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Chapter Text

(I)

Draco’s grey eyes roamed over his new wife. “What is that all over your face?”

Hermione appeared at the door threshold in a comfortable terry cloth robe, hair wrapped up in satin flexible rods, and face covered in some sort of white goop. She sneered. “Zinc oxide. You could use some on your pale arse.”

“You’re insisting on making yourself appear as unappealing as possible,” he observed.

“Witches do not exist to please you,” she huffed, then added, “Notwithstanding the sexism laden in that statement, well spotted.”

Draco ripped off his navy blue pyjamas and flung open the covers on their shared bed.

“Must you make a show of it?” She tapped her slippered foot.

“I sleep in my pants. Otherwise I get too hot.”

“I don’t care,” she deadpanned.

“This is a small bed.”

She applied some petroleum jelly to her lips as she looked at herself in the mirror to avoid looking at his lean, pale torso riddled with jagged scars.“Sorry, my flat doesn’t meet the standards of the Malfoy heir. Not all of us had centuries of inbred ancestors who stole plebeians' land and made millions of galleons off of it.”

He pulled the sheets up to his neck and chuckled, “Yeah.”

“That’s not a good thing, Malfoy!”

He yawned. “Can we start the scolding wife thing tomorrow?”

“Shove off.” She scooted over into the bed. “Don’t try any funny business or I will conjure some birds to peck your bollocks off. I’m very good at it.” She shook her wand in his face before placing it on the side table.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, wife.” Draco lowered his head mockingly.

“Good. We understand each other, husband. When I looked through the legislation, it said nothing about consummation.”

His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Wonderful. This will be like a real marriage then.”

“Prat.”

He rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, Granger, I am not in the habit of forcing anything on a witch. But when you do ask—”

Hermione snorted. “Dream on!”

He flipped onto his side, giving her a perfect toothy smile, and scrunched one of her hair rods in his palm. She smacked his hand away. “You’re lucky to have a husband that is beyond such trivialities.”

“Shut it. We just have to satisfy the bond by sharing the same bed—ugh, move down— tomorrow, we will get started on bringing down this awful, draconian law.”

“I told you, I had nothing to do—”

Hermione shot daggers at him.

After a few moments of them trying to find a comfortable position in her bed, she lamented, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep in this gods’ forsaken creaky twin bed with no pillows. Awful for the neck.” He added, “Y’know, my bed—”

She cut him off, “I will not be spending any significant time at Malfoy Manor. And this is a double.”

“I don’t live there anymore. Not since—” he shut his mouth. Hermione stared at him briefly before sitting up and rustling through her beaded bag on the side table, arm disappearing.

He quirked a dark brow, bemused.

She produced two down-filled pillows. “Here.”

“Those are illegal, Granger,” he said, as he fluffed them.

“Are you gonna tell on me, husband?” She cocked her head to the side, lifting her white-masked chin at him.

“I’ll think about it. Nox.”

The bedroom went dark.

It was nice. Warm. A comforting band around her stomach. A puff of hot air against her ear lobe. Sleep slipped from her eyes. She spun around to long, pale eyelashes and a strong nose buried in a goose down pillow. Draco’s brows furrowed, and he tightened his grip, pulling her into his chest. She felt a tickling sensation, as he inhaled deeply in his sleep, lips brushing against the underside of her jaw.

Under the waxing light of the early morning seeping in from the blinds, she could look at him. Really study him. Her husband. It was strange, really. She’d known Draco for most of her life. In past interactions—from Hogwarts, at the trials, in the Atrium—she only had stolen glances of him, often to find him already looking at her. In their youth, he would sneer when he was caught. At the trials, his eyes lowered. In the Ministry, he would give a quick nod or turn away.

The covers smelled of them—a sticky sweetness mixed with remnants of his soap and cologne of cedar and leather. It had been a long time since she shared a bed with anyone. Even with past lovers, she would always hint not so subtly that she had work in the early morning, or that she couldn’t sleep with another in the bed when they didn’t get the hint.

For a moment, she wondered how many women Malfoy had slept with; if they were all witches; and how she measured up. She shook those stupid, futile thoughts from her head. Was she jealous? No, of course not. It was the bond. She felt it at the humble ceremony they had in the Senior Undersecretary’s office. Once they voiced their consent, a sudden zip of warmth and closeness to him blazed up her spine, spreading to her core, but if pressed, she would deny, deny, deny.

Wisps of bright magic—his yellow, hers blue—furled out of their diaphragm to wrap around their conjoined hands. He produced a ring with a radiant cut solitaire diamond and two simple white gold wedding bands. He had taste, she could admit that.

Her heart was pounding while she glared at both Higgs and Malfoy. She didn’t know who to be angrier at more: Higgs who seemed to relish in her displeasure or Malfoy’s passivity again. Shacklebolt had been too busy to see her. “You may be a war hero, Ms. Granger, but you are not the centre of the Wizengamot’s world. I have other meetings to attend to,” said his owl. So in his place, he sent his boy—ugh—Senior Undersecretary, Higgs, to ensure the ceremony took place. Comply or have your wands confiscated and be exiled from the UK wizarding world. “You’re welcome to try—France,” Higgs sneered.

“France is lovely this time of year,” was all she could muster, before grabbing Malfoy’s hand. She had lost.

Higgs smiled meanly.

In attendance were Ron and Harry, her reluctant witnesses. His were Theodore Nott, a weedy boy that she barely remembered who now grew into his dark curls and haunting blue eyes, and Blaise Zabini—the beautiful aristocrat with the sharp tongue. She knew him a bit more, as Ginny dated him during Harry’s ‘lost years,’ but Blaise often kept a distance during pub nights. Soon after, Harry returned to Ginny with his tail between his legs. They had two children with another on the way, and was exempt from the law. Ron married Padma a few years after they broke up, but first made his way through his groupies. Now he seemed content in a way that Hermione had never seen him.

Draco was almost infuriatingly passive about the marriage law being passed. She expected him to cause a ruckus that equaled her fury when they were matched, just like how dramatic he was when he suspected a professor showing favouritism to Harry back at Hogwarts. But he appeared dutifully to the ceremony, spoke only when spoken to, and sent owls and prominent barristers in lieu of him to negotiate their marriage contract.

Of course, when Hermione least suspected it, he showed remnants of his boyhood antics. She could only assume that he received the Ministry letter the same time she did. Within the hour, he sent an owl by the name of Homer that made light of the situation.

Granger,

The irony. They couldn’t write this. It wouldn't sell.

Let’s begin talks.

Malfoy.

Then … and then, he agreed to all of her terms. She was rendered speechless, a rarity for her. She could continue working, if she wished. She would not live in the Manor. He would live with her. She had access to all his vaults and galleons and the Manor when she deigned to visit. She would not be compelled to have children until she was ready. He could not touch or hurt her without her consent. The rings made sure of that.

“That thing is not living with me,” he pointed to Crookshanks when he Apparated into her flat.

“He’s not.” Draco smiled at his small victory, but it dropped quickly. “You live with him,” Hermione said before kicking off her heels and stomping to the bedroom, leaving the two alone.

The half-Kneazle cocked his head to the side, smacked his non-existent lips, and winked at him.

“Accio legislation,” Hermione whispered. A piece of parchment floated out of her purple bag into her hands. Malfoy grunted in his sleep as she turned on her back, pulling her away from him. She mouthed the words she read a hundred times before. Another squeeze to her torso. It was iron- and magic-clad: magical cores tested in the Love Room and matched to ensure virility and fertility; a binding bonding ceremony; and fidelity clauses upon pain of death or being stripped of magic or some other nonsense that the Sacred 28 snuck in with their generous donations to the Ministry to keep their bloodlines—if not pure—then free of bastards.

Draco’s eyes blinked open. He scowled and his mouth dropped open slightly before letting his arms go slack and sputtering.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione said before he could say anything. Her lips continued to mouth silently, as she reread the legislation again. Two decades later, unlike Muggles post-war, the wizarding population had only decreased.

Hermione, Ron, and Harry fought tooth and nail against the legislation. But the influence of war heroes of days past could only go so far. What could two Aurors, albeit two very good ones, and a Project Manager in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, with little to no political experience do? The Wizengamot was built differently from the UK parliament. Citizens did not vote; the Wizengamot was filled with legacy seats. The Ministry was practically built brick by brick by nepotism. Even the Malfoys still held an honorary seat.

Not so concerned with the incidental freedoms of their citizens, Minister for Magic Shacklebolt and his Senior Undersecretary, Terence Higgs, wanted to ensure the UK wizarding population did not disappear in a couple of generations. They knew of the insurrection whispers. They were not naive enough to think that just because the war was won two decades ago that minds and hearts had changed. Now with news of the population declining for the second decade in a row, they came to a decision. They drew from the depths of the Ministry—using the longstanding history of wand traces, ancient runes magic that flew even above Hermione’s head, and a gaggle of Unspeakables from the Love Room in the Department of Mysteries that spewed out a list of compatible unwed partners, pairing ancient houses’ heirs with Muggleborns and half-bloods.

“Fresh Blood Infused into Ancient Bloodlines!” screamed the headlines.

Draco ran a hand through his mussed up hair. “You move a lot in your sleep.”

“You’re needy,” she retorted, "I couldn't breathe."

“Am not! And you snore.”

“Well, there’s the door.” She gestured before swivelling her body, flinging the covers over him, and stalking to the loo.

(II)

Draco grumbled as he loosened his black tie that housed a subtle shimmer. “What a day.”

Hermione grunted in agreement, while she cast a spell that let her hair down. She let out a sound of relief, then flung her robes on the bouclet lounge chair that sat at the foot of her—their—bed. She cringed upon that realisation, and proceeded to mutter to herself.

He disappeared inside the enlarged walk-in, an illegal extension charm that he forced her hand in creating, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to make any concessions in her home, let alone make space for him.

He reminded her thusly that she did just that.

She flung a hex at the wall beside his head that day.

Hermione twisted her dark strands around the flexible purple rods, then cast a face cleaning charm. She found comfort in the routine. It made sense unlike the recent events in her life. She attempted to unknot her halter dress. “Argh!” Her fingers fumbled around. The four glasses of prosecco did not help either. It was a farce. Bring the new couples to the ministry to show what a success the legislation was; how happy and unharmed the couples were. A few even announced their new pregnancies.

Shacklebolt let it be known that her proposal to return a section of land to the centaurs would be pushed forward if she attended, but of course, in a way that would allow him plausible deniability if someone Legilimens’d him. She was a puppet. She was a whore, only she sold herself for different kinds of bills.

The new chief of warlock, Jeremiah Travers, let her know that he thought the same of her too. On her third glass of prosecco, Travers swooped in. His eyes flickered up her halter dress, across her chest, and down to her new adorned jewellery. “Enjoying the new perks, are we, Mrs. Malfoy? How easily our principles are swayed—” It made Hermione feel nauseous.

Before he could continue, Draco had stepped in to take her to the dance floor. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll not have my wife sully herself with rubbish blood.”

She scowled. “Those words were meant for me not too long ago.”

Draco’s mouth pulled into a thin line. His jaw twitched before he said, “But they’re not now.”

They danced the rest of the waltz in silence.

“Backward, asinine, outdated chief arselock—” Hermione mumbled while fussing with her clothes.

A hand, long fingers and impossibly elegant, arrived on her shoulder. Without a word, Draco helped untie her halter dress.

"Hmph.”

He nodded.

She kept the burnt red silken fabric pressed to her chest and disappeared inside the ensuite.

When Hermione reappeared in her night clothes, she found Draco asleep and Crookshanks curled atop of his chest, tail flicking under his sharp jaw. The half-Kneazle blinked sleepily at his mistress, as she got into bed. “Traitor.”

Crookshanks stretched out his fat paws and made biscuits on Malfoy’s ridiculously expensive sheets that he insisted she replace hers with, taking care to crook several sharp claw marks into the 400-thread count cotton and purred.

She pet his fluffy orange head. "Appreciate it, Crooksies."

Chapter Text

(III)

“You’re such a fucking wanker.” Hermione muttered, as she dotted a damp flannel across Malfoy’s cheek and mouth, wiping off the bright red blood that kept on dripping. The superficial wounds wouldn’t close. He was topless, still wearing his pitch black wool trousers with his dragonhide belt unbuckled. His shirt was torn in the duel. White-on-white ragged scars criss crossed his chest, torso, and neck.  

Draco noticed her appraisal. “What’s another two to add to my collection?”

“When—”

He shrugged, leaning back on his elbows on the examination table and sticking out his chest for her inspection, like a puppy exposing his belly to his owner. He was lean and long, his profile sharp and tone nonchalant. “Can barely remember now. Fifth year and beyond, I suppose. Some of them were courtesy of Potter, Bellatrix, Voldemort, and the chandelier—I don’t expect to—” His grey eyes snapped to hers.

“I don’t,” she confirmed and conjured a new warmed damp flannel for the particularly nasty cut on his back. 

“H-hey! Gentle touches!” he whined. He squirmed underneath her, but her short nails dug into his shoulder to keep him still. Hermione had many strengths, but a light touch was not one of them.

She could feel his tense muscles and the raised lines of his Sectumsempra scars underneath the pads of her fingertips. “And to have it out and about in the Atrium? Must you always create a scene? Skeeter’s going to have a field day. Do you know how embarrassing it was to be in the middle of a meeting—a very important one, by the way—when Harry’s Patronus gallops in to tell me my husband’s been arrested?”

Even though Draco winced, his chest warmed at her use of the term, the magic between them zipping up and down his spine. It felt oddly satisfying, like kicking off your shoes when you floo into your home. The pinch of the shoe, the worries of the day, all melted away. “I believe the words you’re looking for are, ‘thank you, dear husband,” and “how can I ever repay you?” Or ‘let me please suck your ‘— OW!”

“My hand slipped.” The second slap to his shoulder was not an accident.

“Cunt.”

She tsked, “Hush. You like it.” She had Episkey’d his nose earlier with a sickening CRACK, but the hex Travers had thrown on him that caused his cuts to continuously reopen was beyond her healing abilities.

Draco had first been antagonising her all day in her office, then in the Atrium, intent on escorting her to and from the floo.

“Don’t you have a job?” she huffed.

“Malfoys don’t work.”

“Well, I do. Now sod off.” Just as she stepped into the floo for her 14:30 meeting, she saw Travers sidle up behind Draco and tap him on the shoulder. Before the bright green flames swallowed her, she had seen Travers’ mouth moving and Draco’s lip curling into a familiar sneer.

Draco refused to tell her what the fight was about, but she could guess.

They now met each other’s gaze, something else behind their eyes beyond contempt and annoyance.

A shared understanding? Mutual respect? No, that was too far.

A cheerful voice called out, “Knock! Knock!”

The spell was broken.

Healer Susan Bones walked in, bright red hair pulled into a messy bun and smelling of antiseptic and a sharp tinge of what Hermione recognized as wolfsbane. “Hullo, hullo! Hermione, it’s been too long!” They greeted each other warmly. “I haven’t seen you since you were considering a Mastery in Healing.”

She shrugged. “I thought my talents would be better utilised in the DRCMC. The arrogance of youth.”

“No, no. The bowtruckle habitat and that new werewolf legislat—”

“ — which will pass when erumpents fly.”

“I don’t know about that. Once the proposal was put on the table, Longbottom Gardens received large orders of aconite from a huge distributor. A large supply in stores can only help.” Her round blue eyes landed on Draco’s fucked up nose.

“How do you know this?” Hermione's dark eyes narrowed. 

“Hereditary seat. Amelia Bones was my aunt.”

“Right, right. I’m sorry.” It never ceased to amaze her how small the wizarding world was. “How’s Neville doing? And you, um … two?”

Susan waved her floating clipboard in front of her dismissively. “Oh you know, we’re still getting to know each other. He's very kind. Right now, he’s travelling back and forth to South America every few weeks. Growing some new weeds—he’ll have a tanty if I say—”

“Hello! I’m the patient here.” Malfoy gestured wildly while he held the cooling flannel to his cut cheek.

“Attention seeker,” Hermione muttered, "No wonder you made it onto the team."

Susan cocked her head to the side, hands on her hips. “What have we here?”

“You should see the other wizard.” Draco straightened and gave his winningest smile to the Healer.

“I have. He’s next door.” Susan let out a low, throaty chuckle.

Hermione bristled perceptibly—her stomach dropping and a winding pressure around her heart. Draco’s sleepy grey eyes sharpened, head whipping toward her. Did he feel it too? She supposed he must. He was just as much a part of the bond as she was.

His smile dropped; his tone suddenly clipped, “Just send some healing potions my way. I need to get to the DMLE and pay my fine for causing a public disturbance.”

The door opened again, and in sauntered Harry and Ron, looking seasoned and solemn in their Auror uniforms, purple robes fluttering behind them. Ron tried to look intimidatingly at Draco, but he was wearing an Extendable Ear.

“This is a private room!”, Malfoy yelled, visibly annoyed, ripping the parchment on the examination table to cover his pink nipples.

“Hermione!” Harry wrapped her in a tight hug, then Ron.

“Hands off my wife,” Draco said.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Don't you sniff her hair, Weasel," he added.

Ron scowled.

“Malfoy—” Hermione warned, but she did step a foot away from her friend, cursing herself as she did so.

Harry cleared his throat, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his robes. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, I’m here to inform you that Travers refuses to press charges.”

“That’s because he’s a nan—” Draco began.

“Malfoy!” she hissed.

Harry continued, “Against my better judgement, you’re free to go.”

Ron said, “If it were up to me—”

Draco smirked, jumping off the cold metal table, face to face with Ron. He was an inch or two shorter than the Weasel, and he hated it. “But it’s not, innit? Travers insulted my wife. I don’t know how you acted when you were dating her. But I protect my—”

Behind them, Susan flicked her wand in a complicated movement. A jet of purple light flashed through the room. “Finite incantatem.”

Malfoy felt the cuts across his face tingle as they stitched themselves together. He flexed, skin feeling raw and tender.

Susan floated several bottles with sparkling orange liquid inside from a nearby medicine cabinet. “You’ll have to take these potions for the next week or so to replenish your blood.” She held up another flask; this one had glowing green contents. “This one is not for drinking. It prevents the cuts from reopening and prevents scarring, if applied consistently.”

“Thank you.” Hermione felt surprisingly relieved; a weight seemingly lifted from her hunched shoulders. The words were meant for Susan, but landed on Ron. 

Ron said, “Didn’t do it for the ferret. Travers said it was a joke that went too far. Even said he was the one who instigated it. The sight of him—I'll have nightmares for weeks. It b'ain't right.”

“He did,” Hermione agreed, remembering how Travers squeezed her wrist, leering at her chest and ring.

Harry, Ron, and Draco stared at her.

Susan added, “The bones will have to be removed, grown back, then properly reset. The process will likely take weeks.”

Malfoy snickered. “Yeah.”

"That's not a good thing, Malfoy!" She forgot how many times she screamed this at him.

His head whipped to face Hermione, his mouth twitching.

Ron reluctantly placed Malfoy’s confiscated wand in his palm. 

Beside Malfoy, Susan hovered closely and was giving directives. “You’ll have to massage this one in three times a day, especially that deep cut between your shoulder blades. I could arrange for a Healer to bring new potions and visit dail— ”

“Accio!” Hermione flung the potions inside her beaded bag, a myriad of emotions bubbling up inside her, notwithstanding this irrational jealousy. “I’ll do it. I’m his wife,” she spat the last name as if it were a slur. She grabbed Malfoy’s elbow—a shite-eating grin on his sharp features—and Disapparated in a cloud of smoke.

“I can handle myself!” Hermione yelled. She threw a down-filled pillow at him, as she flung open the bed covers. He ducked. Fucking seeker reflexes. They were having the same fight again.

Draco retorted, “I said I would take care of it. Did you think I was lying?”

While Travers was on the mend, he had fallen ill to a rare case of dragon pox, delaying his bone resetting procedures. Hannah Abbott, a friend from Hogwarts and now St. Mungo’s Healer, had sneaked a picture and owled it to Hermione. In the picture, Travers was nearly bedridden and riddled with green pockmarks, scuttling back and forth the hospital bed like a large crab. She hid the photo in her study desk.

But The Daily Prophet was having a field day.

“Malfoy and Travers Duel!”

“For Love of a Muggleborn: Love Triangle between Malfoy and Malfoy ... and Travers?”

“Good vs Evil in the Atrium!”

“They’re going to think I infected him!” she shouted.

“You didn’t,” he retorted, making him comfortable on the settee in the bedroom, long legs up on the mahogany chest at the end of her—their—bed. He had an infuriating way of oversimplifying things. It wasn't ever that simple. But Malfoy seemed to think so. All those galleons hid the reality of the situation and the consequences of his actions. Must. Be. Nice. 

“I might as well have. I’m tied to you, Malfoy.” The last word was spat out, as if Hermione couldn't wait to push his name out of his mouth and out of her life.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Argh!” she screamed and stomped into the ensuite. Thirty minutes later, she emerged in a flimsy nightshirt with her hair curled in rollers and face covered with a white cream. Malfoy would never admit it, but he enjoyed the smell. It was eucalyptus with a hint of lavender. It reminded of his mother's gardens, where he spent his summers flying, sneaking treats, and getting lost in the maze until he called for Dobby to take him back to his rooms.

Crookshanks was curled up in Draco’s lap. The traitor. He looked up from his reading. “Calmed down?”

Ignoring him, she asked, “Where’d you get the book?”

“The study.”

She crossed her arms, making her chest pop in a way that Draco tried his best to ignore. “Didn’t think you would be interested. Pride and Prejudice was written by a Muggle.”

“On the contrary, Jane Austen was a half-blood. Why do you think there are so few details of her Muggle life? She spent most of it in the wizarding world. I have her autobiography in the Malfoy library.”

“I never heard—” Hermione couldn’t help how her eyebrows shot up, heart beating faster. “We only have her letters.”

“If you want to visit—”

“Sod off.” She pulled the covers up to her neck.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, turning his attention back to the novel.

She scooted backward on the headboard, pushing her head back against the new pillows Malfoy had acquired: organic Fwooper down and hand stitched with a Mulberry silk cover. She really couldn’t drop it. “That was an awfully clichéd display of testosterone.”

Without looking at her, he said, “You are my wife. I will not apologise for trying to defend your honour. No one disrespects a Malfoy.”

Hermione scoffed, “Please get over yourself. I’ve been fending for myself since I was 14. Just because on paper—”

Malfoy slammed the book shut, eyes blazing. “You are mine, by all rights and responsibility! They may not care for me. Turnabout’s fair play, but they will respect you. They will take our House seriously. Regardless of how you may feel on the subject, you are a part of said House now, so they will take you seriously.”

Her ears warmed, and a coiled tension built up in her core. She shouldn’t like how he talked to about her. Her cunt clenched. She needed to regain her footing. “Stop talking as if you actually care about me. It’s not going to work. I don’t trust you, and I’m not going to forgive you.”

Malfoy felt something akin to shame burn in his chest. They had been dancing around it for months, memories he had locked away carefully with his Occluding. “First off, I didn’t ask for your forgiveness. You assumed I wanted it. You don’t trust me? Fine. Let’s talk pragmatics. You have no name. You have no House. You have celebrity, and it is fast diminishing. The war was two decades ago. You no longer have the pull of youth. You are associated with me. You are my life—wife.” He cringed at his slip up. “If not in practice, then by law. If not by law, then by magic. I will not have anyone speaking down to you. You want your legislations passed? Use me. You want to buy the Ministry? Use me. Climb the ranks?. Use me. But do not meander in mediocrity, because you want to spite me or you're too proud to use the resources given to you. Malfoys don’t lose. You are a Malfoy. Act like one.”

Now her face heated up, but in anger. Did he seriously just call her old? Fuck him. A cornered lion was just as dangerous as a wounded one. She was both in this moment. “Between the two of us, I'm the only one who knows what it feels like to win. You want to use me for my association with Harry and being on the right side of the war. Shacklebolt paired us together because the Integration Act needs a representative. What better way to show that their Act is a success—”

Malfoy interrupted her, “You mean politicians have more than one reason for doing things? Transfigure me shocked.”

Hermione huffed. “I am something you want to hang your name on in hopes of elevating your family’s tarnished reputation.”

“And you?”

“What about me?” She toyed with the lapels of her night shirt.

“Since you know me so well and my motivations, where’s your fury about being paired with me that extends beyond sparring and smacking me upside the head? Have you filed an official appeal? Called a barrister to annul our bond?”

She scoffed. “You know as well as I do that a barrister can do very little in the face of a magical bond.”

His eyes turned molten, levelling a predatory gaze at her. “The question is not whether it will work. The question is … whether … you … have … tried. Or do you enjoy the galleons and actually moving bills too much?”

Silence.

He flipped over in the bed, sitting up and forward, bare torso on display. “Careful, Mrs. Malfoy." He wielded her nomenclature like a knife. "You can’t be both a hero and a victim. It’s too convoluted of a narrative. Won’t fit on the Prophet’s headlines.”

Hermione wanted to melt under the heat radiating off of him. She lifted her chin in defiance, aiming for blood instead. “You’re using me, and I won’t be had.”

“We’re using each other,” he drawled, looking bored.

“Why are you even supporting my political ambitions? You want me to climb the ranks, your words. I’m not naive. What else can I provide beyond my name? Pardon your father? A half-blood heir? Dream on. Maybe you think our sham of a marriage can straighten you out in the eyes of the Wizengamot and any Sacred 28 too scared to be associated with you in public. Make you ‘safe,’ so people can start doing businesses with the Malfoys again. You’re just like Lucius."

Draco bent the book’s spine in retaliation, only to be met with Hermione’s Stinging jinx. “Respect the book!” she screamed. 

“Ow, you daft bint! That’s my wank hand.”

Hermione’s lips curled in a snarl that rivalled Draco's, charging forward. A Muggle bull in the magic shop: it was what she did best. “Everyone can be sacrificed in favour of forwarding your agenda. I may be a lot of things—a scolding wife, an unlikeable shrew, an insufferable know-it-all, but at least I’m not an unoriginal daddy’s boy with an inferiority complex,” Hermione spat. She knew this would hurt him. She made him sound common. The Malfoy ego could hardly stand to be compared to plebeians, let alone a man she knew he had a complicated relationship with. How could he not? 

He sneered, “So? A Muggleborn with a chip on her shoulder is hardly newsworthy.”

“And yet—” she challenged.

He glared at her. “You talk about yourself like all your value is in what you can provide for others. How does it feel to be measured and weighed and always found wanting?”

Hermione blinked, her expression a rotating mixture of confusion, hurt, and dissipating anger. “Potter’s Mudblood, Krum’s date, Weasley’s girl, Shacklebolt’s thorn, Malfoy’s wife. Who do you think made me into a tool?” She made a sound of disgust, turning over, back to him.

A cool rush of air.

Malfoy flung off the covers. “I’m going to sleep in the study.”

Hermione indeed found him in her study, asleep on the low grey chaise he’d insisted on putting in the too-small space, with Crookshanks sitting atop his chest. The flat was quiet, both too stubborn to relent. This had been their routine for the past few days. She finally gave in, because she had seen him wince stepping out of the floo. She had a soft spot for all creatures in pain, even idiot albino ferrets. She also wasn’t about to admit that she hadn’t slept in three days without him in her bed, be it habit or their bond. She fucking hoped it was the bond.

She uncorked the potion. The half-kneazle jumped down, nose twinkling at the pungent odour of the unstoppered flask. Malfoy moaned in his sleep and faced the tufted backrest.

Hermione let out an amused huff. On the floor next to him was a well-loved book, several cracks in its spine: 12 Fail-Safe Ways to Woo a Witch. Underlined was a passage, ‘Be her warlock and she will thank you for it,” and a few notes in Malfoy’s writing. That was definitely not from her library. She floated the book to the coffee table.

She lifted up his loose shirt with a flick of her wand. The deep cut between his shoulder blades opened again, pink and fleshy, the fabric catching the dried scabs before bundling up. In their stubborn stalemate, they had missed several rounds of applications. Malfoy knew the potions were in the primary ensuite and refused to ask.

She dripped the viscous concoction onto his back, riddled with scars up and down his sides. Now he’ll have another one, she thought. She decided it felt too much like sympathy and rubbed the skin a bit too hard.

“Oi!” He shuddered.

“Shut it, you big baby.” Hermione continued to rub in the salve. “A few more days and I won’t need to touch you anymore.”

Draco felt a coolness wash over his back. The wounds knitted together for now. She shoved a grey fleece blanket under his chin and turned for the door.

Sitting up, he narrowed in on her tired expression, curls scrunched up in purple rods. Dark circles and red-rimmed eyes told her he hadn’t been sleeping either. “Stay.” There was no command in his voice. No jauntiness nor malice. Just exhaustion. His voice sounded strained, like he wasn’t used to asking.

Hermione sighed. She was knackered too. She didn’t want to fight. “You don’t want me to stay. It’s the bond speaking.”

“The bond wants it, so I want it. Does it matter?”

“Yes, to me, it does. You don’t even like me. You didn’t choose me.”

“Did you choose me?”

She spoke slowly, talking to him as if he were a child. “Haven’t you had enough choices taken from you? You shouldn’t be forced to cohabitate with someone you don’t love. Neither should I.”

Malfoy’s dark brows drew together. He didn’t want sympathy. “Don’t quote the headlines at me. I always had a choice.”

“You chose to be a bell end?”

“I didn’t say I made good choices,” he pontificated.

Hermione couldn’t help the chuckle that pushed out of her. He smirked, lifting the edge of the blanket and shuffled down the chaise. She gingerly sat down next to him on the edge of the cushion. He gripped her right wrist, startling her, and pushed up the sleeve of her robe. Ready to strike, her wand hand was already closed into a fist. He revealed the puckered pink slur. She held her breath, as he studied it.

His voice was sad. "I haven't seen it up close." 

“There you have it,” she said bitterly.

He examined her arm in silence; he didn’t apologise. She wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. What did it matter anyway? Malfoy was right. He had a choice. They were shite choices, but they were there. He made the wrong ones. Did she make the right ones? Could she be so steadfast in her decisions, knowing that if their roles were reversed and her parents’ lives were threatened, she would have chosen Dumbledore? She wasn’t so sure. She didn’t trust anyone with the information that she Obliviated her parents until after the deed was done. She didn’t tell anyone that she tried to restore their memories for months until she had exhausted her options.

“You don’t love me,” she maintained.

He sidestepped her words carefully. “You don’t love me.”

His touch was light against the inside of her wrist—his long, lithe fingers adorned with rings, his veins, light blue and dimensional—she wanted to trace them. Their wedding band glittered under the study’s flickering sconces.

“What do you want?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

“Your trust. You may not love me, but we’re on the same side this time. I am loyal to my House, nothing and no one else. You are my wife; you bear my name. I will support you because you’re mine.”

Hermione stiffened. They agreed on this one thing. Love may not be in the cards for them, but they could be good partners. It was a rare moment of candour. She would use it to her advantage. “More than love, I want trust. I want you to tell me what you do when you floo out of the flat to meet with Theo and Blaise. Where you go for your gentlemen's meetings. I want you to tell me why Travers didn’t press charges. I want to trust you. Trust that you won’t betray me. Trust that you won’t hurt me. We can move beyond our pasts.”

Draco wasn’t so sure about that. He didn’t want to tell her a part of him was still that greedy, spoiled, little boy—the one who hoarded all the most expensive toys; had the newest broom model; and the largest pile of sweets. Hermione Granger was the best; most famous; and outstanding. And she was his. He'd be hexed before he gave her up. Brightest witch of her age, they called her, and he reluctantly agreed, even underneath his hatred, insults, and sneers. In Hogwarts, he saw. Her magic was powerful; her knowledge unparalleled, even without tutors. She was weird. Stuck out like a fledgling Hippogriff. Never took etiquette classes. Didn't know the Sacred 28 family trees that were hammered into him from a young age. Wild hair rarely spelled. Wore strange tight blue trousers. Unaware of his lineage and when she did know, refused to acknowledge her betters. She was everything he wasn’t. Tanned, dark curls, and near-black eyes to his light ones and white straight locks; short to his tall; soft when he was sharp. Ferality to his stoicism. Potter’s best friend. Always rushing to save the idiot two. No concept of self-preservation. Brave. Self-righteous. Why didn’t she look at him? Why, when she did look at him, only regarded him with disdain? He coveted her, even in the Hogwarts days, although he knew he wouldn’t have been able to keep her—whether it was the war or his own callous teenage antics that tore them apart. He knew that. He knew—

“Can that sustain us?” Her voice cut into his reverie. She wasn’t sure what she meant—were they really going to try to make this work? Shared goals and vision—was that enough for a marriage? People did it all the time. Maybe they could too.

“I’ve got nothing but time. Do you have somewhere else to be?” His tone was sarcastic, acerbic, but his smile was sad. They were locked in. They had ten years before they could file for divorce—a marked criteria that all arranged couples gave it their best try.

“Stay,” he asked again, “please.”

She gave a noncommittal shrug, settling in against him for the first time in days. He would take it. The bond was satisfied, a pleasant warmth spreading through them. He bundled his arm around her, his chest to her back. It felt proper. Right. Like home. His heart pounded against her back, then slowed, along with his breath.

It was the first good night’s sleep they had this week.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed. Draco struggled to keep his heavy lids open. For what reason? He did not know.

As he drifted off, he noticed a certain orange, flat-faced miscreant flounce toward them, fat paws stretching up to the coffee table, knocking his embarrassing book to the floor. Crookshanks wriggled his nose, as if the subject matter offended him. He winked at Draco before making off with it like a bandit.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Hermione stared at herself in the mirror, the first night in months when she didn’t have her hair up in rollers. She couldn’t try too hard. She still wore her night shirt, perhaps a button undone or two strategically undone. She took Friday off.

Her werewolf proposal had passed. Of course, the details would need to be reviewed by the Wizengamot, but that is a problem for tomorrow Hermione.

Susan was right. Due to the high supply of wolfsbane now available across the UK, it had been an easy decision for the Ministry.

In the wake of the war, Fenir Greyback and his pack had turned hundreds of children and witches. As they came of age, their transformations grew successively more painful and dangerous. The wizarding society was still bigoted toward werewolves with little desire to employ them, if they were out ‘sick’ every month for a week. The main ingredients of wolfsbane: aconite, dragon’s blood, powdered moonstone, and Occamy eggs, were notoriously rare and expensive. But for want of incentive or indifference, the Wizengamot hadn’t thought of making the ingredients more accessible. If the Wizengamot did not pass the proposal, it would be too obvious that they were prejudiced against werewolves and not on the side of children victimised by Greyback’s army. That wouldn’t do.

Now with the inestimable boon of now-available ingredients, the proposal passed easily—two-thirds of the council. All employers would be supplied with wolfsbane, which would make their lycanthropy symptoms less difficult and harmful to werewizards’ bodies. Alternatively, for those who did not want to self-disclose, ingredients were cheap and readily accessible in apothecaries across the UK.

Winning made her randy.

She was the best. She was competent. She was enough.

If Malfoy wanted her to use him, then she would.

Hermione applied a soft pink gloss on her lips and diffused it just so— so that her mouth looked swollen and wet. She appraised her appearance once more, scrunching her curls. She was going for the jugular.

She found Draco in the sitting room, television on full blast, with Crookshanks sitting up on his hindlegs, emerald green eyes darting back and forth, following the players’ movements. They both were watching football. There weren’t many rooms in her small flat. Two bedrooms—one transformed into a study—a kitchen, and an open living space that doubled as a dining area and sitting room.

His head tilted toward Crookshanks, as he whispered something to the half-kneazle out of earshot.

“What’s this here?” Hermione cocked her hips to one side, hands on her waist. “Why are you bothering Crooksies?”

“This orange minger is teaching me about ground Quidditch.”

“That’s football.”

“Semantics.”

She huffed.

“Is it always this loud?”

“There’s a remote around somewhere. Here.” She found the remote control behind a cushion.

Draco’s eyes widened, as the little beeps followed the lowered television sounds. “It’s like a wand.”

Hermione scrunched up her face. “I suppose so. But it only works for the telly.”

“Well that’s ridiculous,” he said, turning back toward Crookshanks. “I always thought that Muggle ethnicity was incompatible with magic.”

She frowned. “What? Oh! Electricity.”

“That’s what I said,” he insisted.

“Yes, I figured out a light protective enchantment for it. Lets the radio waves through the transmitter without disrupting how the receiver works.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “That’s all elvish to me.” He faced the half-kneazle again. “But we’ll get something outfitted for my wand, won’t we?” He rustled through his pockets, then threw a tiny nub of jerky into the air. Crookshanks caught it gracefully, chomping loudly on the denison.

She huffed. Traitor. She couldn’t do this with her familiar watching.

His slate eyes lazily watched her, as she removed herself from the sitting room, following her down the corridor.

Hermione sat in front of her vanity, as Draco approached her from behind. She had a lot on her to-do list anyway. She reviewed her parchment: Buy new QNQuills, check. Fact check a(14) section of were-bill, check. Index cards for contentious pts, check. Buy cab sauv—

Draco interrupted, “Did you require something of me, Mrs. Malfoy?” He stopped just short of entering the bedroom.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

He leaned against the threshold, crossing his arms. “But that’s who you are. Did you receive the new monogrammed stationery that Mother sent you from France? She sent me some as well.” He held up his own silver letterhead, DLM, from Narcissa. His handwriting was neat and elegant. Posh prat.

“Yes, it’s lovely, albeit inaccurate. Heavy card stock. Embossed lettering. Expensive ink. I expected nothing less.”

“Have you been corresponding with her?”

“Briefly,” she clipped.

“And?”

“She is articulate and savvy. Takes care not to mention the war. She hopes we’ll come to a place of mutual understanding and respect. Never mentions love. She is pragmatic.”

“Where do you think I get it from? Father and Mother were an arranged pair as well. They were just lucky enough to fall in love on their own at Hogwarts.”

“I don’t want to talk about your upbringing.”

Draco sidled up to her, hand on her shoulder. Hermione grabbed his fingers, flipped around on her stool, and twisted. He made an undignified yelp that rivalled Crookshanks’ yowls and crumpled to his knees in front of her. “Don’t think you can just touch me,” she scolded.

After the war, she was still angry and hurt, most likely borne out of the fear that had not left her. Her parents weren’t coming back. Things were rocky with Ron. She felt adrift. She took self-defence classes for years, telling herself she wouldn’t be a victim ever again. Now, after all the sound and fury, she knew. She knew bad things happened all the time. To bad people. To good people. To everyone. They may or may not deserve it, but in the grand scheme of things, there was no order. No karma. She could do her best to try to prevent it, but sometimes, shite happens.

“Yes, Mrs. Malfoy.” His strained voice broke her out of reverie. Instead of anger, his eyes were molten—probably from pain, but also a hint of heat.

Hermione’s stomach clenched. Why did she like this? She dropped his fingers, mouth aghast. Why was this so hard?

But Draco didn’t get up. “Can I touch you now, Mrs. Malfoy?” His fingers tapped on the  hardwood floor near her ankle. She could feel his movements like a reverberating drum. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “You know, our bond—”

“Yes, what of it?!” Gods, being randy made her a bitch.

His smirk didn’t waver. “If you need something, wife, all you need to do is ask.” His molten steel eyes roamed all over her, taking note of the night shirt she had deliberately unbuttoned. “I can feel you. Can you feel me?”

Her face reddened, heat climbing up her chest to her ears. She could. The bond magic that zipped up and down her spine spread out to her hips and stomach, making her clench. Malfoy was turned on. So was she. She inhaled before she spat, “I can’t feel something that small!”

Draco blinked, then guffawed. Hermione bit her lip hard to keep from smiling too widely, but it sneaked through. Their eyes caught one another’s, glittering with giddy tears and nerves.

The mood in the bedroom shifted then. A cloying warmth hummed in the air and strummed through their veins. Their magic. The bond.

“Can I touch you here?” He asked, his breath hot against her knee.

She exhaled, then nodded.

He moved slowly, so she could track his movements. Fingers on the inside of her right knee. Opening her legs, so he could fit in between her thighs. Her night shirt bunched and shifted up.

“And here?” His long fingers skated up and down her calf. A ghost of a sensation.

She nodded again, throat closing up. She took the opportunity to study him. His sharp features were softened by the loosened, bright, golden strands falling over his face. She wondered if his colouring was part of the Malfoy magic, like hers, which sparked with flecks of magic and frizzled when she experienced strong emotions—much to her dismay. Like Harry, she didn’t have much of a poker face.

Draco’s lips were parted, soft and slightly full—the only part of his face that felt gentle—indulgent—as he continued his exploration of her legs. He dragged his cheek along each of her inner thighs, his faint stubble offering a contrasting sensation to the heat radiating from his skin.

The peach fuzz on the insides of her thighs stood on end in response to his light touches.

“Her—”

“Yes!” she growled. She was going mad.

Draco leaned forward, while Hermione leaned against the vanity, her shirt falling back with her. He watched intently, taking note of the tiny wet spot on the gusset of her pants. He palmed himself, squeezing his cock through his trousers. Watching him on his knees did something to her; she swallowed thickly. His warm breath lingered above her mons.

Hermione felt his all-consuming presence along her lower stomach. Hardness. Warmth. Light ripples of cedar and leather floated up to his nostrils. He didn’t move, waiting for her instructions. She kicked the outside of his thighs. "Get on with it."

He smirked. He lowered his head, almost in reverence. She watched a thin gossamer strand drip between his lips onto her pants. Cold, wet, obscene. Then he dropped a soft kiss through the thin fabric, and licked a long, slow stripe up her slit, lapping up his spit, hot pants against her entrance.

The juxtaposition of the competing temperatures made her squirm. “Oh, oh.”

He paused, looking up at her, face flushed, soft strands of hair over his eyes. “Ask for it, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Hermione huffed, an undignified sound now escaping her. Turnabout’s fair play, she supposed. She wouldn’t ask. Her hand shot out, combing through his hair. She tugged hard, tilting his head up at her. They stared at one another, clocking each other’s features. A wave of emotions swirled through them, flashes of their intertwined lives, moving parallel at certain points—a cherubic blond flanked by young cronies; familiar sneers and tears; brooms wooshing past the stands; sitting at adjacent House tables overhearing Draco bragging how his mother sent him the newest kinds of sweets; moaning to Pansy about his hippogriff injury for attention; arguing in the potions lab about who got the freshest beetle eyes, palms sweating at the Yule Ball; a squirming white ferret in (fake-) Moody’s arms; sad grey eyes and hollowed cheeks in Sixth-Year, scared wide eyes and dirty clothes in the Room of Requirement; a forward dead stare in the cage at the trials—now the inextricable bond between them that inosculated their magical cores together swelled and bubbled.

It wasn’t so funny anymore.

She pushed his face into her.

Smiling, he said, “Yes, ma’am,” before pulling her thong tight against her bundle of nerves—a pleasurable snap of pain—and burying his tongue deep inside her.

“Your stupid dragon cufflinks! You don’t even have a job!”

“Your insufferable curls. It’s a wonder I’m alive in the morning with how much is in my mouth.”

“Who still wears their Hogwarts colours? What, are you 12?!”

“Your ugly beast tried to suffocate me.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll try again!”

Draco pushed into her with one hard thrust. She cried out into the corner of his mouth, and he sucked on her tongue.

They spent the weekend fucking, fighting, and laughing. Figuring out one another’s quirks and turn-ons was an awkward and hilarious process. She found out that he liked to kiss. He found out that she liked to bite. He found out that he liked it when she bit, cock hardening and twitching against her stomach.

His breath was hot and sweet, smelling faintly of black rose tea and mint. His tongue, soft and wet, against her neck and jaw. She bent her knees to her chest, letting him slide deeper. They both groaned at the sensation. He kissed the inside of her knee before rocking slowly, shifting slightly to keep their pelvises aligned and tight against one another. The pleasant sensation of feeling full and warm evolved to a building tingling pressure. Perfect.

“Tighter,” he gritted out, jaw clenched.

Hermione almost hexed him when she realised that he was manoeuvring her ankles around his waist. She crossed them behind his back, and he gave a satisfied huff.

Draco was warm and heavy on top of her. The weight felt nice. Safe. She shouldn’t like this. She knew that he was neither nice nor safe. But his cock was filling her perfectly, hitting all the right spots. It was hard and hot and provided her with something to clench deliciously around. The wet, obscene sounds between them were soft, rhythmic, and only served to make her wetter.

His hand slithered to her clit, covering her mound and pushed down. She usually preferred her own hand, but it was like he knew what to do. In the fleeting moments when she still had her presence of mind, she knew he did. He grabbed her hand that gripped the sheets, slipping their fingers together. He guided their clamped hands over her lower stomach, feeling the small bump above her mons, and making sure she felt how his cock filled her at each thrust. It was dirty and so, so intimate. The slide of the slip and sweat building between them. His slate eyes never left her face. When the sensations were too overwhelming, he would grit out, "Eyes on me. Do you feel me? Look at me while you're taking my cock. Look at me when I make you come." 

He watched her face carefully, cataloguing each response to his touch. Mouth, she liked to lick and suck, much to his delight. Her tits, she liked it rough. Neck, gentle. Waist, he was careful because she was ticklish and nearly kneed him in the bollocks.

She moaned. She tightened around him, both climbing higher and bearing down. He made a strangled sound. They came together. Waves of lust and warm magic glimmered around them, washing over them again and again. 

He bit her neck, then laved the red spot he left with his warm tongue. In response, she clenched around his half-hard cock still inside her. He keened against her earlobe, offering her a few more thrusts. She did it again.

When they finished, Draco liked to kiss, fingers tangled in her wild curls. She sighed against his mouth, tremors still running through her.

(IV)

With their limbs entangled together on the sofa, Draco stroked her round, freckled cheek. She lit up when she talked about the DRCMC.

“I did it.” Her jaw jutted out defiantly.

He kissed the little cleft there.

Crookshanks glowered in the corner. He wanted to watch ground Quidditch. But he would have to wait.

“You did it.” 

"I beat them. I'm brilliant. Better than them," she muttered almost to herself before adding, "Fucking good enough. Finally."

She was finally letting him in. He could hold her, kiss her without reservation. He did. He kissed each of her knuckles on her left hand, then the other. "You did. You are the best." Malfoy was proud of his wife. He was taught to show it. “I got you a gift.”

Hermione's glassy eyes cleared. She snorted. “Jewellery?”

He shrugged. “It’s in the bedroom.”

She kissed the tip of his pointy nose.

Being fucked well did wonders for her mood.

Even Travers noticed. “How wonderful for the resident justice warrior to have her bill passed. I suppose Shacklebolt finally had to give the Mu–Muggleborn a bone.” He was still on crutches.

Her ankle shot out, kicking at the tip of his crutch. She relished the look of fear on his face as he wobbled. "Forgive me, my foot slipped." Passing him with her jaw set, Hermione walked slightly bow legged through the Atrium. Draco had kept her in bed all weekend, fucking, napping, then waking her up again with his tongue inside her. When she complained that she was sore, he whispered a Cooling charm against her cunt in between sloppy kisses, then dove in again.

This morning, he ate her out while she read the Prophet. 

Beyond the usual howlers and office missives from her department she found on her desk, she spotted a sage green owl that she recognised from Longbottom’s Gardens.

Dear Hermione,

I hope this note finds you well amongst the craziness of the Integration Act. We really need to have more pub nights.

Susan and I have been getting to know one another before we jump into anything. She is a kind and honest witch.

She told me that she saw Draco Malfoy, now your husband, at St. Mungo’s for hexing a Ministry employee who insulted you.

I have no doubt he wishes to be in your good graces. Indeed, I struggled with whether I should owl you, but my conscience compelled me to do so.

Longbottom’s Gardens, with help from my grandmother’s contacts in South America and Southeast Asia, has become the foremost distributor of herbs and potion ingredients in the UK wizarding world. We also have been working with some Houses who hold lands there to mine for gems. Recently, large orders came in, larger than I have ever filled. The amount and particular ingredients caught my attention: aconite, sapphires, moonstones, Occamy eggs. Outside of the regular list of materials, the wholesale ingredients ordered were for making wolfsbane. I know that is of particular interest for you.

When I followed the trail of the companies—which wasn’t easy by the way—they appeared to be small local businesses with not enough profit margins to procure such expensive ingredients and in such high quantities, thus, began my search anew. I looked into their affiliations, sources of funding, and donations, It seemed that the donor(s) were adamant that they were not found, often listing ‘unincorporated association’ in the Ministry documents. But the same name kept popping up when I could find a name, Malfoy LLP.

I have not told anyone. I trust you will do with the information as you see appropriate.

Warmest wishes,

Nev

The parchment went up in flames the moment her eyes hit Neville’s name in his small tight script. She barely felt it burn.

Hermione screamed, “Tell me again why I can never trust you!” Sparks of red and purple magic flew off her wild brown curls. Her Accidental magic was brimming at the pads of her fingertips, tingling and shimmering. “Do you want me to look like a fool in front of the Wizengamot?”

Draco ducked the levitating household items that flew at his head. “I said I would help you. What do you think that help would look like?”

“I never said to do something this dodgy. Your family name is attached to those donations.”

“Our name, darling, and only if you care to look,” he drawled.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?! You’ve bribed businesses into stocking wolfsbane. You’ve made me an accomplice. You implicated me.”

“Actually, limited partnerships keep our businesses and personal finances separate.” Hermione stared at him in disbelief. He was so laissez-faire. He continued, “You got your bill passed. What is the problem?”

“The problem is—” she seethed, “it wasn’t exactly on my own merit, was it?”

“Who cares?”

“I care!” Another cushion flew at his head. Crookshanks hissed. “I care that—”

“ — That everyone knows it’s you? That you’re brilliant? That you’re enough?” He curled the sides of his lips. “It is you.”

“But I know it’s not. How dare you take that away from me?”

“I have never known you to play by the rules unless they serve you, Granger,” he hissed her family name like a slur. “The Ministry rules Will. Not. Serve. You. You’re too progressive. You’re too much of a threat. People say they want change, but they don’t. Not when it’s uncomfortable. You think wizards want werewolves in their businesses? In their schools? Near children?”

“Professor Lupin—”

“ — was one werewolf. Now it’s plural. A generation of them. I don’t make the rules. I know how to play them. You were never going to get that bill passed otherwise. Do you know how much wolfsbane costs?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a numpty.”

“If you’re not stupid, then you’re naive. You think the Ministry is going to fund the bill? Or that family apothecaries have that kind of bread? I told you, I’m not going to let my wife or my House fail. You may feel comfortable swimming in mediocrity for the last two dec—”

Hermione slapped him. “This was mine, and you took it from me.” She stomped to the bedroom.

Malfoy called after her. She ignored him.

Before she sent a strong Colloportus at the door, she heard him yell, “Welcome to Malfoy LLP, Mrs. Malfoy.”

When Hermione woke up, she was sprawled across the middle of their—her bed, Crookshanks on her stomach. Somehow, he found a way into the bedroom.

Before she fell asleep, Malfoy stood outside for hours, calling for her to come out and talk. She yelled at him to go away. That was the last thing she remembered.

The door was still shimmering with the haze of her spell. Rubbing her red-rimmed eyes, she found herself at her vanity. Her round face was puffy with smeared mascara and streaks of dried tears across her cheeks. She took a damp cotton pad to her face to take off her ruined day makeup.

To the side of her table was a black velvet box. She scrunched up her face. It was probably Malfoy’s celebratory gift for her bill passing. Inside was a note in big messy script: ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Malfoy,’ and a non-assuming sapphire station necklace on a thin silver chain.

She put on the necklace. It felt like a collar. Her chest was heavy. ‘Heavy lies the crown,’ was it? Was this her punishment? There was no joy in her face. Was this who she was now? No longer Hermione Jean Granger, swot extraordinaire, only daughter of (now-Australian) dentists, and child soldier, but a cutthroat politician? Briber. Criminal. Malfoy’s wife? By any means necessary? The good outweighed the bad. She knew that. Even if by ill begotten means, the werewolf bill passing would mean that victims—not only that, children—of war would have a future, not relegated to poverty and prejudice. Why did it matter so much? To be seen by people who would never support her, but were perfectly content to trot her out as their token war hero-cum-good girl? Was this pride?

No.

She pursed her lips.

It mattered, and it was important, because she said so.

Malfoy didn’t understand that. He never had to deal with feeling like she didn’t belong. To try so hard every day, because of people like him. To prove that she earned her place at Hogwarts. That she wasn’t stealing magic or taking anything away from some wixen more deserving.

What about Malfoy?

He told her who he was. What he wanted to do. What he would do. Why was she angry when she knew a dragon could breathe fire? Why was she surprised that she was burned? Was she burned? She didn’t know that he would carry out his word, or perhaps didn’t want to believe it.

Did it matter in the long run?

It was just so—

He was just so—

Her breathing grew shallow. Small pants.

The world felt small. Reduced to sapphire pinpoints winking back at her in the vanity mirror.

Just so—

Infuriating—

Her line of vision tipped sideways.

She couldn’t catch her breath. It was hard to breathe.

Fluffy orange toes tapping the floor near her face.

Everything went white.

Then black.

Crookshanks yowled.

Chapter Text

A freshly French-manicured hand adorned with diamonds squeezed Draco’s shoulder. “You haven’t shaved.”

Malfoy scratched his scruffy cheek and shrugged. His grey eyes were weary and red-rimmed. His Occlumency was working overtime. He wore a loose dark button down shirt from a couple of days before, uncuffed and open at the collar. He only left St. Mungo’s for a few hours of sleep. “Thanks for coming.” The words were said with a hint of resentment.

Narcissa crooked a finger, and a chair skidded across the floor to halt next to Draco As she sat down, her light blue robes fluttered in a circle around her. “I wanted to give you two space; time to get to know one another.”

“You haven’t met her.”

“I know her.” Her voice was low and cajoling.

He snorted. “You know what I mean. After the war.”

Her cool blue eyes scanned over her only son, hair ruffled and bent over, elbows on his thighs. “Your posture is atrocious.”

“Mother—” he warned.

“I brought some croissants from Du Pain et des Idées.” An open cake box levitated toward him. “You need to eat something beyond the awful canteen food.”

“I’m not hungry.” He pushed the pastries away. “Bottie brings me dinner.” His attention was still on his wife. Hermione, pale and gaunt, remained in a sort of prolonged state of magical unconsciousness. Her lips were drawn and bloodless; her typically sentient hair was flat and moussy. It reminded him of the small witch he saw that stood in the rubble of Hogwarts 20 years ago. Malfoy pushed the thought out of his mind, grey eyes going dull.

A monitoring charm hovered with a faintly shimmering otter curled up above her head. Susan Bones told him there was something slowly draining her magical core. Each day, her otter fell a little dimmer. The Healers checked her body for any clue of violence, no doubt looking for an excuse to put him back in Azkaban, but beyond her decades-old war scars, there was no physical evidence of trauma. Draco wrapped a curl around his index finger, willing it to bounce back.

“You care about the girl.” Narcissa stated, leaving no room for argument.

His voice was clipped. “I care about my wife. The bond says—”

“The bond doesn’t compel you to not leave her bedside,” she said.

“I should let the Saviour and the Spare take care of her? She’ll be gone before day break.” Narcissa hummed but didn’t respond. Draco continued, “They stand guard outside the door, as if it does fuck all. She’s been unconscious for days. Her ugly orange familiar broke down the wards to let me get to her.”

“How—”

“Don’t ask,” Draco waved away his mother’s question. He held Hermione’s limp hand, twisting her wedding ring. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Son, if she passes—”

“Stop.”

“The contract will be null and void.”

“And what? Have the rest of the world look at me like I’m a killer?”

“They already do.” Draco whipped his head around, but Narcissa’s expression remained impassive. “You can travel. Come with me to Bordeaux. The Greengrasses have several properties and wineries there.” She squeezed his knee.

“Already looking for another way to pass me around, Mother? Such is the life of a prized stud.”

“Don’t be crass, Draco,” she admonished, “If the marriage were a match, why would Ms. Granger have wards up in your marital bedroom?” He didn’t answer her. “You know, family like ours, people mistake it for privilege.”

Draco stared at her blankly.

“I mean, we have responsibilities that others don’t. A legacy to uphold. A steadfast obligation to duty, family, and tradition.”

He muttered, “What has that ever gotten us?”

“I’ve corresponded a bit with Ms. Granger, trying to gain a better understanding of my new daughter-in-law—and my son.”

“Yes, she told me.”

“So you do talk. Ms. Granger is of the new world. But she understands what it’s like being caught in an image cultivated by an interested public. There is both a freedom and frustration to it—being in a gilded cage where each step you take is examined, weighed, and measured, and you are always found wanting. It’s made all the worse by the fact that she’s a progressive young witch. Parchment is but a two-dimensional representation of a three-dimensional life.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he pontificated.

Narcissa sighed. “I thought she would be a good match for you. She is informed and intellectual, practical and pragmatic. You both have a certain kind of infamy; too young were you two in the headlines. Only had kind words for you.”

Draco sniffed. “Now I know you are lying.”

“She wasn’t complimentary,” she added quickly, “But she sees things with a kind of clarity; a truthfulness that people rarely have. She understands that you were young; that your beliefs were influenced by your father—and me; and our lives were threatened. We all did things we were not proud of.” A pause. “Did you know she Obliviated her parents during the war? Sent them off to Australia, and now they don’t remember her. A charm so powerful that even the most powerful Healers couldn’t reverse it, and now—”

Draco swallowed the spikes growing in his throat. “Now too long has passed.”

Narcissa carried on, “Ms. Granger did not omit the mistakes you made, even while made under duress.”

“The Boy with No Choice,” he laughed scornfully, remembering the headlines after his mother donated sinfully large sums of galleons to the Magical Gazette, Daily Prophet, and the Quibbler.

“She did not view it that way. They were choices—though, difficult and impossible—and called them as such,” Narcissa added, “She believed that your match was another such instance, where both your agencies were taken away, but a choice nonetheless. Unlike the war, she thought something beautiful could sprout from it. Do good and prompt change in the stagnant magical world.”

“Our marriage is a useful tool. Pragmatic, indeed.” His voice barely concealed the bitterness.

Narcissa smiled almost pityingly at him. A memory floated up unwittingly, long held behind his Occlumency walls. His mother smiled the same way she did when he asked what happened to his pet Niffler, Sickleworth, after it charged into Father’s study, interrupting a meeting and stealing his colleague’s Travers Sr.’ shiny azure timepiece. “Can you think of something more noble than to be of service?”

Draco scoffed in disgust. “This diatribe isn’t going to work on me anymore. I do not want to serve anyone. I’ve had my fill: Father, Voldemort, Dumbledore, you,” he spat the last word. “I am not my wife. There is no lost love between the wizarding world and me. I have no desire to shift whatever ideas people have of me. I have no higher ideals except—”

“To be a good husband,” Narcissa stated simply. Her son avoided her discerning gaze. “You both are headstrong; proud; and take yourselves entirely too seriously—” Draco opened his mouth to protest. “ —talented in the defensive arts; and care deeply for your loved ones. Believe it or not, I wanted the match to work.” He snorted. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he murmured bitterly.

Narcissa ignored him. “Initially, I thought Daphne might be a good match. She’s gregarious and balances your serious countenance nicely. But she’s been promised to Marcus Flint. So her younger sister, Astoria—”

“Mother, don’t you think it’s disrespectful to discuss the prospects of a new wife while my current one is in front of us and still alive?”

“I thought it was only the bond that compelled you—”

“Enough!” Draco hissed.

“Forgive me, my sweet dragon.” She followed his line of sight, watching him massage Hermione’s fingers. “You always had a good eye for jewellery, even as a young wizard. My own personal Niffler.” She tousled his hair.

“Mother—” Draco tilted his head away from her touch.

Ignoring him, Narcissa gestured toward Hermione’s hand threaded through Draco’s. “I recognized the ring you chose straight away. It’s from vault 77(a), yes?”

Draco nodded.

She tilted her chin up, her discerning eyes rarely missing much. “I don’t recognise the necklace. Which vault is that from?”

There was a loud commotion outside of Hermione’s private room. Draco’s reinforcements had arrived, the Curse-Breakers. Dressed in crisp navy button-downs and well-fitting trousers, overlaid with dark robes, and full grain dragonhide boots, two figures materialised in a swirl of charcoal smoke: Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. Their respective, bright blue and hazel eyes glowed from behind their masks.

Harry’s arm shot out, blocking the door. “You can’t just barge into St. Mungo’s.”

Ron added, “There are procedures.”

A dulcet baritone voice answered with a characteristic drawl that could still be heard through their hard-shell face masks. “You’ll find that we can, Potter.”

“The room is warded,” Harry maintained.

“We were invited here.”

“By who?!” Ron’s voice cracked.

“Our boy.” Theo’s voice tinkled with mischievousness.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that,” Ron scoffed.

Theo snapped his fingers and Vanished his mask, offering Harry a bright winning smile and a cluck of his tongue. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, lover. Not since your ‘lost years.’”

Harry rubbed the back of his head, ears turning pink. “Er … yeah.”

Ron’s head snapped back and forth between them.

Theo wrapped his arm around Blaise. “Y’know Ginny left my wizard heartbroken when you deigned to come back around? Didn’t feel important enough in the Muggle world? It must be hard to compete with—what —being the saviour of the wizarding world.”

Glaring at Theo, Blaise shrugged off his arm. “Stop talking rubbish.”

Theo smirked. “I just want Potter to know about the trail of destruction he left in his wake. People let him off the hook too often. Ginerva the Harpies Chaser welcomed him back with open arms and became a house witch. Boo hoo, I was mistreated. Boo hoo, I was a child soldier. Boo hoo, I died. Who hasn’t? What’s the excuse when you’re on the wrong side of 30 and still acting like a knobhead? Wizards will do everything but seek the help they need.”

Blaise sneered. “Enough. We’re here on official business. The patient’s husband, Draco Malfoy called upon and paid for the services of the best Curse-breakers in the UK. That is us.” He waved a parchment scroll in their face, filled with Draco’s neat script.

“That would be Bill, my brother.” Ron stiffened, challenging them.

“Oh you know him? He sent us,” Theo needled, then started singing the tune of Carmen’s “L’amour est un Oiseau Rebelle.”

Draco, come out

Come out of here

Come get your Aurors off my arse

Now, now, now—

Draco flung open the door, dark brows pulled into a line. “You’re going to wake up the whole hospital,” he hissed.

Theo stuck out his tongue. “If that were true, then you wouldn’t need us.”

Blaise stepped inside. Theo followed, pausing to wink and blow a kiss to Harry.

“What?” Harry, eyes wide and hair ruffled, stared at Ron, his reedy voice cracking before the door was warded closed.

Chapter Text

“You fooled around with Potter?” Draco inquired, pushing his white-blond hair out of his face and pulling down his Oxford for some semblance of propriety.

Theo shrugged. “Not much to do after the war. Always wanted to know what a Seeker’s knob tasted like. I collect them like wizard cards. I got Keeper—Oliver Wood, shhh—and uh … Chaser.”

“Pucey?” Blaise asked.

Theo tapped the little scar in the space between his eyebrows. “Draco wasn’t the only one who got his nose broken at Hogwarts.”

Draco blinked, mouth pulled into a thin line. “That fucking wanker.”

Blaise’s teeth flashed. “You said you fell from the stands. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Theo shrugged. “Not worth it.”

“If I run into him at Diagon Alley—” Blaise snapped his wrist, mimicking a slicing motion with his wand. Bright yellow flames sparked out of the tip, mirroring the fire in his hazel eyes.

Theo’s lips twitched, curling into a sardonic smile. “It’s alright, Zabini. I stole his father’s watch. Probably got him Crucio’d.” He pulled Blaise in and kissed his forehead with a loud obnoxious smack. “Now what have we here, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco grimaced. “Don’t call me that. And that,” He pointed to Hermione’s neck, an unassuming silver station necklace with small flecks of sapphire. “It’s cursed.”

Blaise asked, “How do you know?”

“It’s not from any of the Malfoy vaults. I missed it, and apparently so did the healers.”

“Who are her healers?”

“Healer-in-Charge, Susan Bones, amongst others,” Draco answered.

Theo’s eyes brightened. “Oh, I know her! She fixed me straight when Father installed biting doorknobs in the room to punish me for—who even remembers? Talented even as a young witch. Reattached these. Witches and wizards enjoy them equally. Would be a right shame to lose them.” He wriggled his fingers in front of Blaise’s nose until he slapped them away.

“Stop it. We’re in company.”

“It’s just Draco! He’s seen much, much, much worse,” Theo pouted, straightened his robes, and approached Hermione’s bed. “Interesting,” he quipped. He examined the necklace, lifting it from her clavicle. “Something small and nondescript. Easy to escape detection. Ingenious. Still—” He cast a diagnostic charm to test the strength of the curse. His magic scanned her body, lighting up parts of her body with various colours, the dimmest of which was above her diaphragm—where her magical core was. “It’s double-cursed,” he stated blandly. His floating Quick-Notes Quill scribbled next to him.

Draco flung several Stinging jinxes at Theo’s feet. “This isn’t some tea biscuit we’re talking about. It’s my wife,” he argued.

Theo danced a jig, trying to avoid the painful sparks. One finally landed on his calf. He yelped. Palms up in mock surrender, he threw his hands in the air. “You really like throwing that word around.”

“What?”

“‘Wife.’” Theo smirked. “Granger is—”

Draco snapped, “That’s who she is, by all rights and responsibilities. People attacked her, because of me. They think House Malfoy is weak with Father in Azkaban and Mother in France. All of her work. The strides she made. Disappeared in an instant, because she is guilty by association with a Death Eater. ”

Theo tapped his chin in faux-pensiveness. “Possibly. But I think you underestimate your witch. She’s just as unlikable as you. Believe it or not, old wizards don’t want to make inconvenient changes that don’t benefit them. The werewolf legislation ruffled a few feathers, not to mention, Granger is a shrew and a scold with bad shoes. ”

“Careful, Nott,” he warned.

“And interrupt your self-flagellation? Oh no! Mea culpa ” Theo rolled his eyes. “Despite how Cissy treats you, you are not the centre of the wizarding world.”

“Oi! Will you two shut up? Worse than a couple of Cornish pixies during breeding season,” Blaise yelled.

“I’m game if you are, Drakey poo.” Theo flicked his wand and kissed the air, sending a sparkly pink outline of his lips in his direction. Draco ducked, and the charm left a large lipstick stain on the wall next to the his head.

“Children!” Blaise shook his head before pushing Theo out of the way to spell a second diagnostic, bathing Hermione’s body in a soft yellow hue. He lifted the necklace with the tip of his wand. He recognised the lustrous coating of a Dark protective enchantment along the sapphire stations of the silver chain that the untrained eye would mistake for brilliance. His family made robust use of them. A shimmering Othala rune floated up and out.

Family. Inheritance. Heritage. In his Muggle studies, Blaise read that it had some ties to hate groups. Appropriate, he thought sardonically, mouth twitching.

He studied it for a long moment, the sapphires winking at him. “The necklace has already been spoken for. It’s a family heirloom. If anyone who’s not descended from the family line puts it on, they fall into a deep magical coma. Deters thieving, if you can’t run. And it’s cursed against non-magical blood.” He sighed, making a disgusted expression. “So it is, as Theodore says, double-cursed.”

A complicated flip of his wand and a whispered incantation. A stream of delicate blue flames lit up the necklace. A small click. The jewellery unlatched itself from Hermione’s neck, leaving a slight tinge of grey on her skin. Blaise tried levitating it toward him. The necklace didn’t seem to like that. The silver chain broke open and shapeshifted, taking the shape of a Dementor skull, its mouth opening wide, swallowing the room whole in dark foul smoke. An unnatural cold settled over the room, stealing the light from the windows and sconces.

Theo covered Draco and him underneath his cloak. Though pale and shaking, Blaise was undeterred. He wiped a Tergeo charm around him in a protective shield, while casting something Draco couldn’t make out. A tiny, luminescent, curly haired cat with lightning blue eyes manifested from behind, keeping the skull’s magic at bay, giving Blaise enough time to summon it toward him. The sapphires protruded from the skull’s mouth as teeth, turning sharp, biting into the skin of his palm.

Droplets of blood fell from his hand. A Pureblood sacrifice.

The curse was deactivated.

Theo and Draco let out a collective sigh of relief. As Theo cleansed the room, the glowing cat ran up to Blaise’s hand, scratching its ear with its hind leg, then disappearing with a mischievous wink. There was something very familiar about his tiny Patronus.

Blaise swiped his hand against his trousers, shaking off the blood, and healed himself before floating the necklace toward Theo. Without words, Theo turned it over, examining it closely. They were a great team. Blaise excelled in puzzles, problem solving, and cleansing cursed objects, whereas Theo, a natural Occlumens with an eidetic memory, held as much knowledge as Nott library.

“Is there a magical signature on it?” Draco asked.

Theo said, “Runic magic is ancient and bound by blood. If we can trace the jewels to its origin point, it’s likely that we can determine where or who the curse came from. We can take it to the Aurors.”

Blaise asked, “You mean, Dumb and Dumber?” Draco and Theo turned to stare at him, mouths agape. “What? It’s a good film-y.”

Theo levitated the necklace into a small velvet pouch he kept in his patch pocket.

“Why isn’t she awake yet?” Draco stared at Hermione’s purple otter, which only seemed to grow dimmer.

“The curse on the necklace has been broken, but not on her yet.”

“Then break it,” Draco’s jaw was locked before swallowing tightly.

“Can’t.”

He rubbed his tired grey eyes. “What now?”

Blaise added, “It’s an ancient curse, doubly effective using blood magic and the distilled magic of Dementors. It must be from a wizard family with powerful ties. Keeps the affected in a state close to death, not that dissimilar from the Kiss, only instead of the soul, it drains the magic from the person.”

“How do you know all this?” Draco asked.

Blaise answered, “Unlike you, I actually did well on my O.W.L.s. Os in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.”

“I had other things on my mind in Seventh-Year,” Draco mumbled.

“Oh?” Theo cocked his head. “Aaaand—?”

Blaise huffed, “And my family uses similar curses.”

Theo slammed the bedside table, causing Draco and Blaise to jump. “Wonderful! Crime solved. Blaise did it! He hates Muggles and loves jewellery.”

“Stop mucking about! Zabinis don’t deal in sapphire, only gold.” Blaise stiffened, turning toward Draco. “Only family can break the curse. There is no stronger magic than the blood of bond.”

Malfoy stuttered, “I —She doesn’t—”

To save Draco from himself, Theo mercifully asked, “What about her parents—”

“Obliviated.”

“Siblings?”

“Only child.”

“How do you know these things? I thought you didn’t care for—”

“Theo!” Blaise snapped, “Then it has to be you.”

“Me? By magic or by law?”

Theo shook his head. “Does it matter? Was it consummated?”

Draco glared at him, considering a Tongue-Tying curse.

Theo smacked his lips, his Quick-Notes Quills scribbling furiously behind him. “Yes, then.”

“We need familial blood.”

“Done.” Draco aimed a Diffindo at his forearm, slicing lengthwise along his Dark Mark, red viscous liquid dripping down his elbow. “What else?” Since the war and losing his wand, he had several wands, both legal and not. But the one he kept by his side was the walnut wood. It resisted him the least.

Blaise floated the beads of blood to wrap around the luminescent napping otter above Hermione. It yawned, propping up one of the blood droplets as a pillow. “A Patronus, and we’ll need to syphon that memory’s magic for strength to share it with Granger.”

Draco shook his head. “You know I can’t make one.”

“Then you better learn. Patronuses don’t sleep.” Theo pointed to her fading otter, “If her otter doesn’t wake up soon, it’ll be too late. You need to drop your Occlumency walls.”

“I-I can’t.”

Blaise affirmed, “You want her to wake up, don’t you? You must try. Take the good with the bad.”

Draco stood next to Hermione’s bed, taking deep breaths in and out. He shut his eyes. Long fingers tapped against the edge of his wand. Shadows and light swirled around him. Memories dribbled in, confusing his mother’s kisses with the bite of Bellatrix’s whip. Albino peacocks nipped at his toes, while Dementors filled the sky overhead. The vast expanse of Narcissa’s fragrant gardens sprouted dead goblin bodies. The last look Lucius gave him before they hauled him off in a cage intermingled with Ulysses dropping off his extravagant care packages at Hogwarts. A rushed peck on his cheek from Pansy before she ran away down the hallowed corridors merged with his memory of her tears that caught the light from a window in a disused classroom when she caught him with another Slytherin witch. He was ashamed, angry, hurt, and fucking frightened. He couldn’t do it. He shook off the memories, nearly snarling.

A surge of calming magic flowed over him—cool and blissful—and he realised Blaise was helping him, keeping his dark memories at bay.

Draco concentrated, thinking of his Hogwarts acceptance letter, and then his Durmstrang’s owl arrived. He ran into Lucius’ study, whose eyes glittered upon reading the parchments. The first and only time he heard his father say, “I’m proud of you.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his forearm.

An impotent stream of silvery magic flopped out of his walnut wood.

Theo stifled a giggle. “Don’t worry, blondie. It happens to a lot of wizards.”

Blaise coughed to disguise a laugh. “Ahem, not the time.”

Draco sneered, then tried again. The first time he flew on a broom. The first time he flipped upside down. The first time he caught the snitch in a Gryffindor vs. Slytherin game. The first time he beat Hermione in Potions. Fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. Finding Sickleworth still alive and living with his estranged aunt and cousin with blue hair. Tears flowed freely now.

His magical sprite grew brighter this time, but still no corporeal Patronus was formed.

“Gotta try harder, Draco,” Theo advised.

“I am,” he hissed. He took in a deep breath, closing his eyes. Moving walls in his mind. Unlocking old chains. Parting oceans. A controlled burn to his well-manicured landscape. Taking down his Occlumency. He had to see it all. Voldemort Crucio’ing him. His dead professor’s blank eyes. Mother’s quiet sobs in her room that she tried to hide from him. His fist clenched and unclenched, a certain kind of calm to him.

A flurry of images pushed toward the front from behind his eyes, something fluttering along the edges of his mind. Two fat orange paws clawed their way up through his mind’s cellar door, paying no heed to his resistance.

A sight of Hermione’s frizzy curls hovering above her study desk. Elbows on the table, holding her hair away from her face as she read, lips mouthing the words. He was sitting at the settee across from her, the Daily Prophet spread across his chest, pretending to nap.

Atop the five-tiered bookshelf filled to the brim with parchment, books, and tchotchkes sat Crookshanks, surveying his kingdom. He zoomed in on an eyes-shut Draco and interpreted his sleeping as weakness. The orange kneazle took the opportunity to teach the pointy wizard a lesson about letting his guard down around him.

The pain was sudden and sharp and disorienting. Draco yelped, holding his crotch. “Mother, Circe, and Helga Hufflepuff, that smarts!”

Without looking up from her reading, Hermione said, “Figures. You know, it’s worth exploring why you would call for mummy in your dreams. I know a wonderful Mind Heal—”

“I was not sleeping. I was resting my eyes. Now, I’m going to murder that fat fuck.”

“You can try,” Hermione sing-songed. “Crookshanks is not fat. He is perfectly plump and magnificent,” she added.

“I will.” Stepping forward, Draco shook his wand menacingly at Crookshanks, who was currently sitting on a windowsill behind his mistress, flicking his tail to and fro. He swore the kneazle tilted his chin up at him, as if to say, ‘Come on, old man.’

“Old?!” Draco cried, running up to the arrogant creature.

Hermione pushed up her reading glasses that slid down her nose. “You will not touch a hair on Crooks’ body. You were clearly in his way. It’s best that you apologise, if you value your bollocks.”

Draco sniffed. “When will I make it to your list of favourite ugly and spoiled beasts?”

“You’re third behind Buckbeak,” she deadpanned.

He smirked, leaning on her desk. “So you admit it. I’m on the list.”

Without missing a beat, Hermione looked up, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “So you agree. You’re spoiled and ugly.”

They stared at one another, heat building and a taut string of silver magic pulling at their centres, before they broke in peals of laughter.

A wispy stream of magic escaped his wand and took shape, first hovering like mist but growing brighter. The incorporeal shape carved out jagged shimmering orange lines through the small hospital room. Draco watched with wondrous eyes as it grew and grew. Four legs manifested. His Patronus lengthened but in the wrong direction. The spectre moved like an ethereal furor, fat tongue lolling out, widening and manifesting skin folds. He felt a swell of pride in his chest—the lithe Greyhound or a handsome Borzoi perhaps? —that then stopped in its tracks.

The ancient and noble—

Chow Chow?

Galloping —

Okay, flouncing about Hermione’s bed. The three Slytherins followed the panting dog around the room.

“Is it okay?” Blaise wondered aloud. The glowing beast seemed to have trouble catching its breath.

“Arresto momentum!” Theo flung a spell at the struggling Patronus.

“Don’t hurt it!” Draco whined before he could stop himself.

“Mate—”

While Theo kept Draco’s Patronus in stasis, Blaise began muttering unfamiliar words, drawing a circumference around Hermione. With a complicated wand movement, a wisp of silver magic from Blaise’s wand connected to the Patronus. He flicked, sending the sparkling Chow Chow into Hermione’s diaphragm.

Her body shook and shuddered, folding in on itself.

A jet of orange light unfurled through the room, rumbling magic across the parquet floors. The ground trembled in low quakes. Flasks and vases crumbled to the floor. The wizards gripped onto whatever they could for support.

They held their breath.

Draco tore his eyes from his Chow Chow to watch for signs of life from his wife.

The air flew out of the room.

1—

2—

3—

4—

A phlegmy cough.

Hermione blinked, blurry dark eyes adjusting to the light and flurry of stimuli hitting her senses. Hospital smells. Scratchy sheets. Warm skin? Draco grabbed her hand. She studied it like a primate.

“Crookshanks?” Her voice was small and brittle.

“I’m going to kill that flat-faced ginger,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. He cleared his throat. “No, love. It’s me, Malfoy.” He helped her move up against the metal bed frame. She felt so frail.

Her eyes snapped to his when he spoke. “No,” her voice was taking on a scolding tone he was familiar with, “Crookshanks is your Patronus memory?”

Blush rode up to his ears. “You could see it?”

Her heavy lashes fluttered weakly. She chuckled, laugh lines streaking across her cheeks. A thought unbidden came to him. He couldn’t wait to see them full again. Hermione said, “Wait until I tell him. He’ll never let you hear the end of it.” She reached out for Draco, fingers threading through his. Forgetting himself, he haphazardly climbed into the bed next to her, gathering her against his chest. She smelled like astringent and hospital sheets. She didn’t push him away.

Theo nudged Blaise in the stomach, but Blaise turned to stare out the hospital window, attempting to give the couple some privacy. Theo stretched out on his tiptoes to kiss Blaise’s earlobe. Blaise continued to look out the window, but a slow pink crawled up his neck to his temples. He didn’t push Theo away either.

A loud ruckus was heard outside the room again when the wards were breeched. A hazy wave wobbled before stabilising. Healer Bones moved through the wards, along with Harry and Ron tripping over one another to push in. “Hermione!” they exclaimed, crowding around her.

Draco’s Chow Chow flung itself across Hermione’s lap, growling at the bewildered Aurors, magic drooling down its purple tongue and at the tip of its curly tail. It created a powerful blast, shielding Hermione and Draco, sliding and pushing everyone back to the edge of the room.

Draco cackled, as did his Slytherin mates.

“That’s not okay, Malfoy!” But there was no bite in her words.

Adopting a defensive stance, his squat and stout Patronus squared up at the unwelcome guests and continued to growl, as Harry and Ron approached the bed again.

“Easy, now,” Ron cooed, wand at the ready.

“You leave my Chow alone, Weasley!” Malfoy warned.

“Really, Malfoy? A Chow Chow?” Harry arched an amused eyebrow.

Hermione raised a swotty finger; right hand held to her chest to stabilise her dry, warbling voice. “Chows are actually quite vicious. They are an ancient and noble breed with a long history. Aloof to strangers and loyal to their owners. Fits Malfoy quite well, don’t you think?”

The flabbergasted Aurors knew better than to argue with their oldest and smartest friend.

Draco’s Patronus galloped around them, continuing to glower beyond them—at Susan Bones.

Chapter Text

“I’m fine,” Hermione swatted away Draco's diagnostic charm, leaving the floating colours a swirly mess. Crookshanks laid across her lap, while he fussed over her. They were home now. It seemed strange to say that.

“Your magical core is still not at full capacity,” he said.

The ill-tempered Kneazle regarded Draco with disdain, taking a swipe at his crotch whenever he got too close to his mistress or his squishy bits got within claws reach.

Draco considered casting his Chow to take care of that pomelo-shaped beast, but instead, he cast a quiet Protective charm and girded his loins to stay close to his wife.

The following week was a blur. Draco brought Hermione home as soon as he was able to and changed Healers. Harry and Ron took Healer Bones in for interrogation—asking her how she missed the necklace; don’t they remove all identifying jewellery during checkups, especially in a world of cursed objects, and so forth. Unfortunately, a growling Patronus Chow Chow did not evidence make, much to Draco’s chagrin. Furthermore, the handwriting on the jewellery box note found in Hermione and Draco’s bedroom did not match Susan’s.

One rare day, Draco successfully warded Crookshanks out of the bedroom, in order to have some quiet time with Hermione. The Kneazle hissed at the wizard, as the door closed in his face. In retaliation, Draco sent his Chow Chow after him.

“Just because you can make one now doesn’t mean you have to show it off every chance you get,” she said with a weak smile.

“Clearly, you’ve never been a randy teenager,” he said.

She sighed, slowly lowering herself to the settee where Bottie had set out a tray of various Healing potions for her. “We still have a lot to discuss.”

He agreed. “I know. When you’re better.” She considered him briefly. He tried to put up his Occlumency walls. Feign indifference. Turn his gaze hard and blank, but it was getting harder and harder around her. She nodded.

A small POP. Bottie Apparated in, startling them. She brought them dinner: roast lamb, grilled vegetables, and fragrant rice.

“Tell Narcissa I said thank you,” Hermione smiled, tucking in, pink and plumpness coming back to her cheeks.

Draco was quietly tickled. It was good to be of service. He shook his mother's words from his mind. He had always been used. But it felt nice to be needed.

A few days later, much faster than Draco would have preferred, Hermione started accepting visitors at their small flat. It was much too cramped and had one too many Weasleys for his liking.

The first visitors were, of course, Harry and Ron, or 'Dumb and Dumber,' as Blaise preferred to refer to them when he and Theo dropped by to ensure the curse had left her system entirely. Harry brought news of Susan’s 96-hour detention at the DMLE’s holding cells. Neville apparently Apparated straight in from Columbia, hopping several continents and oceans. Ron brought a bouquet of yellow and orange marigolds that clashed with the décor.

“Malfoy,” she preemptively warned.

He left the Annoying Trio to find Crookshanks wrestling his glittering Chow to submission on the balcony. Unfortunately, it was clear who was winning. He Vanished his Patronus and they spent a lovely afternoon together, sharing grilled sardines pintxos that Bottie made.

The following day, Neville brought Hermione a bouquet of lavender.

Draco stood guard when he arrived, Crookshanks astride his shoulder, his ridiculous bottlebrush tail flicking furiously. Sometimes his level of protectiveness surprised him when he allowed himself to ruminate on it—which wasn’t often. It was the only thing he had in common with the ugly and spoiled thing in his arms. He maintained that it was all due to the bond.

Neville’s green eyes roamed over the diminutive witch, who sat across from him at the table, a lavish tea service set out in front of him by their house-elf. Freed, Hermione maintained.

Seeing his old classmate bothered Neville, as that was not the image of the Hermione he had kept in his mind. He thought of the clear-eyed determination she had when she Petrified him at age 12, or the crazed energy she had in the DA during training sessions. It had been almost a year since they’d last seen each other. He pushed the sandy hair out of his eyes. Too long, his grandmother told him. “It’s been a while, Hermione. Looking good,” he lied.

“Liar,” she smiled.

Neville offered her a goofy laugh that reminded her of days past. He had grown into his stature. The war had carved out any softness in his features. The only thing left of his boyish looks were his slight buck teeth that she still found endearing and the round cheeks when he allowed himself to smile.

Hermione chuckled, pulling at her tangled brown curls that were regaining their sentience. “It’s nice to see you, Neville.” She took a deep inhale of the purple flowers’ calming scent, her mind taking her back to when she was in the gardens with her mother. Tiny sparks of magic flickered from her little fingers when ladybirds landed on her shoulder, startling her.

He nodded at Draco. “Harry and Ron told me that you were instrumental in helping Hermione wake up.”

“Obviously,” Draco drawled, sounding a bit too much like his godfather for his liking. “I invited you over because I thought you could offer us some insight. My Patronus doesn’t like Bones; unfortunately, the Aurors cannot keep her beyond the 96-hours questioning on a murder charge.”

Hermione added, “I know this is delicate. Susan is, after all, your wife.”

Draco scoffed, “By marriage law decree—”.

Hermione reached out for his hand. Touch came easier to them, almost second nature now. “As am I, Malfoy. It didn’t stop you from—“

“Caring about each other, yes,” Neville finished for her.

“So we understand if you are protective of her as well,” she said pragmatically.

“Susan has been a lovely wife, but we are not a love match like yours,” Neville replied.

Hermione flushed. Draco opened his mouth, but stopped short of correcting him when Hermione squeezed his hand. Heat prickled the tips of his ears down to the back of his neck.

“I mean, I understand the bond causes certain emotions, and I’m sure this—whatever this is—was hard won, but it’s evident you two care about each other. Perhaps something good came out of the war, after all,” Neville pontificated.

Hermione stiffened, “There is nothing good about marrying a near-stranger and coerced consummation, no matter what the Wizengamot says.” Draco felt a slight deflation. There are things that he could never overcome. Their past. His harsh words. His cowardice. The circumstances through which they were matched. His clumsy determination to make her see their pairing as viable that almost cost her her life. “What Draco and I have cultivated, it happened despite the marriage law, not because of it.”

Draco’s head whipped toward her, wide grey eyes on her mouth, Occlumency be damned. His first name. Her recognition. He felt something akin to the swell of pride he felt when Narcissa cooed at him for a job well done. Merlin, he was still that greedy boy who hoarded his sweets and his mummy's attention.

Eager to explore this but not in front of the help, Draco redirected the conversation. He cleared his throat, “There is no direct tie to Bones and the necklace. And the handwriting is not a match. Even Hermione’s wedding ring was taken off briefly, and yet she missed the necklace. Highly suspicious.”

Neville stared into his tea. “That’s why I’m here. I found the link.”

“Longbottom’s Gardens, as you know, has distributors all over the world. South America, Africa, Asia. We source all sorts of potion ingredients: exotic herbs, expensive gemstones, rare specimens, etc.”

Draco made a winding motion, bored already. Hermione glared at him and clucked her teeth.

“I checked in with Harry and Ron. Cross referenced the information I hold with the evidence they have. The note. The jewellery.”

Draco stated the obvious. “You’re not an Auror.”

Neville’s voice was even. Calm. Ever sensible. It could be argued he was one of the young wizards who felt the effects of war most acutely. He had nothing to prove. “No, but you’ll be surprised at what the DMLE needs from a lowly gardener.” His eyes roamed over to Draco; he knew exactly what Draco thought of him, but he didn’t care. “I have ears and wands on the ground to keep abreast of any interesting conversations abroad—unrest, DE gatherings abroad, any illegal items purchased in large quantities.” Neville smirked at Draco. Yes, it was me, it said. “You'll be surprised by what that affords me in the DMLE. And—” he added carefully, “I just want to know who I married.” He gave a slight shrug.

“What did you find?” Hermione cut through the pissing contest.

“Travers Jr., the new chief of warlock, has direct ties to Death Eaters.”

Draco protested, “So do half of the UK Wizarding world. I find the man abhorrent. I turned him into a humanoid crab, if you read the Prophet. But that means nothing unless you have proof.”

“He carries an azure timepiece, doesn’t he? Checks it all the time.”

A flash of his father’s office and Sickleworth’s eye for shiny bobbles.

Neville continued awares, “It’s passed down to him from his father after he passed in Azkaban. It’s been in the family for generations.”

Draco paused, putting together the pieces. “It’s made of sapphire."

Hermione’s chin lifted up, her mouth dropping open.

Neville nodded. “All the sapphire mines I’m involved in belong to the Travers’ family. Been this way for the last millennia. The Aurors traced the magical signature of the necklace back to one of them. Finally, I checked some of our business contracts for his signatures.“

“His handwriting matches the note in the jewellery box,” Hermione finished, cup clattering on the table. “Where does Susan fit in? Why would she align herself with Travers?”

Neville shook his head. “I don't know. She comes from a prominent wizarding family, as you know. Her last living relative, her aunt Amelia, was killed by Voldemort’s followers.”

“Fuck,” Hermione yelled.

St. Mungo’s Head Healer and New Chief of Warlock Found Guilty in Conspiracy for Murder!

Hermione Granger Makes Miraculous Recovery!

Murder and Mayhem makes Minister walk back Marriage Law?

Granger-Malfoys Seen Leaving Hospital: New Baby on the Way?

War Heroes Aurors Potter and Weasley Awarded ‘Silver Wand’ Medals for Breakthrough Case

The Azkaban fortress loomed over them, dark and menacing. The North Sea surrounded the four sides of the grey island, wild waves crashing against the rocks. Hermione and Draco stood outside the common Apparition point at the edge of the iron-wrought gates, alongside the 'Saviour and the Spare,' which Draco begrudgingly corrected to Harry and Ron when she elbowed him in the ribs. The cold wet permeated their bones. They surrendered their wands to them, much to Draco's chagrin. 

“I’ll be okay,” she assured him, “I’ll meet you here in 30 minutes.”

Draco felt a burning in his chest that he chalked up to the bond, and wrapped her in a tight hug. Harry coughed, and Ron sniffed, looking away.

It was the kind of hug Hermione loved best. She had trouble with making friends in her youth, Ron being one of them. But her mother soothed her that it was best to give love and give of yourself. To be of service was to step outside yourself. To make the world bigger than your troubles. She took that to heart, and carried it with her as an ethos, like armour. It guided S.P.E.W. and her conviction with following Harry and Ron to the ends of the earth. Now, what a feeling it was to be the one chosen; to be the person someone didn't want to let go of, even if it were the magic between them. That thought was sobering, but she buried it much like her nose in the crook behind Draco's ear.

He let out a light whine. 

Harry and Ron snickered, causing the couple to jump apart. "Not a word," Hermione warned, shaking her wand at them. Smug, Draco wriggled his dark brows at the Aurors. 

Harry led him down the right corridor to the male division to visit Lucius for the first time in years.

Ron took Hermione to Susan’s cell, eighth on the right. The sounds of her heels echoed across the damp stone walls, water drops drip, drip, dripping. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I have to. That’s who I am, you know that.”

Ron nodded,  “I need to take your wand, but let's not and say I did.”

She winked.

"You be careful." He kissed her temple. He smelled like her impetuous youth: grass and parchment. 

“I always am.” She smiled, revealing her slight rabbit teeth.

“Right-o, liar. I’ll be right here.” 

Hermione gave a slight tilt of her head. “You always are.”

In a sparse dank 10 square metre cell sat Susan on a single bed, red hair in a long plait down her back and dressed in a thin grey set of Azkaban robes. She was shivering. Next to her a rickety table and chair, a slant of light coming through the tiny window each cell was allowed. 

“Oi! I’m just outside,” Ron warned Susan. “Alohomora.” The tip of his wand grew bright with a specific spell for Susan’s cell. A loud clank. The metal door creaked open.

Hermione walked past the set of copper bars, noticing Susan’s hands manacled in a tight set of magic-draining cuffs.

“Hermione.” She glared at her.

“Susan.”

They stood across from one another for several seconds before Susan spoke again. “You want to know why.” She sounded bored, picking at her cuticles.

“I know why. I just want to hear it from you.”

“What do I get for sating your swot-like tendencies? Why the fuck would I want to help you?” She chuckled.

“What would cause you to throw your principles out the window to work with Travers? Your aunt—”

Susan rushed at her, but a well-timed Protego from Ron blasted her flat back against the stone walls with a sickening crunch. “Steady on, Bones.”

“Piss off, Weasley.”

Ron cast a Solidifying charm on her legs, causing Susan to crumple to the ground. He strode past Hermione, cupping Susan’s cheeks and forcing three drops of clear liquid into her mouth. “Answer her questions, and maybe we’ll get the Wizengamot to go easy on you.”

“Ron—” Hermione's eyes narrowed. This wasn't how she wanted this to go.

He waved her away, closing the doors. A discussion for another day. “Hex me later. I’m getting lunch.”

Flicking her wand, she waited until she heard a loud yelp bouncing from the cold stone walls— “Fuck!”— watching the sprout of red hair disappear out of sigh. Satisfied, she turned toward Susan. “Tell me.”

"Mmsssfff—bitch!" she spat.

Earnest in her tone, Hermione said, "I'm sorry. That wasn't in the spirit of what Amelia would have—"

Susan’s face changed expressions painfully, eyes squeezing shut, gritting her teeth, tongue lolling inside her mouth, before words broke free. “Don’t you fucking mention my aunt!” she spat, “Principles are a privilege. A childish ideal you lord over others to make yourself feel superior. Like your daft S.P.I.T. campaign—”

Hermione corrected, “S.P.E.W.”

“ —Shifts when it suits you, innit, like now, having Veritaserum shoved down my throat because you fucked an Auror,” she barked, a sharp and lonely laugh echoing through the cell.

“I didn’t ask him to do that.”

Susan’s blue eyes were hard flints. “Where were your morals when they forced you to marry Malfoy? Or me to Neville? Or do his galleons blind you?”

“I’m still working to dismantle the legis—“

“Yet the werewolf proposal went through within months.”

“I was already working on it when—“

“I don’t care! You made your priorities clear. You made a choice. Do you think I give two shites about making life better for Greyback and his werepups? The same ones who killed my family? Aunt Amelia was all I had left in this world. Did you know I found her? Locked from the inside in her own home. It was pitch black. I hadn't heard from her in days. I stepped in her blood. It was entrenched into the carpet. I couldn't sleep for years after that. Not in the dark. And you-you had to come back around with your Muggle do-gooder bollocks to make her sacrifice worthless.”

“They were victims, same as you.”

“They’re all the same! Despicable animals, each one of them.”

“And Travers? Why would you align yourself with Death Eaters? Doesn’t it make you as bad as them?”

She shrugged. “The enemy of my enemy. Travers despises you. Hates you in the Wizengamot. Hates the idea of you and your progressive policies. Thought you were muddying up generations of culture and magic. Pun intended. He loved the idea of pairing you with Malfoy. Thought he would do away with you, due to reasons obvious to you, me, and everyone around. Unfortunately he miscalculated the pull of ‘novelty Mudblood cunt.’ His words, not mine. I find that word distasteful.” Susan wrinkled her nose to emphasize her point.

“You’re a disgrace to Amelia’s memory,” Hermione said.

“Because I tried to kill you? Spare me.” Susan blew a raspberry. “My aunt barely knew who you were beyond being Harry’s pet.” 

That stung. Everything she did and fought for, all to be reduced to Harry’s sidekick or someone's girlfriend. A footnote in someone else’s story.

So Hermione spat the most hurtful thing she could think of at Susan. "What you did, didn't matter. Neither do you." She was afraid she was talking to herself. With a pitying look at the incarcerated witch and old classmate, she cancelled the Solidifying charm.

A low groan at the release. Intrigued, Susan cocked her head to the side.

Hermione avoided her stare, rummaging through her purple beaded bag. Finding what she was looking for, she threw a pinch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder at the ground before walking out of the cell.

Lucius stared at the cold walls that had been his home for years, mouth moving almost imperceptibly. The Aurors had Pensieved most of his memories as evidence, leaving little for himself. His grey eyes lost focus as they scanned the bare beige room.

He finally noticed the new person in the room. Almost like a mirror image, but not quite. It bothered him, but only briefly.

Draco straightened when his father’s gaze settled on him for a second before his eyes wandered to the seagulls outside—their low piercing keows breaking through the waves crashing against the prison’s walls—and blurred once again.

His heart squeezed painfully. Gathering his mettle, he did what he never had the courage to do before. He approached closer to the man in grey Azkaban robes, ran his hands through his long, uneven, now thinning hair, tousling it like Lucius did to him once or twice in his youth, and kissed his forehead.

Harry allowed Draco a modified wand, spelled to only allow shearing of human hair and not on any other surface or skin. When it was done, he Vanished the hair from the ground, all but a few locks that he pocketed.

Draco promised to come back soon.

Harry and Draco stepped out into the sunlight from the darkness of Azkaban, Apparating to the meeting point and waiting for Hermione. Harry made no comment on Draco’s red-rimmed eyes, except to offer him a small flask of firewhiskey he kept inside his robes.

Ron was already waiting for them, tucking into an egg salad sandwich. He turned around.

“Aye!” Draco let out a very manly yelp, clutching at Harry’s robes. Ron’s face had broken out in pustules.

With his mouth full, he shrugged. “‘Mione.”

(V)

Draco helped Hermione into bed. She was almost fully healed, but he found that he liked taking care of people—taking care of her.

They Transfigured a twin bed for him to sleep on to circumvent the bond, and so she could heal undisturbed.

“Stay,” she said.

He looked her once over, grey eyes lingering over her ribbed nightdress riding up her legs.

She repeated, “Stay,” in a more commanding voice, and his cock twitched.

“We have more to talk about,” he parroted back her words.

“Later … Later.” She lifted the covers. His knee pressed down on the mattress, touching her heated thigh.

“You promise?” He hated how childish he sounded. Needy.

She nodded, pressing him into her chest. She ran her fingers through his thick blond strands, tugging slightly, and scratching his scalp. He made a huffing sound, half protest, half murmur. He thought of his father. He thought of the hair he kept in a locket that he would send to his mother. He wiped his eyes.

Hermione’s chest was wet and tacky with tears. She kept his arms around him until his eyes shut and his breath evened out.

Sex between them was careful.

In the waxing light of the morning, Hermione woke up to a pulsing between her thighs. His knee was pressing against her centre. Strands of flaxen hair fell across his forehead. In sleep, Draco’s face was lax and serene. Younger without the pull of his brows and practised scowl.

Careful and slow, she tried to extract herself from their tangled limbs, content to take care of herself in a Silencio’d shower. When she turned herself on her back, she saw his darkened eyes on her, neither breathing. Her mouth dropped open to mumble something about the loo, diagonally dropping her legs over the bed, but he slid over and across her chest. The weight felt comfortable, settling something inside her.

“Tell me ‘no.’ Tell me—”

She shook her head, slipping her knee between his legs and pressing in slightly. He groaned in surprise, his cock already hard from sleep. She pushed against him again and rolled her hips. He bit his lower lip in response, eyes shut tight. She murmured a Teeth-Cleansing charm for both of them. The tingly sensation shocked him, jaw falling slack, and she surged up to lick inside his mouth.

“Mm,” he let out an unwitting whimper and rocked against her.

Her assured hands gripped his shoulders, shoving him onto his back. His head landed on the pillows roughly. The switch in positions surprised him, but only served to harden his cock even more. He relished how she marked him, biting bruising marks against his already-pale skin. She wasn’t gentle; she was confident and intrepid. He liked it that way.

Hermione slid down his long legs, not looking up at him, but stared pointedly at his tented black pants. “Up,” she ordered. He immediately complied. She smiled mischievously, slowly revealing the pink tip of his leaking cock. She swirled the head around her warm wet tongue, before snapping the elastic waistband against his testicles.

“Ugh!” Ears heating up, the world flipped and twisted upside down. Nothing existed but the hot pleasure of her mouth and pin pricks of pain.

She giggled. Before Draco could admonish her, she swallowed him down. And he was lost.

He tasted like a man—salt, sweat, and soap. He moaned as she lapped up and down his length. It was exceedingly satisfying to feel his hard cock against the soft palate of her throat. He gripped at her night shirt until she let him go with a low pop, lips swollen and the obscene dribbles of spit coaxing the sides of her mouth.

“Come here, wife.” He tugged at her elbows, dragging her up.

She laughed, tongue darting out to lick a long stripe at the salty slit. A needy whine escaped his throat. “As you wish, husband.”

Draco pulled her close, lifting her behind and dropping him on his crotch—another inadvertent groan at the contact. He flexed his hips as she straddled his thighs, feeling the tackiness of his cock between them and on his stomach.

Her hair curtained his face while she pressed kisses to that spot underneath his jaw. His mouth devoured hers, nipping at her cheeks and  cupid’s bow. She tasted like him and the minty remnants of the spell.

She lifted up her night dress and aligned him at her entrance, dragging him against the wet flimsy fabric. His fingers shot out, thumbs underneath the cotton—a quick snap and tear—her pants fell away to the side. He impatiently yanked the cloth away, sniffing the gusset almost unconsciously.

A small quirk of her mouth. It said it all. Filthy.

One hand found its way back to her hips, the other slowly massaging her clit, opening her.

Hermione kneeled up, and for a moment, he mourned the loss of her heat and weight. On instinct, he clung harder to her, surging forward to kiss and bite her waist. The little hairs on her chest stood on end, gooseflesh prickling. He pulled at the straps of her nightdress, licking sloppily at her nipples and the space in between, until he realised what she was doing. She slid up to his twitching cockhead on his stomach, reached behind her, and—

Intent on not letting a witch do all the work, Draco held her steady, running his hands through her soft puffy slit. When she felt sufficiently wet, he positioned himself at her centre, steadying hand at the base, mouth slack, watching her open and take him centimetre by centimetre. His fingers pushed against the plushness of her thigh, spreading her wide, wanting to see more of her, him, and them together. Impatient little thrusts until he was completely seated into her. A groan of relief from them both.

Warm. Wet. Wrapped around him. The snug stretch was pleasure and pain. Her mind felt the same. Electric, static-y, and full, feeling and thinking of nothing but how he filled her so perfectly.

He guided her down, sharp fingers digging into her skin and clipping her into his pelvic bone. Each movement that hit the perfect spot made her shiver and clench around his cock. A zip of magic spread from her lower belly like sticky sweet molasses of fire and pleasure, all the way down her spine.

Rocking her hips, the muscles in her body twisted and tightened, squeezing and drawing him deeper. She ground onto him, desiring to take even more of him. Her jerky little movements that made him want to fuck himself into her, so she couldn’t ever be rid of his cock, his cum, him. Their bond made it so. The blood of bond also released the death grip the magic had on his chest when Hermione finally awoke. The shimmering relief he felt. The weight that lifted. Like he could breathe again. Who was he to deny their magic?

Her tightness made his eyes cross. She reached down to smooth out the wrinkle between his brows. That tender action froze their movements, eyes darting all over to take in one another’s faces. Her dark chocolate to his grey ones. His pointed nose. The freckles that dotted her skin like constellations. His sharp jaw culminating in a slight cleft. A gleam of whirling luminescence connected them, diaphragm to diaphragm. Pleasure wound up their cores, finding respite and exultation in each other's mouths.

He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, prompting her to move again with the wet slap of his hips.

She rode him hard in synchronous waves that timed with his desperate upward thrusts, cresting and falling like the ocean. Climbing up, up, up, she seemed to have remembered to breathe with a raspy intake, and she bore down, shuddering hard and erratic, splayed fingers digging into his scarred chest.

He pushed her face down to his, eyes on her, blurry skin against skin. He swallowed every little bit of her moans, relishing the rhythmless swirls, the gelatinous pulses, and the intimate feel of him sheathed inside her.

Her kisses became sloppy, shuddering against his open mouth. Hand against the nape of her damp neck, he kept her there, cheek to cheek, moving her to his liking as she fell weak and formless from her orgasm.

Whether it was fucking or making love between them, it was all the same, Draco realised. A buildup; a sweaty sweet head rush that narrowed the blurry world down to him and her; a stream of magic that made every sense bright and vivid and almost too much; a connection, but made all the better because it was her. Palm on her cunt, he pushed her front wall against the drive of his cock until she mewed again. A violent, near-painful orgasm worked through her. Hands pressing into her supple skin, he forced her to grind her aching sodden cunt against him as he released inside her. Spasms wracked his body, heat leaving his body and filling hers. He buried his face in her chest, pushing her breasts together to lap at her nipples, hips digging in deep to fuck his cum into her.

He flipped them around, watching as her dark curls cascaded against their pillows in a ring of cinnamon light. It pleased him to see the return of magic around her.

“Oof,” she grunted, then smiled widely, as she found herself on her back, his cock never leaving her.

With hooded eyes, Draco watched his cum drip from her, down his shaft, and onto the darkening fabric underneath her arse. In a possessive motion, he spread their shared spend over her lower stomach and cluster of nerves, rubbing and rubbing and pressing down, until she shuddered again. Softer and gentler this time, the tide of her orgasm crashed over her. He licked the sticky sweat and cum from her, squeezing her breasts harshly, and thumbed the corded scar down her abdomen.

“Again,” he begged, “Again.”

A painful groan before she stilled his hand. “Later,” she whispered.

There would be a later.

Chapter Text

Minister for Magic Repeals Marriage Law Amongst Dissent

Shacklebolt goes Soft on Statute?

Shafiq Buys Out Travers’ Mines as Stocks Plummet

CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.

Swarths of heady pints crashed against one another, spilling sticky alcohol all over the already-sticky parquet floor of the Leaky. The group was enjoying their victory.

“Another one!” Hermione kept on ordering drinks, commandeering the table and making sure everyone’s mug was always full. Shacklebolt wanted to meet with her first thing Monday morning. The Wizengamot was going to interrogate Travers Jr., and she wouldn’t miss it for the world. But first, libations!

Draco was quiet, caught between watching his wife and listening to venerable-looking wizards at the next table arguing about the pros and cons of the marriage law being walked back. Funny little witches from the country came up to admire Harry and Ron’s Silver Wand medals. Ron’s pustules were finally draining. While Ron entertained the fans, Padma glared at the unwelcome guests. Harry mussed up his already-messy hair in embarrassment, then in slight disbelief as the witches recognized THE Ginny Weasley: retired Quidditch chaser of the Holyhead Harpies, extraordinaire.

Ever the attention-seeker, Theo made many an implication about his wand—long and slender, like him. Ginny left the babies with Arthur and Molly, and gave as good as she got with Theo, trading bawdy jabs. Blaise rolled his eyes. He was cool but polite to Ginny, and kept his hand on Theo’s thigh. Neville was pensive, understandably so.

A roar of the fireplace.

Perfectly petite Pansy Parkinson stepped out of the neon green flames. She dusted the glittering powder off her draped Loewe dress. “Oi, Nott!” she sing-songed. She held a neatly folded copy of the Daily Prophet.

“Pans! Come, have a sit,” Theo yelled, “Shove down, Longbottom.” She squeezed in the booth.

“You’re back for good?” Blaise arched a dark brow.

“As long as Shacklebolt keeps his wand out of my uterus,” Pansy sniffed. Her dark eyes roamed over Draco.

He nodded at his old friend. “Looking good, Pans.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes and flipped her hair, her dangly earring shimmering under the sconces. “I know. Leaving London was the best thing for me. Even lost half a stone. Can you tell?” She smoothed down her skirt along her hips. “My jewellery business is thriving. Can’t say the same for you.” She clucked her tongue. “You taking care of him, Granger? Thank goodness it’s not my job anymore.”

Draco, face cool and impassive (Hermione should know. She was watching him closely.), answered. “It never was.”

She tilted her head and raised a glass to Hermione. “I hear congratulations are in order. Taking on the Wizengamot all by your lonesome. It’s like S.P.I.T. on a larger level.”

“S.P.E.W. And Malfoy helped.”

Draco warmed. He loved praise. 

“How was Asiath?” Theo slurred, spilling some firewhiskey onto the table and her red pochette.

“You stupid nit, this is Alaïa!” She flung a Stinging hex at his cheek.

Theo clutched his face that bloomed red. “OW! A-whata?”

“Full-grain dragonhide!” She grasped her purse to her chest before turning her attention back to Hermione. “Of course he did.” She fluttered her eyelashes saccharinely. “Malfoys always take care of their own. Don’t you, Draco?”

The night continued much the same way, trading drunken barbs, half-insults grounded in truth, and innuendos as you could only do with people who you've known since in nappies.

After Pansy and Theo made up and a promise to buy her two more ludicrously expensive bags, she told him of her travels. “I made some connections in Shinjuku and Taipei. Found a few possible locations to open up shop. Don’t want to work out of my flat anymore.”

“What does mummy dearest have to say about that?” Theo needled.

She cleared her throat, mimicking Mrs. Parkinson with scary accuracy. “‘Ever the disappointment.’ She lost the right to direct any part of my life when she tried to marry me off to Travers after the war. I have excellent intuition, right there, Granger?”

Hermione, now quite drunk herself, offered, “Indeed-y do. She—I mean—hic—you always knew how to choose ‘em.” Then she cuddled into Draco’s neck. “This mine now.”

Pansy wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Thank Merlin for that. Ugh, Muggleborns.” She signalled to the barkeep. “Another round.”

Draco sat up straighter, tentatively wrapping a hand around her waist. Her presence felt solid and stabilising, like she was real. Like their marriage was still intact. A warmth spread across his chest and crept up his throat. Although with questionable cognisance, Hermione had claimed him in front of his and her friends. That had to mean something, right? He knew he was blushing.

Blaise eyed him in an almost pitying fashion. “Drac–”

“Don’t—” he warned. He knew he was pathetic. Hoping that his wife, by magical decree, would stay with him. Why would she? She did not choose this life. She did not choose her husband. She also did not choose the world she was thrust in, and had to defend her place—her life—in it. Of course, he never made it easier for her. Did he ever apologise? Would it ever be enough? Would a ‘sorry’ even come close? So why would she choose him now?

“She’s asleep, mate,” Blaise observed.

On cue, she snored against his neck. He looked down and realised the warmth was a dribble of drool on his collar. Relieved that it was all Blaise said, Draco replied, “Ah. Best get her home then.” Wrapping a band around her back and her legs, he lifted her up, wordlessly casting a Featherlight charm.

“Wait a minute!” A tipsy Ron and Harry stumbled after him.

Silver Wands, my Aunt Fanny.

Draco let out an aggravated groan. He had been hoping to have a few moments to brood. They were too close, the sourness of their breath wafted up the tip of his pointed nose. He flicked his wand and cast a Freshening spell in the air that hung between them. “Stay back, you two.”

“You’re taking Hermione home?” Harry always asking the obvious question.

“Yes, that is what one does when a guest gets drunk.”

Ron pushed a long finger against his chest, but lost his balance, and ended up crashing into Draco and looking up into his eyes. Clear blue eyes met stormy grey ones. He gripped Draco’s jumper to prevent himself from falling, resting his cheek against the fabric. He purred, “Nice, that. Cashmere? Firm. Fit too.”

Harry echoed, “Quite fit,” his glasses misting from his drunk beads of sweat. Firewhiskey might as well be Veritaserum for him at this point.

“Listen mates, if my wand swung that way, you’d be the first wizards I’d Floo-call,” Draco said, tilting his chin toward Harry. “Especially you, with all our history and sexual tension.”

Harry’s green eyes brightened, as if a light bulb turned on inside him. “Er … that’s um … neither here nor there.”

Draco found an opening and turned the screw. “Don’t tell me you never felt it. The danger? The competition? When I was riding on the back of your broom?”

“We were flying for our lives, Malfoy!”

Draco smirked and shrugged.

“This gives me a lot to think about.” Harry muttered, rubbing his temples with his thumb and ring finger, and walked away. “Ginny!”

Ron yelled after Harry, but his calls remained unheeded. “You confused him,” he accused, “But I am—hic—not—hic—so easily Stupefied.” He wobbled on his heels.

Draco smirked. “On the contrary—”

Straightening his jacket, Blaise headed in their direction. Draco felt a rush of relief for the support. But Blaise did not stop for long. “Weasley, you may have a Silver Wand, but you are utterly daft. Salazar knows what she saw in you.”

Ron opened his mouth in outrage but all that came out was a wet burp.

“Draco is besotted with Granger. Merlin knows why. She is so—screechy. That hair too. But love is blind … and deaf, apparently. He will do right by her, because Malfoys are nothing if not duty bound. But he will not fight for her, because stupidly, he will give her the choice. Blah blah blah, Boy with No Choice, Mind Healers say this and that. And so on and so forth. Granger—because she’s a principled witch—will annul this union at the cost of her happiness. I absolutely detest playing this role. I am not your ridiculously handsome magical caretaker, but you’re all drunk, randy nitwits with the emotional intelligence of a Diricawl. I repeat, I am not your caretaker. Only Theo’s. Now I must be off. I need to feed our kneazle, Mrs. Eisenhower. Someone, make sure that Theo finds his proper way to the Floo. He can’t Apparate in this state, or he’ll get splinched.” Without looking back, Blaise walked into the fireplace, swallowed by large green flames.

Swaying on his feet, Ron looked at him. “Is that true?”

“Yes, Theo and Blaise are an item,” Draco deadpanned.

Ron barked a loud fake laugh before his expression became grave. “You know what I mean.” He poked his wand at Draco’s jumper.

“This is cashmere, you fuckwit, and you’re making a hole. Kindly remove your stick from my arse.”

“It’s not in your arse,” Ron slurred.

“Circe, it’s a figure of speech.”

“You’re a figure! Now listen here, Malfoy, if you hurt her—”

“You will curse my familial line. Make my mother cry. Murder me. Have my body disappear and no one will find me because you’re an Auror. Anything else?”

Ron blinked slowly. This was not going how he imagined it would. He was also very very very drunk. “Pfftttt—I—hic—Hermione is like my sister. A sister I used—”

Ginny yelled within earshot. “I beg you, Ron, don’t finish that sentence!”

“Please don’t,” Draco pleaded, checking on Hermione who was still drooling and fast asleep in his arms.

“Irregardless—” he pointed his index finger in mid-air. “Irregardless! … I forgot what I was going to say.”

“Well, how about you tell me on Monday? I have to take my wife home. You’ll never fail to take up an opportunity to harass me in the Atrium.”

“Yes, that is true,” Ron said thoughtfully. “Until then. Bye, ‘Mione.” He cleared the curls from her forehead and kissed her there.

She mumbled something and snorted into Draco’s chest.

Draco held back a sneer.

Theo and the others watched on with bemusement, empty Pepper Ups littered across the table “So Pans, the reason I wanted you here tonight, was not only to watch your old flame embarrass himself—”

“Check,” Pansy interjected.

“But to reacquaint you with Neville Longbottom. Gryffindor. Gardener extraordinaire. Guest lecturer at Hogwarts. Slayer of Nagini. Also known as the Other Boy who Lived. He is the foremost sapphire distributor in UK wizarding society. He deals mainly with rare and near-impossible to source materials. He has factory connections in South America and Asia. Consider being … friends.”

Neville watched Pansy. She felt his stare before she deigned to look at him. Pansy scoffed. “I have all the friends I need, Theo. I don’t need any taking care of.”

Neville spoke, low and all gravel. “But do you want to be?”

Running his hands through his curls, Theo giggled. “If you don’t want him, perhaps Blaise will break our monogamy rule for this burly man.”

“I don’t share, Nott,” he said without breaking eye contact with Pansy.

Her mouth went dry. She shouldn’t behave like this. Like a naive little schoolgirl. She was a worldly witch. She had heard it all. But her lips moved without her consent. “Neither do I,” Pansy refuted. She shuffled down, thigh against his. She would regain the upper hand. “Tell me more, Longbottom.”

A slight quirk to his lips. “Let me take you to dinner. Do things properly. I know a wonderful seafood restaurant in Dalian.”

“Oh?” Her red painted lips curled into a rare smile.

Hermione stood in the darkened corridors of the Wizengamot, looking up to the fifty or so wixens, wearing plum coloured robes with an embroidered silver W on the left hand side of the breast, seated at the bench above. She was allowed in on the condition that she was to remain silent. About 50 feet from her stood Travers Jr., pale, dishevelled, and locked in a cage. He screamed and screamed, shaking the bars, but the Wizengamot had cast a Silencio on him.

“So sayeth ye all. Let the records reflect Jeremiah Travers Jr. is sentenced to 25 years in Azkaban with no possibility of parole for attempted murder, conspiracy to murder, and grafting,” Shacklebolt announced, his golden eyes catching Hermione’s, a perfectly calm expression on his face. The Court Scribe’s quills scribbled furiously in mid-air, filling out parchment in triplicate. The members of the Wizengamot muttered while gathering their papers and slowly clearing the court.

Shacklebolt walked up to her, large purple robes sweeping behind him, and a hint of mischievousness in his smirk. Hermione felt the familiar haze of a Muffliato spell fall around them. “I have temporarily taken on the chief warlock position until we find a suitable replacement.”

“Congratulations, Minister,” she said without affect. “I hope it is everything you dreamed of. Law and state now.”

He tsked. “I sense you do not approve, Ms. Granger?”

“Granger-Malfoy,” she corrected. Wait. Was she still?

Shacklebolt didn’t miss a beat. “Very well, Ms. Granger-Malfoy. I understand that you grew up in the Muggle world and have certain ideals about how politics work.”

Hermione scoffed, “While Muggle politics are not perfect—”

“Precisely. With a population of 70 million Muggles in the United Kingdom, you still find opportunities to bribe, extort, and embezzle. As I said, I am acting chief warlock. I will step down when a suitable replacement is found.”

“The amount of cronyism—”

“What would you have us do? Hm? Our society spans but a mere 10 thousand magical folk. If you were to arrest everyone with a Death Eater connection, there would be no one left. If you didn’t allow a politician to take on multiple roles, the positions would never be filled by qualified individuals—which reminds me of why I invited you here. You are wasting away in the DRCMC. I would like to offer you a lateral move to the Magical Law Enforcement.”

“I’m no Auror,” she said flatly.

“No,” the Minister agreed, “You will not be. You will be in the justice facilities, allowing you oversight into the legislations that the Wizengamot pass, while keeping an eye on your pet causes. No pun intended. You’ll keep me honest.” He winked at her in a way that was reminiscent of Dumbledore. She hadn’t thought of that man in years. “It will also make your ascension to the Senior Undersecretary much smoother, and who knows what dreams may come?” He gave a small shrug. “Think it over. Then tell me what you think of nepotism. I have a lunch meeting.” He passed by her and nodded over his shoulder. “You have 10 minutes.”

The Silencio charm lifted. The bars of Travers’ cage disappeared, Transfiguring into a chair in the centre of the room, the arms of which were covered in heavy chains. Before Travers could loosen his limbs, those chains sprang to life and bound his arms down.

Hermione squared up and approached him. “Travers.”

“Granger.” Her name was said slowly, deliberately, like sickly molasses.

She didn’t correct him. “Why?”

He laughed, skinny shoulders shaking. The few weeks in Azkaban already took its toll on his body. “You think I’m like Bones? I have some noble reason to dispose of you?”

Hermione glared.

“You want a confession? Not everything has an answer, you stupid witch. Life isn’t a story with a proper ending. It’s banal with never ending uncoordinated, illogical circumstances and distorted things.”

“I don’t need you to impart any wisdom. You have nothing to teach me. I was thrust into this world at 11, facing down the likes of you. I am still here. You are being carted off to Azkaban.”

They glared at each other, cataloguing the features on the others’ faces. “Simply put. I don’t like you and your lot. I detest the fact that we are meant to bow down to political correctness because a few extremists—“

“A few!” She slammed down her hands on the table between them, sparks of magic flickering at her fingertips and at the ends of her curls.

“Here’s something for you to hang your cap on. You are collateral damage. You’re not special. You’re just Shacklebolt’s lapdog. His champion cause, like you were Potter’s Mudblood. Poor homely Muggleborn. You were propped up because you’re relatable.” His dark eyes roamed over her chest. She felt disgusted. “Yes. Nothing special about you at all. Witches believe they can be you. Plain and unlikeable. Be a thorn in everyone's side, yet a war hero. A shrew, yet marry a Malfoy. Have it all. Isn't that the dream? It could have been you, or whomever took up the cause. Having those wretched dirty creatures enter our schools, our homes—it’s bad enough we have the likes of you.”

“A long diatribe trying to convince me I’m not special, suggests otherwise.”

Travers chuckled. “You still don’t get it, so you? You were Bones’ reason. Not mine. I didn’t want the marriage legislation to pull through and yet it was. For the sake of integration! What bollocks. All that time, you spent fighting it. Now it’s gone. Don’t you see? I’ve won. I’m just collateral damage as well.” He smiled obscenely, palms up to the sky. “Stop parroting this individualist drivel that they’ve indoctrinated into your Muggle society.”

Hermione stiffened, feeling as if she were losing ground. “I’m still magically bound to one of the oldest Pureblood families in Europe.”

His dark eyes glimmered. He smacked his lips, tonguing the inside of his cheek, as if savouring this moment. “I never performed the Blood of Bond spell." Travers spat on the ground. “I have my principles. Do you think I would actually magically bond one of the most powerful Pureblood families to a Mudblood?”

Hermione felt her feet buckle. She gripped onto the lip of the table. Stepping back, she said in an almost-rushed whisper, “You’re lying. I saw the magic. Felt it.”

He tilted his head. “Come now, Granger. Don’t be naive. You’re a witch too. I cast a temporary Trace. Wears off within a month. You feel the pull of one another when they're nearby. A few more simple Obfuscation spells, a Tremor hex on the ground, and Bob’s your uncle. The mind and body see and feel what they want. You were bound by law. But now—”

She gasped. A swirl of emotions swelled inside her.

“Guard, get this witch away from me. I’m done speaking.” The guard wizard flicked his wand, Transfiguring the chains back into a cage. The young Auror rolled the cage toward the back door. Travers whistled a ghostly hymn that bounced off the walls. 

Hermione felt the world around her crumble.

Chapter Text

Hermione was subdued when she returned from the Wizengamot. She found Draco and Crookshanks cuddled up on the sofa, the half-Kneazle perched over his chest and clawing holes through his expensive jumper.

Draco mumbled, “You’re a horrible ugly thing. Ungrateful and feral,” as he fed him pieces of pork jerky. Crookshanks allowed it.

When she appeared in the hearth with a roar of green fire behind her, her eyes were downturned. He smiled sadly, greeting her. She said, “I need to change.” He followed her to the bedroom. They both knew what was coming.

He never asked her to consider staying. The way in which they grew up together; knew each other; and learned each other was always of circumstance not of their making. From this awful little boy he was to the wizard who now stood before her, what right did he have to take another thing from her? He could afford her this one thing.

With a hand outstretched, she said, “Later.”

(VI)

The first time was filthy. Rough. Using his cock, she rode him on the bench at the end of their bed, harsh rocking sounds knocking against the frame. His trousers were still tugging between his knees. She clawed at him possessively. “Grab me,” she commanded. “Like you don’t want to let me go.”

He roughly palmed her breasts, squeezing and tweaking one nipple, while he sucked and bit at the other breast, leaving red marks all over her freckles skin. He fucked up into her, tilting her at a slight angle, so his cock could hit the perfect spot over and over. He was constant and steady. Deep and hard. Until she shouted out, the world in front of her spinning out of control, pinpointing to that moment; that sensation; Draco in front of her.

As she held him inside, one hand gripped her thigh, and another her hip tightly, helping her through it, whispering dirty ridiculous things in her ear. “Do you like my cock … I know you do … I can feel you … so fucking tight … ride it hard … take it … I know you can … fucking perfect … so good … let me feel you … there you go. That’s it, clench around my cock.”

Rolling her eyes back, she bleated, “Oh gods.” Feeling her swell and tighten nearly enough to push him out, Draco gripped her hard enough to see the indents of his fingernails, pulling her down onto his cock. His hips flexed up. He continued to rock her against the plane of his stomach, even as she came down. Hermione moaned in oversensitivity, but he grabbed the back of her neck, still slowly fucking her. “It’s what you wanted, right? I’m not fucking letting go,” he cooed. He squeezed her arse, tilting her hips toward him, as he lifted her up and down on his length, his turn to use her for his pleasure.

Each time he bounced her on himself, staccato grunts left her chest. He covered her mouth with his, taking all those precious little huffs inside him. There was so little time left.

His eyes shut to savour the clenches and spasms around his cock, jaw twitching. Dropping a sweet kiss there, she took the opportunity to swivel her hips, reaching behind her to squeeze his testicles. The unexpected sensation forced his eyes open, coming hard. He made a broken groan against her temple and clutched at the soft skin that bounced up from between his fingers. She squeezed him over and over, sucking him in and guiding him through his orgasm. Draco dropped his forehead against her clavicle. “Fuck,” he hissed.

They remain wrapped together, her legs tightened around his waist. He was still hard, and he kept slowly pulsing inside her. For the rest of the night, they spoke of everything and nothing. Fucking and talking. Making love and whispering absurd secrets into each other’s ears.

“I thought Harry was cute in First-Year.”

“Me too.”

“I’m afraid Crookshanks likes you more than me.”

“He does.”

“My parents are in Australia. They don’t remember me.”

“I don’t think my father can recognise me.”

“Does Narcissa really approve?”

“My first pet was a niffler.”

They laughed and cried, interspersed by slow kisses and fingernails digging into hips to drive deep into each other’s bodies. They kissed throughout the night and early morning, his palm pressed between them until she broke over and over again on his cock, and he surged inside her. Each time felt like the last time.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

They dozed off, wrapped in one another’s arms. Hermione dreamt of a wooden box whose lid kept opening and shutting, like a chattering mouth.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

Draco grumbled, a long leg slung across her stomach.

The box kept shuttering, until the lid flipped open, vomiting streaks of magic and a neverending ream of legislation.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

She opened her blurry eyes, squinting as the morning light streamed in through the drapes. She pulled on her bathrobe. It was Ulysses perched on the bedroom window sill, pecking at the glass impatiently. In his beak held a scroll. She fed the owl one of Crookshanks’ treats, much to the Kneazle’s displeasure. He made it known with a hiss and a wild flick of his bottlebrush tail that knocked down a tchotchke. Then he surveyed his kingdom from the top of her wardrobe and jumped gracefully down onto the floor before hissing at her and leaving the room.

Draco Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jean Granger:

This is official correspondence from the Ministry of Magic that your union, as of November 3, 2021, has been annulled. The magical marriage decree is no longer in effect.

We apologise for any inconvenience this may have caused.

 

From the Desk of the Minister for Magic,
Kingsley Shacklebolt

A soft brush of lips tickled her shoulder. Draco stood at her back, arm banded around her waist and a hint of an erection at her back, reminding her of the night before. “What is it?”

She handed him the parchment.

“Well, we expected that,” he said plainly, crumpling the paper. But she thought she detected a hint of disappointment.

Hermione’s hands were shaking. “Uh … Travers confessed.”

“Good. We all know he’s guilty.”

“Yes, he’s getting 25 years in Azkaban with no possibility of parole. They’ll re-evaluate then. I expect it’ll be in the Prophet tomorrow. And Susan’s going to be transferred to St. Mungo’s during the weekends to see a Mind Healer. Don’t know if they’ll report that.”

Draco’s mouth pulled into a straight line. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“Neither do I, but it’s the right thing to do,” she said.

He gave her a sceptical look. “That’s your fucking problem, Hermione. You think—”

“J-just shut up, alright? Not right now, fuck. Let me think for a second.”

Draco scowled.

She paced the length of her modest bedroom. “Listen. Travers said he—um, didn’t cast the Blood of Bond spell.”

“What?”

“He said he only cast a temporary binding spell. Like a trace. It wore off within a month or so; and because we believed it, we thought we had to—Anyway, he never wanted the legislation to pass in the first place, let alone a common Muggleborn to be tied to the one of the most prominent Pureblood families—”

Draco interrupted, “So we’re not married.”

She nodded. “We never were.” She rubbed the edges of her cheeks, then smiled, even though it hurt. “That’s that.” She held out her hand in the form of a handshake. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Malfoy.”

He ignored her outstretched hand. “So we can just—walk away.”

“Yes, it’ll be like it never happened.” Her voice cracked, then she stiffened. “You can go back to the Manor or wherever. You don’t have to live here anymore.”

Draco’s brows knitted together. “What?”

“I–I don’t want anything from you. I don’t need your galleons. Shacklebolt offered me a new pos—”

“I don’t give two fucks about that.”

Hermione laughed humourlessly. “Of course you don’t. It’s only my career—everything I worked for all these years.”

“You’re utterly daft.” He squeezed the space between his eyes.

Hermione adopted the lecturing tone of hers that he was so familiar with. “It’s a good thing that we were never married then. We never wanted—”

He grabbed her wrists, pulling her toward him. “No, shut up for once. I don’t care about my galleons. I’m here, aren’t I? You want them? You can take them.”

She stepped back, creating space between them. “That’s the point. You don’t have to be. I don’t want your money! I thought I was clear! I don’t want anything from you.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Draco’s shoulders fell. They were silent for a few moments. With darkened eyes like flint, he studied her face, his expression nonchalant. “You’re crying,” he stated.

“I’m not!” Hermione snapped. “I–I’m leaking.” She was wiping her nose against the sleeve of her robe. “I don’t know why I’m leaking! Crooks—”

He broke out in a wide grin, eyes bright again.

“MALFOY!” Her face crumpled like a used paper hanky. She covered her screwed up mouth with her palm. Despite her best efforts, she hiccuped and snorted.

Draco wrapped her in his arms, laughing, wiping her cheeks. “You’re such an ugly crier!”

“That’s so rude.” She smacked him so hard that he smarted.

“But you are!” He continued to laugh, his shoulders shaking. “So ugly.”

“That’s not a good thing, Malfoy!”

He buried his nose in the crook of her neck, curls tickling his pointy chin. “I’m so lucky.”

“It’s not funny!” She rubbed her nose onto his bare shoulder.

“I’m so lucky,” he repeated. “I never thought I would get your tears.” He kissed her all over face, tasting the saltiness.

“I’m leaking!” she maintained. “My allergies—Do you even want me?”

“You stupid bint," he groaned into her hair, kissing across her shoulder and up neck. "I've never wanted anyone or anything more. You’re the most beautiful witch. Who knew you’d be such an ugly crier?”

“Stop it! Do you even want me?” she said again.

He sat her down on the edge of their bed. “Will you let me show you something?”

She hiccuped and nodded, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Legilimens.” His hand passed over her eyes, and the vision of their bedroom swam across her vision, vanishing. He was skilled. Harry told Hermione that Snape’s Legilimency felt like lightning striking the sides of his temple. But Draco’s felt like a cool rush of water, uncomfortable but slightly innervating.

Memory after memory raced through her mind’s eye, like shuffling playing cards.

Draco’s disconnected voice flowed over the images. “Do you remember when I conjured my Patronus for the first time?”

“Your chow chow?”

“Never mind that! You asked if Crookshanks was my Patronus memory.”

”Uh huh.”

”Well, you were half right. It was that gods awful Kneazle always trying to one up me … and you.”

“Yes, Crooks and I are alike in that respect.” Her voice was the same, everywhere and nowhere, floating in and through the memories.

His words conjured an image.

The two of them trading barbs in the study. Gossiping. And working out the language in new proposals.

Another one. Hermione teaching him how to change the channels on the telly.

A third memory. Crookshanks taking a swipe at him when he sat down next to her, moving the dozing half-kneazle on the sofa.

Crookshanks sitting on his chest with his whole weight, while they both watched ground quidditch. Don’t you dare move.

Hermione waking up in St. Mungo’s.

Her first kiss of the day that smelled of the coffee he made for her in the early morning before she left for work when she thought he was still asleep.

Draco learning the ‘puter, delighted to make words appear on the flickering screen: quidditch, knob, and a mistake that made Hermione howl in laughter and the laptop produce pornography. Nimbus broom autocorrected to nimble boobs.

Or on the weekends, their quiet mornings on their tiny balcony reading the newspapers.

Him wiping a flake of pastry from the corner of her mouth and tasting the jam there.

All of them, her and Crookshanks.

When it was over, Hermione had stopped hiccuping, but the tears still flowed.

They stared at one another in wonderment. He laid her down on the bed, unwrapping the tie from her robe. He kissed her slowly, taking his time with her body, tasting each mole, freckle, and scar. His tongue trailed down the corded purple scar that wrapped around the underside of her left breast down to the side of her stomach. He blew a raspberry into her belly button.

Hermione kicked him in the ribs with the back of her heel. “Oi! Stop that, or I’ll kick you out of bed.”

“You horrid witch, you’ll never be rid of me.”

“I do it what I—” she hissed, as he wrapped his mouth around her mound and licked deep inside her. A shudder wracked through her body. He drew one leg over his shoulder, opening her to him. He bit and sucked along her inner thigh. Licked and fucked his fingers into her, relishing how pink and swollen she was from the night before. His tongue drew a long stripe down her entrance, and he watched her wetness bloom and drip onto the sheets. He kissed her lower lips, as he would her mouth. He took his time to enjoy her. Savour the dewy saltiness of her. Until both legs clamped the sides of his head, and he could hear nothing but her pleas; taste nothing but her sweat; and see nothing but a blurry image of her wet cunt. Heaven, as the Muggles knew it.

“Malfoy—” she begged, cresting and shaking.

He mumbled into the space where her hip met her thigh, “I want you, Granger. I’m not debating the circumstances through which we came together. But I want you. I want you to keep me.”

At his words, she came hard, crying out, pressing herself hard into his mouth. He lapped up everything, pushing his chin into her, letting her fuck himself on him and sucking at the appropriate intervals of her clenching. She yelped, “S-so good, fuck. Draco, I—” Her hand reached out. He slipped his fingers around hers and tightened. “I love you.”

In an instant, Draco was on top of her, grey eyes wild and dilated, letting loose a heavy exhale. His breath was sweet, hot, and smelled like her. “Say that again.” He pressed his chest into hers with no space between them. He clung to her. “Say it again,” he pleaded, “Tell me. Tell me it was all true. Everything I feel—”

“It was real. It’s real. I love you, Draco.” She cupped his face, thumb skating along the sharp contours of his face. She pressed a soft kiss to his clavicle, the little divot in his chin, and his lips.

He surged into her, supporting her neck and kissing her all over. “I love you. I love you. Hermione, I love you. Please don’t leave me.”

Granger-Malfoys Renew their Vows in Surprise Secret Ceremony!

Unable to Unhook Granger’s Claws from Malfoy Vaults!

Baby on the Way? Inside Granger-Malfoys’ Shotgun Wedding!

Muggleborn does Good: Married into Malfoys.

Malfoy Matriarch Tell-All: A Life in the Day
Subheading: "I love my Muggleborn daughter-in-law. She always has the most interesting odours.”