people and not break? She wanted so much more for him…

“What about your happiness?”

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m already happier than I ever thought I’d be. That will have to be enough to hold on to when she’s gone...”

Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes, and she wiped at them quickly. “I hate this for you.”

Theo nodded and shifted closer, wrapping an arm tightly around her. She leaned into his chest with a sniffle, and they were quiet with each other for a little while, listening to the fire crackle and processing the weight of what they’d spoken about thus far. 

“Do Muggles have lives this complicated?” he asked her eventually.

She huffed a laugh. “Not exactly. But they go through awful things too. It’s just… the human condition, I suppose.”

“I guess we’re all unlucky bastards in one way or another.”

“At least I’ve had a fair bit of luck since the war,” she murmured.

“Don’t say that too loud, sweetheart,” Theo teased, squeezing her arm. 

Gods, he was right. The universe loved to play practical jokes on her. 

They sat quietly for a few moments, staring into the fire, until Hermione changed the subject, “How’s Pansy?”

“Deliriously happy. I think Neville’s going to propose soon.”

Hermione sat up straighter. “Really?”

“Yeah. I went ring shopping with him the other day. He was torn between two options. Might end up using a family gem from the Longbottom vault—probably bigger than what he can afford on his Ministry salary.”

She furrowed her brows. “Doesn’t he have an inheritance?”

“He does. But he’s a bloody self-righteous Gryffindor—wants to earn it all himself.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, given up on that shite long ago. “That’s not going to sit well with Pansy.”

“I know. But at least her parents are thrilled she’s with a pureblood, so they can’t really complain she didn’t end up with Draco.”

“They would’ve killed each other,” Hermione said with a chuckle.

“Or lived on opposite ends of the manor in icy silence,” Theo agreed.

She tilted her head. “Could you give Neville a job at Malfoy Enterprises? Something Herbology-related?”

Theo considered it. “Maybe. I’d have to run it by Lucius. We could open some greenhouses, maybe get into potion ingredients—mandrakes, puffapods, whatever’s profitable. I’ll talk to Neville. See what ideas he has.”

“Perfect. Owl me with updates.”

“Right away, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said, offering a playful salute.

Hermione shook her head, laughing. “I’m glad you finally have some purpose in life. Something to throw yourself into. Someone to love.”

“No choice, with you off being a proper grown-up and abandoning me.”

“You’re such a baby,” she teased, getting up to make tea.

When she returned with two mugs, she curled back onto the sofa beside him, feet tucked under her, and handed him one. They both took a sip, and Hermione decided to take a chance and interrogate him about whatever Draco had been hiding from her. All his evasiveness had been driving her mad, and she was tired of pretending there wasn’t some big unknown elephant in the room with her husband. 

“Theo… what can you tell me about what’s going on with Draco?”

His brow lifted slightly. “Whatever do you mean, darling?”

“Don’t play coy with me. I know something’s going on.”

He sighed and crossed his arms. “Then ask him.”

“I have. He dodges me every time. He’s gotten scarily good at it. Is there some sort of uprising among the purebloods or something?”

Theo’s expression faltered. His discomfort was immediate and obvious.

“I really think you need to talk to Draco… or Potter.”

“I’ve tried Harry. He just tells me it’s top-secret Auror business and shuts me out. We’ve never kept secrets from each other, never. Not like this. So something serious must be occurring for him to align with Draco over me.” Her voice cracked, frustration bleeding through. “Please, Theo. What is it?”

Theo took a long sip of tea, then set the mug down slowly.

“Oh, would you look at the time,” he said lightly, looking at his pocket watch. “I really should get back to the office. Perhaps we can continue this another—”

Hermione glared at him, blocking his exit with her eyes alone.

Then, with nothing left to lose, she tried the one thing she hadn’t yet attempted seriously, Legilimency.

She focused on his face, locked eyes with his, and whispered the spell silently in her mind, easing her way forward just as she’d done in practice with her students—mostly just secretly skimming their superficial thoughts with success (she was a Slytherin now apparently…).

For a moment, she felt herself begin to slip in—

—and then Theo smirked, and a wall like cold iron slammed down around his thoughts.

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that, love,” he said smoothly, standing up and placing a kiss on her forehead as she sat, seething.

He started to walk away before she pleaded, “Theo…”

He paused at the door and glanced back.

“Talk to him. Try to reason with him. And if all else fails—stop shagging him. That’ll loosen his lips.” He gave her a small, sad smile. “But I can’t betray his trust, Hermione. No matter how much I want to. This is the one thing I can’t give you.”

“So that’s it. At the end of the day, you’ll always choose him over me,” she said, no venom in her voice—just quiet resignation.

Theo’s expression softened. “Don’t put me in the middle of this... But if it ever came down to choosing between your life and his… I’d save you in a heartbeat.”

“Only because he’d never forgive you if you saved him ,” she muttered.

He waved her off and opened the door. “Always a pleasure, my darling. I’ll send Tori your love.”

She sighed and crossed her arms. “Love you too, Theo…”

***

Later that night…

They’d spent a quiet evening together, reading by the fire, their legs tangled on the sofa, exchanging soft smiles and the occasional knowing glance. Eventually, they retired to bed, and Draco made love to her slowly—unhurried, attentive, savoring the warmth of her body and the way she moved with him, meeting each touch with a moan or whimper that sang in his blood. She kissed him deeply, her fingers gripping his back, legs wrapped tight around him, clearly relishing the intimate, deliberate pace.

After they both came, breathless and sated, Draco remained between her thighs, shifting to rest his head on her stomach. He traced lazy patterns over her tattoo— his tattoo, as he liked to think of it—his favorite ritual after making love. Her fingers combed gently through his hair while she melted into the pillows with a contented sigh.

“I’ve been thinking more about having children lately,” she said softly, almost casually.

Draco immediately lifted his head, eyes sharp.

He’d never brought it up, never wanted to pressure her—but the desire had always been there. Quiet. Deep. Fierce. Being married to her had only made it burn brighter.

“And…?” he asked, voice cautious but hopeful.

“I had a dream last night,” she said, brushing her fingers through his hair again as he shifted to sit upright against the headboard. She pulled the sheet over herself and curled beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. “About us. Having a child.”

He stayed quiet, rubbing her arm gently, encouraging her to continue.

“I didn’t tell you right away. I wanted to sit with it first… figure out what I really felt about it.”

He nodded, waiting, heart already thudding.

“I was at the château, in the lavender fields. It was a beautiful day—bright blue sky, a soft breeze. I was lying on a blanket, just watching the clouds. And then out of nowhere, this little girl came tumbling into my lap… maybe two or three. She had wild, curly brown hair like mine, but her eyes were silver. Just like yours. Beautiful, bright…”

Draco listened, spellbound.

“I held her close, and she opened her fist to show me a ladybug she had caught. I told her to let it go and make a wish. She did—and it flew away. Then I saw Lucius farther off in the field, opening his arms. She ran to him, laughing. He caught her, twirled her up into the air… I remember feeling so full. So complete. And then I woke up.”

Draco’s heart swelled at the image—a little girl with her mother’s curls and his eyes, running through fields of lavender. Their child. Born of love.

“How did the dream make you feel?” he asked gently, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, his gaze locked with hers.

Hermione was quiet for a moment, then looked up at him with a small smile. “It made me happy. I don’t usually put much stock in dreams, but this one… it stayed with me. And I know we just started teaching, and we’re still young, but…” Her voice grew softer. “I want to meet her. That little girl. I think I want to become a mother—sooner than I thought.”

He felt the sting of tears rising, and leaned forward to press his forehead to hers, cupping her cheek with aching tenderness.

“Nothing would make me happier than having a child with you, my sweet wife,” he whispered. “I love you so much. My heart could explode.”

She smiled, holding his hand over her cheek and drawing him in for a kiss—soft, lingering, full of emotion. When they parted, their foreheads remained pressed together.

“So… are we really doing this?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“My vote is an enthusiastic yes.”

“I’m due to take the potion tomorrow… If I don’t, I’ll be fertile the following night.”

“Then don’t take it.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Are you sure? Our lives will change drastically. There’ll be a little person who needs us every moment of the day. I’ll get huge and uncomfortable, and my body… may never look the same again.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he said immediately. “We don’t need free time. We don’t even need to keep working if we don’t want to. We can raise our child together, full-time. And as for your body—there is no version of you I wouldn’t love. I love you wholly, irrevocably, exactly as you are.”

“Even if I never bounce back?” she asked him cautiously.  

“I’d love you even more because your body will have changed by creating something we made together. That’s the most beautiful thing I can imagine.”

And he truly felt that, in the most profound way. 

She exhaled softly and rested her head on his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around her.

“How did you get to be so wonderful?” she murmured.

“Loving you,” he whispered. “Loving you made me like this...”

They stayed like that for a long, quiet moment, wrapped in warmth and possibility.

Then her voice broke the silence.

“Draco… is there anything I need to be worried about? Tell me truthfully.”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands smoothed over her arms slowly.

“Nothing I’m not working to handle,” he said finally. “You’re safe. And I swear to you, our baby will always be safe too. Please… just trust me.”

He hoped she would let it go for now. He didn’t want to cloud this moment with shadows. Whatever danger might be circling, he would not let it reach her. Or their child. He’d save them with his dying breath if needed. Nothing else mattered. 

“All right,” she said quietly. “I trust you.”

Draco breathed out slowly, then gently shifted her until she was straddling him. He needed to look into her eyes when he said the next words.

“I will always protect our family. Always .”

She nodded and lifted her hands to cradle his face, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.

“Make love to me again?” she whispered.

His heart clenched, full to bursting.

“Come here,” he murmured.

His lips curved into a smile—soft, reverent—and he drew her in for a slow kiss. He tasted devotion in the way she met him, lips parting, body yielding. There was nothing urgent in it—no frenzy, no rush—just the heat of knowing, the comfort of home .

Her fingers tangled in his hair as she shifted, lifting her hips just enough to guide him back inside her. He exhaled sharply, the sensation of her enveloping him again pulling a guttural sound from his chest.

Merlin, she felt like heaven. Tight and warm and perfectly his.

She sat upright, straddling him, her curls falling around her face, her skin kissed golden in the low firelight. He leaned back, letting her move as she pleased, content to watch her—completely enraptured.

He loved her like this.

Loved the way she moved on him, slow and sure, loved the little sounds she made—soft whimpers, broken gasps, the way she bit her lip when the pleasure peaked just right. She rode him like she owned him. Like she knew he’d give her everything and more if she asked for it.

His hands found her hips, guiding her in those languid rolls that had his breath catching. He leaned forward, lips brushing her collarbone before he closed his mouth around one nipple, sucking gently—then harder, with intent. She arched into him, moaning, her fingers clutching his shoulders.

“Gods, Draco…”

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and low against her skin. “Use me. I’m yours.”

She did.

Her pace shifted, not faster—just deeper. More deliberate. Every grind, every subtle shift of her hips was a quiet declaration: You belong to me, and I belong to you. It lit something primal in him, something tender, too. A yearning that had lived in his bones since the first time she’d ever looked at him like he was worth saving.

He slid a hand between them, down her stomach, and rested it lightly over her lower belly. The spot where, if they were lucky, a child might begin to grow.

His voice came out thick with awe. “You’re going to be such a beautiful mother.”

She gasped softly at the words, and he saw her eyes flutter shut as she trembled above him when his thumb reached further down to graze her clit.

“So full of love,” he continued, lifting his other hand to her waist, steadying her, grounding her. “So full of me …”

Her pace faltered, just a breath. “Draco—”

“I’ve got you.” He pressed kisses along her throat, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “I’ve always got you.”

He felt her beginning to unravel—her breath hitching, muscles tightening, head tipping back. Her climax crept up on her like a storm rolling over hills. He guided her through it, holding her close, rubbing her clit with the right amount of pressure, whispering praise and promises against her damp skin as she came, trembling in his arms.

She sagged against him, shivering with the aftershocks, and he eased her down onto the bed, covering her with his body like a shield. He thrust into her a few more times—slow, deep, controlled—until the tension in his core coiled too tight to hold. He came with a low groan, burying his face in her neck as he spilled inside her, overwhelmed.

They lay tangled together, hearts pounding, breath slowing. He brushed his lips against her temple, then her shoulder, then the corner of her mouth.

“I love you,” he whispered against her skin.

“I love you,” she murmured back.

He held her close, his hand returning to her stomach again, protective. Possessive.

He imagined her swollen with his child—beautiful, radiant, powerful. He imagined tiny hands, wild curls, grey eyes that mirrored his own. And he ached for it.

She nestled into his chest, and he felt her relax into him, a sigh escaping her lips like surrender.

And for that one perfect moment, there was no looming danger, no secrets. Just her breath on his skin, and the flickering thought that they could be lucky enough to grow their family and know a love greater than themselves.

Chapter Text

Hermione had never told anyone they were trying for a baby—mostly because the phrasing felt awkward and clinical to her. Announcing that you and your partner were regularly having unprotected sex in the hopes of achieving a pregnancy didn’t exactly sound like anyone’s business, and she much preferred the idea of it being a surprise anyway. In truth, they’d been enjoying the process quite thoroughly— Gods, was it fun.

She hadn’t bothered to chart anything. No ovulation schedules, no fertility tracking charms. Just raw desire and youth on their side. They were both in their early twenties, healthy, insatiable, and deeply in love—it seemed inevitable that she’d fall pregnant quickly without much effort.

And of course, Draco had been eager about it. Worshipful. Ravenous, even.

She finally stopped protesting his impulse to have her in places that weren’t their bed, which included empty classrooms, abandoned corridors, broom cupboards thick with dust, even a few times in the restricted section of the library when they were sure no one was around. There was something thrilling about it—about how hungry he always was for her, about the risk of getting caught, and how little either of them cared at this point. She’d never thought of herself as someone who would let a man bend her over a desk with her knickers tugged aside, but when it came to Draco, all her rules had a way of unraveling.

It wasn’t just the heat of it, though there was plenty of that. It was the way he looked at her during—like she was sacred. Wild. His.

He relished spilling inside of her now in a way that was different than before, because now he could actually fill her womb with his child—he told her so on many occasions.

And when they had the luxury of a bed beneath them, he took his time. He’d come hard and deep inside of her, grinding into her with a groan while her thighs clutched around his waist. And then—almost every time—he’d stay there for a long while before eventually pulling out slowly, carefully, as if reluctant to leave her body at all.

Then came his new ritual.

He’d spread her legs wider, settle between her thighs, and just… look. Always with that same intense gaze—part reverent, part possessive. As if the sight of her, slick and dripping from him, was a sacred confirmation that she was his. That he’d claimed her with a quiet pride, certain that no one else ever had, and no one else ever would.

When his spend began to slip out of her, he never let it go to waste. His fingers—long, elegant, and sure—would slide through her folds and gently push it back inside. Sometimes just once, sometimes more, with a low murmur of approval as she twitched beneath him. He’d whisper things she still wasn’t used to hearing aloud—filthy and adoring all at once.

“Look at you, soaking and stuffed full of me… You were made for this, Hermione. My perfect little witch, taking every drop… Keeping me right where I belong.”

He’d press soft kisses to the inside of her knee, her hip, her belly, while he held her open with his hands, like he wanted to brand her with the memory of it.

She had never felt so desired. So utterly claimed.

It wasn’t just sex. It was a kind of worship. A need to mark her, fill her, make her his in every way. And she let him. Gladly. Because she wanted the same—wanted him inside her, around her, part of her.

Some nights, he’d fall asleep with his hand between her legs, fingers resting lightly over her still-swollen entrance, as if to keep her sealed. As if that alone might make the magic take hold.

And maybe it did.

Because barely a month into it, they’d gotten their wish. Magic had its advantages—one quick charm confirmed that she was pregnant, and she knew the exact day that they had conceived, the second of December, 2002.

She didn’t tell Draco right away.

Not because she doubted it. The charm was reliable. But because she wanted a little time to herself. Time to let the reality settle. Time to be quietly overwhelmed. The idea of telling him on Christmas felt right—something private, something just for them. A moment of joy wrapped in warmth and firelight. She’d waited long enough to be sure the pregnancy was stable and had passed the earliest risks.

Still, she had her moments—private spirals where her brain ran wild.

She was just twenty-three, and in less than nine months, she would be responsible for another human being. It was terrifying. She had always imagined she’d wait until her late twenties, maybe early thirties. After she’d done more, seen more, gotten a better grip on who she was outside of the chaos of the war. The idea that she would become someone’s mother felt huge—too huge, on the days her doubts crept in.

She had no doubts about Draco. He would be a wonderful father—soft in ways the world would never know, fiercely protective in ways only she truly understood.

But her?

What if she wasn’t ready? What if she couldn’t give their child the same stability and warmth her own parents had given her?

The thought always led her back to the same ache—the gaping wound of her parents.

Months earlier, she’d met with memory healers to explore the possibility of reversing the Obliviate she cast on them years ago. They’d been honest. It wouldn’t be simple. It might cause them some level of discomfort or trauma. Some memories might never return. There was a very real risk of partial or permanent loss. They said it was possible they’d remember her, but not guaranteed. The idea of hurting them again just to get them back… it crushed her.

Draco had listened. Quiet and supportive, never once pushing her in either direction. Lucius, too, had left the decision entirely to her.

So she went to see them again. She and Draco stood on the opposite side of a Muggle street in Melbourne, hidden behind a Disillusionment Charm, watching them move through their day.

Her mother knelt in the garden, hands deep in soil, laughing at something her father had said. They went grocery shopping. Argued teasingly over which biscuits to buy. Later, they sat on folding chairs in their small backyard, reading side by side with coffee in hand.

They looked peaceful. Whole. And completely free of any discomfort.

Hermione stood frozen as a lump formed in her throat. Tears slid down her cheeks as she realized the truth, that she could not in good conscience take this from them. Not for her own comfort. Not even to have her mum beside her while becoming one.

Letting go was the most selfless decision she’d ever made—and the hardest.

She said goodbye that day without a word, holding Draco’s hand tightly as she turned away and walked into the late afternoon light. The grief never went away. She simply stopped speaking of it. The same way she and Draco rarely spoke of the war with each other for most of their relationship so far.

Some things were better left in the past.

Despite all her doubts, fears, and quiet reservations, Hermione always came back to the joy she felt in that dream—seeing both herself and Draco reflected in that little girl had made her feel so incredibly proud and full of love. 

She knew the dream wasn’t prophecy—probably just her hormones tricking her into procreating—and, well, it had worked. She was clearly not just a logical person, but an emotional one too.

Hermione waited until Christmas morning, wanting to give him the news that she was pregnant as a gift. She woke up in his arms and spent several long, silent moments staring at him, heart full, stomach fluttering. She couldn’t wait to finally tell him.

He smiled even before opening his eyes.

“Darling, I can feel you staring at me. Am I really that handsome?”

Hermione’s gaze lingered on him—on the tousled blond hair falling into his eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the peaceful softness in his features that only appeared when he was truly at ease. Even in sleep, he looked annoyingly perfect.

“Yes… you smug bastard,” she laughed.

“What can I say? Years of exclusive breeding were at work before I came along.”

“Oh, is that right? Only purebloods can look as beautiful as you?” she teased, raising a brow.

He opened his eyes and smirked. “No, of course not. I meant only the most beautiful women were chosen to add to the line. A legacy I’ve made good on.”

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head affectionately. Then she sat up, pulling the sheet with her, and he followed, propping himself against the headboard. She reached for his hand and laced their fingers together, smiling at him softly.

“Happy Christmas, husband.”

“Happy Christmas, my darling wife.”

“Are you ready for your present?” she asked coyly.

“Does it come with a shag?” he grinned.

“It might.”

“Well, then. Let’s have it.”

She hesitated for a beat, then gave a small nod. “Hand me my wand.”

He retrieved it from beneath the pillow and passed it to her without question. She took a breath, turned to face him fully, and held his gaze—she didn’t want to miss a single second of his reaction.

She cast the charm with a steady hand.

“Gravidus Revelare.”

A soft golden light shimmered to life over her abdomen, glowing warm and bright as it revealed the truth. Then—two distinct pulses of light flickered beneath the surface, rhythmic and certain. Not one, but two.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

Draco froze beside her, breath caught in his throat. His eyes locked on the twin pulses as if they were some sacred miracle, something too incredible to be real. Slowly, his lips parted.

“Twins…” he whispered, the word barely audible, his voice cracking with awe.

He reached out, almost hesitantly, and laid a trembling hand over the glowing swell of her belly. His fingers spread wide as if trying to cover both lights at once, to feel the truth of it beneath his skin.

For a long moment, he said nothing—just stared, eyes wide and brimming, as if the weight of the revelation had rendered him speechless. Then he let out a shaky exhale and looked at her, truly looked at her, with such depth of feeling that it stole her breath.

“You’re carrying our children…” he said quietly, reverently. “Two of them. Merlin, Hermione…”

He moved his hands to cradle her face, eyes searching hers like he needed to make sure she was real—that this was real.

“You’ve given me more than I ever thought I’d have in this life.”

She saw tears in his eyes and could barely feel hers falling down her cheeks. He gently brushed away her own tears with his thumbs. Their foreheads met, and they stayed locked in that fragile, luminous silence for several long moments. Then he kissed her slowly, pouring all his unending devotion for her into it.

They made love afterward—slowly, quietly, with nothing but feeling between them. There was no rush, only the instinct to be close, to mark the moment with touch and warmth. His hands moved over her like he was relearning her—lingering at her hips, her breasts, and finally her still-flat belly. He rested his palm there, as if already holding their children.

She felt safe in his arms, and more than that—deeply, undeniably cherished.

Afterward, they lay tangled under the duvet, her head on his chest, his fingers absentmindedly twirling her curls around his fingers.

“When do we tell everyone else?” he asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I want to tell Lucius today,” she said softly. “Then wait a bit before telling anyone else. It’s still really early. Most people wait until the first trimester is over—or just before.”

“Theo will never let us hear the end of it if we wait that long.”

“Alright, we’ll tell him before everyone else. But not just yet… I want him to be the godfather to one of the babies. Harry too.”

He squeezed her a little tighter at that.

“That sounds right… What about their names?”

“That depends on their gender… Do you want to know now? The spell would work even this early.”

Draco was quiet for a moment, then gave a small nod.

She retrieved her wand and murmured the charm. Two pulses of soft light shimmered over her abdomen—one pink, one blue. A girl and a boy. Fraternal twins. Draco smiled widely at the news, and she felt thoroughly pleased herself to have one of each on their first try, giving her the option of not having any more if they decided that their family was complete after the twins were born. 

He leaned down and kissed her belly again and again, eventually resting his head there between her thighs.

“Scorpius and Cassiopeia,” he murmured to their unborn children.

“You’re naming our son after a scorpion? And our daughter after a tragic Greek queen?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, dear wife,” he replied, lips still against her skin. “They’re named after constellations—a tradition from my mother’s side. But if you don’t like them, we’ll choose something else.”

Hermione leaned back into the pillows, considering. She turned the names over in her mind, pairing them with others, imagining how they’d sound when shouted across a house or signed on a Hogwarts letter. Scorpius was still a bit dramatic for her taste—but Cassiopeia had a regal ring to it she couldn’t deny. Besides, she’d likely call them by nicknames anyway.

“Cassie and Scorp it is, then,” she said with a small laugh. “Interesting how you had those names ready to go, Malfoy.”

He looked up with a smirk. “I’ve given it a lot of thought since we first started trying. My mother mentioned Scorpius years ago, and it stuck. And Cassiopeia… well, I’ve had it in my head ever since you told me about that dream.”

She smiled, heart aching in the best way. “Well, it’s real now. We’re going to be parents… Assuming the pregnancy sticks, anyway. It could still go either way.”

“Don’t say that,” he murmured. “Our children are strong—I can feel it. They’re going to be better versions of us. The best parts of you and me. Beautiful and smart. Clever and determined. And definitely Slytherins.”

“Oh gods, don’t say that,” she groaned, shaking her head. “Two snakes?”

“Darling, you already are one now. I’ve quite literally shagged the Gryffindor out of you.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away with a huff, not wanting to admit that he was probably right, but he laughed and pulled her into his chest, wrapping himself around her from behind.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair. “I can’t ever thank you enough for this gift. I’m so ridiculously happy right now.”

Hermione smiled, curling into him, heart full. She thought of meeting her children. Of learning who they were, who they’d become. Of loving everything about them. Of looking into their grey eyes and seeing Draco staring back at her.

***

They told Lucius on Christmas Day, and Draco had never seen his father more delighted. Lucius kissed his cheek and pulled him into a tight embrace—and for a moment, it felt like being a boy again, when he still looked up to his father like he was everything. Like all the past between them had been wiped away. A clean slate.

In a rare and uncharacteristically warm gesture, Lucius even pulled Hermione into a brief hug and kissed her cheek, thanking her and offering his congratulations.

It was a quiet but meaningful moment between the last of the Malfoy line, celebrating the future of their family. Lucius, of course, suggested throwing a party to commemorate the news in a few months, but one look from Draco made it clear that wasn’t the best idea with the current dangers they were facing. Hermione, sensing his reluctance, quickly suggested that perhaps they could plan a baby shower closer to the due date with just their closest friends and loved ones. Lucius nodded to the idea, though Draco knew his father was already imagining something far more extravagant to celebrate the birth of his grandchildren.

A few weeks later, around the eight-week mark, they invited Theo, Pansy (who was newly engaged to Neville), Harry, and Ginny to Hogwarts for tea. When they shared the news, their friends were stunned into joyful disbelief. Ginny burst into tears, and even Pansy—who rarely allowed herself to get emotional—looked misty-eyed, despite her best efforts to hide it.

They asked them then and there to be godparents; Theo and Pansy for Scorpius, Harry and Ginny for Cassiopeia. Of course, everyone accepted, and the afternoon quickly turned into a swirl of hugs, happy tears, and laughter. Draco had never considered himself a particularly sentimental man, but with his wife pregnant, he found himself far more emotional than usual. Hermione was just the same.

The first trimester had not been kind to her. She tired quickly, her mornings were marked by nausea, her moods swung with little warning, and her breasts were constantly sore. Her senses were so heightened that Draco’s expensive cologne—which she’d once loved—suddenly made her recoil, so he stopped wearing it altogether. Her appetite narrowed to a strange consistency. All she wanted was scrambled eggs, toast, and decadent French pastries that Draco had the Hogwarts elves prepare just for her.

As they neared the end of the first trimester, a subtle swell had begun to show—still easily hidden beneath her clothing, but unmistakable to Draco. That was when Hermione decided it was time to share the news with everyone else.

Ginny offered to host a brunch at Grimmauld Place one weekend and quietly invited their closest friends and loved ones under the pretense of a casual gathering. No one outside their inner circle knew what was coming. The atmosphere was warm and lively, the long dining table set with care, laughter echoing through the house as people caught up and shared stories.

Then, at the right moment, Hermione tapped her glass and stood beside Draco.

All the chatter came to a halt, and curious eyes turned toward them.

“Thank you all for coming,” Draco began, his voice smooth but warm. “And thank you, Ginny, for hosting us in your beautiful home.” He gave her a nod of appreciation, and she returned it with a slight smile. “As much as we love being surrounded by everyone we care for, we’ve actually asked you here to share a special announcement.”

He turned to Hermione, who looked absolutely radiant—glowing with excitement and nerves—and she nodded. He placed a gentle hand over her belly and turned back to the group.

“My beautiful wife is pregnant,” he said with a smile. “We’re having twins.”

For a moment, the room was silent—then came the eruption of cheers, gasps, and laughter as chairs scraped back and everyone rushed to embrace them.

Fred and George clapped Draco on the back, identical smirks on their faces.

“Twins are so much more fun,” George said.

“Double trouble,” they said in perfect unison.

Molly Weasley hugged Hermione tightly, her eyes already brimming with tears.

“I’m so happy for you, love,” she said, giving Hermione’s hands a squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

“Starting to feel better. The first trimester is almost over,” Hermione replied with a small smile.

“Oh yes, that’s the worst of it. But listen—if you ever need anything at all…advice, help, or just a shoulder to cry on when it all feels like too much—know you’ll always have me,” Molly said earnestly. “You’ll always be a daughter to me and Arthur.” Arthur nodded in agreement with a warm smile. 

Draco watched as Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude, and hugged Molly again. It was exactly the kind of support they’d hoped for—and everything they needed as they prepared to become a family of four. He knew Molly couldn’t replace his wife's actual mother, but at least Hermione knew that she had people she could rely on for guidance. 

Lucius wasn’t exactly the role model for fatherhood that Draco would strive to emulate, but he had faith in him to be a much better grandfather and could see him practically yearning for the chance to spoil his children rotten. For all his plotting, high expectations, and conniving nature, Lucius's most important held value had always been centered around family, and that was something he planned to continue making his guiding light. 

Blaise and Daphne were next to approach, pulling both Draco and Hermione into warm hugs.

“You sly prat, keeping this from us all this time,” Blaise said with a crooked grin. “Couldn’t wait a couple more years to knock her up, could you?”

Draco returned the smirk. “My wife said she was ready, and of course, I jumped at the chance. Literally.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and gave him a light swat before slipping away to greet Andromeda and Teddy.

“What a blessing,” Andromeda said gently, pulling Hermione into an embrace. “I can’t wait to meet my great-niece and great-nephew, dear.” She turned to Draco next and wrapped him in a warm hug. “Anything you need—just say the word, and I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

Draco had grown closer to his aunt over the past year. Lucius had told him they’d been in quiet contact, occasionally meeting for tea with Teddy in tow. Somehow, despite their history, they’d managed to lay old grievances to rest and begin something resembling a truce—for the sake of moving forward and healing the fractured remnants of their family.

Draco ruffled Teddy’s sandy brown hair affectionately, grinning when it shifted to a vivid shade of blue.

“What a strong little lad. How many years old are you now?” Draco asked, crouching slightly to meet his cousin’s eyes.

Teddy lifted four fingers with shy pride.

“He’ll be five in a few months,” Andromeda added with a fond smile. “Already begging me for a toy broom. Boys can be quite the handful, but there’s never a dull moment. When are you due?”

“Late August,” Hermione said with a soft laugh. “Hopefully, I can make it to full term. I suspect I’ll be waddling by then with how big I’ll be.”

“You’re glowing, love. You’ll be beautiful,” Andromeda reassured her.

Draco rose and placed his hand over her belly—a gentle curve, still small but unmistakably real—and couldn’t help but smile. She had never looked more beautiful to him.

Severus and McGonagall came next. Minerva greeted them both with kisses on the cheek and firm hugs. Severus, predictably more reserved, offered Draco a handshake and Hermione a polite nod—though the subtle upturn of his lips might have qualified as a smile.

“So,” Severus said, tone dry, “am I to assume your teaching careers are at an end?”

McGonagall shot him a disapproving look, but Hermione responded with grace.

“I’ll make it through the rest of the school year, don’t worry,” she said. “But I won’t be returning after. I’ll need time to recover and bond with our children.”

“I shan’t be returning either,” Draco added. “I’d rather be home with my wife and raise our babies properly.”

“Understandable,” Severus replied with a short nod.

“We’ll have more than enough time to find replacements,” McGonagall added warmly. “I’m so happy for you both. What a joy to be having twins—so rare among wizarding families.”

“Yes, quite,” Severus mused, glancing between them. “I imagine we’ll be seeing blonde-haired know-it-alls gracing our halls in a few years.”

Minerva nudged him sharply in the ribs, but he didn’t flinch—just smirked.

“Perhaps we’ll see the first Malfoy in Gryffindor,” she said teasingly.

Both Draco and Severus gave her unimpressed looks.

“Whatever house they end up in, we’ll support them,” Hermione interjected quickly.

Draco sighed, though his lips twitched in reluctant amusement. “As long as they’re not Hufflepuffs. We’ll have to pull them out and ship them to Durmstrang immediately.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and moved off to talk to Bill and Fleur, the latter visibly pregnant herself. A few others gathered to hear about her experience and swap pregnancy tales.

Meanwhile, Severus gestured subtly to Draco, who nodded and followed him to a quieter corner, Theo trailing behind.

“They’re planning something,” Severus said in a low voice meant only for their ears. “I’ve heard whispers—they’ve gathered enough support to make a move.”

Draco’s expression hardened. “Against who?”

“The Ministry, for starters,” Severus replied. “I’ve already spoken with Shacklebolt. They’ll want to make a statement, something bold, to remind the world that the old ways aren’t dead. A show of force.”

He paused, then added, “Wouldn’t it be wiser to keep your wife at home? Make sure word of her pregnancy doesn’t leave this room?”

Draco exhaled slowly, jaw tight. “She won’t hear of it. She’s determined to finish the term. I’ve tried everything to change her mind.”

Severus glanced toward Hermione, who was beaming, radiant as she laughed with Astoria and Daphne. Pansy had one arm around her, whispering something that made her giggle.

“She looks so happy,” Theo said, almost to himself.

Draco nodded, his heart heavy. “I wish I could lock her away in a pretty little cage, behind every ward I know. But she’d break out and hex me for trying.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Theo offered.

Draco shook his head. “She’ll know I put you up to it and be even more suspicious about what’s really going on. Aside from teaching, I never leave her side. Hogwarts is safe. The manor is safe. If anything happens…I’ll have contingency plans.”

He knew that half-blood Malfoys would be an affront to anyone still clinging to pureblood ideology. Marrying a Muggleborn had been controversial enough—but having children with her would obliterate the last shred of plausible deniability. No one could pretend the marriage was merely political now. It would confirm what his enemies had long suspected, and worse, give them reason to act. The letters had grown increasingly hostile, their language more threatening with each passing week. He shuddered to think what might come next.

“Nothing’s going to happen, Drake,” Theo said firmly. “Between the castle, the manor, and this house—no safer places exist. She’s going to be fine.”

Draco nodded, but his gaze lingered on his wife. He watched as she tilted her head back in laughter, surrounded by people who loved her.

And he prayed—silently, fiercely—to every god who might be listening, that Theo was right.

Chapter Text

A little over four months into Hermione’s pregnancy, Draco experienced the worst day of his life.

A day that stole every illusion of safety he’d dared to hold and all of his glittering hopes for the future.

A day that, had he not spent years mastering Occlumency, might have broken him beyond repair.

It was the kind of day that rewrote the rules of what he feared most—not pain, not even death, but the terrifying possibility that he might not be there to protect the people he loved.

Draco was walking the quiet upper corridor outside the Divination tower, idly flipping through a few marked essays as he made his way back to his quarters. The hour between classes often gave the castle a sort of hush, interrupted only by the distant hum of portraits whispering and the occasional clatter of Peeves somewhere far off.

He rounded a corner and came upon Professor Trelawney just as her foot snagged on the hem of her robes.

“Oh dear—!” she gasped, wobbling, books and scrolls slipping from her arms and scattering like autumn leaves across the stairwell.

Draco reached out instinctively, steadying her by the elbow. She clung to the banister, blinking rapidly behind her oversized spectacles, clearly startled.

“Are you alright, Professor?”

“Quite, quite,” she said, voice fluttery as ever. “These stairs are always conspiring against me.”

He crouched and began picking up her things—an open deck of tarot cards, two thick volumes on astrological correspondences, and a cracked bottle of sandalwood oil leaking slowly onto a roll of parchment.

They bent down at the same time, reaching for a scroll, and their fingers brushed.

The air shifted.

Trelawney stilled. Her spine straightened, her mouth slack. Her pupils dilated wide behind her lenses, and when she spoke, it was in a voice not her own—deep, hollow, resonant. A chill passed through Draco’s limbs.

“The dragon shall fall before the Harvest Moon,

his blood sealing a circle broken by war.

Two stars shall rise from the womb of the lioness,

born of love and fire, but fatherless beneath the sun.

The echo of his name shall guard them in shadow,

but his eyes shall not see their first dawn.”

A silence fell as the last words echoed off the stone walls.

Then, as suddenly as it began, Trelawney blinked and swayed slightly.

“Oh my—did you say something just now?” she asked, dazed, as if waking from a nap. “I thought I heard—how odd. It must be the altitude. Plays tricks on the ears.”

Draco stared at her, heart hammering in his chest.

“No,” he said evenly, schooling his face into neutrality. “You didn’t hear anything.”

“Ah. Well.” She took her books from him, smiling vaguely. “Thank you, dear boy. Such a gentleman.”

She drifted off down the hall with her usual half-floating gait, humming softly to herself.

Draco stood frozen for a moment. His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched.

His eyes shall not see their first dawn…

He turned sharply on his heel and walked the other way, straight to Severus to discuss the meaning of the vision, knowing deep down that he already knew what it meant.

***

May 2003

They set up under the shade of a large old willow tree by the Black Lake. The weather had finally turned, the sun warming the castle grounds, and it was a beautiful, breezy day. Hermione was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable now, though still better than during the first trimester. Her back ached, she was often short of breath, the mood swings hadn’t quite eased, and she could no longer hide the pregnancy. The twins made her look further along than she was, her petite frame doing little to disguise the bump.

Draco had been there for her through all of it, doting on her incessantly—and she didn’t exactly mind. When the day was over, he was already kneeling to take off her shoes, massaging her swollen feet while the bath warmed. He always had her favorite sweets waiting under a stasis charm for when hunger struck. He kept their bedroom softly scented with calming aromatherapy spells. When she felt nauseous, he made ginger tea and rubbed her belly. When she cried, he held her close, whispering soft reassurances. And when she was horny—which, much to her surprise, was often lately—he shagged her boneless without complaint.

He kissed her pregnancy bump endlessly, whispering to their children, telling them how loved they were. How cherished they would always be. How they would be strong. That they were Malfoys—and that meant they were a force to be reckoned with. She sometimes fell asleep to the sound of his voice, his hand resting reverently on her stomach, marveling at every kick and flutter as if the babies were communicating back. His little snakes, he liked to call them.

And yet… something had changed in him over the last month. Something subtle. Almost imperceptible. His smiles and laughter felt a little too deliberate, like he was putting on an act just for her. No one who didn’t know him as intimately as she did would notice—but she did.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t over the moon about the twins. He clearly was. But sometimes, it felt like every time he spoke to her belly, every kiss pressed to her skin, was a goodbye.

It unnerved her.

She asked him about it, of course, and every time he reassured her that everything was perfect. That she was imagining things. That he was just tired. He was clearly gaslighting her. 

Theo was useless too. Evasive and dismissive when she pressed him.

She even tried Lucius once—but that was a bust. That man was more controlled and occluded than even her husband. If he didn’t want you to know something, you couldn’t pry it out of him even with a Crucio .

The pregnancy already made her emotional and needy. Draco’s subtle change in behavior only intensified that. But the healers had warned her—stress and anxiety could affect the babies. So she had no choice but to push aside whatever instincts were gnawing at her and try to stay in the moment. Like today.

Draco sat behind her on the blanket, his legs bracketing hers, arms wrapped around her middle. He pressed lazy kisses to her neck, whispering lovely things into her ear as the breeze rustled the leaves overhead. She leaned into his warmth, letting the sound of the lake ripple around them, the distant laughter of students echoing faintly across the grounds. It was peaceful. Almost normal.

She thought about her own time at Hogwarts. How magical it had all felt in the beginning—how simple. Until it wasn’t.

“What’s on your mind, darling?” Draco asked softly against her ear.

“That éclair I’ve got waiting for me in our room,” she said, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He chuckled. “What are you really thinking about?”

She sighed. “First year… What was it like for you? Were you as enthralled by it all, or was it just more of the same in your world?”

He was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I wasn’t that jaded at that age. No, I thought it was all quite exciting. I couldn’t wait to be sorted into my house, to explore the castle, find the best hiding places… I was especially looking forward to Potions. Don’t tell Severus.”

She laughed and shook her head. “He was terrifying. I hated him. He’d never call on me when I raised my hand. Drove me mental. All the other professors adored me. I couldn’t figure out why he disliked me so much.”

“Because you kept showing him up,” Draco said with a smirk. “He’s an insanely prideful man. A true Slytherin. You never stood a chance, my love.”

She rolled her eyes, trying not to indulge her lifelong need for praise and recognition. Draco, of course, always knew how to make her feel special, without her ever needing to ask. He was intuitive like that, or he just adored her that much. 

“You know,” she said softly, “before I ever heard you open your mouth, I thought you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.”

She could feel him smiling smugly behind her.

“I thought you were a bushy-haired, beaver-toothed know-it-all who was a direct threat to me being first in class. Sorry, love.”

She twisted in his arms to glare at him, and he looked back at her sheepishly. 

“It took me a few years to get there, alright? It’s not like you didn’t think of me as a ‘loathsome, evil little cockroach’ our entire time here.”

“You deserved it,” she added before turning back around. “You called me a Mudblood. A lot. It was easy to hate you.”

He was quiet for a beat, then pulled her closer, arms tightening around her as he lowered his voice and murmured in her ear, “If I could go back in time and take it all back, I would. Every word. Your blood is purer than mine, love of my life.”

Her heart softened, the sting of old wounds fading beneath the weight of his voice. She melted into him without a word.

“You know,” she said after a moment, her voice light but tinged with meaning, “I have gone back in time. There are a lot of rules. It’s easy to mess something up and ruin your entire future.”

Draco shifted slightly behind her. “You were given access to a Time-Turner? Why am I even surprised?”

“Third year,” she said with a warning glance. “To attend extra classes. And don’t you dare make another comment about me being swotty, Draco.”

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Do you happen to still have one?”

“No. The Ministry’s entire supply of Time-Turners was destroyed during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. It’s illegal now to make more—probably for the best.”

He was quiet for a few long moments after that, exhaling deeply as the moment settled around them.

“Will you allow our son to play Quidditch when he attends Hogwarts?” he asked suddenly.

“Quite sexist of you not to consider that our daughter might want to play,” Hermione replied, arching a brow. “Perhaps Scorpius will be a total bookworm and loathe sports, while Cassie ends up being the athletic one.”

“Our daughter can do whatever she likes. I’d support her in anything that makes her happy.”

“I feel the same. As long as what they like doing doesn’t involve flying through the air and risking their necks,” Hermione added dryly.

“It’s not that dangerous…”

She leaned back and gave him a pointed look.

“Alright, fine,” he admitted. “It’s not an injury-free sport. But it’s all loads of fun. Come on, Hermione—don’t tell me you’re going to be that strict.”

“Perhaps we should’ve had this conversation before you got me up the duff, Malfoy,” she huffed, turning away.

Draco reached up and gently grasped her neck, tilting her head so he could press a soft kiss to her lips. She accepted it begrudgingly at first—then melted. He always played dirty pool when she was miffed, and it always worked.

She shifted, swinging her legs to the side over his lap as she looped her arms around his shoulders, gazing into his eyes.

“They can play Quidditch,” she said finally. “As long as they keep their grades up. I refuse to raise children who value sports over intellect.”

“That didn’t seem to matter when you were dating Krum,” he teased.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Viktor’s a lot smarter than people think. It’s the language barrier—he can’t express himself in English as well as he does in Bulgarian. We’ve discussed several books in our letters.”

“I’m surprised he can read,” Draco muttered under his breath.

She gave him a light swat on the arm, and he smirked.

“Our children will be too bright to let sports consume them. It’s in their DNA,” he added, feigning arrogance.

Hermione’s voice softened. “Would you have wanted to keep playing Quidditch? If it hadn’t been for the war and… everything?”

Draco looked out across the lake, wistful. “My father would’ve never allowed it. Fine for a school hobby—but a professional sport? Not for a Malfoy. Was never in the cards for me. Maybe a Ministry appointment. Something respectable. On my way to the top.”

“An Auror, perhaps?”

He made a face. “Please. Malfoys don’t do grunt work. We tell other people what to do.”

“Funny,” Hermione said with a grin. “You never tell me what to do. Or at least not successfully.”

“I have no shame about being a simp for my wife,” he said without hesitation. “I’d get on my knees for you, darling—at every opportunity, if you’d let me.”

His voice dropped with that last bit, and the wicked smile that followed went straight to her core.

She leaned in, biting back a grin. “We’re in public, husband. Do try to temper your enthusiasm .”

“Never.”

She giggled and pulled him in for another kiss.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves above, dappling their skin in golden warmth as they lingered there, wrapped in each other, in the peace of the moment, in the quiet wonder of what they were building together. The Black Lake shimmered in the distance, the breeze gentle against their cheeks, and for a little while, it felt like time had slowed just for them.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, his arms encircling her tightly.

“Tell me all your secrets from school,” she murmured. “All the things I missed while I was too busy hating your guts.”

“I can’t tell you all of them, darling. I’d lose all my mystery. You’d find me dreadfully boring and leave me.”

She smiled cheekily and glanced pointedly toward his lap. “As long as you still have all of your bits, I’ll never find you boring.”

He let out a soft laugh. “I fear your pregnancy hormones have reduced me to little more than your personal vehicle for getting off.”

“No… You also fetch the good sweets, brew an excellent cup of tea, and give divine massages. And hearing your voice when you read to me before bed? That’s especially lovely. It’s got a nice huskiness to it… and you always say such pretty things with it.”

He tucked a curl behind her ear, lips quirking into a slow smile. Leaning in, his mouth brushed the shell of her ear as he whispered, low and dark, “Such as… what exactly? That you’re my good girl… that I adore you… that I want to see you trembling beneath me, spent and utterly fucked?”

A shiver rolled down her spine, goosebumps blooming across her skin.

She turned her head slightly toward him, eyes lidded, voice soft. “Exactly those.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then rested his forehead against hers with a reverence that made her chest ache.

“I’ll never get enough of you, Hermione…I’ll never get enough time with you.”

The breeze stirred again, warm and sweet. And in that quiet, golden moment—held in his arms, belly round with their children—she believed him completely. But the peace felt fragile, like a dream too perfect to last. A shadow clung to the edges of her thoughts, cold and insistent, whispering that something was coming. Something inevitable. Something that would cost them dearly.

And sure enough, the first sign she was right came the very next week…

***

TRAGEDY AT THE MINISTRY: DEADLY ATTACK CLAIMS OVER 50 LIVES

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

Chaos struck the heart of the wizarding world yesterday morning as a series of explosions rocked several departments within the Ministry of Magic, leaving 54 confirmed dead and over 30 witches and wizards in critical condition. The blasts, which occurred almost simultaneously across multiple floors, caused severe structural damage and have temporarily shuttered the Ministry’s operations.

Sources inside the Auror Office confirm that the devices used were muggle-engineered explosives—an unprecedented tactic in magical terror attacks—allowing them to bypass standard detection wards. A chilling letter recovered from the scene bears the seal of a previously unconfirmed group calling themselves The New Dark Order, claiming responsibility for the massacre.

In the letter, the group mocks the Ministry’s progressive policies, writing, “Since you adore muggles so much, it’s only fitting that their tools bring your downfall.” The note ends with a sinister warning: “This is only the beginning. Every blood traitor and mudblood or muggle sympathizer will pay.”

Auror investigations have uncovered evidence that a small network of muggles—experts in demolition and military weaponry—had been Imperiused to build and deliver the devices, though their identities remain classified at this time…

Draco reread the paper one last time before folding it shut, his jaw tight with the weight of the truth he could no longer hide from her. The attack had happened the night before—just before most Ministry workers would’ve gone home for the evening. It was too late to make the morning edition, and Severus had personally blocked outgoing owls until this morning, choosing to notify students privately if a parent or relative had perished.

Draco had kept Hermione distracted all evening once classes ended, never letting on that the world outside was crumbling.

Severus had pulled him aside between classes in the hallway the day before to break the news. Harry was safe—he’d been away on assignment—and so was Shacklebolt. But beyond that, the outlook was grim.

His worst fears were coming to life, and there was little he could do to stop it.

He’d spent months paying a small fortune to former Aurors—operatives unbound by Ministry red tape—to track the remaining Death Eaters. They had found more leads through underhanded means than Harry’s team had, but by the time the Ministry acted on the intel and raided a safehouse, the bastards were already gone. Someone had tipped them off. There was a mole. Probably more than one.

After that, the New Dark Order covered their tracks with ruthless precision, and Draco’s hired wands were left chasing shadows.

It made his blood boil that he wasn’t out there personally, tearing into minds until he unearthed the guilty parties and left their bodies behind. But he couldn’t leave Hermione—not now. Not ever. Not when she was carrying their children. Finishing the school term felt like dragging a boulder uphill, and the prophecy Trelawney had unwittingly spoken only made it worse.

His father dismissed the vision as vague nonsense, but Draco wasn’t convinced. The message had been clear as crystal to him: he wouldn’t live to see the birth of his children. Severus, not one to dance around the truth, agreed. 

He hadn’t believed in fate—until her. Until Hermione Granger became his wife, and their love created two perfect beings growing inside her. And now… now he feared fate had been mocking him all along. Letting him taste joy only to take it away.

Well, fuck fate. He’d go out on his own terms.

Let them think he was still some pampered rich boy who couldn’t defend himself. They’d all forgotten that he was a Malfoy. Worse, they’d forgotten that he was a dragon.

That rage, that defiance, kept him focused. Thinking of anything else—leaving Hermione, not seeing their children born—was unbearable.

So he prepared. He occluded. He researched spells. He stayed up every night while Hermione slept, making plans, writing letters, memorizing every detail of their lives in case it became memory.

That morning—thankfully a Saturday—he told her.

She panicked. Screamed. Sobbed. She beat her fists against his chest, furious he’d kept anything from her. Grieving those she personally knew who perished in the attack. Terrified they might be next. Her magic flared, shaking the room, amplified by the babies’ own growing power.

He held her through it all. Kissed her tears away. Whispered calming words and rubbed her back until she finally slumped against him, worn out. Then he asked her to come home to the Manor for the weekend. She didn’t fight him.

Theo was already waiting by the floo, arms open, and he pulled her into a tight hug the moment she stepped through. She sobbed into his shoulder, and Lucius stood nearby, his eyes grave. When she turned to look at him, his face was already schooled into calm composure.

Lucius gently took her hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “No harm will come to you or the children in this house. I promise you that.”

She gave a small nod, eyes rimmed red, and let Draco guide her to the drawing room. Mippy tried to tempt her with food, but she barely touched it.

They waited by the fire for Harry to arrive, Ginny in tow. All of them did their best to distract Hermione, even if it was mostly in vain.

Finally, around nine o’clock, the floo activated and Harry stepped through. Hermione rushed to him, tears streaming down her face as she clung to him.

“Oh my gods, Harry—I’m so happy you’re safe. I can’t believe this happened.”

He looked shattered. Exhausted. Covered in soot and dried blood. Clearly, he’d been at the scene for hours, pulling out survivors, cataloguing remains.

“I’m alright,” he said hoarsely. “But Angelina… Terry… Susan… they’re gone. Along with so many wizards and witches I worked with every day. I never thought I’d see so many bodies again after the war.”

Hermione cried harder and hugged Ginny next, then led them to sit.

“How did they do it?” she asked, voice breaking.

“They were clever. The Ministry’s detection charms only flag magical interference—spells, dark objects. These were Muggle bombs. No magic involved. That’s how they slipped through. They timed it just before close. We never saw it coming.”

The idea that twats in the New Dark Order were willing to stoop so low as to use Muggle technology to harm many was not only offensive but startling.

Not because he held any disdain for Muggle ingenuity—he didn’t, not anymore—but because of what it meant. It meant they were evolving. Adapting. Willing to shed even their own twisted principles for the sake of carnage. There had been a time when purists scoffed at anything non-magical, when the very idea of Muggle-made bombs would’ve been seen as beneath them. But now? They used whatever tools they could to kill.

It chilled him.

Because if they were willing to borrow from a world they claimed to loathe, it meant they’d stopped playing by any rules at all. It meant nothing—nothing—was off-limits. His jaw clenched.

He would burn the world before he let them touch what was his.

“I’m assigning a squad to watch the estate,” Harry continued. “And Hogwarts grounds are already under heavy guard.”

“Can you spare the manpower?” Draco asked.

“No. But I don’t care. I won’t leave you all unprotected. Not now.”

Draco nodded his thanks. Having Harry on their side meant a great deal to him.

“Is there anything we can do to help?”

“It’s being handled.”

“The Muggles who were Imperiused—were they found?” Theo asked.

Harry’s face hardened. “Only one survived. He was tortured with the Cruciatus to the point of insanity. His memories are gone. He barely knows his own name.”

Hermione gripped Draco’s hand tighter.

“Harry, please,” she whispered. “Are we in danger?”

Harry glanced briefly at Draco, who gave a subtle shake of his head.

“I don’t believe so. But just in case, stay here or at Hogwarts. Don’t travel.”

Lucius stood then and poured everyone a glass of firewhiskey—except Hermione. He handed Draco one and turned to him.

“The château is just as secure as the Manor. When the term ends, take her there. We’ll move the baby shower, if need be. Let them try to reach you abroad.”

“I don’t want the babies born in France,” Hermione said quietly. “My healers are at St. Mungo’s. I trust them.”

“Then we’ll return before the birth, darling,” Draco promised, kissing her temple. “It’ll just be a holiday away from the madness.”

“I’ll come too,” Theo added. “Astoria, Pansy, Neville—we’ll all go. If you’ll let us off work, Lucy?”

Lucius nodded.

“I’ll ask Blaise and Daphne as well,” Theo continued. “More eyes to look after you.”

“I’d come too, ‘Mione,” Ginny said apologetically, “but Quidditch season starts in June…”

Hermione managed a small smile. “I don’t want you giving up your last shred of normalcy for me. I’ll be alright, I don’t need babysitters.”

“You should reconsider,” Draco said flatly to Ginny. “Being the Chosen One’s wife makes you a target.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Did Harry put you up to that?”

“No. It’s logic. But you Gryffindor women never listen to reason.”

“I worked too hard to get here. I’m not stepping back because a bunch of cowardly bigots want to drag us into another war.” She slammed her glass down. “We’ve sacrificed enough.”

Harry frowned and reached for her hand, pressing his forehead to hers in silence before kissing her cheek.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright, love.”

Theo sighed. “Thank Salazar my girlfriend’s a Slytherin. You lot have zero self-preservation skills.”

Ginny shot him a look. “Want to rephrase that?”

Lucius cut in smoothly. “Potter, would you like a room here tonight? I can have it prepared immediately.”

Harry shook his head. “Thank you, but I need to get home. Haven’t slept since Thursday.”

With that, they said their tearful goodbyes, Hermione begging Harry to be careful, before their friends disappeared through the floo.

Hermione stood in front of the fireplace for a long time, one hand on her belly. Draco stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“We’re safe,” he whispered—half-truths wrapped in warmth.

But he already knew. Sooner or later, he wouldn’t be. 

***

They celebrated his birthday quietly. Term hadn’t ended yet, so a party was out of the question, but their closest friends gathered in their private quarters with cake and sparkling cider. It was warm and intimate—just how Draco preferred it.

Still, Hermione noticed him hesitate for a beat before blowing out his candles, and for some reason, it made her heart break a little. He brushed it off, but whatever was weighing on him hadn’t gone away. Since the Ministry attack, he’d become more withdrawn and occluded, like he was constantly working through something in his mind that he wasn’t sharing. Every time she pressed him to talk about it, he stonewalled her, which led to more than a few heated arguments. She’d nearly stormed out of their quarters one night, only for him to pull her back, whispering apologies and pleading for forgiveness.

She always did, of course, even when he wouldn’t give her the answers she wanted.

She was really fucking tired of being handled like glass. Gods forbid the pregnant lady get upset.

Still, there wasn’t much use staying mad. Not with everything going on. So she tried to focus on enjoying what remained of her pregnancy—the final weeks before their lives would change forever.

The term ended on June 23rd, and Hermione couldn’t wait to leave Hogwarts. She adored teaching. It fulfilled her in a way she hadn’t anticipated, and she loved her students—even managed to make them interested in Muggle Studies, especially when she brought her stereo in to play Queen and Michael Jackson and invited the class to dance with her.

But at this stage, she felt massive and sore. Sleeping was difficult. The twins were more active than ever. Her ankles were constantly swollen, and she’d experienced her first bout of Braxton Hicks. Sex had become…trickier, though Draco always found a way to make her feel beautiful—revered. If anything, he seemed even more obsessed with her now than before. The colostrum leaking from her breasts had become a rather fascinating new development for him, and he was utterly enchanted by how large her breasts had become.

He started leaving enchanted red roses everywhere for her to find, filling the château with vases of never-wilting blooms. He barely left her side—even sunbathed with her on the terrace, much to her amusement. He’d begun to freckle, and she loved kissing each new one that appeared across his pale chest, no matter how much he groaned about his pale skin darkening.

Their friends began to arrive in waves—Theo and Astoria first, followed by Pansy and Neville, then Blaise and Daphne a week later. It meant everything to Hermione that they had come. That they’d dropped everything to be there for them.

Pansy stuck close to her most of the time, masking her nerves with sarcasm and rosé. Every day, Draco and Theo walked the perimeter to check the wards, eyes sharp, wands in hand. Draco had barred Hermione from reading the news, which sparked another full-blown argument.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he insisted, “and everything being written is purely speculation at this point.”

“So what if I want to read speculation, Malfoy? I didn’t sign away my right to make my own decisions when I married you!”

“Why can’t you just bloody trust me?! I have you and the babies’ best interest in mind, darling. Please, just let it go—for once.”

He reached for her, cupping her cheeks, but she pulled away.

Theo stepped into the room just then and immediately clocked the tension.

“Hermione, come take a walk with me,” he said gently, offering his hand.

She glared at Draco before huffing and slipping her hand into Theo’s. He walked her through the gardens until she cooled off, then guided her to a bench in front of the fountain. With their fingers still intertwined, he reached with his free hand to tilt her chin up.

She was still furious, but she relented and looked at him.

“Darling, have you any idea the strain Draco’s under? How hard he’s working to stay calm in front of you, considering the danger you’re both in?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s being overprotective. I’m not a bloody porcelain doll, Theo. I can handle whatever he’s holding back.”

“And what if you can’t?” he asked softly. “What if it would upset you so much it put you into early labour? The healers said—”

“Yes, I know what the fucking healers said!” she snapped. 

He frowned, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Magical pregnancies are temperamental. Fragile. We came here to keep you calm. Arguing with him isn’t helping. Please, Hermione… don’t be cross with him anymore. Just let him take care of you, in whatever way he thinks is best.”

She scoffed. “So what, I give up my autonomy because he thinks he knows better?” 

He went quiet for a long beat before finally admitting what she’d long suspected.

“Draco knows something he hasn’t told you. And whatever it is… it’s hard. He’s trying to stay strong, but he’s weathering a storm in his own mind.”

She opened her mouth to demand an explanation, but Theo gently placed his fingers on her lips and shook his head.

“I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask. I know it’s maddening. I know you hate us both for keeping things from you. But this is how it has to be. You’re in a delicate state, and there’s nothing you can personally do about what’s going on.”

She sucked in her cheeks and shook her head, livid.

“You all act like I haven’t been through a war. Like I wasn’t the bloody mastermind behind half our victories.”

“Yes, you’re brilliant, darling, no one is disputing that. But you didn’t have so much to lose back then,” he said gently. “You do now…Again, I beg you, please stop fighting him. I wouldn’t  be asking you this if it wasn’t important.”

She looked away, swallowing thickly.

Hermione drew in a deep breath and tried—truly tried—to trust that the men in her life weren’t complete idiots, despite every instinct screaming otherwise. She didn’t want to keep fighting with Draco. The look in his eyes after their arguments—defeated, hollow—stayed with her far longer than the anger ever did. She missed the ease they once had, before everything became heavy with fear and secrets. Before love had to share space with dread.

“Fine…I’ll stop resisting his attempts to be dishonest with me and keep me in a bubble. I just… I want to know what’s going on.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Duly noted.”

***

She took some time to cool down before walking back inside and slipping quietly into their room. The sound of running water led her to the bathroom, where she found a warm bath waiting—rose petals scattered across the surface, fragrant salts swirling gently, candles floating and casting golden light over the tiled walls.

Draco looked up when she entered, his expression a mix of guilt and longing. He sat on the edge of the tub and opened his arms to her without a word. She hesitated—just for a second—before stepping between his legs and letting him pull her close. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, hands gripping his shoulders, letting the scent of him ease the tension in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured after a few quiet moments.

She didn’t answer right away. She was still upset, still nursing the ache of being kept in the dark—but she didn’t want to fight anymore. Not tonight.

“Do you want me to leave while you take your bath?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t be daft,” she muttered, lifting her head.

He gave her a faint smile and leaned in to kiss her—soft, sweet, careful. She kissed him back. When they parted, he began undressing her gently, then himself, and they slipped into the water together. He settled behind her, arms wrapping around her, hands resting over her swollen belly. He moved her hair to the side and pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck.

“Do you know all the things I love about you, darling?” he murmured.

“Are you trying to butter me up?”

“Would you be amenable to it?”

“Start talking and we’ll see,” she replied coolly.

He huffed a quiet laugh against her skin. “Where to begin… Ah. I love how, when you’re deep into a book or project, you twist your curls into a bun and stab your wand through it like it’s a quill holder. There’s nothing sexier.”

“Is that why you’re always staring at me while I’m working?”

“Exactly.”

She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. That he noticed something so specific—so mundane—and found it irresistible made her heart ache with affection.

“What else?” she asked softly.

“I love the color of your hair and your eyes. How they look chocolate-brown in low light, but catch bronze and amber in the sun. I remember eating an absurd amount of chocolate when I first realized I was falling for you…”

She melted a little more into him, soothed by the sound of his voice, by the tenderness in his words.

“Go on,” she whispered.

“I love how your curls go wild when you’re stressed. How I often wake up with them in my mouth. I love how soft they are. How long you’ve let them grow…. I love how stunning you look pregnant—how radiant. I love that you never let me get away with anything. That you speak your mind. I love that you brought my father and me back together, even when I didn’t believe it was possible. I love the way you love others—fiercely, fully, without hesitation.”

He paused, then lifted a hand to cradle her throat gently, tilting her face toward him. When he spoke again, his voice was low and haunted, sending a chill through her despite the warmth of the bath.

“I love the man I’ve become because of you… And I will die loving you with every fiber of my being.”

She swallowed hard, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She could feel the weight behind his words—feel the quiet, devastating truth in them.

“Draco…”

“Shhh,” he whispered, brushing his lips over the shell of her ear as his hand slid slowly down her chest, cupping her breast, cradling the weight of it in his hand

She leaned into his touch, letting the warmth of him, the quiet reverence in his voice, wash over her.

But somewhere deep inside, beneath the affection and the intimacy, a seed of dread had taken root—and no amount of rose-scented water could wash it away.

Hermione sat still in the bath, his hand cradling her breast, his lips brushing the curve of her neck. Her breath caught—half from the tenderness, half from the overwhelming sense of grief swelling behind her ribs. She wanted to be in the moment, wanted to lose herself in his touch, but her thoughts clung to the shadows, to everything unsaid.

She closed her eyes.

“Why do your words feel like a goodbye?” she whispered, voice cracking.

Draco stilled behind her for a moment, then his thumb continued sweeping slowly across her skin. “It’s not,” he said. “It’s now. Just now. Nothing else.”

“But I feel it,” she choked. “Like it’s slipping through my fingers before I’ve even grasped it. Like we’re living on borrowed time.”

His arms tightened around her. “Then borrow it, love. Steal it. Take it all. Let me give it to you.”

She shook her head weakly, blinking back tears. “I don’t know how to be here—like this—when it feels like everything is coming undone around us.”

“You don’t have to know how,” he murmured, trailing kisses along her shoulder, “You just have to let go. Let me be the one to hold it all for you tonight.”

She whimpered at that—at the ache in his voice, at the promise he was offering, even if it came laced with pain. His hands moved slowly, reverently, tracing the line of her belly, cupping the swell of life they’d made together. He kissed the top of her spine, his voice low and rough against her skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Even when you’re angry with me. Even when you’re scared. Especially when you’re strong.”

“I don’t feel strong,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to be. Not with me.”

That undid her.

Her breath broke into a sob, but he didn’t flinch—he simply held her through it, letting her cry, kissing her temple as he rocked them gently in the water. When her tears finally slowed, he reached for her hands, guiding them to the edge of the tub, then helped her rise. The water streamed off her body in sheets, candlelight glistening across her curves. He stepped out with her, drying her slowly, carefully, before lifting her into his arms.

She didn’t protest.

He carried her to the bed, laying her down as if she were the most precious thing in the world. His eyes never left hers as he climbed in beside her, one hand brushing a damp curl from her cheek.

“Let me love you tonight,” he whispered.

She reached for him, voice trembling. “I don’t want to feel this afraid anymore.”

“Then let me take it from you,” he breathed, kissing her chest, her throat, the corner of her mouth. “Let me remind you what it means to feel alive.”

And she let him.

She let him worship her with his mouth and his hands, let him kiss away every shadow, every thread of fear tangled inside her. His touch was slow, adoring, not driven by urgency but by devotion—by the desperate need to make her feel safe and wanted. He kissed every inch of her skin, murmured every promise he couldn’t make out loud, and when he finally slid inside her while she lay on her side, her tears returned—not from pain, but from the unbearable swell of love and grief and wonder.

“I love you,” he whispered into her ear as he moved. “I love you, I love you…”

She clung to him as if he were the last solid thing in a crumbling world, and for that moment—just that moment—she believed he was. She let go. She let him anchor her. She let him love her.

And when they came undone, it was together—wrapped around each other like prayer and fire, her body trembling against his, her sobs caught in his kiss.

For now, there was no danger.

No headlines. No dread.

No looming unknown.

There was only this.

Only them.

Chapter Text

13th of July, 2003

Draco tried—Merlin, he tried—to be as present as possible in those final weeks of his wife’s pregnancy. With just barely one month left until the twins were born, he felt an invisible executioner’s noose tightening around his neck with every passing day.

Dead man walking. The phrase echoed in his head like a curse, over and over.

He wouldn’t live to see September. The prophecy had made that clear: the harvest moon would rise, and he would fall before then. Hermione was due at the end of August, and the words haunted him relentlessly—he would not see his children’s first dawn.

He was living on borrowed time, and he felt it in every kiss, every whispered goodnight, every peaceful moment when she drifted off to sleep beside him.

Draco barely slept these days. He spent most nights watching her breathe softly, imprinting every detail of her into his mind, or pacing the floors as he worked through endless contingency plans and any possible way to avoid his fate. 

He had even considered making a Horcrux, more than once. But he knew Hermione would never forgive him if he shattered his soul like that—not even to stay with her. He’d thought of unicorn blood too, but the thought alone turned his stomach; he’d always rather liked unicorns.

Use of a Time-Turner at the last moment crossed his mind as well, but the more he researched, the more he realized that meddling with time was incredibly dicey. One miscalculation, and he could destroy everything he was trying to protect.

There was no way to cheat death when it was coming for you. Not even the Resurrection Stone could help; Potter had told him it could only bring back echoes, never truly restore life. Besides, that bloody stone had been lost during the final battle with the Dark Lord. Still, he’d asked Harry to try to find it when he could spare the time to look for it—not for himself, but for Hermione. Draco wanted her to have it, in case she ever needed to see him one last time, to say goodbye properly.

Beyond all those dead ends, Draco focused on the one thing he could control: staying armed and ready. Hermione’s brows had furrowed the first time she saw him don his old Death Eater robes again, wand holsters strapped across his chest and knives hidden at his sides. But—for once—she listened to Theo’s advice and begrudgingly let it go—no more arguments.

He had left strict instructions with Lucius and Theo in case the worst came to pass. He moved money into hidden accounts, prepared untraceable accounts both muggle and wizarding world, and arranged for Hermione to disappear with the babies if needed.

He had purchased a small, uninhabited island from the Fijian government using Muggle money—completely isolated, unreachable. Portkeys had been crafted, enchanted to only work for a select few people he trusted. Months ago, he’d sent Blaise and Daphne along with Mippy and several other elves to prepare the island. They had done brilliant work transforming it into a hidden sanctuary. He knew Hermione would love it—some distant, quiet corner of the world where she and the twins could truly be safe if another war broke out.

It gutted him to keep so much from her. He knew she resented it, that she felt betrayed by his secrecy. But what could he say? That he believed something horrific was coming? That a Seer had all but confirmed that his days were numbered? That the world they’d fought so hard to save wasn’t safe for them after all?

No. He couldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t allow her to fear each rising sun, waiting for him to be murdered in front of her eyes. 

He had promised she would always know comfort and safety as his wife. Even if he wasn’t around to keep that promise himself, he would make sure she still had it.

Lucius, Theo, their friends—they would protect her, he trusted them to do that. They loved her dearly, all of them. How could they not? She was a light, brilliant and warm, strong enough to pull even the most reluctant hearts into orbit. 

And he would protect that light—right up to his last breath.

“It’s time to get ready, Hermione,” Pansy said as she stepped into the library, where Hermione and Draco were curled up reading together. Outside, the others were bustling about, preparing the château for the baby shower and the guests who would arrive in a couple of hours.

Hermione set her book down and nodded. Draco helped her up, and she began walking—really, more like waddling now, her belly so large she looked ready to pop. Draco guided her gently, his touch protective. She was exhausted, uncomfortable, but she’d been looking forward to this day, and Draco was simply grateful he’d lived to see it.

Hermione hated apparating lately—it made her nauseous—so she preferred to walk. As they reached the doorway, Theo appeared, offering his arm.

“Might I have a word with you, Draco? About the festivities,” Pansy interjected suddenly, her tone casual.

“What about them? Is everything—”

“Everything is perfect,” she cut Hermione off smoothly, her disarming smile practiced and convincing. “Just a small detail. Let Theo take you to your room. I’ll be up in a bit to help you.”

Draco raised a brow but said nothing. Hermione hesitated, then sighed and accepted Theo’s arm after Draco kissed her cheek.

“You sure there’s just two in there, darling? You look big enough for four little blonde snakes,” Theo teased as they started down the hall.

“Shut it, Nott,” she shot back, swatting at him.

Once they were far enough, Pansy pulled Draco deeper into the library.

Never one to mince words, she dove straight in. “You’ve got to tell her. This has gone on long enough.”

“So, Theo confided in you,” Draco snapped, incredulous. “I’m going to wring his bloody neck.”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” she replied sharply. “But I know you. And I know you’re hiding something—making secret plans. Oh, and by the way, I know about the island. Blaise is easier to crack than you think…Draco, if something happens to you, and she finds out you kept things from her… she’ll never forgive you. Not even in death.”

“Well then,” he scoffed, throwing up his hands, “make sure Potter finds the Resurrection Stone so she can scream at my bloody ghost.”

He dropped his arms, breathing heavily. “You really think I should tell her now? When she’s about to pop? She could still lose the twins if she gets too upset.”

“You underestimate her,” Pansy countered, voice low and firm. “Yes, she’ll be upset. But she’ll endure it. She deserves the truth.”

Draco let out a long, hollow sigh, shaking his head. “Even if the truth is that I’m doomed to die before my children are even born? You think she can handle that bit of news?”

Pansy’s face froze, clearly not expecting him to tell her something so grave and earth-shattering. She took in his demeanor, clearly seeing that he was serious, and the reality of the situation sank in for her. 

Slowly, she sat down, pulling him with her onto the couch.

“You’re sure?” she whispered.

He schooled his features and nodded once. “Trelawney dropped that little gem on me four months ago…A prophecy, not one of her tea readings…It was oddly specific. She didn’t even know she had given it to me when she snapped out of her trance.”

“And you’ve been carrying this alone all this time?”

“Snape, Theo, and my father know,” he admitted.

She nodded, her lips pressed tight as tears welled in her eyes. One slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, and she wiped it away quickly.

“Do you think…Do you think there’s a chance she’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “Severus has reports—The New Dark Order is planning something big. They want to make an example out of me…What’s more is that there’s a mole in the Auror department, so that makes it even harder to shut them down before they have a chance to act. Potter hasn’t sussed out who it is yet. He even let Theo sit in on a meeting to slip into minds, but whoever it is, they’re good at covering themselves. They all read as loyal to the Ministry, to Theo. It’s all so fucked, Pans… I can’t tell her she’s counting down the days with me. She deserves peace, not a death watch.”

“But that’s exactly what you’ve been living,” she shot back, her voice cracking.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “And I can bear it. I have to.”

She broke down then, in a way he’d never seen before from his close friend—the ice queen herself, crumbling. Tears spilled freely as Draco shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her and brushing them away with his thumb. She sniffled, pressing her face into his shoulder, allowing herself to fall apart in his arms.

“I fucking hate this,” she choked out.

“I know… me too.”

“How can you stay so calm?”

He managed a wry, humorless smile. “Got no choice…During the war, I woke up every day convinced it might be my last. I got used to the idea of dying young, I suppose...”

“You’re occluding hard,” she accused softly. “That’s why you’re not breaking.”

“Well… yes, that too,” he muttered.

They sat there in silence, the fire crackling softly, her quiet sniffling the only sound between them.

“I love you, Draco. You fucking prat,” Pansy finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want to say it while I still have the chance… And I want you to know that we’ll take care of her. She’ll be okay…eventually.”

“I know, Pans. I know,” he whispered, pulling her into a tighter hug. She clutched at his shirt, crying against him.

“And I love you too… I’m happy that you and Theo both found your person. That your stories get to have happy endings. It makes it easier, knowing the people I love will be alright… that they’ll be loved the way they deserve.”

She let out a strangled laugh, shaking her head. “Fuck me… You couldn’t have chosen any other words that wouldn’t break my bloody heart?”

“I’m a sap lately. Can’t help it,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head as she wept.

***

The baby shower turned out more beautiful than Hermione had dared to imagine. The château’s gardens looked like something out of a dream—floating lanterns, long tables covered in delicate treats, and blooms in every imaginable shade.

Their friends and family arrived in waves—Weasleys, close friends, everyone dear to them came to celebrate. Fleur carried her tiny baby girl, Victoire, close beside a beaming Bill, Andromeda brought Teddy, and even Severus and McGonagall shared quiet smiles in the background. Everywhere Hermione looked, there were warm embraces, laughter, and the clinking of glasses in celebration of the new life soon to arrive.

She drifted from one small circle to the next, touched by each kind word and gift—tiny jumpers, charmed blankets, enchanted toys. Each moment reminded her how deeply loved and protected their children already were.

Yet throughout the afternoon, her eyes kept finding Draco. He hovered nearby, always within reach but strangely distant. When their gazes met, he offered her that private, tender smile she had come to crave—but behind it today, there was something else. Something fragile and faraway, as if he were memorizing her, the day, all of it.

She wondered what was going through his mind, what thoughts weighed on him so heavily. Was it simply the overwhelming joy? Or something more—something he still refused to share?

A pang of worry pressed against her ribs, but she pushed it aside. Instead, she focused on the warmth around her, the easy laughter, the gentle flutters of the twins inside her belly.

Whatever he was holding onto, she would let it be—for now. Today was meant for joy, for gathering all the love she could before their world changed forever in the best way. And for just this day, she decided to let herself feel it fully.

She met eyes with Harry across the garden, and he immediately walked over to her. He offered her his arm without a word, guiding her gently over to a quiet bench tucked beneath a flowering archway, a little distance from the cheerful bustle of the baby shower. The air was warm and fragrant with roses and summer herbs, the distant chatter and laughter of their friends blending into a soft, comforting hum.

Hermione sank down with a grateful sigh, her body heavy, her heart even heavier. She leaned her head against Harry’s shoulder, finding comfort in the familiar warmth of him—her first friend, her brother in all but blood.

Harry smiled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he reached over to place a careful hand on her swollen belly. Just then, one of the babies kicked hard enough that she flinched a little, and Harry’s eyes went wide with wonder, his mouth falling open in amazement.

“When are you and Ginny going to have a few sprogs?” she asked him, her voice soft and carrying an edge of teasing warmth.

“She wants to wait at least another year. I think seeing you like this made her really think about babies for the first time,” Harry answered wistfully, rubbing her belly once more, his thumb lingering for a moment. Then he pulled his hand away gently, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pressing a chaste kiss to her temple.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it? That I’m the first one from our year to have children.”

“Is it? I think it makes all the sense in the world,” he answered quietly with a knowing smile.

She smiled as well, her hand drifting to rest over Harry’s on her shoulder, and they were quiet for a few long beats with each other. 

“I think about Ron sometimes… I miss him.”

“I know, Mione. Me too…” Harry’s voice was rough, edged with grief that never fully healed, for either of them, really.

“Who do you think he would have ended up with if it hadn’t been me?” she wondered out loud. 

“Reckon he would’ve had a playboy era if he didn’t end up with you. He always told me he planned to marry you after the war… finally get his shit together. He tried a bit more at the end, I think.”

“I guess his version of trying was not continuing to shag other girls…” she said with a small, sad laugh that crumbled at the edges.

In truth, she had stopped caring about his infidelity toward the end. Their constant push and pull, the endless arguments, had worn her down so completely that she’d sometimes told him outright to go take his bullshit elsewhere when she couldn’t bear another round.

She didn’t miss the partner he had tried—and failed—to be. She missed the boy from school, the friend he once was. The Ron who made her laugh in the common room, who defended her even when he didn’t have the words. That version of him felt so far away now, almost like a ghost of another life.

In a way, she was glad he wasn’t here to see her with Draco, knowing exactly how badly he would have reacted to it. Harry was always much more even-tempered and non-judgmental. He always supported her fully, believed the best in her, and didn't jump to conclusions. 

Still, she found herself thinking about Ron more and more these days. The fact that, if he hadn’t sacrificed himself for her, her children would never have had the chance to come into this world weighed heavily on her.

She missed being part of the golden trio—the ease, the comfort, the sense of belonging. But in a way, she was still in one; it just looked different now. Her, Draco, and Theo.

Hermione sometimes wondered how that dynamic might shift once Theo inevitably married Astoria. But for now, she simply held onto what they had now, however fragile.

Harry sighed, shaking his head, his eyes fixed on some far-off point in the garden. “I’m scared for the future… This thing going on around us, it’s not something I expected. I guess I was foolish to think things would be easy after we finally ended Tom.”

“Maybe we should all just leave. Move to New Zealand… let someone else figure it out for once. Maybe MACUSA will finally get involved,” Hermione mused, her words drifting out like a half-formed dream she didn’t quite believe.

“They don’t want to touch what’s going on here with a ten-foot pole. Kingsley already reached out to them several times during the war, they don’t take his calls anymore unless it’s something directly concerning the states…” He took a deep breath then, rubbing her arm gently. “No, I need to see this one through. I need the closure before having kids.”

She nodded, a lump forming in her throat. The weight of everything—the babies inside her, the war behind them, the war looming ahead—pressed against her ribs like a vice.

“Harry, promise me something.”

“Anything.”

She turned to look at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, her expression raw and earnest. “Don’t let anything happen to my husband.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, the lines of his face etched with whatever he was holding back. Then, slowly, he nodded, his gaze softening as he pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her hair.

“Nothing’s going to happen to him on my watch…” he murmured, though she felt the tremor beneath his words.

Secretly, both of them were terrified about the outcomes of the future, but didn’t dare say it out loud. Not wanting to ruin the fragile moment between them and speak into existence their worst fears… 

***

20th of August, 2003

In truth, most of Draco’s final day passed in relative quiet, mundane and ordinary, really. He managed to get in a few hours of restless sleep before waking at the crack of dawn, only to watch his wife sleeping peacefully beside him for a long while. They’d arrived back at the Manor just yesterday, Hermione refusing to stay even a day longer in France now that she was due in just ten days.

Eventually, he slipped out of bed and went to speak to his portrait, who had made himself available despite now having his own painted version of Hermione to keep him company in the library. Portrait!Draco knew everything—every plan, every secret—and promised to be there for her no matter what, if the worst were to happen. Draco had also given him permission to tell her everything once he was gone.

Most importantly, he would apologize to her on his behalf for not sharing the prophecy.

They spoke for a while, the portrait giving him that same sad, knowing look it had every morning lately. Over time, the portrait had become like a brother to him, like he was his twin, someone to confide in without reserve. That connection, strange as it was, had helped keep Draco steady through the waiting.

When he finally heard Hermione stirring, he said a soft goodbye to his painted double and returned to her. He crawled back into bed, pressing a sweet kiss to her lips and placing his hand gently on her belly, murmuring to their children as she opened her eyes. She let him hold her close for a few moments until her bladder forced her to get up.

He helped her to the loo, and they brushed their teeth side by side before stepping into the shower together. He took his time, carefully washing her back and shoulders.

“Draco, I’m so over being pregnant,” she complained, her voice echoing lightly off the tiles.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder. “I know, my love. You don’t have much longer to go.”

“Please don’t make me do this again after the twins are born,” she muttered halfheartedly.

The pang that shot through his chest at that—the knowledge that even if she changed her mind, he likely wouldn’t be there to see it, to see her pregnant again—nearly made him falter. He forced himself to sharply raise his Occlumency shields.

“It’s because you’re carrying twins, darling. It wouldn’t be as hard with just one.”

“Even so… I don’t know, ask me again after I give birth. I hear women get some sort of amnesia about how hard it is,” she sighed, her voice trailing off as she rested her hand protectively over her bump, eyes glimmering with both exhaustion and quiet anticipation.

He knelt then, lifting her leg onto his knee as he carefully cleaned it.

“My mother never wanted more than one. Apparently, I was a terrible pregnancy. Made her sick the entire time,” he said, working carefully, his hands steady as he lathered her up with the loofah and smoothed the suds all over her calf with gentle precision.

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. She could probably breathe fire while she was carrying you,” Hermione teased, though her voice was tired, softened at the edges. She reached out to steady herself on his shoulder, her fingers curling instinctively around him. 

He let out a quiet chuckle, his thumb brushing the sensitive spot behind her knee as he shifted to the other leg. “Do you want me to shave your legs?” he offered, glancing up at her with a faint smirk.

“Yes, please,” she sighed, her head tipping back a little. She looked down at him, cheeks flushed from the steam, curls sticking to her temples. “Also… would you mind shaving my lady bits? I feel like there’s a whole forest down there. I’m assuming anyway, I obviously can’t see it anymore with this bump,” she grumbled, her hand sliding over her belly in exasperation.

“I happen to adore you au naturel, but sure, love. I’ll give you a little trim,” he teased, retrieving her Muggle razor and shaving foam instead of using a spell as she preferred, an amusing little quirk of hers that he had grown fond of over time. She hated doing everything the easy way, saying it was lazy. 

When he was finished with her and had washed himself, he dried her off thoroughly with a large fluffy towel before drying himself. Then he guided her into his closet to get dressed. They kept most of her wardrobe in her own room—which she hardly used except for rifling through designer gowns—but her day-to-day things stayed in a dedicated section of his closet.

When they entered, his portrait was busy snogging the painted version of Hermione and quickly moved out of frame, giving them a cheeky wave without breaking the kiss, making the real Hermione giggle. 

Draco quickly got dressed, then helped her into knickers and a comfortable bra, then picked out a soft blue cotton dress with a white floral pattern, easing it over her arms and bump. He slipped her feet into comfortable white trainers, then stood and cupped her face, kissing her deeply. When he pulled back, she let out a soft whimper, and he couldn’t help but smile, resting his forehead to hers.

“You don’t think I’m hideous now that I resemble a whale?” she asked, voice small.

He laughed and shook his head. “Not even close. I do still manage to shag you every day, per your enthusiastic request, don’t I?”

“Do you have to pretend it’s some fit girl you’re shagging?”

“You are the fit girl, Hermione. You silly bint,” he murmured against her skin, lingering there for a breath longer.

She frowned again, her expression tight, and he could feel the undercurrent of her lingering doubt. But he didn’t waver. He just held her face steady in his hands, his thumbs tracing gentle paths along her jaw, determined to keep showing her—every moment he had left—just how wholly he adored her. Then an idea popped into his head. 

“Would it help your self-confidence if I let you inside my mind for a moment? So you can see exactly what I think of you?”

Her eyes went wide, bright with surprise that he was offering her this opportunity inside his head for the very first time. She nodded quickly, eager, her curls bouncing slightly.

Draco cupped her face more firmly, his thumbs sweeping across her cheeks. He leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, his grey eyes fixed on her as he let down one carefully chosen shield. Just enough.

He felt her slip in wordlessly—and he knew exactly what she was seeing.

The Yule Ball. How she looked coming down those stairs in that periwinkle gown, like the world had stopped spinning for a moment. How his heart had seized in his chest, his breath caught, and all he could think was that she was the most stunning girl he had ever seen. No one else in that room had existed after that.

Then that afternoon at the café after his trial—the moment he saw her walk towards him, older, stronger, more luminous than before. He remembered how his hands had shaken slightly beneath the table, how he couldn’t believe she was real, sitting across from him, still choosing to look at him after everything. How, even then, he thought she was too good for him, too good for the whole bloody world.

Their wedding day. The first glimpse of her in that gown, moving toward him like a vision he might lose if he blinked too hard. How he had nearly lost his composure seeing her smile at him, how he had to hold his breath to keep his face from crumpling. He remembered thinking he was the luckiest man alive, undeserving but greedy enough to hold her anyway.

Flashes of smaller moments. Her barefoot in their little kitchen at Hogwarts, her hair wild as she spun and danced to Muggle music, wearing only his white button-up shirt. The sound of her laughter ringing around him, how it felt like warmth in his marrow. Her curled up in a chair reading, lips moving softly, brow furrowed—how that concentration made him want to kiss her senseless.

Her sleeping face, the curve of her shoulder in the moonlight, the small sighs she let out. How he had memorized the shape of her—every curve, the dip of her collarbone, each freckle scattered like stars across her skin, every soft line that appeared when she smiled or frowned—all of it etched into him so deeply he could have painted her from memory with his eyes closed.

Then the pregnancy. The way she looked each day, changing and growing, somehow even more beautiful to him. How he would press his lips to her belly and feel a rush of gratitude that she was keeping their children safe and warm for him. How he admired her strength, the way she carried it all with such grace, and how he thought she had never looked more real, more breathtaking.

Through it all, one thread stayed the same in his mind, that she was his north star. She was everything and more to him.

He felt her slip out of his mind, her face wet with tears, but he stayed focused. He brushed them away carefully, even as more fell, feeling her tremble against him. He didn’t rush her, didn’t speak. Just held her, pressing his lips lightly to her hair, letting the weight of his truth settle between them.

In his mind, there had never been anyone but her. And he knew she finally saw it.

“Now you understand just how deeply I’m in love with you?” he whispered.

She nodded against him, voice breaking. “Do you want a peek inside my head? I think you should be a blubbering mess as well.”

“I already know, sweetheart, how much you love me. I feel it every day… Besides, I’ve only gotten more handsome with time. That’s just a fact,” he teased, grinning.

She swatted his arm lightly and rolled her eyes, sniffling through a small, watery laugh.

They eventually made their way downstairs, though Hermione was already out of breath from the simple effort of moving. They had breakfast with Lucius and Theo, and for some fleeting moments, he’d almost forgotten all about the looming threat of a cruel destiny hanging over him, almost let himself believe they might outrun it, if only for a few hours.

After breakfast, he took her to the music room, and she played for a while. He watched her, his gaze soft, as her fingers moved confidently over the keys. She really was talented, and it always felt like a gift to him whenever he got to hear her play. Even the portraits enjoyed it—though he’d barred most of them from speaking to her under threat of burning, just in case they dared insult her Muggle-born status. He joined her for a bit—not as good as her, but he managed well enough—and they exchanged small smiles as they played, enjoying the simple, easy closeness.

Eventually, she wanted to sit in the rose garden, and she reluctantly allowed him to apparate her there. Thankfully, it didn’t upset her stomach as much this time, and she basked in the sun while he moved among the blooms, searching for the perfect rose. When he finally brought one to her, she inhaled its scent deeply, closing her eyes with a small smile. He enchanted it to never wilt as he always did, another one to add to her growing collection.

They walked a little while, ignoring the aurors scattered across the grounds, Draco stealing soft kisses every few steps. Eventually, she grew tired and needed the loo for what felt like the twentieth time that day. She also wanted to lie down.

He apparated them back to their room, helped her to the bathroom, and removed both their shoes before they climbed into bed. She lay on her side, and he pressed close behind her, spooning her gently, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her belly, his lips brushing over her neck.

“I love you,” he murmured against her skin as she drifted off.

Her nap lasted a couple of hours. After a while, Draco let himself close his eyes too, the sound of rain starting outside helping to ease his mind. He savored the warmth of her body against his, the steady rise and fall of her breath, and the precious stillness that settled between them.

Eventually, a sharp knock at the door woke him up, and he immediately felt tense. He kissed her shoulder before slipping out of bed to answer it.

Lucius stood in the doorway, his expression grim and urgent. Draco furrowed his brows—his father shouldn’t have been home from work quite yet. Lucius silently gestured for him to step into the hall.

Once they were alone, Lucius handed him a sealed envelope. “An owl arrived unexpectedly at my desk. The envelope indicates that it is for your eyes only. I came straight away.”

Draco took it, his pulse hammering in his throat. The envelope felt unusually heavy, something metal shifting inside. His eyes scanned the front: For the eyes of Draco Lucius Malfoy only, for an urgent matter of life and death.

Dread clawed at his ribs as he tore the seal. Out tumbled two rings—a silver one and a diamond engagement ring. It took him a moment to recognize them, and when he did, his blood turned to ice.

Then he read the letter…

Malfoy,

You have sullied the name of your house. You have spread your disease among our people, bred with your mudblood whore, and your bastard children shall know no peace unless you heed these instructions carefully.

We have captured the blood traitor, Ginerva Weasley, and the half-blood who brought down our Lord, Harry Potter. If you do not come to us within the next hour—to the heart of the Forbidden Forest—we will execute your friends and then come for your family.

Do not bring reinforcements. We will know.

Do not alert the Ministry. We will know.

Come alone. Be prepared to pay for your sins.

-The New Dark Order

Draco’s hands trembled violently. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, the letter crumpling in his fist. Lucius gripped his shoulder tightly to steady him.

Lucius took the letter from Draco’s shaking hand, reading it and then meeting his eyes—wild, desperate, already knowing that the prophecy was in motion.

Destiny wasn’t waiting any longer. It had arrived for him today.

“I’ll come with you…” Lucius offered, his face fierce with protective resolve. “We’ll face this together.”

“No…” Draco shook his head firmly. “You need to protect her. You and Theo—keep her safe. I… I have to go.”

He moved to return to the bedroom, but Lucius seized his arm, gripping it tightly. The look in his father’s eyes sliced straight through him—heartbreaking, raw. It was a silent goodbye. A father saying farewell to his son without words.

Lucius pulled him into a firm hug that held for a long, heavy moment before finally loosening. “I love you, son. I am proud of you… Please, please try to come back to us.”

Draco blinked hard, forcing back tears, and nodded, mustering a brave face. “Love you too, Dad,” he whispered, voice tight, before his father finally let him go, and he slipped quietly back into the bedroom.

He paused at the door, drawing a deep breath to center himself. One by one, he fortified his Occlumency shields—each layer another wall holding back the rising tide of fear and heartbreak. 

Draco knew this was a trap. He knew those Death Eater cunts had purposefully lured him out with the Potters, knowing he’d come running without a second thought. He wouldn’t let anything happen to them—not just because they were Hermione’s friends, but because they were his, too.

The threat that they’d know if anyone else came was too risky to challenge. Bringing Lucius or Theo wasn’t an option either; he needed them alive, needed them to protect Hermione and carry out every contingency plan he’d put in place.

He had to do this alone. And though he knew he likely wouldn’t come back, an unexpected sense of acceptance settled over him. He felt… ready. Fate had already decided the outcome; all that was left was for him to play his part. Oddly, it was almost a relief that he didn't have to carry this weight any longer. 

He could do this. He would do this.

In the wardrobe, his portrait was absent for a while, as he prepared. He strapped on his wand holsters, tucking in two spare wands—one his mother’s, another he had taken off of a Death Eater he killed in the war—and added his throwing knives. He carefully secured small vials of blood-replenishing potion, Pepperup, and Essence of Dittany into hidden folds of his black robes. A few experimental items he’d been perfecting over the past months joined them—last-ditch tools that might save him.

He caught his reflection and paused, studying the man staring back. He took a moment to remind himself why he fought, why he would give everything—his family.

As he turned to leave, a voice stopped him.

“It’s happening now, isn’t it?” Portrait Draco asked quietly.

Draco turned, met his own painted eyes, and nodded once.

“Where?”

“The Forbidden Forest… They have Potter and Ginny. I have to go.”

“Try not to die, Draco. I really don’t want to watch her grieve,” his portrait urged, voice strained despite its painted calm.

“I’ll see if it can be helped…” was all Draco managed before slipping from the wardrobe and toward his still-sleeping wife.

He paused at her side, soaking in the sight of her—every rise and fall of her breath, every curl falling across her face. He allowed a single tear to run down his cheek before he wiped it away roughly.

He couldn’t help himself. He stepped forward and brushed a curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. He bent down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She stirred, her lashes fluttering open sleepily.

“Why are you up?” she whispered, her voice groggy and warm.

“Can’t sleep anymore, gorgeous,” he lied smoothly, forcing a faint smile. “I’m going down to the study for a bit. I need to look over some contracts Theo’s working on. You keep sleeping, okay?”

She sighed softly and nodded, her eyes drifting closed again as she accepted the gentle kiss he pressed to her lips. He lingered, savoring the softness of her mouth one last time, fighting every instinct screaming at him to stay.

“I love you, baby,” he murmured against her lips.

“Love you, Draco,” she whispered back, squeezing his hand against her cheek before letting go.

He adjusted her blanket tenderly, allowing himself one final look—memorizing her face, every breath. The love of his life.

Then he turned, tearing himself away, and walked out without looking back.

***

It all happened so quickly. It felt like a blur, as if he were moving through a world stripped of color—grey on grey, like everything had been washed out by endless rain.

Each step through the forest felt distant, almost soundless, like he was watching himself from somewhere high above.

The thunder cracking overhead, the lightning splitting the sky—even that seemed muted, as if he were hearing it through water.

His mind stayed fixed on one thing: her . Hermione’s laugh, the warmth of her skin under his lips, the tiny flutters of life beneath his hand. That was the only thing left in full color in his mind—everything else blurred into soft, grey edges.

When Draco neared the heart of the Forbidden Forest, the air felt sharp on his skin, cold and electric, each breath like swallowing knives.

He moved through the undergrowth in silence, cloak snagging on thorns and tearing free again. His mind wasn’t on the brambles or the cold, only what he was here to do, and why. 

The clearing opened before him like a wound. Over fifty Death Eaters waited, masks gleaming wet under the rain. Magic pulsed around them, heavy and rotten. Above, Dementors drifted low, circling, hungry like vultures waiting to get their black claws into his flesh.

At the far edge, Harry and Ginny hung with ropes tied around their middle from a gnarled tree, blood dripping, but still breathing and alive. That was enough.

Rodolphus stepped forward, tearing off his mask, a grin twisting his scarred face. “Draco… at last. Come to die for your mudblood and your half-breed brats?”

Draco tilted his head, rain sliding down his face, silver eyes empty and cold, saying nothing in response.

“Drop your wand,” Rodolphus demanded with a sneer.

Draco smirked faintly, letting a decoy wand fall from his fingers, splashing in the mud. His real wand hummed at his side, hidden and waiting.

Two Death Eaters grabbed his arms, shoving him forward. Draco let them, body taut as a drawn wire, every nerve alive.

Rodolphus raised his wand. “Any last words, traitor?”

Draco’s head lifted, rain streaking his lashes.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Say hello to your Dark Lord in hell for me.”

His real wand snapped into his hand like a blade to a warrior’s palm. The Death Eaters on either side of him didn’t even scream before they split open, crimson exploding in the downpour.

Before anyone could react, he hurled a black sphere into the air. It expanded instantly, forming a crackling dome of dark light around him—a barrier to buy him time, to thin the numbers before it inevitably failed. Rodolphus barely had time to scream out in frustration before Draco lunged forward.

Their duel was vicious, animal. Rodolphus flung curses wildly; Draco moved with cold precision, slipping between killing curses and retaliating in lethal arcs. There was no dance, no grace—just raw, punishing finality.

He eventually got the upper hand, and a last jet of green light hit Rodolphus square in the chest. His eyes went wide, mouth slack, before his body crumpled to the mud.

Draco barely looked at him. His breath tore in and out. The dome shuddered as Death Eaters slammed fists and curses against it. Draco could hear their shouts muffled through the electric hum.

The barrier wouldn’t hold long.

He thought of Hermione. The tiny feet he felt kicking. The nursery he’d never see filled. He swallowed, focusing his rage into something sharp and merciless as he killed one Death Eater after another, sometimes two, three at a time. 

When the dome finally cracked and fell, there were just under thirty left. They rushed him in a tide of black robes and snarling spells. Draco moved faster than he even thought possible, adrenaline taking over fully. 

“Protego!”—deflected a green light into another Death Eater’s face.

“Sectumsempra!”—the next body split open at the chest, collapsing in a wet heap.

He ducked a hex, felt it sear across his ribs, spun, and stabbed a curse through another’s skull.

One fell, then another. A symphony of screams, rain, and cracking bone.

He fought with everything he had. Even as pain bloomed through his thigh, even as blood ran warm down his side, he kept moving. Hermione. The twins. I have to.

A stray curse caught him across the jaw, stars bursting behind his eyes. He swung his wand like a scythe, cutting down another attacker.

A chill swept over the clearing. The Dementors descended, drawn by the carnage. Draco’s breath shuddered in his chest, frost forming at the edges of his vision.

He staggered, saw Harry twitch against his bonds.

Hermione’s face flickered in his mind—her eyes, bright with wonder, the first time he felt the babies move.

He roared.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

A blinding silver dragon tore from his wand, lighting up the forest like sunrise. The Dementors shrieked, retreating in a storm of black cloaks. For a moment, all the Death Eaters froze, eyes wide, the dragon’s roar echoing in their bones.

Draco didn’t stop. He lunged forward again, his wand a blur of light and blood.

Bodies dropped around him—rain washing crimson into the roots. A Death Eater clawed at his leg; Draco slammed his boot into their face, bones cracking.

He was slipping now, exhausted, hurt. Each breath a roar in his ears. Each step a battle of its own.

By the time he took a moment to steady himself, chest heaving, only eighteen remained. They hesitated, clearly scared of him. 

Mulciber, Selwyn, and Macnair stepped forward, tearing off their masks, eyes filled with hate.

They attacked together, spells crackling through the air. Draco met them head-on, eventually gaining the upper hand.

“Confringo!”—Selwyn flew backward, hitting a tree so hard the trunk cracked.

“Diffindo!”—Macnair’s arm nearly severed, blood spraying as he shrieked.

Selwyn staggered up—Draco finished him with an Avada Kedavra, lips pale.

Macnair sent one last attempted curse with his good arm, and Draco ducked and sliced his throat open.

Only Mulciber now.

They closed the distance, wands clashing, curses lighting the rain.

Draco nearly had him—a curse skimmed Mulciber’s shoulder, he faltered—but then:

“EXPELLIARMUS!”

Draco’s wand soared away, clattering near Harry. He lunged.

“INCARCEROUS!”

Ropes crushed him to the ground, slicing into his arms.

Mulciber advanced, teeth bared, eyes wild with bloodlust. He clearly didn’t want a quick kill—he wanted to savor this. His boot slammed into Draco’s ribs with a sickening crack, then again, harder. Draco choked on a gasp, his body jerking. Another savage kick crashed into his face, splitting skin, sending blood spraying across the mud. His head snapped back, vision flashing white, the taste of iron flooding his mouth. Still, Draco didn’t make a sound beyond a ragged, rattling breath, refusing to give Mulciber the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

Across the clearing, Harry’s fingers twitched. Draco’s wand shot into Harry’s hand, and he quickly freed himself from his bindings before screaming, “Expelliarmus!”

Mulciber staggered back, stumbling, his wand thrown away from him. Harry turned, blasting curses, freeing Ginny.

Draco coughed, each breath ragged. He struggled, his hand fumbling for his backup wand, but he was too slow.

Mulciber lunged, dagger flashing. Draco felt it slice viciously into his gut. Hot, searing. The twist made his scream catch in his throat.

Sound fractured. Rain roared. 

“Avada Kedavra!” Harry’s first-ever killing curse to save his friend. 

Green light. Mulciber dropped.

Draco sagged forward, blood gushing, mixing with mud.

Harry and Ginny ran to him, grabbing his shoulders.

Draco yanked his mother’s wand from his robes, fingers numb.

Around them, the last Death Eaters turned to flee with their leaders now dead, unable to apparate with the wards still active. Draco’s head snapped up.

“No… no one leaves.”

He wordlessly summoned the spare wand he’d discarded at the start of the battle, forcing it into his hand before thrusting it toward Ginny. She took it silently, her face pale with horror, but in agreement.

They charged.

Draco moved like a dying god, every movement raw and final. Each flick of his wand dropped another. Blood sprayed, screams echoed.

Harry flanked, curses exploding. Ginny moved like fire, slicing through two more.

Draco’s steps faltered. Each spell felt heavier, his hand shaking violently.

Not long after, the last Death Eater fell—Draco’s curse hit them in the back.

Silence.

His wand slipped, his strength now utterly gone. He fell to his knees as blood gushed out of him from all his effort to slay the last of the New Dark Order twats.

“Draco—fuck—stay with us!” Harry roared, catching him from toppling over.

Ginny fell beside them, eyes wide, rain and tears mixing.

Draco’s hand shook violently as he fumbled for a small bottle of blood-replenishing potion, downing it in one burning gulp before snatching a vial of Essence of Dittany.

Ginny grabbed it and tore open his shirt. She poured. It smoked, fizzed—yet the wound wouldn’t seal, and the potion he drank failed to make him feel any better.

“It’s not working!” she shrieked. “Why isn’t it working?!”

Draco felt the cold flood in, like ice rising from his feet to his chest. The dagger had been cursed.

Harry pressed on the wound, his face twisted in anguish.

“Draco, don’t you do this. Don’t you die on us! I promised her—”

Draco’s hand rose, weak, and grabbed Harry’s wrist. A faint squeeze.

“It’s… okay…It’s over now, Harry…There’s nothing you can do.”

Harry choked.

“You saved us…” he rasped, pausing as tears streamed down his face. “Hermione… your children… they’ll be safe. I swear it.”

Draco’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. He nodded, slow.

Ginny’s hands cradled his face, shaking.

“Draco…is there anything you want me to tell her?”

His eyes flicked to hers, wet and gray, unfocused.

“Tell her… I love her. Tell them, my children… that I love them… That I’ll watch over them.”

She nodded her head through her tears. 

One more shuddering breath. He knew his time was up, but the moment stretched, seconds folding into each other, everything moving in soft, suspended, slow motion.

The forest blurred.

He saw her. His mother, waiting. Arms open.

Then—Hermione. Safe. Glowing. Smiling softly at him, their children in her arms. A girl and a boy, both with his silver eyes and pale hair. Beautiful. Perfect.

Somewhere deep inside, beneath the pain and the thunder and the rain, he felt a calmness, a quiet whisper— I am ready.

His eyes softened, a final, fragile spark flickering there. His lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. He’d done what he set out to do; he saved his family. He felt at peace.

Then the forest went quiet. The world fell away in a flood of light.

His eyes went still, and he was gone.

Chapter Text

My dearest love,

If you’re reading this, then I have perished. Even writing those words feels unreal. I don’t know how to prepare you for this, what I can possibly write to make this better somehow…I want you to know that I would have given anything to spare you this pain. If there had been a way to prevent it—anyway at all—I am so sorry that I didn’t find it. Please believe me when I say that I tried.

At the time of writing this, I am not ready to leave you. I don’t think I ever will be. I thought we’d have more time… that the gods wouldn’t be this cruel as to tear me away from you before our children are even born.

The truth is, I made my peace with dying a long time ago. I don’t fear death. What I fear is not living more of my life with you. Not watching our children grow. Not waking up beside you in the mornings or growing old at your side. That is the loss I carry now for the both of us.

And still, I wouldn’t trade a second of what we had. I don’t regret falling hopelessly in love with you. I don’t regret loving you so fiercely that you became my whole world. I don’t regret a single sodding thing when it comes to you.

When I draw my last breath, it’s your face I’ll see. Your wild, chocolate curls. The threads of amber in your eyes. The softness in your cheeks when you smile. The way you looked like a bloody angel on our wedding day. I’ll remember the moment you told me you were pregnant, and the warmth of your skin curled against mine at night. I’ll think of us lying in a field of lavender, staring up at a sky that seemed to promise we had all the time in the world.

And it’s that promise—the illusion of time—that hurts the most to let go of.

What keeps me strong now is the thought of you and our children being safe. Knowing that, whatever happens, I’ll protect you with everything I have. If I fall, I’ll make damned sure whoever caused it falls with me. I know this because I’m a fighter—and because loving you brought out the dragon in me.

I wish we had longer. I wish we had met in another lifetime, one where the world had already healed. But I live in this one, and wishes won’t change what’s to come. I tried to shield you from the danger, to spare you—but not everything is mine to control, no matter how desperately I want it to be.

Please tell our children their father loved them with everything he was, that he died protecting them. That his love lives on in every heartbeat they carry, and in every breath you take for me. Tell Scorpius I would’ve taught him to fly before he could walk. Tell Cassie she already had me wrapped around her tiny finger before she ever opened her eyes. Kiss them every day for me. Remind them that they are brilliant, that they are Malfoys—and that alone makes them extraordinary, aside from the excellence of being half Granger. 

Thank you, Hermione Jean Granger, for being my wife. For loving me. For choosing me. For filling the last years of my life with a love so fierce and beautiful, it made everything else pale in comparison.

Thank you for carrying my children. For raising them. For being their light when I cannot.

And please—my darling, please—don’t lose yourself to despair. What we had was rare. It was real. It was ours. Hold on to that, even when the weight of the world feels unbearable. That love is yours forever, just as I am.

I love you. I love you. I love you—so much it hurts.

You are strong. You will survive this. You are not alone. You have our babies. You have our friends. You have yourself.

And you will always have me watching over you.

Eternally, irrevocably yours,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

She sat on their empty bed, frozen, having re-read his final letter to her over and over again, until she could recite it from memory. It had been five days since her husband died—five days until her due date. Five days of living in a waking nightmare, she couldn’t claw her way out of.

They talk about the five stages of grief as if it’s some neat, linear concept in the Muggle world—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance. What a fucking joke.

What they don’t tell you is that you experience all those feelings in a chaotic, overwhelming swirl that leaves you nearly insane with the weight of it all. It’s a relentless storm, tearing you open again and again, until you don’t even recognize the person bleeding on the floor.

Acute grief rolled over her in waves, each one pulling her under and leaving her gasping for air, choking on memories she didn’t ask to keep replaying.

She remembered reading a Muggle book once, On Death and Dying , by psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, who first introduced the idea of the five stages. What most people don’t know is that she identified those stages while interviewing people who were terminally ill—they were originally intended to identify the stages one goes through when faced with death, not grief. Not the raw, howling aftermath left for the ones still breathing.

She thought about that as she replayed the moment Harry had put on a brave face and told her how at peace Draco looked when he died. How he seemed to smile, knowing he had saved her and found some sort of acceptance in his fate. As if that was supposed to make her feel any fucking better about her husband being ripped from her arms forever.

She had slapped Harry across the face the moment he finished speaking and demanded Theo take her back to her room without another word. Her palm still stung days later, a burning echo of her rage.

Anger—really, more like blinding, scorching rage—was her closest companion those first days. Depression was ever-present as well, heavy and suffocating, curling around her like a python. But after she cried more than she had ever cried in her life, sobbing nonstop for the first two days until her body shook and her throat felt shredded, she suddenly stopped.

She was numb. Empty. A husk. Could barely feel anything at all, except the distant throb of a heart she wished would just give out.

The funeral was on the third day, and everyone treated her like she might splinter into dust at any second. Harry hadn’t held her violent outburst against her; neither did Ginny, who stayed by her side, clutching her through the first two nights like she was the only thing keeping her from drifting away entirely. Hermione let her, too exhausted to push her away, too broken to pretend she didn’t need the warmth. Ginny’s silent, unwavering support felt like something solid to anchor her to the world when all she wanted was to disappear with Draco.

She never apologized. She wasn’t sorry.

Maybe she had really been slapping Draco, and Harry had just been the unfortunate stand-in.

She didn’t care to psychoanalyze it. Her dead husband had saved Harry’s life—he could handle a fucking slap.

The funeral itself was a blur, a distorted film she felt she had watched from somewhere far above her own body. She vaguely remembered tearful eulogies, a sea of unfamiliar faces pressing in with sympathy she neither wanted nor asked for. Pansy had chosen her outfit: a black veil partially obscuring her face, a dramatic black hat to match, black sunglasses, a fitted black dress that stretched over her belly, and kitten heels.

She might have doubled as a mob wife that day. Maybe she preferred it that way—a sort of untouchable armor against the pitying stares.

She let Lucius take the lead in addressing the mourners as they gathered, standing silently at his side, her face an unfeeling mask, barely acknowledging each person who offered their empty condolences.

Condolences. What the fuck did that even mean?

Was it sympathy? Or pity? Or just entertainment? The young widow of a wealthy ex-Death Eater, standing there like some tragic heroine for them to weep over at brunch the next day. Did they really pity her? Or was she just another scandalous headline to dissect, a living cautionary tale to gawk at from behind lace gloves and teacups?

Rita Skeeter had a fucking field day, painting Draco as the tragic, noble Malfoy heir who died wiping out the last of the Death Eaters and pureblood sympathizers—all to protect his beautiful, golden wife, grotesquely pregnant with the future of the Malfoy line. It was the juiciest story since the Ministry attack.

Everyone wanted an interview. Everyone sent her enough flowers to fill entire greenhouses.

She was so sick of flowers, she wanted to scream. Why was that the custom? Someone dies, and they send you something that’s going to die and rot in a few days, too. Did no one see the bloody irony?

Her floral consolation prizes for having a dead husband crowded every corner of the manor, pressing in on her like a blooming, perfumed mockery of everything she had lost. She hated them. She banned Lucius from accepting another arrangement, threatening to destroy them all with Fiendfyre if he dared disobey.

Theo had asked her beforehand if she wanted to speak at the funeral. She could tell he was desperately hoping she wouldn’t in the state she was in—but how could she give up the chance to make everyone feel even a fraction as wretched, as gutted, as she did?

When the time came, Theo helped her up, guiding her to the front of the mourners in the Malfoy cemetery, tucked deep within the estate grounds. She looked at Draco’s ornate black casket, draped in perfect white roses, and in that instant, she knew exactly what she would say without ever rehearsing it. Just brutal, unfiltered truth.

“My husband died protecting our family… He knew he was going to die. Apparently, it was foretold,” she started, her voice cold and razor-sharp as she swept her gaze across Lucius, Harry, Pansy, and finally Theo—all the people she loved most in the world. All the ones who had known and hadn’t told her. All the ones who had betrayed her trust by trying to protect her.

She turned back to the casket, her lip curling.

“My husband was a very passionate man. He loved me more than anyone alive could possibly love another. So much so, that he kept anything that might harm me away from me. He lied. He distracted me. Burned threatening letters he received by owl. He plotted behind my back. He bought islands and stashed away money, all so I would be safe and taken care of when he was gone. As if that could ever replace him...”

She felt Theo tense beside her, his fingers gripping her arm like a vice. She ignored him, barely even felt him.

“Our children will grow up without a father—because he didn’t trust his wife, the so-called brightest witch of her age, to help save him. Too afraid to upset me, to shatter my delicate, fragile state.”

She sucked in a breath, her eyes sweeping over the shocked faces, feeding off their discomfort like oxygen. When her gaze locked on Lucius, his expression was thunderous, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. A rare, raw crack in his polished armor.

“Well. Here we are. He’s dead. I’m alive. The babies are still here, miraculously. I guess good triumphed over evil once again. And I get to bury yet another man I love who died saving me.”

She let out a hollow, almost deranged laugh, a sound so bitter it seemed to echo across the graves.

Theo cleared his throat beside her, voice low and strained. “Perhaps that’s enough, darling—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, her voice like ice cutting straight through him. He fell silent immediately, his eyes falling to the ground.

She took another breath, her chest heaving.

“Who knew that Draco Lucius Malfoy—a snake, a dragon—would lay himself down like some tragic hero? So fucking certain that sacrificing himself like a martyr was the only answer. The man who swore he would fight, would stay, would always come back to me—and then he just… didn’t.”

She paused, her breath trembling, a flicker of something fragile cracking beneath her sharp edges before she forced her voice steady again.

The mourners shifted uncomfortably. She noticed it all—the way some dropped their gazes to their shoes, the way others couldn’t stop staring at her like she was some tragic, furious goddess they didn’t know whether to pity or fear. She ripped off her sunglasses, needing them to see her, really see her.

A sharp breeze cut through the cemetery, tugging at her black veil and pushing it back. She felt the cold air on her face, felt it highlight the pallor of her skin, the purple hollows under her eyes from not sleeping. Her lips trembled before she set them into a hard line, forcing herself to hold steady. Every heartbeat felt like a scream inside her ribcage, her rage and grief radiating off her in waves so strong she imagined they could all feel it on their skin—and she hoped they did.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” she spat, scanning the crowd with a glare sharp enough to cut through bone. “I love him more fiercely than I can even fucking begin to explain. Nothing he did—not killing fifty Death Eaters, not lying to me every single day, not leaving me to raise two children alone—none of it changes that. Nothing ever could...”

A hush settled over the mourners, the heavy, suffocating silence of a collective breath no one dared release.

She turned, her gaze slicing into Harry and Ginny, who both looked like they might collapse under the weight of her words.

“He didn’t just die saving me. He died saving my friends. Friends, I love like siblings. Friends he knew would shatter me to lose. Two for one—or really, many more, when you count the countless lives he saved by putting down those monsters before they could drag us into another bloody war.”

She shook her head sharply, her lip curling in a twisted sort of pride and pain.

“My dearly departed husband. The great savior of the people.”

She stepped forward then, slipping out of Theo’s grasp as if he weren’t even there. She approached the casket and, with a flick of her hand, opened it halfway. Murmurs rose immediately, a hushed collective gasp rolling through the crowd that she ignored.

There he was. Her beautiful, infuriating, impossible husband. Glamoured to look untouched, so pristine it was almost cruel, as if he might open his eyes at any moment and smirk at her for making such a dramatic scene. His skin looked flawless—pale and smooth, as if death hadn’t dared to mar him. His hair shone under the weak sunlight, soft and gleaming like strands of moonlight spilling across a marble floor.

Hermione cupped his face with trembling hands, her thumb brushing over his cold, too-still cheek. She traced every line, every curve, committing it all to memory like a dying woman clinging to her last breath. She drank him in with frantic, hungry eyes, as if she could somehow preserve him—hold him inside her forever before the earth took him away completely. 

A single tear slid down her face—she let it fall unchecked, a silent testament to everything she could never say out loud. Then she leaned down and pressed her lips to his, cold and unyielding. The kiss felt wrong, empty, a mockery of every breathless, passionate kiss they’d ever shared.

She lingered there a moment longer, as if hoping he might kiss her back, pull her down with him, end this living nightmare.

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

She drew back slowly, her fingers trembling as she laid the last enchanted rose he had ever given her on his chest—a final, silent offering. She closed the casket with a steady, deliberate flick of her wrist and internally forced herself to say goodbye, though every cell in her body screamed in denial.

Then she turned to the stunned crowd.

“I wouldn’t be the lady of this manor if I didn’t thank all of you for coming to pay your respects,” she said, her voice honeyed and venom-laced, sharp enough to draw blood. “Please excuse me—I very much need to lie down now. About to pop and all,” she added, rubbing her swollen belly with a sardonic twist of her lips.

She scanned their shocked faces one last time—their pity, their horror, their fascination—and felt a sick satisfaction at the discomfort she left in her wake.

And then she apparated away—a privilege newly granted since her unborn children were now the immediate heirs to the Malfoy line—leaving the mourners whispering and scandalized in her absence, their shocked murmurs rising like a swarm of wasps behind her.

***

She holed up in their bedroom alone for two days after the funeral, refusing to let anyone in except Mippy, who coaxed her to eat just enough to keep her from starving and harming the babies. She re-read Draco’s letter again and again, tracing each word, waiting to feel something—anything—that he might have meant for her to feel.

Solace. Acceptance. Understanding.

She didn’t feel any of those things.

Just a revolving door of anger and then a numb, echoing emptiness.

She clutched his pillow obsessively, inhaling his scent like it was air. As if she could absorb him into her skin. As if she could trick her mind into believing he was still here, hiding somewhere in the manor, just waiting for her to find him.

She replayed the night he died over and over. Every detail of that final day haunted her. His last kiss. The way she’d stupidly let him go, not realizing that something was seriously off. She hated herself for not waking fully, for not following him and demanding answers. 

She thought about how Theo had tried to force her to use the secret portkey Draco had left to escape to their hidden island before Lucius returned. She refused. He tried to make her use it anyway, and she hexed him with a sticking charm before locking herself in Draco’s wardrobe, warding the door, and demanding answers from his portrait. The portrait had told her everything, voice heavy with grief, leaving her a weeping wreck on the floor.

Lucius arrived half an hour later with Ginny and Harry, Draco’s lifeless body cradled in his arms, all traces of blood and gore cleaned away. She collapsed onto the guest bed where Lucius had lain him, burying herself against Draco’s cold chest, sobbing until her body shook. Theo, Lucius, Harry, and Ginny watched helplessly as she broke down against his still form.

She pounded her fists against Draco’s chest, screaming at him to wake up, to come back to her, until Theo eventually pulled her away. She turned her fists on Theo then, collapsing against him as he held her tight.

A healer was called. They forced a sedative on her after she refused to take it, no doubt terrified that her hysteria might harm the babies—or herself. Theo held her in an unyielding, iron grip as Lucius tipped the bitter potion down her throat, ignoring her muffled curses and frantic sobs.

Her limbs went heavy almost immediately, her rage muting into a dull, drugged haze. They ushered her back to her bedroom like she was some fragile, broken doll, leaving Draco’s cold, lifeless body behind for Lucius to make arrangements for alone.

All these moments looped in her mind, tormenting her. Every time she blinked, she saw another lie. Another moment, he’d kept her in the dark.

On the sixth day, a loud knock shattered the stale air of her room before the door swung open. Lucius stood there, Theo just behind him. She rolled her eyes and turned away.

She heard footsteps, then Lucius crouched before her. His storm-grey eyes—Draco’s eyes—bored into her. His long hair was tied neatly, his appearance pristine, and his sharp suit immaculate, despite having buried his only son.

She, on the other hand, hadn’t showered or changed since the funeral. Mippy’s cleaning charms kept her from smelling foul, but they couldn’t hide the stringy, limp state of her hair or the hollow exhaustion etched into her face. Her skin looked sallow, her eyes swollen and ringed with dark bruises of grief and sleepless nights. She looked a mess—wild, unkempt, haunted—and she couldn’t give a single toss about it.

“Hermione, you cannot hole yourself up here and abandon the world. At this rate, you won’t survive the birth. Your spirit is too low,” Lucius said quietly but firmly. 

“Good,” she snapped. “Cut the babies out, make sure they’re safe to carry on the Malfoy line, and stuff me into Draco’s coffin. There’s room. Don’t bother with a funeral—save yourself the trouble.”

Lucius quirked an eyebrow, barely fazed by her venom. She only half meant what she said—though, if she was honest, there were moments when she truly believed it. Moments when she thought it might be better if she didn’t survive the birth at all. That her babies would be better off without her, without this hollow, shattered version of their mother.

If she weren’t pregnant, she might have already thrown herself off a balcony just to stop the ache. She wanted her babies to live, fiercely, it was the only reason she was still eating, but she didn’t know if she wanted to keep going once they were here.

“I am going to help you up now. Please do not resist me,” he said, voice calm, not leaving room for argument.

She let out a harsh laugh. “Theo, get him the fuck out.”

When she didn’t hear Theo move, she turned her head to look at him. He stood there, arms crossed, eyes downcast.

“Oh. You’re a coward now. Brilliant. Really brilliant, Nott.”

“Stop attempting to pick fights with everyone who loves you,” Lucius cut in sharply. Before she could react, he grasped her firmly, hauling her upright in one fluid motion.

She barely had time to gasp before he apparated them both.

When they landed, the world snapped into focus—too sharp, too real, and bright. Lucius’s hands gripped her shoulders like iron, turning her around with inescapable force. The cool air bit at her skin. The smell of freshly turned earth hit her like a curse.

And then she saw it.

Draco’s grave. The pristine white headstone gleamed like a knife in the midday sun, cruelly perfect against the lush green grass. His name carved into it, final and merciless.

The truth slammed into her chest like an Avada. He was gone. Truly, irreversibly gone.

“Let me go!” she shrieked, her voice ragged, tearing at her throat as she clawed at Lucius’s arms. “Get the fuck off me!”

But he didn’t move. His grip was absolute, unyielding. She felt caged, trapped in the suffocating reality she had refused to face.

Lucius leaned in, his breath ghosting over her ear, chilling her spine.

“You are mad at him,” he murmured, voice low and unwavering. “I understand. You rage for what he kept from you, for the future that was stolen. That doesn’t make you weak or cruel—it makes you human. He wasn’t perfect either. He did what he thought was right to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting! I’m not a delicate fucking flower! I’ve been a mess for days, and the babies are still fine. He was wrong. He made the wrong sodding calls!” Her voice cracked, splintered under the weight of her grief. Tears blurred her vision, spilling hot and relentless down her cheeks. “And he left me!”

Lucius didn’t shush her. Didn’t try to soften the blow or offer empty comfort. He didn’t whisper that Draco was at peace, didn’t tell her she’d survive this. He just stood there, a silent fortress, forcing her to feel every raw, excruciating wave crashing over her.

“Tell him,” Lucius urged, his voice a quiet command. “Tell him everything you’ve been burying. Every vile, ugly thought. All of it.”

And so she did—unbidden, untethered, words tearing out of her like a scream into the void.

“How dare you leave me! How dare you keep everything from me! How dare you die on me!” Her voice broke into a wail, thin and animalistic. “I have all this love festering inside me with nowhere to put it. I lie awake every fucking night, waiting for your arms to wrap around me, for your voice to tell me it’s alright, that you love me. But you’re. Not. There!”

She felt her body convulse, her shoulders shaking violently as sobs wracked her frame.

“You wrote me all these beautiful fucking words, telling me not to give in to despair—but what about the rage? The wrath? Where do I put it, Draco? What do I do with this monstrous, choking anger?!”

Lucius said nothing. Just held her steady, grounding her, his presence immovable as stone.

“You dragged me into your orbit when I wasn’t even ready to love again! When I hadn’t even grieved the last man I loved, who also fucking died for me!” Her words spilled out, raw and ragged, each one a dagger to her own heart. “You let me marry you under the guise of saving you, but it was being your wife that killed you in the end! And now I get to live with that fucked-up irony for the rest of my miserable life!”

She choked, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps, as if she were drowning on dry land.

“I didn’t want to be a mother without you. I wanted to love our children with you. And when you died… all of that love, all of it, died too. I’m a fucking shell without you. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t recognize myself. I hate what’s left of me!”

Her knees finally gave out. Lucius sank down with her, catching her as she collapsed onto the cold grass, her sobs echoing into the empty space around them.

“I can’t do this without you,” she keened, her voice a broken, empty whisper. “I miss you so much, it feels like my bones are splintering from the inside out. It burns… it aches… every moment, every breath. I see all my friends paired off, happy, in love, and I’m furious. I’m jealous. I hate them for still having what I’ve lost. I hate Ginny for not quitting Quidditch, for getting herself kidnapped, for starting this whole fucking nightmare in the first place. And I hate myself most of all for thinking that!”

She gasped again, her chest convulsing, each breath a battle.

“Keep going,” Lucius urged, voice low and unwavering. “Empty it all.”

“I love you, Draco. I love you so fucking much. But I hate you too—for not telling me about the threats, about the prophecy, for making me hear it from your fucking portrait instead of your lips. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for that. I don’t know if I’ll ever crawl back from this abyss. You dying… it shattered me in a way I didn’t even know was possible. Gods, it hurts… it hurts so fucking much… I don’t know how to keep breathing…”

She finally broke completely, her screams dissolving into hoarse, gut-wrenching sobs as she folded into the earth. Lucius cradled her, silent and unflinching, his embrace the only thing anchoring her to this reality.

When her wails finally subsided into ragged breaths, Lucius reached for her cheeks and gently wiped the tears from her face, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple.

“You are strong, Hermione,” he whispered. “You will endure this. You are not lost.”

“But what if she’s gone?” she rasped, her voice small and shattered. “What if the old version of me… died with him?”

“Then another version will rise in her place,” Lucius murmured against her hair. “You have your children. You have a future. Don’t let it end here. If you do… his death will have meant nothing.”

She forced her gaze up, eyes blurry, to the white headstone:

Draco Lucius Malfoy

05/06/1980 — 20/08/2003

Devoted Husband, Father, and Son

“Lucius… why did you bring me here?” she croaked.

“Because you are misdirecting your anger,” he answered, firm and unyielding. “We all love you and understand your rage. But if you keep pushing everyone away, you will find yourself alone. And then it will only be me left to raise your children beside you. We cannot both become ghosts haunting this place. Scorpius and Cassie deserve more than that. You deserve more.”

She swallowed hard, her mind spiraling. Her anger was corrosive, consuming—but beneath it, there was a fragile, desperate need to protect what was left.

“How are you so sure I won’t push you away too?” she whispered, almost a challenge.

“Because I am all the family you have left,” he said simply. “And I will not leave you alone unless death itself drags me away. You cannot scare me off. Your friends… their hearts are softer. Their patience will not last forever.”

She closed her eyes, breathing hard, feeling every splintered piece of herself trembling beneath his words. Even in this ruined state, a tiny, defiant ember inside her wanted her children to have a real mother, no matter how broken she felt.

She wiped her wet, trembling fingers across her face, then reached out to trace Draco’s name on the headstone. The stone felt cold and final beneath her touch. Fate was cruel. This was her reality now. She would have to find a way to bear it. To keep from dissolving completely.

At last, she sagged back into Lucius’s arms. He took it as the sign he needed, wrapping her tightly from behind, as if to hold her broken pieces together.

She closed her eyes, pretending—just for a fleeting, desperate moment—that it was Draco holding her, whispering promises against her hair. Lucius’s scent was similar enough to almost fool her into believing it.

“You are not alone, my dear,” Lucius breathed into her ear. “You will never be alone.”

She wanted those words to comfort her—to mean something. But they fell into the same hollow void where everything else echoed and vanished since she lost her husband…

***

After Lucius apparated her back to her room, Pansy and Ginny were already there, having tidied up while she was gone and drawn a fragrant bath. Hermione acknowledged them with a slow, vacant nod, surrendering to their care like a lifeless doll.

They helped her undress and slip into the steaming water. Ginny washed her hair gently, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles against her scalp. Pansy scrubbed her arms and shoulders with a loofah until Hermione wordlessly took it from her, finishing the rest of her body herself with mechanical, detached movements. They tried to coax her into conversation, soft murmured attempts at comfort, but Hermione felt impossibly far away, as if she were floating above the scene, watching her own body from the ceiling.

When they finished, they helped her out of the tub, the air biting cold against her raw skin. They dried her off carefully, treating her like she might shatter if they pressed too hard. Pansy dried and straightened her hair in silence with a quick spell before braiding it neatly. Hermione didn’t care about her hair, her appearance, or the pity swimming in their eyes. She was past caring.

They dressed her in a long silk sleeping gown and matching robe, the fabric whispering over her bruised-feeling skin, then guided her back to the bed like a sleepwalker.

A healer arrived moments later to check on her, but she barely registered him, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls. She didn’t flinch when he gently pressed at her belly, performed diagnostic spells, or murmured questions she barely answered.

He motioned for Pansy and Ginny to step outside to confer privately. Hermione seized the moment to turn onto her side and bury her face in Draco’s pillow, inhaling the fading ghost of his scent as though it might tether her soul to this plane. She had forbidden anyone from changing the sheets, no matter how stale, no matter how wrinkled. No one dared challenge her.

When the healer returned, he reported that the babies were healthy, their heartbeats strong and steady. He urged her to rest, reminding her she was scheduled to deliver on the 30th, that they would intervene if she didn’t go into labor naturally, and thank fuck for that. The idea of being pregnant even a second longer than her due date sounded like a punishment.  

She asked for a sleeping potion, her voice low and rough. He left a mild, pregnancy-safe vial by her bedside table, and she took it without hesitation, desperate for the oblivion it promised.

She nodded once—a stiff, mechanical gesture— dismissing him. Then she was alone.

A few minutes later, Theo slipped quietly into the room. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled behind her, wrapping his arms around her and molding his body to hers. Neither of them spoke. Her breath stuttered at the warmth of him, an echo of comfort she wasn’t sure she deserved.

His presence steadied her slightly, like a distant lighthouse on a black sea. But inside, she remained adrift, hollowed out, floating somewhere far beyond the reach of any shore.

“I’m sorry, Theo,” she whispered eventually. Her voice sounded small, almost fragile, as though she were speaking from the bottom of a deep well.

He shook his head against her hair and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. She felt the warmth of it, but it barely registered.

“The healer says you have perinatal depression,” he murmured. “And he’s afraid it might get worse after the babies are born.”

“Wow. Did he go to school to learn that? Such valuable insight,” she replied flatly, her tone sharp and hollow.

“I hate hearing you talk like that,” Theo sighed, his breath shaky against her neck. “You’ve never been this cold and crass before.”

“I never had a dead husband before either… Things change.”

“Yes, well. I’ve never had a dead best friend before now… and I haven’t changed.”

She let out a heavy sigh, the sound rattling in her chest like something broken. Guilt gnawed at her insides, but it was distant, like a dull ache behind a wall of glass. She knew Theo was flailing in his own grief, drowning beside her, but she had been too lost to reach for him. Another reason to hate herself, though she could barely summon the energy to even do that properly.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Theo… I really don’t.”

“Then don’t. Don’t keep pushing everyone away. You’re not just hurting us, you’re tearing yourself apart too in the process.”

“What do you want from me? Just say it. I know they sent you in here to reason with me now that Lucius managed to crack me open a bit.”

“We want you to go to therapy. Talk to someone—anyone—about your grief. Please, Hermione. Just consider it.”

She hated the idea. The thought of speaking her pain out loud to a stranger felt like peeling off her skin and showing her raw, festering wounds to someone who could never understand. Who could ever understand? The war. Ron. Her parents. Draco. Loss stacked upon loss until she was nothing but an echo of herself.

If it weren’t for the babies—if their magic wasn’t stubbornly keeping her alive—she knew she would have died from a broken heart by now and would have let herself disappear willingly.

She knew her friends wouldn’t drop it. Maybe if she pretended to consider it, they’d finally stop hovering, stop looking at her like she was glass about to shatter.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” she whispered, her voice thin as parchment.

“Alright. I’ll start interviewing some prospects in the meantime.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t want to shatter what was left of Theo’s hope for her. She felt like a lost cause, already gone.

“How is everyone?” she asked after a pause. She only somewhat cared, but some part of her old self still clawed at the edges and wanted actually to give a shit.

“They’re holding it together, mostly. But it’s been… hard. We all miss him. We all miss you, too.”

She nodded, staring blankly at the wall. Her mind drifted—she imagined them all gathered somewhere else in the manor, whispering about her, about Draco, about the wreckage of it all.

“Is Astoria comforting you?” she asked, her tone flat, almost clinical.

“She… I asked her for some distance yesterday. I need time alone to grieve him.”

“That’s probably a mistake, Theo. Not that I’m one to talk.”

“Yeah… Pansy already called me an idiot. But… he was the love of my life, too, Hermione. My closest friend. My brother. He knew me better than anyone. I don’t know how to be there for her and grieve him at the same time… She deserves more than I have to give right now.”

“I understand… I hope you two can come back to each other…eventually.”

“Me too…”

The silence that followed felt heavy, almost suffocating. She felt every inch of it pressing against her ribs.

“Are you speaking with his portrait?” Theo asked after a few beats.

“Not since the night he died. I can’t… I’m too angry at Draco. And I don’t want to take it out on his portrait, he didn’t do anything wrong… Seeing his face, hearing his voice… it would be its own kind of torture…” she said, her words trailing off.

“I talk to him… He’s in the library most of the time with your portrait. It’s nice to talk to her as well. She’s not such a cunty witch like you are lately.”

A small, broken laugh slipped out of her—more a dry huff than an actual laugh. It pulled at muscles in her face that felt stiff, almost foreign.

“How do you all not hate me right now?” she whispered, her voice so quiet it barely made it past her lips.

“Because what you’re going through isn’t easy. You have a right to feel like we betrayed you… even if we didn’t mean to.”

“You’re the biggest traitor of them all,” she murmured, her eyes dropping distantly to the blanket.

“I know,” he said softly, his voice sounding raw, torn open. “I know.”

She swallowed hard, her throat dry, her mind sluggish.

“I still love you the most. Even despite that,” she said finally, her voice cracking around the words.

“Thank Salazar that hasn’t changed,” he murmured, the relief so sharp it almost hurt, his arms tightening around her.

She yawned then, unable to stop it, the sleeping potion finally dragging her down. Her eyelids felt like lead.

“Is everyone still staying at the manor?”

“Yes. No one’s left except Tori. Blaise, Daphne, Harry, Ginny, Pansy, Neville—they’re all still here. No one’s leaving anytime soon. Luna’s coming by tomorrow.”

She nodded, though the motion felt heavy and meaningless. She should have felt comforted knowing they hadn’t abandoned her, but it barely registered. Just another fact in the blur of her existence.

“I’ll try not to be such a bitch after today… but I don’t know if I’ll ever be who I was before.”

“You will be,” Theo whispered into her hair, his voice low and certain in a way she almost envied. “Once the babies are here, you’ll have somewhere to pour all that love you still have for Draco. It’ll come back to you.”

Hermione wanted to believe him. She really did. But deep inside, under the exhaustion and the rage, something cold and sharp told her it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Chapter Text

On the thirtieth of August, just as scheduled, Hermione gave birth in a private wing of St. Mungo’s. The sterile smell of antiseptic and faint lavender charms clung to the air, mixing with the sharper tang of her sweat and tears.

Outside, her loved ones all gathered in the waiting area, anxiously awaiting news. Harry, Theo, Lucius, Blaise, Daphne, Arthur, Molly, George, Fred, Fleur, Bill, Andromeda, Teddy, and Luna all sat in strained silence, eyes flicking repeatedly to the closed doors as if they might open at any second.

Inside, Ginny and Pansy flanked Hermione, gripping her hands with unwavering support. Their palms were slick with sweat, their eyes darting between her face and the healers, silently willing her through every shuddering breath, each punishing push.

Hermione had chosen to give birth naturally, though the healers used strong pain charms to help with the worst of it. But even with magic, it was an experience she wouldn’t forget anytime soon—childbirth was brutal, no matter what aids she had. Each contraction drained her, using up what little strength she had left. There were moments she felt like giving up, ready to collapse and let go, but her friends stayed by her side, holding her hands, pushing her forward.

Scorpius was born first. The room seemed to freeze as his first sharp cry sliced through the air. Hermione felt like she was floating outside her own body, watching as they cleaned him and laid his tiny, warm body against her chest.

She looked down, and her breath stopped.

A head of impossibly soft, pale blonde hair. Fine, almost translucent. Her fingers hovered above it, trembling. Then he opened his eyes—storm-grey, so painfully familiar that her stomach twisted.

No one had warned her he would look this much like Draco. She wasn’t prepared to see her dead husband reborn in this tiny, fragile form, searching her face like he already knew her.

Her heart slammed against her ribs; her whole body trembled under the weight of it. She felt like she might shatter right there.

Somewhere, a healer’s voice called to her, telling her they needed to take him so she could deliver the second twin. She let them lift him without protest, almost relieved to feel his warmth gone. It was too much. Too close. His tiny presence pressed too hard against the gaping wound inside her.

She watched them carry him away, her mind a tangle of guilt and numbness. She forced herself to focus on what came next.

Ten minutes later, with Ginny and Pansy whispering encouragement at her sides, she pushed again. Every nerve felt raw, her vision blurred with tears as she fought through the last stretch.

When Cassiopeia was finally born, they cleaned her and placed her gently on Hermione’s chest. Her hands trembled as she cradled her daughter, fingers splaying over impossibly tiny shoulders.

And there it was—the cruel twist of fate. Pale blonde hair again. Not the wild chocolate curls from her dream. Not the girl she had pictured all those months, the dream that pushed her to become a mother and ultimately painted a larger target on Draco’s back.

A sob shuddered through her, but she forced it deep inside. She kissed Cassie’s forehead, trying to pour what little warmth she had left into her.

Ginny handed Scorpius back, and somehow Hermione gathered both babies against her chest. Their tiny bodies pressed close to her heart, their breaths warm against her skin.

Two innocent souls in a world that had already demanded too much. Babies who would never feel their father’s arms or hear his laugh echo through the halls of the manor.

She pressed trembling kisses to their heads, her tears sliding down and soaking into their soft hair. She knew, deep down, that she loved them—wanted them safe, wanted them whole. But that love felt distant, like she was watching it through a thick pane of frosted glass. Instead of warmth, there was a cold, gnawing terror, the fear that she was too broken to ever truly reach them, to be the mother they deserved.

She was missing a chip in her head—the one that was supposed to turn on after they were born and make everything okay again.

In that moment, as their small, perfect bodies rose and fell against her, Hermione made a silent promise. She would go to therapy, get help. She would try—truly try—to claw her way back to them. They deserved a mother who could see them, love them fully, not just exist as a shell.

“They’re beautiful, ’Mione. Absolutely perfect,” Ginny whispered, her voice thick with tears, smoothing Scorpius’s hair.

“They really are stunning,” Pansy added gently. “Scorpius looks just like—”

“Draco,” Hermione finished, her voice hollow, the word slicing through her.

The truth of it nearly suffocated her. Scorpius was the spitting image of Draco—the same sharp cheekbones, full lips, perfect nose, fierce grey eyes. It was like the gods were mocking her, handing back a piece of him but snatching away the rest.

Was it a gift? Or a curse?

She didn’t know.

She had a few minutes more—just her and her babies in a fragile, stolen pocket of time. She studied every inch of them, trying to learn these small humans she was now in charge of. Cassie’s delicate, aristocratic features reminded her of Narcissa so sharply it almost stole her breath. Hermione already imagined her being elegant, soft spoken, poised—traits she knew she hadn’t passed down.

They nestled against her skin, small and warm, tiny fists curling and uncurling as if holding on. They looked safe there, as though they already understood she was their mother.

With the healers’ gentle guidance, they latched onto her breasts easily enough, instinctive and hungry. Hermione watched them feed, her mind numb and distant.

She wanted to feel everything. To drown in love for them, to be reborn in their presence. But all she felt was a vast, echoing distance inside, like a chasm she didn’t know how to cross.

It terrified her.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The question echoed inside her, sharp as broken glass. She forced her lips to press gentle kisses to each head, tears spilling silently into their downy hair. She didn’t know if they would ever understand how desperately she wanted to be enough for them.

But she would try, even if she had to drag herself through every splintered piece of her grief to get there.

***

Lucius stood outside the door, pacing like a restless specter as his grandchildren came into the world. The waiting gnawed at him—it was the worst part. It reminded him painfully of the day Draco was born, how he’d worn a path into the floor with his nervous pacing, forbidden from entering the delivery room because tradition had deemed it unfit for men to witness such moments.

He suspected Hermione would have wanted Draco at her side today if he had lived. He hoped—with a silent, desperate kind of prayer he hadn’t uttered in decades—that her friends were enough to steady her through the ordeal in his stead.

At last, Pansy stepped into the hallway, her face flushed but radiant. Everyone turned and stared at her anxiously at once.

“They’re here,” she announced breathlessly. “Perfect and healthy. Both of them. Hermione is taking some time to nurse them and rest. She made it through beautifully. You can all start going in, one or two at a time, in about an hour.”

A chorus of cheers, embraces, relieved sighs, and teary laughter swept through the hall.

Lucius finally exhaled, the tension in his spine easing slightly. His greatest fear—that Hermione’s fragile spirit might snap completely after the birth—had hovered over him like a storm cloud. In the days leading up to this, she had barely been holding on, drifting through grief like a ghost in her own skin.

He harbored no illusions that the babies would miraculously heal her, that motherhood alone could stitch together the pieces of her shattered soul. Everyone else seemed to cling to that hope like a lifeline, but Lucius had long since learned that life was rarely so merciful, that pain so easy to heal.

She had softened slightly since their confrontation at Draco’s grave—her rage dulled into something quieter, though no less heavy to bear. But she was still distant, her eyes hollow, as if she lived somewhere else entirely. At times, he wondered if the Hermione he had known still existed at all, or if she had vanished with Draco in that final, cruel moment.

Lucius had learned, over many brutal years, to lock his grief into a carefully constructed vault in his mind—a mastery of Occlumency that had saved him from being destroyed by loss long before. He had used it to survive Narcissa’s death, the echo of her absence haunting every quiet corridor of the manor. And now, Draco’s.

This loss, though, was different. It cut deeper, gnawed at the very marrow of who he was. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, he admitted to himself that if he didn’t have his grandchildren and Hermione to protect, he might have finally ended it—stepped quietly into nothingness to escape the crushing weight of outliving his entire family.

But now, he had a reason to keep going. Two tiny new lives that carried pieces of the people he had loved most. A daughter-in-law who, despite her brokenness, still held a spark of the woman he had come to admire so deeply.

Sometimes, he wondered if it would have been kinder for Hermione to have been given the same slow awareness of Draco’s fate, to prepare her heart piece by piece. But it hadn’t been his decision to make. He respected his son’s wishes, though he at times disagreed with him. 

All that remained now was to honor Draco’s last request, to watch over his wife and his family, to be her unwavering support no matter how she broke. But Lucius hadn’t needed the promise to bind him.

He had grown to love Hermione in the two years she spent with Draco—not as a daughter, but as a companion of sorts, an unexpected confidante. She was brilliant, warm, sharp, and unfailingly kind and understanding—so startlingly different from anyone he had ever been personally close to.

He missed her deeply, the girl she used to be, her radiant smile, her infectious laugh, their frequent long walks in the gardens together, the way she had listened to him and cared about him, not remembering the last time he had that, even when his wife was alive. Now, every time he saw her, she was a pale echo of that girl, her eyes vacant, her mouth set in an empty line.

When Ginny finally appeared again and beckoned him forward, telling him Hermione wanted him to meet the twins first, it pierced something inside him. The gesture meant more than words could hold.

He stepped into the room, his breath catching.

Hermione sat propped up on the bed, her appearance lovely as ever but clearly tired, one tiny baby cradled to her chest. Pansy stood nearby, gently bouncing the other in her arms. Hermione didn’t glow like new mothers often did—her eyes were still distant, her expression drained and uncertain. But she was there, present enough to hold her child, to let him witness this fragile beginning.

The girl he had loved like a dear friend was still in there somewhere. She had to be. 

He approached quietly, hands clasped behind his back, waiting to be addressed. Hermione caught his gaze and, after a beat, gestured for him to come to her side.

Lucius stepped forward slowly, his breath tight in his chest, and looked down at the infant in her arms.

He almost staggered back—it was as though he had been transported decades into the past. The baby in her arms looked exactly like Draco as a newborn. He had the same nose, the soft, pale blonde hair, the shape of his small mouth. It was Draco. His Draco.

Tears sprang to Lucius’s eyes unbidden, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away. They fell silently, sliding down his sharp cheekbones and soaking into his collar.

Hermione seemed to sense the gravity of the moment. She looked past him and nodded at Ginny, who quickly ushered the healers and aides out of the room. Pansy retreated to a corner, sitting down with Cassie in her arms to give them privacy.

Hermione turned her gaze back to Lucius and slowly lifted her arms, offering the baby to him.

“Meet Scorpius Draco Malfoy, Lucius,” she said softly.

Lucius’s hands trembled as he took the baby, cradling him gently. The weight of him—so small, so impossibly light—felt like both a dagger and a balm to his heart.

It was as if, in that moment, some of his grief for Draco unraveled. As though a tiny piece of his son had clawed its way back to the living. Scorpius’s perfect little face was an echo of everything he had lost and everything he now had to protect.

He pressed a trembling kiss to the baby’s forehead, breathing in the delicate, newborn scent.

“I swear to you, little dragon, I will love you without condition, without expectation,” Lucius whispered, his voice ragged with emotion. “I will be everything to you that I failed to be for your father. You will know nothing but devotion.”

He looked down at Hermione, tears still sliding freely down his face.

“You have given me a gift beyond measure, my dear. I can never thank you enough for bringing these children into the world… He’s… he’s Draco reborn.”

Hermione nodded, exhaling shakily. Then she turned her head toward Pansy.

“Pansy, bring her over, please,” she murmured.

Pansy stood and carried Cassie forward, carefully shifting the baby to present her fully to Lucius.

Lucius’s breath caught in his throat.

She was Narcissa—every curve of her face, the aristocratic arch of her brows, the delicate mouth. His wife’s ghost lived on in this tiny girl, and the resemblance was so sharp it nearly broke him. But the eyes—those grey eyes were unmistakably Malfoy. His eyes. Not the light blue of his late wife’s irises. 

“Cassiopeia Narcissa Malfoy…” Hermione whispered, her voice low and uneven. “She looks just like her.”

Lucius could only nod at first, overcome. His lips parted, but no words came out. Finally, he managed to rasp, “She really does…”

Pansy helped him maneuver so he could hold both babies at once. Scorpius nestled in one arm, Cassie in the other, both impossibly small and warm against him.

For a long, suspended moment, Lucius simply stood there, his face softened by the gentlest, most genuine smile he had worn in decades.

“You look good, Lucius,” Hermione said quietly, studying him with a weary but observant gaze.

“How so?” he asked, not looking up from the babies.

“You look happy,” she replied, her voice low. “Like a father.”

Lucius’s throat worked as he swallowed thickly. “I don’t ever intend to replace Draco,” he said carefully, his eyes flicking to hers.

She shook her head, dismissing the worry with a small wave of her hand.

“You’re their Grandad, yes,” she said, her tone tired but unwavering. “But you’ll be the only father they’ll ever know.”

That simple, mournful truth cleaved right through him.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I wish… gods, I wish things were different,” he murmured.

She shook her head again, her expression distant.

“I’m glad they have you,” she said instead. “You’re going to be a good father to them.”

Lucius stood there for several minutes, letting the warmth and weight of the two babies seep into his bones. His grief and love coiled together like twin serpents—painful and comforting all at once.

Eventually, he kissed Cassie’s forehead, then passed her gently back to Pansy. Finally, with a lingering tenderness, he returned Scorpius to Hermione’s arms.

He stepped back, chest heaving with a hundred silent promises he swore to keep, his soul forever changed by the tiny lives he had just held.

He then leaned down, brushed a few stray curls from Hermione’s forehead, and pressed a gentle kiss to her damp skin before pulling away and sitting down at her side, a chair already there for him. He took her hand in his, his thumb lightly tracing her knuckles.

“Draco wanted me to give you something when the twins were born,” he revealed, pulling a small box from his pocket.

“A push present?” she asked dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Of sorts,” Lucius replied, his voice soft as he opened the box and slid the intricate gold ring onto her finger—the same finger where her engagement ring once sat, now conspicuously bare since the night she threw it across the room and refused to wear it again.

Two slender serpents, crafted from warm, polished gold, coiled and twisted together to form an elegant ouroboros. Draco had always called the twins “his little snakes,” and now they formed an unending circle on her finger—a symbol of infinity, rebirth, and eternal love. A promise that nothing truly ended, only transformed.

At the center sat a single, brilliant round-cut emerald—small by Malfoy standards, but perfectly Hermione’s taste. Draco had chosen well. Lucius watched her study it, her eyes distant, her brilliant mind no doubt dissecting every layer of meaning.

“Did he have anything inscribed?” she asked, her voice low, still staring at the serpents and that deep, glinting green.

“Non terminus, sed initium,” he murmured.

“Not the end, but the beginning…” she translated, frowning as she lowered her hand, no longer able to look at the ring.

She turned to Pansy and called her over, then requested Ginny to come back in. Ginny entered, bright-eyed and flushed, and carefully took Scorpius from her. Hermione told them to go outside and show the babies to the others, to let Theo and Harry come in after everyone else had greeted them.

Pansy and Ginny obeyed without question, slipping out of the room with the babies, leaving Hermione and Lucius alone.

Hermione put her hand out for Lucius to take again, and he did, smoothing her hair from her face with his other hand.

“I don’t feel what I’m supposed to feel for them, Lucius… I think I’m broken…”

“Shhh,” he soothed, squeezing her hand lightly. “It’s only been an hour. Give yourself time.”

“What if I never feel maternal? What if I can’t love them the way they deserve?”

“You are capable of more love than anyone I have ever known, Hermione. Your heart is broken right now—it needs time to heal. You’ve already done so much by bringing them here safely.”

Tears filled her eyes and began streaming down her cheeks. Lucius leaned forward to brush them away, but they kept coming, relentless.

“It isn’t fair to them. They didn’t do anything wrong… We chose to have children, Draco and I. They didn’t ask to be brought into this world… I feel like I’m already failing them.”

“You are not failing them,” he insisted, his voice firm but gentle as he rubbed her fingers with his thumb. “They are safe. They are loved. You are not alone in this.”

She swallowed hard, her tears still falling.

“I don’t know how to look at Scorpius… he looks exactly like Draco…”

“In time, you’ll look at him with love, just as I look at Cassiopeia—because in her, I see Narcissa returned to me. And in him, you have Draco back, a piece of him that lives on,” Lucius replied, his voice soft and steady.

Hermione took a deep, shaky breath and closed her eyes, clearly trying to absorb his words but struggling. Lucius sat quietly beside her, silently offering his strength.

“I want to hold on. I want to be there for them… Lucius, I can’t leave them orphans.”

“I know, dear girl. You are a lion—you will find your strength again, even if it takes time. Take it one moment at a time if you need to. I will be here, and so will all your friends. We will hold you up until you can stand again.”

She opened her eyes then, meeting his gaze, and nodded weakly. Lucius leaned forward to kiss her temple, and she clung to his arm for a moment before letting go. He sat back down and kept her hand in his, trying to be a steady anchor in her sea of grief.

“I look at you sometimes… and I see him. Draco,” she confessed quietly.

“Does that make it harder?” he asked softly, worried that the answer was yes. That his presence was another painful reminder of his son to her. 

“Yes… and no,” she replied, her voice a fragile whisper.

At that moment, Theo slipped into the room. His eyes were glassy, but a watery smile spread across his face as he approached. Lucius released Hermione’s hand and stepped back just before Theo swept her into a tight, exuberant hug, making her sit upright to receive it.

“My darling, your children are magnificent! Truly. It’s almost unfair—no other child alive will ever live up to their beauty,” Theo declared dramatically.

A small, strained laugh escaped her, a sound so rare now that it felt like a fragile bloom in winter.

“How was the birth? Absolutely dreadful?” Theo asked, finally releasing her and sitting on the edge of the bed. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a lingering, affectionate kiss there.

Lucius watched, a familiar discomfort twisting in his chest. He had never understood the easy, intimate closeness Theo shared with her—even Draco had more or less resigned himself to it. Lucius accepted Theo as family, even loved him like a son, but he never forgot that Theo was a snake at heart—clever, charming, and morally fluid when it served him.

He wondered now if Theo would someday make a move on her, especially with his relationship with Astoria currently estranged. The thought unsettled him—it felt like a betrayal to Draco, a dishonoring of his memory that made something tight and cold coil in Lucius’s chest.

“It was alright,” Hermione said finally, her voice low but steady. “Painful at times, uncomfortable… but I got through it. Pansy and Ginny helped immensely.”

“I wish you’d let me be in the room with you,” Theo complained, his tone bordering on dramatic, making Lucius roll his eyes. “It was absolute torture waiting outside. I nearly wore a hole in the floor pacing.”

“Forgive me if I wanted to spare you the vicarious trauma,” Hermione shot back, a dry edge to her voice. “Childbirth isn’t exactly a spectator sport. I’m amazed Pansy didn’t faint herself.”

“She got the privilege of meeting your children first, so of course she was going to stay,” Theo pointed out with a sniff.

“Well,” Hermione said, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, “I’m glad you weren’t there to hear me screaming. Apparently, I tore down there, and they had to heal me magically… Thank Merlin, it wasn’t a Muggle hospital. They would have used stitches.”

“Ghastly and archaic,” Theo said with a grimace. “Are you alright now?” He reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing gently across her skin.

“More or less,” she replied, exhaling shakily. “A bit tired. They offered me some Pepperup, but I haven’t taken it yet.”

“Want me to fetch it for you, darling?” Theo offered eagerly.

“I’ll grab it,” Lucius interjected, his voice clipped. He spotted the small vial on a nearby shelf and brought it over, handing it to her with a quiet, steady presence.

She took it with a nod of thanks, drank the contents in one smooth motion, and handed the empty bottle back to him.

“Is everyone already in love with them out there?” she asked Theo after a pause, her voice softer, almost hesitant.

“Yes,” Theo said, eyes brightening. “Everyone adores them. George and Fred are already whispering secrets in their ears about the best pranks. I can’t wait to see them charm Lucius’s luscious mane into rainbow colors.”

Lucius rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, but something in him softened when he saw Hermione’s lips curl upward at the idea—a small, fragile smile that lit her hollow eyes for a moment. Draco would never have dared play a prank on him the way Lucius had raised him, but now… perhaps he was growing soft with age, or simply desperate to see her smile again.

“You look beautiful, darling,” Theo said, his voice gentling as he studied her face. “You did so well. Draco would have been in tears to see them—to see you as a mother.”

She nodded, her chin trembling, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Theo brushed it away gently, then moved to sit beside her when she shifted to make space. He wrapped an arm around her tightly, and she leaned into him without resistance, resting her head against his chest. He took her hand, their fingers intertwined, and held on as she quietly let a few more tears fall.

Lucius quietly slipped from the room, allowing them that moment of comfort. Theo seemed to reach her in a way that was different from him. He was her heart, and Lucius saw her soul. She confided the hardest things in Lucius—things she couldn’t bring herself to say aloud to anyone else—but with Theo, she allowed herself to be soft, to let him love her in the simplest, most immediate way.

It was a delicate balance between the two of them keeping her together, each holding a different piece of her.

He found himself sometimes feeling jealous of Theo’s closeness with her, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. It was a thought he decided to ponder another time…

***

After a while, Pansy, Ginny, and Harry came back into the room with the babies. Hermione braced herself to receive her children again, hating herself a little for not feeling any instinctual pull or fierce longing to hold them.

“Nott, you do know Hermione’s the one who just gave birth, right? You shouldn’t be crowding her on the hospital bed,” Pansy scolded Theo sharply.

He ignored her, pressing a defiant kiss to Hermione’s temple. She turned her attention to Harry, who was holding Scorpius and came to her side.

“Your children are beautiful, ’Mione. We might have to steal our goddaughter for weekends,” Harry said with a soft smile.

She managed an attempt at a smile in return and accepted her son back into her arms.

Theo immediately leaned over, cooing at Scorpius, fingers brushing his tiny cheek before gesturing to take him. Hermione handed the baby over carefully, grateful for the reprieve.

Harry sat down beside her, taking her hand in his.

“You did brilliantly. I’m so proud of you,” he said gently.

“Thanks, Harry… I don’t really feel brilliant, though…”

“Do you need a healer?” he asked with concerned eyes. 

“No… Just… getting used to being a mother. It’s… a lot,” she admitted, her voice raw.

He squeezed her hand, his eyes soft. “You’re doing wonderfully. It’ll come to you with time.”

So easy for men to say…

She just sighed and nodded, her throat tight. Ginny came over then with Cassie. Hermione stared at her perfect daughter, wondering for a moment which parts of her had actually made it into either of these children. Not that it really mattered… but still. That damn dream kept echoing in her mind.

Pansy perched at the foot of the bed, assessing her.

“Do you want us all to leave? Give you some peace and quiet with the babies?”

“No… not yet, Pans,” she answered quickly, shaking her head.

She really didn’t want to be left alone with them. Not now. Maybe not for a long time...

Would that ever change?

Gods, she hoped so.

“She looks so much like ’Cissa, it’s miraculous really,” Theo mused, gazing at Cassie in Ginny’s arms before turning his attention back to Scorpius. “And this little one… he’s Draco reborn.”

“Your genetics didn’t have a chance this round, ’Mione,” Ginny teased.

“You say that as if I’m ever having children again. There will be no more ‘rounds,’” Hermione said, her voice serious.

Silence fell, tense and heavy, until Harry finally spoke up, hesitating.

“Hermione… you’re still so young. Maybe someday you’ll want to meet someone, get married again… maybe even have more—”

She turned to him sharply, taking a deep breath to steady the rising wave of anger clawing up her throat.

“I’m never marrying again, and I won’t have more children… One husband broke me enough for a lifetime. I can’t risk that kind of love again… I don’t think I’d survive another loss like that…I'm barely surviving this one.”

And she meant it with every frayed, broken piece of her heart. She’d already decided before saying it out loud. 

She knew Harry only wanted her to be happy, wanted her to imagine some softer future where she was in love again. But how could she?

Two for two on dead lovers—Ron and Draco were probably having a laugh together somewhere beyond, saying, “Poor girl can’t keep anyone alive for long once they love her.”

No. That wouldn’t be her curse anymore. She was done. She was willingly stepping off the cursed merry-go-round forever. Draco was the last man she would ever love, and she felt firm in that decision. 

Theo, clearly feeling the tension, jumped in to shift the mood.

“Don’t worry, darling. You don’t need another husband. You’ll always have me,” he said, pressing another kiss to her temple and squeezing her shoulder.

“Oh dear, you’ve inherited Nott now, haven’t you?” Pansy teased, rolling her eyes.

“He’s more of a mascot than a pest, really,” Hermione replied, allowing the hint of a smirk to tug at her lips.

“If I’m your pet, why do I never get belly rubs?” Theo quipped, feigning outrage.

A real, genuine smile finally cracked through her weary expression, and she shook her head at him. Harry seemed to catch that small spark of warmth and smiled too, leaning over to kiss Cassie’s head.

“Are you lot ready to be godparents? I hear it’s a lot of work,” she asked lightly, trying to keep the small moment of levity alive.

“Well, I for one am ready to steal them both and raise them as my own,” Pansy declared primly.

“Remind me to ward the estate against her when we return home, darling,” Theo said dramatically, turning Scorpius away from Pansy as if shielding him.

Pansy flipped him an obscene gesture that made Hermione actually laugh—a real laugh that startled her.

It hit her then, hard and sudden, just how much she missed her friends. How much she needed them. And the realization stung, making tears pool in her eyes.

Theo noticed immediately, handing Scorpius back to Pansy before wrapping his arms around her, holding her close.

“What is it, darling? What’s wrong?”

She sniffled, shaking her head, trying to breathe through the lump in her throat.

“I just… it means so much that I have all of you here. For me. For the twins. I don’t know how I’d get through this without you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Theo murmured, rubbing her arm. Harry squeezed her hand and pressed her knuckles to his lips.

“We love you, Hermione. We’re always here for you, no matter what. Always,” Harry reassured her. 

“These are our sprogs too now,” Ginny added with a gentle smile. “We’re all in this together.”

She nodded, looking at each of their faces—these people who refused to let her drown alone. And for the first time in what felt like forever, something flickered inside her. Something almost like hope.

It was still hard. It still hurt more than she could put into words. But maybe… maybe she could survive this.

Maybe she could become something whole again, someday.

Or if not whole, at least strong enough to keep going. For her children. And maybe, someday, for herself.

Chapter Text

“So, how was your birthday?” Evelyn, Hermione’s new specialized mind healer, asked her, wearing an expression that suggested she was hoping Hermione had actually celebrated it.

Hermione sighed, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, trying to seem even an ounce enthused that her twenty-fourth birthday had come and gone. The bright morning light filtering through the window only made her feel more tired, the soft hum of the wards around the manor almost mocking.

“It was alright,” she answered simply, leaning back in her chair, her shoulders sinking as if under an invisible weight.

“Just alright?”

Hermione shrugged. “My friends tried to make it special. Ginny and Pansy prepared a cake with Mippy’s help… Theo says he helped, but Pansy said it was more like he just pointed and ate the frosting,” she said with a faint smile. “We all gathered in the main drawing room, they sang me ‘Happy Birthday’ and ate cake and pretended there wasn’t a Draco-sized elephant in the room…”

Evelyn nodded solemnly, glancing at Hermione’s wrist. “That bracelet is stunning. Was it a gift?”

Hermione lifted her wrist and stared at the brand-new, expensive diamond and emerald bracelet Draco had left for her. The metal felt heavy on her skin—a reminder she couldn’t escape. For a moment, she considered tearing it off, her nails digging into her palm as she held back the impulse. She took a sharp breath, trying to cool the residual anger bubbling under her ribs. She loved it. It was exquisite. But she also hated what it represented for her. 

Over the past two years, there had been other diamond bracelets that he had gifted her—each one beautiful, each one meant to dazzle her. Now they all sat stacked on her wrist, sparkling mockingly, a shimmering weight she carried everywhere—like she was wearing her grief in gemstones.

“Draco… He got it for me before he died. Apparently, he had the foresight and time to arrange expensive jewelry to be made for me for special occasions after he died, but not the good sense to tell me that he was in danger… I guess that fact will be my cross to bear for the rest of my life while I’m glittering in priceless gems…”

Evelyn frowned slightly. She was a portly woman in her fifties, warm and kind, her eyes always soft. She reminded Hermione a bit of Molly—that same gentle patience. Hermione figured Theo thought a motherly figure might help her open up, but she wasn’t fully convinced yet. They’d had three sessions so far, once a week since the twins were born. Evelyn had studied both Muggle psychology and magical mind healing, which was a rare combination that at least earned Hermione’s respect.

It was a logical fit, but still… Hermione always felt like she was disappointing her. Evelyn clearly wanted the best for her, but every blunt, bitter comment she made felt like Hermione was snuffing out whatever fragile hope Evelyn held for her, inch by inch.

“Perhaps a more helpful way of viewing these gestures is seeing them as his way of saying, without words, how much he loved you, how he wanted to make sure you always felt his presence, even beyond the grave.”

The thought was sweet. But Hermione rolled her eyes internally, jaw tightening.

“It feels like he’s buying me off from the grave. He knew I would be livid with him, so these are consolation prizes, a way to get me to forgive him…”

“Well… is it working?”

Hermione shook her head, her voice low and clipped. “Not even a little…”

And Merlin, how she wished it would. Feeling so angry at Draco was slowly eating her alive. She still loved him more than anything, but the rage hadn’t budged in the month since he was killed. She wasn’t just angry at him, though; she was angry at the world, at the universe. Gods forbid she ever get a happy ending. Gods forbid she be allowed to keep the love of her life.

She was full of so much bitterness and resentment, it made her wonder if she’d ever come down from it. Evelyn reassured her that it would ease with time, but time only seemed to harden her edges. The only thing that had changed was how honest she had become about how she was really feeling with everyone but Lucius. 

He never judged her. He never made her feel wrong for how wrecked she was emotionally. How angry. How twisted up in a mess of feelings she couldn’t always name. Some days, all she could do was cry. Some days, she felt numb, as if all the enjoyment had been sucked from her bones. And some days she just wanted to scream until her voice gave out.

It was chaos. And she kept most of it from her friends. They didn’t need to see it, not when they were carrying their own grief and helping her raise her babies.

“Have you spoken to his portrait yet?” Evelyn asked carefully, her voice dipping low.

“No… I know you think I should.”

“Yes, I believe it would be cathartic.”

“I’m not so sure,” Hermione muttered, crossing her arms tightly, fingers digging into her arms.

“Do you intend on avoiding him forever?”

“Perhaps… Could have Theo move his portrait elsewhere…”

“Do you really want to do that? From what you’ve told me, you considered him a dear friend in the past.”

Hermione scoffed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “A friend that looks and sounds exactly like my dead husband… I… I don’t know if I’m ready to face him yet.”

“Well, I won’t push you. But… I wonder if Draco’s portrait might be the best avenue to work out your anger. Perhaps he can give you some valuable insight into why your husband did what he did.”

“I know why he did it. His portrait made that clear already. I don’t need to hear it again.”

“Yes, but perhaps there are lingering questions you haven’t asked yet, now that you’ve had time to think since Draco’s passing.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. Her nails dug into the arm of her chair as a sharp, hot anger surged up her spine.

“Draco didn’t pass. He was murdered—stabbed in the stomach with a cursed blade, made to bleed out… He didn’t die of old age in his sleep. That would have qualified to me as simply ‘passing’.”

Evelyn nodded and straightened up slightly in her seat, her expression serious. “You’re right. He was murdered in cold blood… How does it make you feel to know that he fought so hard to come back to you? That he killed everyone who tried to stop him.”

Hermione felt her throat tighten, her chest rising and falling unevenly. She pressed her lips together so hard they went white. Finally, it spilled out, raw and unfiltered.

“Angry.”

“Angry at what, exactly?”

Hermione met Evelyn’s gaze head-on, her eyes sharp and her voice low and icy.

“That he didn’t try harder.”

***

Hours after the session ended, Hermione paced in front of the wardrobe door, her bare feet dragging against the plush rug over the hardwood floors as she debated whether she was actually ready to face portrait!Draco. Her mind replayed Evelyn’s words on a loop, twisting her stomach into knots. She did have questions. She did want to get things off her chest. But more than anything, she just wanted to hear his voice again… even if it ripped her wide open.

Finally, she set her jaw, marched forward, and placed her hand on the door knob. She turned it and stepped inside.

The closet was brightly lit as always, every one of Draco’s beautiful robes and immaculate suits pressed to perfection, hanging like they were waiting for him to stride in and slip them on. The scent of his cologne still clung faintly to the air, sharp and clean, stabbing at her heart.

She noticed the portrait was empty, and she hated how it gave her a fleeting moment of relief.

Hermione forced herself forward, her hands trembling slightly as she sat on the chaise, the same place she’d sat countless times before to talk with him. She took a deep breath, her chest tight, as if a rope was wound around her ribs.

Softly, she murmured his name. “Draco…”

She heard it then, the echo of his dragonhide shoes alerting her to his approach, each step echoing in her mind like a heartbeat. Then he appeared. His hair perfect, his dark suit crisp, his eyes, those impossibly haunting grey eyes, already heavy with sorrow.

Her throat closed up instantly, and tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

“Love… I’m so sorry… I can’t begin to express how sorry I am,” he said, his voice so gentle, so painfully Draco it nearly split her open.

She gripped the edge of the chaise so hard her knuckles turned white, fighting the urge to crumble into sobs right then and there.

She squeezed her eyes shut, repeating silently to herself: This isn’t really him. This is not your Draco—just an echo of him.

When she finally opened her eyes again, her face was streaked with tears. She took a few shaky breaths, trying to steady her voice.

“Why didn’t you tell me what he was planning, what he was hiding from me?” she asked, her voice brittle, wanting to get straight into her reason for finally seeking him out.

He shifted, his painted shoulders tightening, his eyes full of conflict.

“Because… even though I knew it was a mistake…Even though I knew it would hurt you…I still agreed with him in the end.”

It felt like someone had driven a blade straight into her chest and twisted. Her fingers curled tighter around the chaise.

“Tell me…” she said slowly, her tone low and dangerous. “Do you think me unintelligent? Incapable of coming up with a good enough plan to save my own husband?”

Portrait!Draco crossed his arms, his jaw working as he frowned down at her.

“You know the answer to that is no...”

“Then why was he right?” she demanded, her teeth clenched so hard her head ached.

He paused, inhaling deeply as if he could truly breathe.

“Because if you’d known, you would have thrown yourself into the middle of it… and you might have died alongside him. Keeping you in the dark kept you safe. He did what he set out to do.”

Her whole body shook with a sudden surge of rage, grief crashing like a wave inside her.

“I fought a war. I was on the front lines. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself!”

“But it wasn’t just yourself you were taking care of… Your belly held his children, you were vulnerable, your magic was unsteady—”

“If anything, it was amplified!”

“Yes. And not always in your control… nor were your emotions. You’ve had all this time to think of what you would have done differently. Tell me, love—what’s the magic solution he missed?” he challenged her.

She lifted her chin defiantly, her heart hammering as she mentally sifted through every scenario she’d obsessed over since he died.

“For starters, I know where Harry keeps his cloak of invisibility. I could have gone with him and kept him safe, had his back. Or I could have given the cloak to Theo, and he could have gone instead. It might have made a difference.”

“You going with him was never an option, not even if you weren’t pregnant. But tell me—if Theo had died beside him, would that have been better? To lose two men you love?”

“Harry and Ginny didn’t die! They fought with him!” Hermione fired back, her voice rising.

“The Potters helped him after he had already cut down nearly everyone. Whoever was left was terrified. They had the advantage by then.”

“Theo is a more than capable duelist,” she snapped.

“Yes, he is. But he has a soft heart… He’s never killed. He would do it in a heartbeat for you or for Draco—but did he deserve that burden? Tell me… have you asked Harry how he lives with what he did that night? Have you asked Ginny?”

That stopped her in her tracks, because the truth was… she hadn’t, not really. The question hadn’t even entered her mind all month. She had assumed they were fine with it, that they had been more than happy to kill the people who had kidnapped them and stabbed their friend. But realizing just how heavy that weight must have been, it slammed into her like a punch to the gut, and she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

How had she not thought about this before?

“They seem okay…” she said in a small, shaky voice, almost like she was trying to convince herself.

“They’re not,” portrait!Draco said softly. “They’re putting on a brave face for you. For the babies. I don’t think they regret it… But doing dark magic like that leaves a scar. Seeing those bodies, seeing how viciously Draco fought through those Death Eaters… It’s not easy for good people like them.”

Her throat tightened. “How do you know all this?” she forced out.

“They’ve all talked to me. Harry, Ginny, Theo… even Lucius. Everyone but you,” he answered gently, his painted eyes sad and sincere.

Her mind spun, pain slamming into her from every side. Guilt tangled in her gut like barbed wire. All this time, she thought she was the only one feeling such a monumental level of pain. Meanwhile, the people she loved were carrying their own invisible wounds just to keep her upright.

She shook her head, her voice breaking. “I still could have helped. Helped Draco identify the mole. I’m good at puzzles—no one’s better than me. He should have trusted me to help.”

“He did trust you. More than anyone,” portrait!Draco insisted. “But if you knew the threats, the prophecy… You would have spent every waking moment terrified. You wouldn’t have been able to enjoy those last months with him. You would’ve fallen apart, Hermione. And he would never allow that. I know you hate this, hate me… but he weighed every angle and chose what he thought was the lesser evil.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide and glassy, her breath ragged. Part of her still screamed that he was wrong, that she would have found a way—if only she’d been given the chance. But she didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.

It was all too fucking much.

She crumbled forward, burying her face in her hands as sobs tore out of her throat.

“I fucking hate this, Draco…” she gasped.

“I know, love. I hate it too. I wish I could hold you… help make it better,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You have your own Hermione to hold,” she spat out bitterly, wiping her cheeks with shaking hands.

“And yet I still love you just as much. I can’t help it,” he admitted softly. “I’ve missed you...”

Her head dropped back into her hands. “I wish sometimes you looked like someone else… Hearing your voice, seeing his face… fuck, it hurts so much,” she choked out.

“I’m so sorry, darling. Please… tell me if there’s anything I can do…”

She looked up at him, her eyes red and raw, studying every line of his face. Just for a moment, she let herself pretend he was really there—her Draco. It almost helped. Almost .

“There’s nothing you can do… nothing anyone can do. Death is annoyingly permanent,” she muttered, her voice thin. She paused, her eyes distant. “How did he look before he left that night?”

“Determined,” portrait!Draco said, his voice gentle but firm. “Focused. Nothing was going to stop him from keeping you safe.”

She nodded slowly, a tremor running through her shoulders. “He lied to me… said he was going to his study. When I woke up and he wasn’t there, I thought maybe he’d gone to the library after working… Feeling him die was the worst moment of my life. I still can’t explain how I felt that…”

“Can’t you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “You were bonded when you married. Your lives tied together until death. When he died… that bond shattered. You felt it break. He was your true love, Hermione. You were connected on a soul level.”

She swallowed hard, her whole body stiff, because she knew he was right. She felt it in her marrow—the piece of her he took with him, a piece she’d never get back.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I feel like loving me cursed him. If he’d just married a pureblood… none of this would’ve happened…”

“Your babies,” portrait!Draco insisted, his painted eyes burning. “They were worth the price he paid. Nothing will ever convince me otherwise.”

She hesitated, her lips trembling. Only Lucius had ever heard her say her most horrible truth out loud before.

“I love my children. They’re lights in my dull, grey world. But… I’m sorry, the price of losing him wasn’t one I would willingly pay again. If I had to do it all over… I’d choose him over having them. Every time.”

He went quiet, just watching her. Something seemed to shift behind his eyes, a storm she couldn’t read.

Finally, he asked, “If I gave you the option to bring Draco back right now, trading their lives for his, who would you choose?”

Her whole body went still. Her breath caught painfully in her throat. For a moment, she felt like she might actually vomit. The question sliced through her, a cruel, impossible choice she’d replayed in her nightmares.

Her mind flooded with images—Draco’s laugh, his hands on her skin, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world. The feeling of safety, the overwhelming love that had once been her whole universe.

Then—the twins. Their tiny hands gripping her finger, the warmth of their weight against her chest, the way they calmed when they heard her voice.

She felt torn in two. Part of her screamed for Draco, for the man she would always love beyond reason. But another part, the raw, instinctive part of her, knew. Even in her deepest grief, even in the hollow space where love for them sometimes felt out of reach, they were her center of gravity now. They were her future.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling, as the truth rose up sharp and clear.

“My children,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the words.

“Remind yourself of that when you call yourself a bad mother… You love them completely, even if your grief clouds it. They are still the most important thing to you. And they were to him, too,” portrait!Draco said firmly.

She broke then, fully. Sobs ripped out of her, violent and unstoppable, her whole body collapsing forward as if her spine had vanished. She slid off the chaise and crumpled to the floor, her shoulders shaking so hard she almost retched. Draco’s portrait watched helplessly for a few long moments before shifting slightly out of frame, turning his head and murmuring something she couldn’t hear.

A minute later, she felt strong arms scoop her up off the cold floor. Theo. His warmth swallowed her immediately, and she clung to him, her fingers fisting in his shirt as her tears soaked through to his skin. He tried to walk her out, but her knees buckled over and over, her feet dragging uselessly beneath her. Finally, he just lifted her fully into his arms, carrying her like a child.

He shut the wardrobe door behind them with his heel and carried her to the bed, laying her down gently. Then he climbed in beside her without a word, pulling her across his chest. His arms wrapped around her like a barricade, shielding her from the world.

She cried and cried, her fists curling into his shirt, her face pressed into his neck. He made low, soothing sounds, rubbing circles into her back, whispering against her hair that she was safe, that it was okay to let it out. She couldn’t form words, only sounds and gasps, everything she’d shoved down finally clawing its way out.

What Draco’s portrait said both healed her and tore her open. She needed the reassurance that she wasn’t a terrible mother, even if she still felt like one.

She still nursed the babies as much as she could, but she hated it. Every latch felt like glass against her already sore, cracked skin. The ache in her chest never really left, and she dreaded every feeding session. She couldn’t wait for the healer’s approval to switch to formula, though pumping wasn’t much better. It felt endless, mechanical, like she was nothing but a vessel.

But it wasn’t just her body. The hardest part was that cavern inside her where the bond should have been. The empty echo instead of warmth. It wasn’t the babies, it was her.

Molly had taught her how to handle them properly, shown her the gentle tricks to soothe them. Pansy, Ginny, Theo, and Lucius all rotated in, ready to pick up the pieces she kept dropping. No one pressured her. No one made her feel worse. But inside, she punished herself relentlessly, convinced she should already be “fixed.”

Lucius, especially, stunned her with how natural he was. He seemed to transform when he held the twins, incredibly gentle and patient with them, even playful, making funny faces with them. Sometimes she wondered maybe this was how he was with Draco when he was just a babe, or if he had allowed himself to be soft like that with just her children.

It sometimes made her smile. Other times, it punched another hole in her chest. Watching him connect so easily, while she felt like a stranger to her own children.

But Draco’s question… it cracked something open. It was all finally becoming clear; her babies were perfect, loving, innocent. It wasn’t them she struggled with. It was the impossible price she’d paid to have them.

It was excruciating to accept that losing Draco and gaining them were forever intertwined. One couldn’t exist without the other. 

Eventually, her sobs started to slow, her breath no longer hitching violently. She lay draped across Theo’s chest, her fingers digging into his side like she might float away if she let go.

After a few ragged breaths, she lifted her head, her face blotchy and wet. Theo’s sapphire eyes were fixed on her, wide and raw with worry.

He cupped her cheek gently, thumb wiping under her eye. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, though her whole body still trembled. “I’m sorry… I just lost it for a bit… Gods, I’m such a fucking mess.”

Theo shook his head firmly, pulling her head back down to rest on him, his fingers combing through her hair.

“You’re not a mess, darling.”

A small, broken huff of laughter escaped her.

“Okay, well… I don’t see you that way,” Theo added softly. “I think you’re surviving the worst pain imaginable. And you’re doing it the best you can.”

She swallowed hard, pressing her ear to his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

“Theo… how are you getting through this? I haven’t really asked. And I finally realize what an arse I’ve been for making it all about me.”

“Shush, this is about you, love. I’m okay,” he tried to brush it off, but she felt his fingers pause against her hair.

She shook her head and shifted to face him, eyes sharp and intent.

“Tell me. Please. Tell me everything you’ve been holding back. I can take it,” she urged, her voice low, unwavering.

He looked torn, his jaw working, as if he was fighting himself. His fingers fidgeted with the blanket, picking at a loose thread. But she stared him down fiercely, her eyes demanding the truth, until he finally gave in.

“It’s fucking hard… I had all these months to prepare, but I refused to believe the prophecy would come to pass… Draco’s always been the strongest person I’ve ever known. So fierce and in control… He always knew what to do. I was always soft—it’s why my father hated me so much… I didn’t want to believe he could fall. And then he did, and my world shattered… and so did yours.”

Hermione frowned, her brows pulling tight. She reached over, her hand finding his shoulder, fingers squeezing firmly, trying to ground him.

“He wasn’t infallible, Theo. He was just a man at the end of the day,” she said, her voice gentle.

“No… He was more than that. He was a dragon. A force. What he did that night was extraordinary, nearly impossible. He took on so many Death Eaters at once… he should have died in the first few minutes. And if I had been there, he wouldn’t have died at all. I would have made sure of it. But he didn’t tell me he was leaving, only Lucius and his portrait. He didn’t want me there…I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him for that.”

“I think he was trying to save your soul, Theo,” she said quietly, her thumb rubbing slow circles into his arm.

“Well, he cursed me to feel this guilt the rest of my life instead,” Theo spat, his voice sharp, almost breaking.

“I think he cursed us both…” Hermione murmured.

“But that’s the thing. I would have made sure he came back to you. You wouldn’t be in this bed with me right now, having cried yourself out like that,” Theo insisted, his voice rough, frustration bleeding into each word.

“You really think I wouldn’t have grieved you just as deeply if you had fallen instead of him?” Hermione asked, her brows furrowed tight, her voice raw.

He sighed, looking away for a moment, then tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers shaking slightly. “I know you would have grieved, but it would have been different. You know that.”

She shook her head, refusing to agree. “It still would have broken me. You’re so important to me… to Draco too. He would have been shattered.”

“But he would have had you. He would have had his children. His life carried more weight than mine. He made the wrong choice sparing me…”

Hermione watched him carefully, seeing the way his face crumpled, the guilt carved into every line. She felt it all—his pain, his self-loathing. And for the first time, her own grief didn’t drown out everyone else’s. She could see his clearly.

“Listen to me, Theodore,” she said, her voice dropping low, firm as steel. She leaned forward, forcing his eyes back to hers. “You are important. Your life matters just as much as anyone else’s. Draco loved you deeply. He didn’t want you to carry the burden of killing for him. We both need to honor that choice now. If only because he’s gone, and there’s no changing it. Living as half a person doesn’t honor him—we both have to find a way to move forward.”

She reached up, her thumbs brushing tears off his cheeks, her hands cupping his face gently. For the first time, she saw all the raw, unguarded pieces of him, the mask gone. It cracked her open all over again, her own tears rising to match his.

He folded into her then, collapsing against her shoulder as they both shifted to lay on their sides facing each other. She wrapped her arms around him, fingers threading into his hair, holding him like she’d never let go. His sobs shook them both, the sound ragged and broken.

Grief was exhausting. It stripped you down to the bone, took everything, left you raw and jagged. The pieces never fit back together the same. You had to create something new out of them, a mosaic instead of the original whole.

Hermione prayed then, for her children, for her friends, for all of them, that somehow this mosaic could still be strong, still be beautiful, even with all the cracks and missing pieces.

Draco was gone. Truly gone. She understood it fully now. A part of her would always ache, always wonder what life might have been. But she couldn’t let herself become a ghost in her own life. Not when two small souls needed her so desperately.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled them under. They both drifted off like that, tangled together, too drained to move, with no more words left to utter what they were both feeling in that painful stretch of time. 

A gentle knock at the door woke her hours later. Lucius’s voice, soft through the door, asking if she was ready to feed the babies.

She stirred, blinking the dried tears from her lashes, looking down at Theo, who held on to her like he might vanish if he let go. She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“You stay. Rest,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

When she tried to leave, he grasped her tightly. She let out a quiet, breathy laugh and touched his shoulder.

“Babies can’t feed themselves, Theo,” she murmured, her voice teasing.

With a resigned sigh, he finally released her. Before she could shift away, though, he caught her arm again, his fingers curling tight around her forearm.

“Can I have his pillow? Just for a bit?” he asked, his voice small, almost shy.

She nodded without hesitation, ducking under the bed to pull it from its special bag. She’d charmed it to keep Draco’s scent exactly as it was. It was sacred, only brought out on her darkest nights.

Theo took it from her carefully, like it might break in his hands. He hugged it to his chest instantly, his shoulders relaxing a little as he sank back against the mattress. She slipped out of the room, leaving him there, clutching that last piece of Draco.

Lucius waited for her in the hall, and when she stepped outside the room and closed the door, he offered his arm without a word. She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they started down the corridor together, the quiet between them comfortable.

“Was Theo in there with you?” he asked softly, his voice low, careful.

“Yes.”

He nodded, a tiny motion, but she filled the silence anyway.

“I had an episode. Finally talked to his portrait. Fell apart… Theo came to help. We both ended up a mess. Gods, this grief is exhausting.”

“I know, my dear. I can only face it in small doses myself.” His voice was so even it almost sounded cold, but she knew it wasn’t.

“You Malfoys and your bloody Occlumency,” she scoffed lightly, a bitter humor slipping into her voice. “My therapist would say compartmentalizing isn’t healthy.”

Lucius raised a brow, an amused glint in his eye. “Since when are you an advocate for open emotional expression?”

She let out a long sigh, her fingers tightening a little on his arm. “I don’t know… maybe since a few hours ago. We should talk more about this grief, Lucius.”

They paused in front of the nursery door. He turned his head just slightly toward her.

“You’re always welcome to talk to me about anything,” he said simply.

“I know that. Same goes for you,” she replied.

He didn’t take the bait. Instead, he rolled his eyes and gave a dismissive huff. “I’m fine, Hermione. It’s you I worry about.”

“Don’t worry so much about me. I’m still here, despite it all… I’ll be okay someday… I actually have some faith in that now.”

“Truly?” he asked, a note of skepticism lacing the single word.

“Yeah… I think I had an epiphany tonight.”

“Don’t tell me Nott is responsible for this newfound optimism,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “No. It was… everything. Everyone. Don’t worry, Lucius—you’re still my number one confidant.”

“I didn’t say I was worried,” he said, almost indignant.

“You didn’t have to,” she shot back with a small smirk. “I can see it all over your face.”

It meant everything to her, how much Lucius cared. How he stepped in, quietly, without fanfare, trying to fill some of the gaps Draco had left behind. She knew he liked this new closeness with her—and, if she was honest, she did too. Lucius was her rock now, the steady presence she leaned on when her mind felt like shattered glass.

Out of everyone, he understood her best. He could read her before she even opened her mouth. It fascinated her, considering who he had once been to her—the sharp, cold man she had despised and feared. Maybe it was his age that earned him such emotional intelligence. Maybe it came from loss. Or maybe, she realized, it just had always been in him.

She saw flashes of that same jealousy Draco had carried toward Theo, shimmering just beneath Lucius’s surface now. But she didn’t give it much thought. She hadn’t cared when Draco did it, and she wouldn’t start caring now. All the important men around her always seemed to want to claim pieces of her. She was used to it by now.

Hermione opened the nursery door and found Ginny and Pansy in rocking chairs, each cooing down at a twin. Their smiles softened the room instantly.

The nursery was warm and bright, animal-themed, with soft yellows and light blues everywhere. Painted monkeys, giraffes, and other creatures danced across the walls, and the large safari portrait adorned the walls in the center of the room, so that portraits of family members could come and pay a visit to the children. 

Pansy stood and handed Scorpius over as Hermione settled into her chair.

“He’s a wee hungry one today. Went through all the milk you had pumped,” Pansy said, mussing his hair before kissing him lightly and moving to another chair.

Hermione adjusted her dress, got Scorpius latched, and leaned back, trying to relax as her baby fed. Lucius took Cassie from Ginny, bouncing her gently, his low coos tender and sweet. He always looked away or left the room when Hermione nursed. She’d teased him, but he never budged, a gentleman to a fault.

Ginny yawned and stretched. “I’m going to take a nap. Who’s on night duty?”

Mippy popped in, her big ears twitching. “I takes it, Missus Potter. I stays with them tonight. I’s thaw Lady Malfoy’s milk so she can sleep.”

Ginny smiled. “Thanks, Mippy. I’m going home, then. Good night!”

“Night, Ginny,” Hermione echoed, waving, already making a note to check in with her and Harry tomorrow about what Draco’s portrait had mentioned.

“You look like you’re doing better,” Pansy commented after Ginny left for the floo.

“Just a bit,” Hermione said quietly. “I think we should hire a full-time nanny, Lucius. It’s not fair to keep relying on my friends like this.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, sitting back with a dramatic huff. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. Those two angels make it worth every minute.”

“Yes, but you and Ginny have your own lives. Husbands to be with.”

Pansy snorted. “Neville’s not officially my husband yet.”

“He might as well be. Why are you two dragging this out?” Hermione asked bluntly.

Pansy scoffed. “With everything going on? When exactly am I supposed to plan a wedding?”

“Now. Have it here if you want. I’ll pay for it,” Hermione offered without hesitation.

Pansy glanced at Lucius, who gave a vague, noncommittal nod, still focused on Cassie.

“I don’t think Neville would like that,” Pansy said finally. “He’s annoyingly proud. He’s been saving since he started at M.E. so we could have the kind of wedding I’d want—no old family money, just ours.”

Hermione shrugged. “I’ll talk to him. Guilt him into it. Use my widow status as leverage. He won’t stand a chance.”

Pansy smirked, her eyes lighting up. “Gods, I love how much of a snake you’ve become. Can hardly see the Gryffindor in you anymore.”

Hermione let out a long exhale. “It’s exhausting being noble and righteous all the time. I don’t have the energy for it anymore.”

Lucius finally chimed in then, still bouncing Cassie, not even looking up. “You’re still a Gryffindor at heart. You don’t fool me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, Lucy.”

“Salazar, call me anything but that,” he grumbled. “It’s enough that Theodore refuses to call me anything else. Maddening really.”

Hermione and Pansy burst into laughter.

“Apologies, Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione corrected cheekily.

Lucius sighed but didn’t argue further.

“Pansy, go rest. I’ve got them,” Hermione urged gently.

Pansy nodded, leaning in to kiss Scorpius’s head. “Good night, little Draco.” She squeezed Hermione’s arm before slipping out.

When Scorpius finished feeding and she successfully burped him—his tiny back warm and solid under her palm, the soft, milky scent rising up between them—Hermione asked Lucius to switch. He moved carefully, handing Cassie over and taking Scorpius while staring anywhere but her chest, which made her snort.

“Lucius, I’m sure you’ve seen more than your fair share of tits. Do get over yourself,” she scolded, a smirk playing at her lips.

He cleared his throat, settling Scorpius in his arms and gazing down at the baby’s face as though he held the entire universe there.

“I am only attempting to allow you a modicum of dignity, Lady Malfoy,” he said primly.

Hermione scoffed. “I think ‘Lady Malfoy’ is somehow worse than Lucy.” She caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I can’t imagine Draco never called you that,” he mused.

“Only when he was being cheeky. Usually it was ‘darling,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘love.’ Sometimes my actual name when he was serious… or just ‘wife.’”

Lucius was quiet for a long moment, his eyes far away. Then he spoke, almost to himself. “I called Narcissa my beloved flower, my queen… my Persephone.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Were you her Hades?”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Yes.”

Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten, an odd mix of sorrow and curiosity she didn’t quite know how to hold.

Hermione turned the endearments over in her head. Persephone and Hades… the girl stolen into the underworld, forced into darkness, yet finding a strange kind of power there. It wasn’t lost on her the idea of being pulled into someone’s shadows, choosing to stay despite the cost. Was that love? Or captivity dressed up as devotion? Maybe it was both. Maybe that was the kind of love Lucius had shared with Narcissa—consuming, binding, something that changed them both forever. She wondered if, on some level, that was what she had with Draco, too, and if that was why nothing else could ever come close.

“Were you soft with her? Like Draco was with me?” she asked, voice low.

Lucius paused, gaze dropping to Scorpius’s downy hair as he stroked it slowly. “In many ways, yes.”

“And in what ways weren’t you?”

He didn’t look at her then. Just kept smoothing the baby’s hair, his expression distant. “In ways that were just between us. Draco only ever saw the tenderness, how I doted on her—and that was real… But there were darker, more possessive sides of my personality that I couldn’t always push down…Marriages are complex and layered, as I am sure you came to realize with my son.”

Hermione furrowed her brows, curiosity burning under her skin, making her want to understand more of what he meant, but she decided—just for now—to let it go.

When she was done feeding, Lucius helped her swaddle the twins. They laid them down in the same crib; they always slept better together, curled into each other’s warmth. Hermione stood there a moment longer, watching them breathe, tiny chests rising and falling. That flicker of maternal instinct she’d been waiting for felt like she could almost touch it now. Feel the shape of it. 

Lucius leaned down, kissed each baby softly. “Sleep well, my treasures,” he murmured.

They stepped out of the nursery quietly. He walked her back to her room, guided her all the way to her door. Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before bidding her a good night and disapparating away.

Inside, she found Theo already fast asleep on his side, arms locked tight around Draco’s pillow like it was a lifeline. She slipped in behind him, sliding her arm over his waist, her forehead resting between his shoulder blades. He instinctively reached down, catching her hand, holding it.

Sleepily, he mumbled, “They ate okay?”

“Yes. Their bellies are full,” she whispered.

“That’s good,” he murmured, voice fading, then after a pause, “Your massive tits feel divine against my back.”

She let out a breathy laugh and pinched his side. He flinched and swore under his breath.

“I hate how heavy they are now. Always sore, nipples raw. Why do women act like breastfeeding is this magical experience?” she muttered.

“Is it not?” he asked, half teasing, half serious.

She sighed deeply. “There are nice parts, I guess. Feeding them does help me feel more connected. But most of the time? I just feel like a milk machine. I miss my breasts being mine.”

“No one’s forcing you to keep breastfeeding forever, darling. They’re strong little snakes. They’ll be fine either way,” he reassured her quietly.

Hermione nodded, even though the guilt still buzzed beneath her skin. Six months minimum, all the books recommended. Six long months…She’d have to just take it month by month, see if she could make it that long. She hoped she could. 

At least her body was starting to feel familiar again. Her belly still had a slight bump, but most of the weight had dropped fast. The potions and charms helped fade the few stretch marks she’d acquired. Being young helped too; she bounced back much faster than she expected.

It made her ache that Draco would never see her like this again. She thought of the last day, the memories, thoughts, and feelings that he’d shown her, the way he loved every version of her so thoroughly, even when she didn’t. It was a love so deep she could barely breathe when she remembered it.

It was part of the reason why she could never see herself remarrying. Who could love her like that? How could she ever accept less?

“Theo?”

“Mmm?” he groaned, half gone already.

“Do you love Tori like Draco loved me?”

He was silent for a long time before answering. “I do love her quite a lot. She’s special to me… but no, I don’t think I love her that deeply yet. The way Draco loved you was…overwhelming.”

She closed her eyes, forcing herself not to cry again.

“I reckon I loved him like he loved you, though,” Theo added softly, almost ashamed.

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s part of why I needed space from Tori…She deserves someone who can love her like that.”

“Not all love has to be all-consuming, Theo. It can be gentle and grow with time.”

“I know… I guess I’m just scared.”

“Of what?” she asked.

“Of hurting her. Hurting myself…Losing her one day.”

“You’ll have more time with her than I had with Draco,” she said quietly.

Theo sighed, his shoulders rising and falling. “I need more time to feel ready again. My heart feels closed off right now.”

She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. “I understand.”

“Planning on being the big spoon all night?” he asked after a pause.

“Yeah. It’s nice being your rucksack,” she teased, a small grin flickering. “Besides, whenever you sleep in my bed and hold me, your morning stiffy always ends up pressed against my arse. I don’t know how you stuff that thing into your trousers. It’s far too big.”

“My pecker is only a couple inches bigger than Draco’s was,” he grumbled.

“A couple of inches makes a big difference when he was already above average.”

“And how would you know? You’ve only seen one other cock. How big was Weasley’s?”

“Solidly average,” she said flatly.

“Bet he was easy to suck off,” Theo muttered.

She rolled her eyes. “Pansy should be in this conversation. She’d have plenty more to say on the topic.”

He scoffed. “She hardly ever wanted to suck me off when we shagged. Total pillow princess.”

“Maybe she didn’t want lockjaw for a week afterward,” Hermione fired back.

He groaned but didn’t argue, just grumbled into the pillow.

She tried to close her eyes then, but her mind spun—Evelyn’s words, the confrontation with the portrait, Theo’s tears, the babies, Lucius’s quiet steadiness. All of it churned inside her, heavy and raw.

When sleep finally dragged her under, she dreamed of Draco. It was warm, soft, the kind of dream that felt more real than waking life. His arms around her, his voice low in her ear, that look on his face that told her she was his whole world. For a few stolen hours, she was back in that safe place, loved and whole.

But when she woke in the morning and reached for him, her fingers found only cold sheets. The reality hit her like a punch to the gut, like it did every morning. The emptiness beside her was louder than any scream, and the grief slammed into her—sharp, unforgiving.

The tears came fast, unstoppable, soaking the pillow beneath her cheek. She curled in on herself, clutching the blanket, trying to breathe through the pain. It didn’t matter how much time passed, how many small steps forward she took, that first moment of the morning always broke her.

The ache in her chest was as sharp and fresh as the day he died. And she hated it. Hated that she still hoped, even for a second, that he’d be there. Hated that she still felt like she might never truly come back from this.

But beneath it all, somewhere deep, she still wanted to try. Because even if she knew she would always carry this pain, even if she knew the wound would never fully close, she also knew there were two small souls down the hall who needed her to get up. Two tiny heartbeats that were half him, half her, waiting for her to choose life again. She hoped that if she kept trying, one morning, she’d reach across the bed and the ache wouldn’t feel quite so unbearable. That she’d learn to live alongside the grief, instead of inside it.

Chapter Text

Hermione Malfoy was frustrated. Actually, “frustrated” barely scratched the surface of what she felt lately.

The twins were now three months old, and though she had finally settled into motherhood—found a bit of steadiness in it—new things had begun to gnaw at her.

Her depression had started to lift. The bone-deep grief wasn’t gone, but it had shifted, become something she’s started to carry with her instead of something that crushed her. She was learning to find small pockets of joy again—her children’s first gummy smiles, their soft coos, the tiny feet that kicked at her chest when she held them close. The way her friends could make her laugh without her forcing it. Theo finally seeing Astoria again. The babies grabbing at Lucius’s hair, absolutely fascinated by the silky pale strands, even more so than by her own wild curls.

There were things to smile about again. And with the fog clearing, something else crept back in—something that nearly drove her mad.

Desire.

It felt intrusive, sharp, and constant. Once she wasn’t drowning in grief, she remembered she was still a young woman. A woman who was used to being touched, adored, and ruined in the best ways on a daily basis.

By Draco. Her dead husband. Gods, that truth always hit her like a blade between the ribs.

Before Draco, she hadn’t been particularly lustful. War didn’t leave much space for indulgence, and she’d always been more focused on books growing up than indulging in teenage hormones. Of course, she’d become acquainted with her body after puberty, known how to get herself off when she needed the release. But after Draco died, she never quite managed to get herself there again. Her fingers felt foreign against her skin, never long enough or strong enough to reach the places Draco could.

The first time she tried, she broke down sobbing. Another brutal reminder of what she had lost. Another small, cruel theft in the long list of things taken from her.

Draco made her feel like a goddess. Wanted, worshipped. And fuck, he knew how to make her see stars. There were nights they’d go at it for hours, drift off to sleep, then wake each other up again and start all over. He was insatiable, and with him, she had been too, his desire awakening something within her she didn’t know she was capable of. She missed his hands, his mouth, his tongue—but most of all, his bloody perfect cock.

She started dreaming of him. Dreams so vivid she woke trembling, her thighs slick, her heart pounding like she’d run a marathon. In them, he touched her the way only he knew how—warm hands gripping her hips, mouth trailing worshipful kisses down her neck, breath hot against her skin as he whispered how much he adored her. She felt the press of his body pinning her down, the delicious stretch of him inside her, the low, rough groans that only she ever heard. Sometimes in her dreams, he murmured filthy things in her ear, words that used to set her on fire. In those dreams, she was whole again—loved so fiercely she felt it in her bones.

The most recent dream, however, had ended up being mortifying. Draco had her pinned to their bed at the château, his mouth on her neck, his voice low and ragged as he praised her, telling her how perfect she felt, how beautiful she looked falling apart for him. She could feel every inch of him—the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness she craved. His hands dug into her hips, holding her still as he thrust into her, relentless and deep, her legs shaking around him as she shattered again and again.

She woke mid-orgasm, moaning, her body trembling violently. With dawning horror, she realized she was grinding desperately against Theo’s warm hand—a hand she’d somehow dragged between her legs and held there in a tight, needy grip.

She let go at once, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat. Her cheeks burned hot as she started apologizing in a rush, her voice small and cracking as tears welled.

“I’m so sorry… gods, Theo, I didn’t mean—I don’t know what—”

Theo reacted instantly, catching her arm before she could pull away completely. He sat up a bit, shifting closer, his arm sliding around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest.

“Hey… hey, shhh. It’s alright,” he murmured, his voice calm and steady. “It was nothing, truly nothing.”

She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into his shirt, her forehead pressing against his collarbone as she tried to catch her breath.

“I promise. It’s alright, darling,” he reassured her, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles on her back. 

She let out a shaky exhale, her shoulders slumping as the embarrassment still prickled under her skin, but the sharp edge of panic started to ease.

Then he tilted her chin up, wiping away the tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes. His expression was soft, open, with no trace of judgment anywhere.

He pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to her lips, a quiet comfort rather than anything else, before resting his forehead against hers.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “It’s okay, really.”

She let out another small breath, nodding. He guided her back down beside him, curling around her protectively, his hand finding hers again and holding it tight. She felt her heartbeat finally start to slow as she drifted back into sleep, his warmth steady and helping her come down from her nerves and intense embarrassment.

The next morning, they both agreed that he shouldn’t slip into her bed anymore and that he needed to stop avoiding Astoria—it had been long enough. Their codependence had to come to an end to avoid any further uncomfortable situations between them. Theo joked that she was lucky the unbreakable vow had broken when Draco died, or she would’ve killed him that night. She swatted him for the comment, feeling even worse about herself afterward.

The day after, she found a wrapped gift on her bed. The card read simply: Enjoy. Love, Pansy and Theo.

Inside was a pink wizarding version of a vibrator, sleek and absurdly phallic. She turned scarlet just looking at it, embarrassment burning all the way down her neck. But that night, after pacing for nearly an hour, she finally gave in and used it.

It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same. But it helped. Took the sharp edge off just enough that she could finally focus again.

And her next order of business, now that she was less constantly weepy and more herself, was getting Kingsley to formally lift Lucius’s house arrest terms. The thought had struck her recently while discussing with Lucius the possibility of finally visiting the private island Draco had purchased for her. She knew that Harry technically had the authority to allow Lucius to travel, but she worried about the future—what would happen when Kingsley’s term ended and a new Minister took over? She didn’t want to risk losing the opportunity or the leverage she had now.

She dressed for war. Her sharpest, most elegant two-piece skirt suit in a deep emerald green. Stiletto heels that clicked decisively against the manor’s marble floors. She fastened an obscenely expensive emerald and diamond brooch on her jacket that Lucius had lent her from the family vaults, and paired the look with the diamond necklace and earrings Draco had gifted her for his birthday gala—a lifetime ago, it felt.

Hermione had Pansy straighten her curls and arrange her hair into a sleek updo, securing it with delicate bejeweled pins. When she finished her makeup and finally stepped back to look in the mirror, she saw a woman who looked every inch the powerful Malfoy widow—poised, sharp, untouchable.

A faint smile curved her lips. She looked the part. Today, she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

She arranged a formal private hearing with Kingsley and the most senior members of the Wizengamot. Lucius, of course, was in attendance, and she brought Harry and Ginny as character witnesses to further tip the scales.

As she stepped into the corridor outside the courtroom, she felt a tight buzz of anxiety low in her belly. It had been months since she’d been outside the manor—before that, the château. The last time she’d faced so many eyes had been at the funeral, which thank bloody fuck that Lucius had been able to keep The Prophet from publishing anything she said that day under threat of pulling his considerable advertising galleons. 

The courtroom was smaller than the grand public chambers, designed for confidential hearings. Twelve senior members sat in a semicircle on a raised dais, Kingsley at the center in deep violet robes, his expression unreadable. There was no press. No curious onlookers. Just Lucius, Harry, Ginny, and herself.

Lucius sat behind her with Harry and Ginny, a silent wall of support. Hermione stepped forward alone to the speaker’s platform, head high.

The Chief Warlock rose and cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Malfoy. You have petitioned this court to review the terms of Mr. Lucius Malfoy’s house arrest. We granted this exceptional hearing as a courtesy to you, given your contributions to our society, but understand that this is highly irregular and not commonly granted after sentencing has been passed. Nevertheless, the floor is yours.”

Hermione took in the semicircle of faces before her, some sympathetic, others openly skeptical, even suspicious. A few looked at her like she was a foolish young widow, blind to her family’s dark past. But there were more open faces than not. Kingsley’s presence alone was a powerful tool on her side.

She inhaled deeply.

“Honored members of the Wizengamot, thank you for allowing me this time today. I come to you not just as a widow, not just as a mother, or as a member of the so-called Golden Trio, but as a citizen and an advocate for justice.

My father-in-law, Lucius Malfoy, is not a perfect man. I will not insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise. He has made grievous mistakes—mistakes that have harmed many, myself included. My friends, who stand with me today, have suffered because of his past. We do not deny this. But the man he is today is not the man he once was.

Through his generosity, I have had the resources to donate millions of galleons to vital charities and causes—funding hospitals, rebuilding war-torn communities, supporting orphan relief. He has personally funded critical reconstruction projects, including rebuilding parts of this very Ministry. The same halls you walk each day, the same offices you sit in—they stand in part because of his contributions.”

She paused, letting her words sink in. She watched as some shifted in their seats, glancing sidelong at each other, her words reminding them of just how intertwined Lucius’s money was with the post-war rebuilding effort, and to their own salaries.

Hermione’s gaze swept over them again, unwavering.

“And on a personal note… You all know of my husband’s sacrifice. Draco Malfoy—once branded a Death Eater, who died single-handedly dismantling the New Dark Order and saving countless lives. Without him, none of us would be standing here today. And yet, let me remind you—I was urged by this very Ministry to marry him, to stabilize pureblood and muggleborn relations, to help heal the fractures of our post-war society. And he became the number one target because of it. The Malfoy family has indeed bled for the good of many.”

A ripple of discomfort spread through the chamber. She saw Kingsley shift, his expression almost a grimace.

“Lucius Malfoy has proven himself an upstanding member of our society. He is a devoted grandfather, dedicated to the future of his family and the future of this world. You will not find him plotting in shadows or seeking old allegiances.

Given all this, and in light of his documented behavior since the war, I formally request that Lucius Malfoy’s house arrest terms be fully rescinded and that he be granted an unconditional pardon effective immediately.”

The chamber fell into hushed whispers. Hermione let the silence stretch, her shoulders back, chin lifted.

Kingsley was staring at her, a smirk tugging at his lips, as though he wanted to applaud her for her audacity. She met his gaze evenly, and he shook his head faintly, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.

“If I may address the chamber,” came a deep voice.

Auror Robards—head of the Auror Department, Harry’s superior—rose slowly, his dark robes rustling. The room stilled instantly. All eyes turned to him.

“While I do commend you, Mrs. Malfoy, on all you have done to bring about peace in our world—and of course, you have my deepest sympathies for the passing of your husband—I must be frank,” Robards began, his tone clipped and formal. “Just because your father-in-law is obscenely wealthy and perceptive about where to throw his money does not mean he should get off completely scot-free for his past crimes against the wizarding world. He was a Death Eater before you were even born, Mrs. Malfoy. There are consequences to actions, and his have already been exceedingly lenient. Why should he have his final restrictions lifted barely two years into his sentence?”

Hermione regarded him with a cool, unimpressed stare. She visualized squashing him like a beetle beneath her stiletto for the ridiculous question. But she’d promised Lucius—no more public outbursts, not after the funeral. 

She drew in a steadying breath, straightened her spine, and stepped forward.

“Thank you for your question, Auror Robards. I see your point, but I urge you to consider this instead: because I am asking you to.”

Gasps echoed faintly around the room. Robards’s eyes narrowed.

Hermione pressed on, her voice low but firm, her words slicing cleanly through the tension.

“I have given blood, sweat, and more tears than you can imagine so that you all can sleep soundly at night. So has my dear friend Harry Potter here behind me. If we hadn’t hunted and destroyed every Horcrux, none of us would be standing here today. And if Lucius Malfoy hadn’t quietly preserved critical parts of this Ministry from the inside while it was infiltrated by madmen, you wouldn’t have a place to sit either.

He risked his life every single day to help protect us. My husband gave his life to protect me, to protect this world, to protect his children,” she added, turning to glance at Lucius. Their eyes met, and she saw something she’d never expected in him—genuine warmth and gratitude.

Robards’s frown deepened, but he said nothing more and sank slowly back into his seat.

Hermione turned back to the others, her chin lifted.

“Lucius Malfoy is not a threat to this society. He does not deserve to continue living under a punishment that no longer serves justice. I implore you to take my word—and his actions—as evidence that he deserves a full pardon. You have in front of you signed statements from Harry and Ginerva Potter, testifying to his character and supporting my request.”

She watched as parchment shuffled and quills scratched. Several members nodded thoughtfully, heads bent over the statements.

After a tense pause, Kingsley stood.

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy, for your testimony and for addressing the court.” Hermione nodded and returned to her seat, heart pounding in her throat.

Kingsley’s deep voice carried easily across the chamber.

“I would like to formally express my personal agreement with Mrs. Malfoy’s request. I consider Lucius Malfoy a comrade and can personally attest to his character. There is no longer a justifiable reason to continue monitoring or restricting him. I support a full and unconditional pardon and call for a binding vote to be taken here today.”

He looked around the chamber. “All those in favor of granting Lucius Abraxas Malfoy a full pardon?”

Hermione held her breath.

Kingsley’s hand went up first, steady and sure. One by one, seven others followed—some confidently, some begrudgingly. Robards remained still, his hand firmly at his side.

“It would appear the ayes have it,” Kingsley said with a faint, satisfied smile, flicking his gaze to Hermione before lowering his hand.

The Chief Warlock turned to Lucius.

“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, please rise and approach.”

Lucius stood with quiet grace, stepping forward until he stood beside Hermione. She shot him a quick, encouraging smile. He gave her a small, conspiratorial smirk in return before facing the dais.

“Do you swear to abide by all laws of the wizarding world and the Ministry?”

“I do,” Lucius answered firmly.

“Do you swear never to consort with dark factions or seek power through nefarious means again?”

“I swear it.”

“Are you aware that the reputations of this Ministry, your daughter-in-law, and Auror Potter and his wife are on the line should you falter?”

Lucius’s eyes flicked briefly to Hermione, then to Harry and Ginny. “I am aware and hold the reputations of those mentioned—as well as my own family line—in the highest regard.”

The Chief Warlock nodded solemnly.

“In accordance with today’s vote and with the full support of Minister Shacklebolt, this court grants you a complete and unrestricted pardon. Effective immediately, your magic and your movements will no longer be monitored. You are free to move about and, should you choose, to seek employment within the Ministry.

This court is now adjourned.”

The Chief Warlock stamped the parchment with finality, stood, and swept from the room without a backward glance.

Hermione’s shoulders dropped, relief flooding her veins. She turned to Lucius with a broad, genuine grin and launched forward, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.

He stiffened at first—clearly not accustomed to public affection—but after a moment, he softened. His arms came around her, one hand bracing gently on her back, the other pressing lightly against her shoulder blade. He leaned in, forehead brushing hers.

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmured, voice low and unguarded. “For doing this for me.”

She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, noting the way they seemed lighter than she’d ever seen them before.

“Of course. You deserve it,” she replied quietly, her hand squeezing his arm.

For a fleeting moment, something flickered between them—unspoken, heavy—before Harry and Ginny stepped up, breaking the spell.

“Well done, ’Mione,” Harry said, throwing an arm around her shoulders after Lucius let go. “You were brilliant up there.”

Ginny slipped an arm around her waist. “Yeah, you absolutely eviscerated them. Remind me never to piss you off.”

Hermione laughed, squeezing them both.

Harry turned to Lucius, extending his hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy.”

Lucius accepted the handshake, looking almost hesitant.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter… Mrs. Potter. I can’t fully express my gratitude for standing beside me today, given our… complicated history.”

Ginny waved him off with a smirk. “Water under the bridge. Or I guess… water under the Chamber of Secrets.”

Lucius faltered. “Er… yes. Quite.”

Ginny’s smile softened as she stepped forward. “Don’t fret, Malfoy. You’re far from the only person who’s ever endangered me. I can never repay your family for Draco saving my life—and Harry’s. I’d say we’re even now.”

She held out her hand. Lucius hesitated, then accepted it with surprising gentleness.

“I daresay I never thought I’d respect a bunch of Gryffindors like this,” Lucius said, almost to himself, his voice low and thoughtful. His gaze shifted to Hermione, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Thank you again. All of you. And whether you care to hear it or not… I am truly sorry for my past transgressions. Thank you for allowing me a better future.”

He stepped back slightly, straightening. “If you’ll excuse me, I should speak with Minister Shacklebolt while I have the chance.”

They watched as he walked away toward Kingsley, his posture somehow freer, his steps lighter yet ever as commanding and elegant.

Ginny tugged Hermione forward, looping their fingers together as they turned to leave the chamber.

“That was nice of him to say. Did you tell him to apologize to us?” Ginny asked, peering curiously at Hermione.

“No… I really didn’t,” Hermione murmured, shaking her head slightly, still shocked herself that he had done it.

Ginny and Harry exchanged a glance, a silent conversation flashing between them that Hermione didn’t bother to decipher. Instead, her gaze drifted back across the chamber, where Lucius stood speaking with Kingsley and another official. Ginny gave her hand a little squeeze to snap her out of her trance.

“Harry and I were going to grab dinner. Care to join? Might be good for you—you know, actually being out in the world again,” Ginny suggested, her voice bright but gentle.

“Nadine is finishing her shift with the babies soon. I should probably head back,” Hermione started, her default excuse already halfway out of her mouth.

Ginny’s expression turned smug. “Pansy and Theo are taking over when she leaves. And before you even start, there’s plenty of frozen breast milk in stock, all labeled and ready. We’ve thought of everything, Hermione.”

Hermione hesitated, glancing once more toward Lucius. Another idea sparked. “Perhaps… I should take Lucius out instead. Celebrate properly. He hasn’t really been anywhere since the trial… Might lift his spirits.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged another look, this one longer, and finally they both nodded.

“Alright,” Ginny sighed, resigned. “I’ll stop by tomorrow morning. Pansy is driving me mental with these wedding details, and she wants a meeting with us bridesmaids about the bloody floral arrangements at the manor. You have to help me rein her in before I hex her.”

Hermione smirked. “The wedding is only a few weeks away. I think we can endure a few more floral freak-outs.”

“Easy for you to say! She barely vents to you—she knows you don’t care about the details,” Ginny complained, throwing her hands up.

Hermione gave her a sly grin. “Well, that sounds like a personal problem.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes in playful threat. Hermione just rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath.

“At least you have Evelyn to complain to,” Hermione added, arching a brow.

“She’s tired of hearing about it, too,” Ginny groaned, slumping her shoulders.

After some gentle nudging, Hermione had convinced both Ginny and Harry to start seeing Evelyn after everything that had happened. It had helped them tremendously, enough that Ginny even managed to rope Theo and Pansy into booking sessions. Lucius, however, had shut down the suggestion immediately, changing the subject so fast it had nearly given Hermione whiplash.

“Let’s get going before we lose our reservations, Gin,” Harry interjected, glancing at his watch.

“Alright, Potter. See you tomorrow, ‘Mione,” Ginny said, pulling Hermione into a tight hug that Hermione returned warmly.

Harry leaned in next, giving her a firm hug and a quick kiss on the cheek before guiding Ginny toward the floo.

Hermione turned back to the doorway, waiting as Lucius finally finished speaking with Kingsley and made his way toward her. He looked striking tonight, dark robes trimmed with subtle silver, a sharply tailored suit beneath, polished dragon-leather shoes that gleamed. He had left his hair down, long and silky, catching the light with each step.

For a fleeting second, Hermione imagined what his hair would look like braided, imagined sliding her fingers through it slowly… She blinked sharply, mentally scolding herself for even entertaining that thought.

Lucius approached with that ever-present faint smirk, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Did the Potters abandon you so quickly?”

“Er… yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “They had dinner reservations. I thought—well, since you’re finally a free man, maybe you’d like to have dinner with me instead? Celebrate being able to go wherever you like for once.”

He studied her face carefully, assessing her. After a beat, he gave a single nod.

“That sounds rather nice, actually. Anywhere in particular you had in mind?”

“Somewhere, Muggle, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not wake up to my face splashed on the Prophet tomorrow.”

He let out a low, amused chuckle. “I believe I can manage that. There’s a French restaurant in London I used to frequent with Narcissa.”

Her brows shot up. “You willingly went to Muggle restaurants before?”

“There’s much you don’t know about me, Hermione,” he replied with a hint of mischief. “And yes. I appreciate good food, no matter the source.”

“Do you even have Muggle money?” she challenged, arching a brow.

He rolled his eyes, a long-suffering sigh slipping past his lips. “And a century-old Muggle bank account to store it in. I’m worth almost as much as the queen in Muggle money.”

Her mouth fell open. She shook her head in disbelief as she turned toward the floo.

“I worry my children don’t stand a chance of not turning into spoiled brats… With sums like that, it feels like a losing battle,” she muttered, half to herself.

Lucius huffed a laugh but didn’t argue, simply reached out and offered his arm. Hermione slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and he guided her toward the floo with careful ease.

***

Lucius offered his arm as they stepped out of the floo into the cool evening air. Hermione slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow without hesitation.

At the apparition point, he paused to remove his formal outer robes. With a flick of his wand, he shrank them down and handed them to Hermione, who tucked them neatly into her handbag.

Beneath, he wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit and waistcoat. Without the heavy robes, he felt freer, less weighed down, more himself.

Hermione shed her emerald green jacket, revealing a soft ivory blouse that dipped enough to show her collarbones. His eyes flicked there for a fleeting second—pale, delicate skin catching the soft lamplight—before he forced them away and adjusted his diamond cufflinks instead.

The restaurant’s entrance glowed with warm golden light, and the maître d’ recognized him immediately, leading them inside without a word.

Inside, the dining room felt intimate and quiet, with crisp white linens, low candlelight, and a low hum of French spoken softly around them. The air smelled faintly of butter and fresh herbs.

Lucius pulled out her chair before taking his own across from her.

When the young waiter approached, Lucius didn’t bother glancing at the menu. His voice slipped into smooth, low French.

“Pour commencer, une douzaine d’huîtres fines de claire et la terrine de canard. Une salade d’endives à partager. Ensuite, le filet de bœuf Rossini pour moi, et le bar rôti aux agrumes pour madame. Pour finir, deux crèmes brûlées. Et pour le vin, une bouteille de Corton-Charlemagne Grand Cru, s’il vous plaît.”

The waiter nodded eagerly and hurried away.

Hermione watched him, her fingers drifting absently to the diamond necklace at her throat. With her hair pinned up, the long line of her neck was fully exposed—elegant and regal. He found his gaze lingering there for a moment longer than appropriate before tearing it away.

When their eyes met, she gave him a small, warm smile that softened the sharp lines of her face.

“I’ve never had oysters before,” she admitted softly.

“That doesn’t surprise me. Draco never cared for them. You’ve been practicing your French?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She waved her hand. “Sometimes with Theo. I can understand and read it more than I can actually speak it. My mastery of Latin helps, but learning languages was never a high priority for me. I learned Latin for spells, for utility, not for pleasure.”

He raised a brow at that. He had always assumed she somehow knew everything. It intrigued him to hear what she had actually chosen to prioritize.

“Tell me then,” he said, leaning back slightly. “What truly sparks your interest? If not languages, what did you hunger to know?”

She sighed, dropping her gaze for a moment before looking back up, her warm brown eyes meeting his cool grey ones.

“To be honest… my reputation as a swot was tied to being muggleborn. I wanted to learn everything I could to keep up, to survive. I didn’t grow up in this world—didn’t even know it existed until I was eleven. So I poured myself into learning anything that would help me fit in, help me succeed, help me become a proper witch. No time for languages when I was memorizing common spells before even stepping foot inside Hogwarts.”

Lucius frowned slightly, hearing that raw truth spoken plainly.

His old pureblood views—the ones that had been drilled into him from birth—prickled at the edges of his mind. He’d learned the slurs and disdain from his father before he could even hold a wand properly. And yet here she was, brilliant, powerful, resilient. In truth, he sometimes forgot she wasn’t a pureblood, and when he did remember, he found himself surprised that he didn’t care.

After Narcissa’s death, he had realized with brutal clarity how his old beliefs had cost him everything. His hatred for muggleborns had put his family in danger, had ultimately contributed to his wife’s death, and to Draco’s eventual downfall.

The irony of it all haunted him.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” he said finally, voice low, sincere. “I hadn’t realized how deeply that disadvantage cut.”

She shook her head quickly, dismissing the sentiment. “It’s fine. I don’t like to dwell on it.”

The waiter soon returned with the wine. He presented the label carefully for Lucius’s inspection. Lucius nodded once, and the waiter poured a small taste into his glass. Lucius lifted it, gave it a gentle swirl, inhaled, then took a measured sip before nodding again. The waiter then filled both their glasses.

Hermione took a small, cautious sip, her expression thoughtful, before her eyes softened.

“Do you like it?” Lucius asked, raising his own glass to study the pale gold liquid.

“It’s… nice,” she said lightly.

“Mmm,” he hummed, taking a slow sip. “I’d hope it’s more than just ‘nice.’ That bottle cost nearly a thousand pounds.”

She put her glass down, giving him an unimpressed look. “I already know you have more money than the muggle god, Lucius. You don’t need to flaunt it with me.”

Feisty little thing.

“You’re fairly filthy rich as well, darling,” he chuckled, swirling his glass again.

She smirked and lifted her wine again. “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me darling, you know.”

He paused for a beat, surprised it had slipped out, then simply inclined his head and took another sip, letting the faintest curve of amusement tug at his mouth.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Usually it’s just my dear, or Hermione. Mrs. Malfoy when you’re trying to take the piss.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps I’ll call you other things as well, just to switch it up, keep you on your toes,” he teased, already thinking of all the things he might call her. Little lioness was at the top of the list.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the grin that tugged at her lips.

The first course arrived then, and Hermione’s eyes widened at the elegant display of oysters on ice and the terrine de canard. Mippy had always prepared stunning meals at the manor, but Hermione tended to eat lightly, especially since the babies were born. She had lost her pregnancy weight so quickly that he had nearly commented on it more than once before deciding against it. She’d had softer curves when she was with Draco—when she was happy— and he preferred her that way, but she was still far too lovely for his peace of mind lately.

“Lucius, how do you expect me to eat all this and the other courses?” she asked, eyes wide.

“I’d imagine with silverware and your mouth closed as you chew,” he answered smoothly, a slight curl at the edge of his lips.

She frowned at him, and he let the smirk slip fully for just a moment.

“Alright then, how do I eat these? Pansy only told me which fork to use ages ago.”

He picked up an oyster, tilting it slightly. “You’ll want to loosen it carefully with the oyster fork, bring it to your lips, and take it in two small bites—savor it, don’t just gulp it down.”

She copied him, hesitantly at first, then her eyes went wide in surprise at the taste. “Wow… that’s actually quite delicious. Much better than it looks.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Oysters are one of my favorites,” he said, watching her more intently than he meant to.

She smirked at him. “For aphrodisiac reasons?”

He scoffed lightly. “Hardly. I don’t require overpriced shellfish to stoke desire.”

She laughed, unable to hide the genuine warmth on her face. It made something loosen in his chest in a way he hadn’t expected.

They continued, moving to the terrine. He demonstrated spreading it on a slice of baguette first; she mirrored him and let out a soft hum of approval after her first bite. He felt a strange, quiet satisfaction at her enjoyment.

“Everything is really delicious, Lucius. I can see why you used to come here so often,” she said between bites.

“Yes. The chef here earned a Michelin star,” he noted, tearing off a piece of baguette himself.

She tilted her head, intrigued. “How do you even know about such muggle things?”

“I told you—I enjoy the finer things in life, and some of them happen to be muggle. Like your favorite author, Jane Austen.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he replied simply.

He thought back to their first tea meeting with Draco. She’d been sharp, clever, never backing down—he’d respected her immediately. Narcissa had been all icy charm and gentle manipulation, not just a snake but a viper hidden under impeccable manners and grace; Hermione was all fire and blunt honesty. Before Draco died, she was warm, sun-bright, endlessly kind. After, she became volatile, haunted, broken open at the seams. But lately, he saw glimmers of her old self returning. It gave him a surprising, reluctant sense of hope.

She looked slightly surprised but not displeased. “Tell me your favorite muggle author, then,” she pressed, reaching for more terrine.

“I don’t have one particular favorite,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “But I am quite partial to Shakespeare—the author of your namesake.”

“My parents did like Shakespeare and The Winter’s Tale, ” she admitted, a small smile playing on her lips. “But they were also into Greek mythology. Bookworms, both of them.”

“Ah, so after the daughter of Helen of Troy, then,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Interesting choice, considering her story.”

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back a little. “Yes… she was supposed to marry Orestes, but got handed off to someone else instead. It all turned into a tangled mess of jealousy and revenge. In the end, she went back to Orestes anyway. Bit of a soap opera, really.”

Lucius arched an eyebrow, lips curling slightly in amusement. “Messy indeed. Quite a fate to name a child after.”

She shrugged, her eyes flicking briefly to her wine glass. “My mum thought it was romantic in its own way—a woman always being drawn back to her true match, no matter how twisted the path. I’m not sure I share that interpretation.”

“Perhaps your mother believed more in inevitability than choice,” he said quietly, fingers tapping the edge of his glass.

Hermione tilted her head, studying him. “Maybe. But I’ve always believed we make our own choices. Nothing is set in stone.”

Lucius hummed lowly. “I’ve come to believe more in fate than choice… that choice is rather an illusion. It’s the irony of my life.”

“So we’re just marionettes in someone’s cosmic play?” she challenged, brow arched.

“More or less,” he said simply. “Things come to pass as they must. Whether we fight or yield.”

She snorted softly, shaking her head. “I reject that entirely. Choice determines the board, the players. Your choice to switch sides, for example, changed everything. If you hadn’t, I might be visiting you in Azkaban right now instead of sharing oysters and duck terrine.”

“Would you be my jailer?” he asked with a smirk. 

“No…” she smiled, a small spark in her eyes. “I’d probably be interviewing you to advocate for prison reform.”

“See, you’re still a Gryffindor at heart,” he said, finishing his wine and pouring himself another glass, topping off hers as well.

She turned more serious then, her fingers brushing her glass. “How was your time there? It must have been… awful.”

He hesitated, the memories crawling back up his spine like a chill draft. He rarely thought of Azkaban, preferring to bury it deep beneath layers of Occlumency shields. But he rarely denied her an answer to anything she asked.

The waiter came to clear the plates, giving him a brief reprieve. After he left, Lucius finally answered.

“It was… cold. Dank. Depressing,” he began, his voice low and even. “I kept my Occlumency shields up constantly to survive. Even then, it was nearly impossible. The dementors… they stripped all life and humanity away. Left you a husk. I had to hold onto my happiest memories just to keep breathing. Shuffling them in my mind like a deck of cards.”

She looked sad for him then, her gaze softening in a way that made something tighten in his chest. Slowly, she reached across the table and took his hand, and he let her. It was a comfort he didn’t deserve— he had attacked her and her friends when they were just children. His punishment had been fair, and he knew it. But he regretted every piece of it, especially what it had cost his family.

“What memories did you think of?” she asked quietly.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “When I first met Narcissa. I was eight. She was already so proper and elegant. I was a scrawny, awkward child, and I remember thinking I had to grow up strong so I could marry her someday.”

“You were so young to be thinking of marriage already,” she said softly.

“It was always expected,” he explained. “Not officially arranged, but it was known. Our parents liked the idea of us paired off—two perfect, fair-haired heirs to the estate. Thank Salazar for that, otherwise I might have ended up with Bellatrix. She was always a vindictive psychopath.”

Hermione nodded, her thumb rubbing slowly over his knuckles. “Tell me another,” she encouraged.

He smirked faintly, a bit hesitant to answer her question. “Our wedding night…Mine and Narcissa’s.”

Her lips curved into a teasing grin. “Were you both virgins?”

“I wasn’t,” he replied simply.

“What a pity that you couldn’t wait for her,” she teased, letting go of his hand to pick up her wine glass and sip slowly.

Before he could retort, the waiter returned with the second course. Lucius took the time to serve her a portion of the endive salad, then himself.

She took a bite, looking at him curiously. “Why that memory? Aside from the obvious.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I had waited so many years for her. It nearly drove me mad to stay chaste during our official courtship. Things were different then… more traditional than for your generation. That night was the happiest of my life—until Draco was born. That memory, too, I replayed often to keep my sanity.”

She paused then, her voice dropping, hesitant. “You know… Draco was my first and only.” She took a resigned sip of wine. “Perhaps my last as well.”

His brows drew together. He had always assumed she would remarry someday, that she’d find love again. She was far too young to be alone forever. She deserved more than a lifetime as a widow. But her confession struck him deeper than expected.

She had given Draco everything—her innocence, her loyalty. He hadn’t realized she’d been a virgin before Draco. He had assumed she had been with the youngest Weasley boy, that it had been a messy teenage thing.

But it all made sense now. His son had possessed her completely in that one sacred way, in body and soul. It must have scratched a deep, possessive itch in Draco, as it had for Lucius with Narcissa.

Then, before he could stop himself, the question he had mulled for months slipped out.

“You and Theodore… there’s no chance of something sparking between you? You seem… very close.”

She frowned, taking another sip of wine, her expression unreadable. “Theo is one of my best friends. I love him dearly, but no. We were never… it wasn’t in the cards. Besides, he has Tori.”

“An ill-fated match indeed,” Lucius said quietly, thinking of her malediction.

She sighed. “What can you do when you fall in love? She’s a good match for him—patient, kind, gentle. She’s been in love with him for years. He deserves someone who sees the best in him. Who wants him completely.”

“Yes… I suppose after his infatuation with my son, it’s good that he finally has someone utterly devoted to him.”

She stilled, her brows raising slowly. “You knew about that?”

“I think anyone with eyes knew about that, Hermione,” he said simply, taking a slow sip of wine. “I sometimes wondered if Theo would convince my son to be with him out of sheer loyalty. Draco always had a soft spot for him.”

She gave a faint, sad smile. “Theo and Draco had a complicated relationship. Draco indulged him at times when they were young—I think he didn’t want to hurt Theo’s feelings. But as they got older, Draco realized he was only giving him crumbs, keeping him from moving on.”

Lucius raised a brow, tilting his head. “Are you saying that they—”

“Not all the way,” she interrupted, her voice quiet but clear. “But yes… a few times, when they were at Hogwarts.”

Lucius wasn’t entirely surprised by the confirmation that his son had allowed Theo certain intimacies. He had once caught them kissing in a hidden corner of the manor when they were boys—a fleeting moment he had dismissed at the time as youthful experimentation, the kind of clumsy curiosity boys sometimes shared before they understood themselves. But now, hearing it named so plainly, he felt a quiet, resigned understanding settle in his chest. It had been more than just a childish impulse; it had been something Draco had allowed over time as they grew up for Theo’s benefit—even if only in small, careful doses.

There was a heavy pause. Then Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze sharp as a blade.

“Out of curiosity… would you have accepted a queer son? Or would you have abused him and landed him in St. Mungo’s like Nott Sr. did?”

Lucius inhaled deeply, steadying himself. He already knew the answer to that.

“I never abused my son physically,” he said evenly.

“So… just emotionally, then?” Her tone was neutral, but it cut straight to the bone.

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “To a degree… yes. I thought I was toughening him up. I didn’t want to see him fail. You already know I regret that.”

She didn’t look away. “Answer my question.”

Bossy witch.

“I would have demanded that he marry a pureblood girl and provide an heir. Beyond that… I could have given a toss about where he stuck his prick afterward.”

She blinked, clearly surprised by the bluntness—but not offended. In fact, she seemed almost amused, or perhaps impressed at the crack in his polished veneer.

“Would you have let him get a divorce afterward?” she pressed.