The corridors of Malfoy Manor felt colder than usual, the marble floors and towering ceilings echoing with silence. Her footsteps barely made a sound as she approached his study. For days, she had turned the words over and over in her head, dreading this confrontation but knowing it was inevitable. The weight of her news bore down on her chest like a heavy chain, threatening to choke her.
She paused outside the door. From inside, she could hear the faint clink of glass against wood—a sound she'd come to associate with his endless evenings of firewhisky and indifference. The man was as predictable as he was infuriating.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open without knocking.
He was sprawled lazily in his leather armchair, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, one hand holding a tumbler of firewhisky, the other flipping casually through a stack of notes. The firelight cast shadows over his sharp features, highlighting the cold elegance of his profile. He didn't even glance up as she entered.
"I'm pregnant."
Her words broke the silence like a whip crack.
His hand paused mid-motion, but he didn't look up. Instead, he swirled the amber liquid in his glass with maddening nonchalance. "Ah, congratulations. Whom does it belong to?"
The flippancy of his tone sent a rush of hot fury coursing through her veins.
"It belongs to you, you insufferable, useless man!" she snapped, stepping further into the room, her voice trembling with rage.
At this, he finally set his notes down and raised his gaze to her. His grey eyes—cool and unbothered—swept over her as if assessing an unremarkable piece of furniture. One elegant brow arched in mock surprise.
"Impossible," he drawled. "I endured your presence once, Granger, and it was quite the ordeal. Unbearable, if I'm honest. So, no—it's not mine."
Her jaw tightened, her nails digging into her palms. She could feel her temper slipping from her control, but she refused to let him get away with this.
"Oh, but it is yours!" she shot back, her voice rising. "Do you think I'd be standing here, humiliating myself, if it weren't?!"
He leaned back in his chair, utterly unruffled by her outburst. His lips curled into a sardonic smirk as he picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip.
"I distinctly recall that unfortunate night," he said, his tone laced with biting sarcasm. "I lasted what—ten minutes? Hardly my finest performance, Granger. If anything, that's evidence enough the child can't possibly be mine. Go on, take your little predicament to whomever you've been frolicking with. Merlin knows you've been desperate enough for company."
His words were like a slap, but Hermione refused to flinch. She stepped closer, her hands trembling with barely contained rage.
"I DON'T HAVE ANYONE ON THE SIDE!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "I'm not you!"
His smirk widened, as though her anger was a game he relished playing. He set his glass down on the side table, the crystal clinking softly.
"And that, darling, is precisely your problem," he said coolly. "At least when I knock someone up, I ensure the experience is… pleasurable for all parties involved."
She let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Oh, you mean the Greengrass sisters? The two cows who can barely string a coherent sentence together without giggling like fools?"
He tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. "I'm not there to indulge in stimulating conversation, Granger. I have other… uses for their mouths."
The disgust that twisted her features was unmistakable. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails bit into her palms, grounding herself against the fury that threatened to consume her.
"You're disgusting," she spat, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and hurt. "I hope you rot in hell, Malfoy."
He rose slowly from his chair, his movements deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. When he stood before her, his height and presence seemed to fill the room, casting her in shadow.
"Oh, we'll meet there, Granger," he said softly, his voice a low, chilling drawl. "Don't you worry. I'll be sure to save you a seat."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled with tension, a mix of hatred, frustration, and something unspoken that neither would ever dare acknowledge.
The corridors of Malfoy Manor seemed colder than usual as she stormed away, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Her hands were trembling, her heart pounding in her chest as she left him behind in his study.
"Ministry event. Tonight!" she shouted over her shoulder, her voice shaking with fury.
His response followed her like a lash, dripping with venomous disdain. "Fuck off!"
She didn't stop, didn't look back. She couldn't. If she did, she feared she might break right there in front of him—and she refused to give Malfoy that satisfaction.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She slammed her bedroom door shut behind her and collapsed onto the edge of her bed, the weight of her emotions crashing down on her all at once. Her hands flew to her face as she let out a shuddering sob, the tears she had been holding back spilling over.
This marriage—this farce—was supposed to unite the wizarding world, to bring peace and stability after years of war and division. Instead, it was unraveling her life, thread by thread.
She had never wanted this. She had never wanted him. The Ministry had forced their hand, pairing them together under the pretense of bloodlines and political symbolism. She had been optimistic—hopeful, even—that they might find a way to coexist, to carve out something resembling a partnership. But he had crushed that hope with every cruel word, every cold glance, and every woman he shamelessly brought into their home.
Her fists clenched at the thought. The rumors, the whispers from the house-elves, the evidence she could never unsee—it all boiled her blood. She was faithful to a fault, even when the very sight of him made her stomach churn. And yet he dared to accuse her, to mock her, as if she were the unfaithful one.
She wiped her face with shaking hands and glanced at the clock on her bedside table. The Ministry gala. She didn't have the luxury of falling apart—not tonight. This event wasn't optional, and she would be damned if she showed up looking like the broken woman she felt inside.
Pushing herself off the bed, she made her way to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her—pale, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. It was a look she couldn't afford.
"Right," she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse but determined. "You can do this."
She raised her wand, casting spell after spell to erase the evidence of her anguish. A charm to conceal the redness of her eyes, another to brighten her complexion, and yet another to smooth her unruly curls into sleek, elegant waves. Layer by layer, she rebuilt her armor, hiding the cracks beneath a carefully constructed façade.
Then she turned to her wardrobe. If he wanted to treat her like she was invisible, a shadow to his public image, then tonight she would force him—and everyone else—to see her.
Her hand landed on a shimmering gold dress. It was breathtaking, the fabric catching the light like molten metal. The dress hugged her figure perfectly, its intricate beading and delicate embroidery accentuating her curves and highlighting her hourglass silhouette. It was bold, unapologetic, and everything she needed to feel powerful tonight.
She slipped into the gown, fastening the clasp at the back before stepping into a pair of towering heels. Her jewelry was minimal—gold earrings and a matching bracelet—but her presence would speak louder than any accessory.
When she finally looked at herself in the mirror, she almost didn't recognize the woman staring back. Her reflection exuded confidence, strength, and defiance. No one—especially not Malfoy—would see the vulnerable, shattered woman she had been moments ago.
With one last swipe of deep red lipstick, Hermione turned and left her room, her chin held high and her resolve firmly in place.
At exactly six fifty, she descended the grand staircase of Malfoy Manor, her heels clicking softly against the marble steps. Her golden gown shimmered in the dim light, a radiant contrast to the cold and unwelcoming interior of the manor. As she reached the foyer, she spotted him standing by the fireplace, his posture as impeccable as ever.
He was dressed in tailored black robes, their subtle sheen catching the light, and he exuded his usual effortless arrogance. He didn't even glance her way as she approached, his gaze fixed on the flames flickering in the hearth.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Typical. Not a word of acknowledgment, not even a flicker of recognition. She held her head high, refusing to let his indifference chip away at her resolve.
She stepped forward, grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the ornate bowl on the mantel. Without a word, she stood beside him, their proximity close enough for her to feel the faint warmth radiating from him.
Together, in synchronized silence, they threw the powder into the fire. The flames roared to life, turning emerald green, and Hermione spoke clearly, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.
"Ministry Atrium."
He stepped in first, disappearing into the swirling flames. She followed a moment later, her heart beating a little too fast as the Floo network enveloped her in a whirlwind of spinning fireplaces.
When they emerged on the other side, she stumbled slightly, catching herself just in time. She smoothed her dress and straightened, taking in her surroundings.
The Ministry of Magic had been transformed. The atrium was bathed in soft, golden light, its high ceilings adorned with enchanted snowflakes that drifted lazily through the air before vanishing. Evergreen garlands trimmed with twinkling fairy lights lined the walls, and elegant golden ornaments floated above the crowd, casting a warm glow over the festive scene. A grand tree stood in the center of the room, its branches heavy with sparkling decorations and glowing candles that flickered but never melted.
She walked gracefully through the glittering crowd, the golden glow of the enchanted lights reflecting off her dress. She made her way toward Kingsley Shacklebolt, whose towering presence was impossible to miss. The Minister for Magic greeted her warmly, his deep voice resonating with genuine admiration.
"Hermione, you've outdone yourself tonight," he said with a smile, extending a hand.
"Thank you, Kingsley," she replied, shaking his hand firmly. "And congratulations on pulling together such a stunning event."
As she turned to greet Harry and Ginny, who were standing nearby, she felt a flicker of comfort. Harry gave her a quick, reassuring hug, while Ginny complimented her gown with a sparkle in her eyes.
"You look incredible, love," Ginny said, her tone warm. "Turning every head in the room, I'm sure."
She managed a small smile, but her gaze involuntarily wandered to the far side of the room where he had disappeared. He was already deep in conversation with his Slytherin friends, a group that seemed to include a few women who were far too eager to cling to his every word. Her stomach twisted, though she forced herself to stay composed.
As she made her way toward the drinks table, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Hermione Granger," drawled McLaggen, his grin as confident as ever. He stepped closer, taking her hand in his and brushing his lips against her knuckles. "You look absolutely stunning tonight. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to knock everyone in this room off their feet."
She pulled her hand back as politely as she could, giving him an awkward smile. "Cormac, it's good to see you."
"The pleasure is all mine," he replied smoothly, stepping closer. He placed a hand on her back, his fingers lightly brushing the fabric of her gown.
Hermione stiffened at the gesture, her smile faltering. "I—thank you, but—"
Before she could finish, a familiar, icy presence loomed beside her. Malfoy appeared as if out of thin air, his sharp, steel-grey eyes narrowing dangerously at McLaggen.
"Get your hands off my wife," he said, his voice low and deliberate, every syllable dripping with cold disdain.
Cormac straightened, his grin faltering only slightly. "Ah, Malfoy. My apologies. I was merely complimenting your wife on her brilliance in securing that trade deal with the French Ministry. And, of course, admiring her beauty. You are a fortunate man."
His eyes darkened, his expression calm yet deadly. "Oh, I am very aware of how breathtaking she is. Let me make this abundantly clear—I am the only one who touches her. Ever. Consider this your final warning."
The tension in the air was palpable, and McLaggen's confidence wavered under his unrelenting gaze. With a muttered apology, he stepped back, leaving them alone.
He didn't say another word. Instead, he grabbed her arm—not roughly, but firmly enough to leave no room for argument.
"We're leaving," he said curtly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Before she could protest, he turned on the spot, and the world spun around her as they Disapparated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The moment her feet touched the cold, polished floor of the Manor's entrance hall, he pushed her back against the wall. The impact wasn't forceful, but it was enough to steal her breath. His hands came up on either side of her, caging her in.
She was taken aback, her mind racing as her senses overloaded. His lips moved against hers with a precision that was maddeningly good—too good. The kiss was possessive, consuming, and undeniably sexual. She should have pushed him away, slapped him, anything to stop the whirlwind of heat pooling low in her stomach.
Instead, her body betrayed her.
A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips, muffled against his mouth. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin as he deepened the kiss. His other hand slid from her jaw to her neck, his thumb brushing over her pulse point as if claiming her entirely.
Her hands, initially poised to push him away, found themselves clutching the fabric of his shirt instead. Her anger and confusion melted into a haze of sensation, her head tilting back slightly as he kissed her harder, his teeth grazing her bottom lip in a way that sent a jolt through her entire body.
His lips were swollen, his breath uneven as he pulled back, his gray eyes stormy with a raw, primal intensity. His smirk curled into something both triumphant and predatory as he regarded her, every ounce of his aristocratic confidence oozing through his demeanor.
"You dirty little whore," he drawled, his voice cutting and posh, dripping with mockery. "Do you honestly believe you can prance around dressed like that? Flaunting yourself, showing off your perfect body for every leering bastard to see?"
Her eyes burned with defiance, even as her body betrayed her with the flush spreading across her skin. She shoved at his chest, her voice steady despite the flutter of adrenaline racing through her veins.
"Let me go," she demanded, her tone hard as steel.
His smirk widened, his expression darkening further as he leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her ear.
"Let you go?" he repeated mockingly, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "Darling, I'd rather die than let you go. You're mine, and don't you dare forget it."
She shoved again, this time harder, her voice rising in frustration. "I said let me go!"
In a flash, he spun her around, his grip unrelenting as he pinned her body to the wall. The cool stone pressed against her front, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off him as he loomed behind her.
With a deft tug, he ripped the delicate fabric of her dress, the sound of tearing silk echoing in the room. His breath hitched as he found her bare beneath it, the sight of her naked body laid out for him only fueling the fire in his gaze.
He pressed his lips to her neck, trailing slow, wet kisses along her skin, his movements deliberate and maddening. His hands slid upward, cupping her breasts with an almost reverent touch, his fingers circling her nipples with infuriating patience.
"Would you like me to stop?" he murmured, his voice a velvet caress against her ear.
She bit her lip, her breath catching as a soft whimper escaped her throat.
He chuckled darkly, his tone a mixture of teasing and command. "Use your words, my love. Tell me what you want."
His hand moved lower, sliding between her thighs to find her already slick with want. She stiffened, her mind screaming one thing while her body responded with an entirely different truth.
"I… I want you…" she stammered, her voice trembling as she tried to summon her resolve. "To leave me alone."
His low chuckle vibrated against her skin, his tone smug yet surprisingly gentle. "Hmm," he mused, his fingers brushing over her swollen clit in a way that made her hips jerk involuntarily. "Your gorgeous little pink cunt seems to be telling me something quite different."
She gasped, her knees threatening to buckle under his touch. His fingers moved with expert precision, massaging her in slow, deliberate circles.
"I'll leave you alone," he said, his voice dripping with false sincerity, "but not until you come on my hand."
Her response was barely a whisper, a soft, defiant "No." But they both knew it was a lie.
He pressed harder, his rhythm steady as he coaxed a moan from her lips. "That's it, darling," he murmured approvingly. "You're doing so well."
Her mind reeled at the gentleness in his tone, the care in his touch. It was unexpected, disarming. There was no venom in his words now—just genuine reverence.
When he slipped a finger inside her, she threw her head back, her body arching instinctively. Her breathing turned shallow as she felt his hardness pressing against her from behind, the heat of him searing through her.
A second finger joined the first, and his lips brushed her ear as he whispered, "Such a good girl. You feel divine, doll." His fingers curved, finding the spot that made her cry out, her head falling back against his shoulder.
"Oh, God," she gasped, her voice high and breathless.
He chuckled, his lips curling into a wicked grin. "She's not here, my love. But I am. Now, be a good girl for me and come on my hand."
His pace quickened, his fingers relentless as he worked her toward the edge. Her moans grew louder, her body trembling with every drag of his fingers against her most sensitive spot. When he added a third finger, she shattered.
A sudden, powerful release overtook her, and her body betrayed her entirely. She gasped in shock as her climax spilled over, leaving a slick mess on the floor and staining his trousers and shoes.
His arms caught her as her legs gave out, holding her steady as she sagged against him, her chest heaving.
"I…" she stammered, her voice shaky as she tried to catch her breath. "Oh, Merlin… what was that? I've never—"
He cut her off, his voice rich with amusement and something softer. "That, darling, was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life."
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she buried her face in her hands. "No, it's not—it's mortifying!"
He tilted her chin up, his expression uncharacteristically tender. "Mortifying? Not even close. It was magnificent. You're magnificent."
Before she could argue, he turned her around to face him. Her face was still flushed, her breathing uneven, but he didn't care.
"Now," he said, his voice soft but commanding, "give me a proper kiss. A real one."
She hesitated, her eyes wide as she searched his face. Slowly, she raised a hand to his cheek, her fingers trembling as she brushed against his skin. Then, with a tentative tilt of her head, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.
It started soft, hesitant, but quickly deepened into something real. It was romantic, genuine, and far more intimate than anything they'd shared before. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer as he kissed her with a passion that left her breathless all over again.
Without breaking the kiss, he scooped her up effortlessly, his movements fluid as he apparated them to the bedroom. She landed on cool silk sheets, her head sinking into plush pillows as he hovered over her, his smirk returning in full force.
He stood in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim light from the hallway. His eyes were dark, intense, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. His lips quirked into a knowing smirk, though it was tinged with something dangerous—something he kept carefully hidden. He crossed the threshold into the room, his steps deliberate, echoing in the silent space between them.
He reached up, his fingers brushing a lock of damp hair from Hermione's flushed face, tucking it gently behind her ear. The touch lingered, soft and deliberate, his fingertips trailing against her temple before retreating, leaving a phantom chill that contrasted sharply with the suffocating warmth of the room. His presence was oppressive, a storm contained within the walls, and she hated the way her body seemed to lean, unbidden, into the ghost of his touch.
"You, my darling," he murmured, his voice smooth and slow, honeyed with that insufferable arrogance that made every word seem like a calculated blade. "Are absolutely divine." The words dripped from his lips, not with mockery, but something perilously close to reverence. There was an edge to his tone—a warmth that felt dangerous, like the smolder of embers before a wildfire.
She stiffened, her spine straight as a steel rod, her jaw tightening in defiance. Her glare was sharp, her lips pressed into a line, but his words didn't dissipate like she wished they would. Instead, they hung heavy in the charged air, winding around her like invisible chains. They crawled under her skin, burning where they touched, unsettling her far more than she dared admit.
"Let me go," she demanded, her voice low but steady, the defiance in her tone unwavering even as her pulse raced.
He tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He didn't flinch, didn't step back, didn't even blink. Instead, he moved closer, each step shrinking the space between them until there was nowhere for her to retreat. His presence was suffocating, a dark tide she couldn't fight. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, the air between them heavy with tension that felt alive.
"Never," he said, his voice velvet-lined steel, the finality in it sending a shiver down her spine. The word wasn't shouted, wasn't forced—it was quiet and resolute, and somehow that made it worse. More dangerous.
Her fists clenched at her sides as she stared up at him, her fury barely masking the way her chest tightened under his gaze. He was too close, too overwhelming, his intensity wrapping around her like smoke, seeping into her cracks. Every instinct screamed for her to push him away, to break free, but the air itself seemed to conspire against her, trapping her there.
"You don't even like me," she spat, her voice rising as she turned her back to him. The movement was sharp, purposeful, and an attempt to create the distance she so desperately craved. "Don't pretend. Don't even try."
Behind her, he chuckled, a low, dark sound that rumbled through the room like distant thunder. "You have no idea," he murmured, the words soft and dripping with something she couldn't name—something dark, something dangerous. It made her stomach twist, a cold ache settling deep within her.
Her breathing quickened, but she refused to show weakness. She slipped out of the bed, her bare feet making barely a sound against the chilled floor. The instinct to run—to flee—screamed louder with each step. Distance was what she needed. Distance would make the chaos of him fade, make his suffocating presence bearable again.
"Why don't you call the Greengrass sisters over?" she sneered, her voice cutting and sharp. The venom in her words was deliberate, aimed to wound, to provoke. "Isn't that your favorite thing to do? You don't need me for company, Draco. You've got them."
She didn't look back as she walked toward the door, her steps determined. She prayed he wouldn't stop her, wouldn't try to trap her again. Just let me go, she thought, gripping the cold handle.
"Please, don't go, love," his voice came, soft but insidious, curling around her like a whispered spell. It wasn't a plea—it was a command veiled in false gentleness, and the possessiveness that laced his tone sent a chill skittering down her spine.
She froze, her hand still on the door handle. Slowly, she turned to face him, her breath uneven, her chest heaving as rage and something else—something she didn't want to name—collided within her.
"Go and fuck them, Malfoy," she said, her voice low and biting, each word laced with venom. They were meant to cut, to burn, to provoke.
The effect was immediate. His expression darkened, the faint smirk wiped away as his features hardened into something sharp and unforgiving. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't lash out. Instead, his response came cold and measured, like the edge of a blade pressed against her throat.
"I never fucked them," he said, his voice like frost, slicing through the tension in the room. His posture straightened, his shoulders pulling back as his gaze burned into hers, a tempest raging behind his cool gray eyes.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes as disbelief dripped from every inch of her expression. "Sure," she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she turned her back on him once more.
But this time, when she pushed the door open and stepped into the hall, she wasn't sure if she was running from him—or from herself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She locked the door behind her with shaking hands, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Her skin crawled where his touch lingered, a phantom warmth she wanted to scrub away. She marched straight to the bathroom, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor, and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. Steam rose quickly, filling the room and fogging the mirror, but it wasn't enough to drown out her thoughts.
What the hell was wrong with him? He barely spoke to her most days, retreating into his own private world of brooding silence. And when he did acknowledge her, it was with a sharpness that cut deep or an arrogance that made her skin prickle. But tonight? Tonight, he'd been a different kind of unbearable. He was aggressive, possessive, like some kind of feral creature.
Not that she feared him. No, Hermione Granger didn't fear Draco Malfoy. If anything, she could destroy him with a flick of her wand if she wanted to. But that wasn't the point. What had gotten into him? What had made him so… unhinged?
She stepped into the scalding spray, letting the water cascade over her, cleansing her skin of his lingering touch. She scrubbed at her arms and shoulders until they were pink, as if she could erase the memory of his fingers brushing against her, his voice dripping with that maddening mix of arrogance and something far too close to sincerity.
She had barely finished rinsing the soap from her hair when a deafening crash shattered the relative silence. Her bathroom door, once locked, was now hanging off its hinges, and there stood, wild-eyed and radiating fury. Water dripped down her face as she stared at him, her heart hammering in her chest, not from fear but from sheer disbelief.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he barked, his voice a mix of anger and something else—desperation, maybe? His chest heaved as he stepped into the bathroom, his presence as suffocating as ever.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?" she shot back, her voice sharp and incredulous. "You just broke down my door, you absolute lunatic!"
"Apologize," he demanded, his gray eyes boring into hers, unrelenting.
Her jaw dropped. "Are you serious?"
"Yes," he snapped. "Apologize."
"For what exactly?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "For locking a door you had no right to break? For trying to shower in peace? For breathing?"
"I'm sorry," he bit out, though the words were strained, clearly costing him something. "I'm sorry I broke the door."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Not for that," she said, her tone daring him to continue. "Apologize for your behavior."
His face twisted, a war of emotions playing out across his sharp features. For a moment, she thought he might actually apologize—might offer something real, something human. But then his lips curled into that insufferable smirk, and he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.
"I'm not sorry at all," he said again, his voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur that seemed to wrap around her like a caress. His gaze burned into hers, unrelenting and unapologetic. "All I want is to hear your sweet moans for eternity."
Her face burned instantly, though whether it was from anger or the sheer audacity of his words, she couldn't tell. A tempest of emotions raged within her—humiliation, fury, and something far more dangerous that she refused to name. She clenched her fists, channeling her rage into her voice. "You're delusional if you think that's going to happen," she spat. "We fulfilled the Ministry order. There will be an heir. After that, you're not going to see us ever again."
Her words were sharp, meant to cut, but instead of retreating, he took a step closer. The look in his eyes darkened, a storm brewing in those endless gray depths. There was no hesitation, no faltering in his movements as he approached her with slow, deliberate strides. Like a predator closing in on its prey, he was calm, almost eerily so, as though he had all the time in the world to unravel her defenses.
"You will not take my child away," he said, his voice soft but laden with an unshakable resolve that sent a shiver down her spine.
She let out a humorless laugh, crossing her arms over her chest in a defensive gesture. "Is it yours now?" she sneered, her words dripping with venom. "I thought you believed I was a whore."
The word landed between them like a slap, reverberating through the tense silence. For the first time, he flinched. His confident façade cracked, and his usually composed expression gave way to something raw and unguarded. Vulnerability flickered across his features—brief but unmistakable.
"I… it's…" he stammered, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain. "It's mine. Of course, it's mine."
"Then spit it out," she snapped, her voice rising as she took a step forward, challenging him. "Say what you want to say, Malfoy. For once in your miserable life, just say it."
And then, in a move that left her breathless, he dropped to his knees. The sight of him kneeling before her was so startling, so incongruous with the man she knew, that it knocked the wind out of her. His hands reached for hers, trembling slightly as he grasped them and pressed her palms to his cheeks. The contact was warm, intimate, and she hated the way it sent an unwanted pang through her chest.
His gray eyes, usually so cold and detached, were wide and full of desperation as they locked onto hers. "I know you didn't cheat," he said, his voice breaking slightly, the words spilling out in a rush. "It's just… we only had sex once. And—"
"Which was unbearable," she interrupted, her voice sharp and cutting, each word delivered with precision, meant to wound. "Your words, not mine."
His grip on her hands tightened, his knuckles whitening as if he feared she might slip away if he let go. His head bowed slightly, the weight of her accusation pressing on him. "It was unbearable because you didn't enjoy it," he admitted, his voice raw, each syllable trembling with something too close to regret. "You wouldn't let me kiss you. You wouldn't let me touch you. You wouldn't even let me look at you."
The air between them was heavy, and for a moment, all she could hear was the rapid, uneven beat of her heart. Her throat tightened painfully, but she refused to let him see how his words burrowed under her skin, planting seeds of doubt she wasn't prepared to confront. She steeled herself, her voice clipped and devoid of emotion. "That was for the best."
"For whose sake?" he demanded, his voice rising, losing its calm façade. He lifted his head to meet her gaze, his eyes burning with an intensity that both terrified and thrilled her. "Not mine. And I know it wasn't for yours, either."
She swallowed hard, her resolve teetering on the edge of collapse as his words lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms like tiny anchors to keep her grounded. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to fight back, to hurl his arrogance and assumptions in his face. But the truth—the undeniable, raw truth—stood between them, a silent and suffocating presence neither of them dared to fully acknowledge.
"Why do those women come over?" she asked suddenly, the sharpness in her voice surprising even herself.
His brow arched, his head tilting slightly as his expression remained unreadable, a perfect mask of indifference. "To talk."
"To talk?" she echoed, her disbelief slicing through the room. "About what?"
"Astoria talks about everything and nothing all at once," he replied, his tone so casual it felt almost dismissive. "She's... well, let's just say intellectual depth isn't her strong suit. Daphne, on the other hand, is sharper. She's someone I can actually have a conversation with."
His words felt like a slap, their sting sharper than she was prepared for. "Have you fucked them?" she demanded before her rational mind could stop her, the crude question spilling out like a dam had broken.
His expression didn't flicker, his silver-gray eyes locking on hers, steady and unyielding. "No," he said simply, his voice calm but unshakable. "I have no desire to do so."
Her throat tightened, her pulse hammering in her ears as she pressed further, her voice dropping to a low, trembling note. "Why not?"
He stepped forward, the weight of his presence filling the room, leaving no room for escape. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but laced with intensity. "Because they're not you," he said, each word deliberate, unyielding. "Because you're the one I want. You are my wife."
The words hit her like a physical blow, her breath hitching as her heart thundered painfully against her ribs. She instinctively took a step back, desperate to create some distance, to put a barrier between herself and the raw honesty in his voice. "This marriage isn't real," she said, her tone brittle, the words a fragile shield she clung to. "You can do whatever you want. Just... don't bring anyone here."
His jaw tightened, his expression darkening as something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "This," he said, his voice low and vibrating with restrained frustration, "is the closest thing I'll ever have to something real. This marriage—this arrangement—was the only way I could ever call you my wife."
The room seemed to shrink around her as the weight of his words settled over them, suffocating and inescapable. "Draco..." she began, her voice faltering, softening despite every instinct telling her to harden her resolve. But the intensity in his gaze rooted her to the spot, leaving her unable to look away.
His eyes snapped to hers, something like surprise flickering across his face. "That's the first time you've used my name," he said softly, almost to himself, as though the realization startled him.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "Draco, this is a forced marriage. It's not real. It's miserable."
"Not for me," he said, his voice cutting through the silence with the precision of a blade. "Not for me. I see you, Hermione. I see the way your brow furrows when you're reading, the way you hum to yourself when you think no one's listening. I hear your voice every morning when you greet the elves in the kitchen. I watch you sing—off-key, I might add—when you're in the garden, tending to those ridiculous plants you claim will cure the world." His voice dipped lower, raw with emotion. "And I hear you cry at night, when you think I'm asleep or too far away to notice."
Her lips parted, but no words came out. His confession hit her like a tidal wave, washing over her carefully constructed walls and exposing the fragile truths beneath. She felt raw, seen in a way that both terrified and disarmed her.
"Well," she said finally, her voice tight and brittle as she forced herself to speak. "That doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything," he shot back, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Why don't you ever talk to me, Hermione?"
"Because I don't like you!" she snapped, her voice rising, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I despise you, actually. I don't respect you. I have no feelings for you. You're just... my flatmate."
The silence that followed was deafening. He stood utterly still, his expression unreadable, his silver-gray eyes fixed on hers. Then, with deliberate calm, he said, "Very well."
And before she could process what was happening, he moved. His hands found her waist, his grip firm but not unkind, pulling her closer with a suddenness that stole the air from her lungs. The warmth of his body pressed against hers, overwhelming and grounding all at once, trapping her in his unrelenting gaze.
"I like you," he said, his voice low and steady, each word a deliberate act of defiance. "I adore you. I have feelings for you." His hands tightened slightly, anchoring her to the moment. "And you're not my flatmate, Hermione, because this is not a flat. It's a manor. And more importantly, you are my wife."
Her breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words settled over her like a storm cloud, heavy and impossible to ignore. "I'm not a possession," she said, her voice trembling but laced with defiance.
His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, though his eyes remained somber, earnest. "You're the most important thing that has my name on it," he said quietly, his voice soft but steady, like a truth he had carried for far too long.
Her jaw clenched, and with a sharp intake of breath, she pushed against his chest, trying to create space between them, to regain control. "I am a person, not an object," she hissed, her eyes blazing.
"And you are my favorite person," he countered, his voice softening in a way that made her stomach twist into knots. "The only person I love. The only person who has power over me."
The words hung in the air between them, charged and electric, as though the room itself had paused to bear witness to this moment. She stared at him, her mind racing, her emotions a tangled mess of anger, disbelief, and something far too dangerous to name. For the first time in a long while, she found herself at a loss for words, unmoored by the intensity of his confession.
Draco—arrogant, insufferable Draco—simply stood there, his gaze unwavering, his expression a mixture of challenge and vulnerability. He was waiting. Waiting for her to speak, to move, to do anything.
For the first time, she wasn't sure if she wanted to fight him or fall into him. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as if the tension between them had materialized into something tangible and unrelenting.
"I'm not scared of you," she said, her voice steady but quiet, her chin tilting up defiantly.
His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "I'm painfully aware of that fact."
"Then perhaps," she continued, her tone sharpening, "you should stop pushing me against walls and surfaces, and tell me precisely what you want—rather than resorting to this… posturing."
His expression shifted, softening just enough to reveal a flicker of vulnerability beneath the arrogance. "You want to know what I want, Hermione?" he said, his voice smooth, deliberate, every word carefully chosen. He stepped closer, his hands sliding to rest gently on her arms. "I want you. All of you. To hold you, to kiss you until the world fades away, to wake up every morning to your face and fall asleep knowing you're still mine." His gaze darkened, intensity simmering just beneath the surface. "I want to make love to you. I want to hear you laugh, hear you argue. I want to be a father. To build a life with you—a real one."
She swallowed hard, the raw sincerity in his voice stirring something deep within her. For a moment, she could only stare at him, torn between disbelief and the terrifying pull of wanting to believe him.
"You need to apologize," she said finally, her tone cutting but her voice softer now. "I never cheated on you. I could have, but I didn't."
Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, regret, and anger, all colliding at once. In an instant, his fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head back with a firm, yet not painful grip. His grey eyes bore into hers, aflame with a quiet fury.
"With whom?" he asked, his voice low and deceptively calm, though his clenched jaw betrayed the storm beneath.
She narrowed her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You're doing it again," she hissed. "Don't be so aggressive, and for Merlin's sake, stop being so jealous."
"But I am jealous," he admitted, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his frustration bleeding through. "And yes, I am aggressive. But for you…" He exhaled sharply, releasing her hair and stepping back, his hands raking through his own platinum locks as though trying to wrestle himself into control. "For you, I am sorry."
"You're not sorry," she shot back, her tone almost teasing. "You're just trying to make amends before I walk out that door."
"I am," he said sharply, his posh accent enunciating each word with precision, "genuinely and unequivocally sorry for the horrid things I said this morning. You didn't deserve any of it. My temper got the better of me."
She raised an eyebrow, a small, humorless smirk playing on her lips. "Good boy," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "See how well you apologize hours later? But if you must know, it was McLaggen. He's the one I could've been fucking. Many times over, in fact."
His composure cracked. His nostrils flared, and a dark shadow passed over his face as he stepped closer, crowding her space. "Cormac bloody McLaggen?" he ground out, his tone clipped, laced with barely restrained ire.
She laughed, sharp and mocking, though her heart raced as his intensity bore down on her. "Oh, don't act so surprised. He's quite the charmer, after all."
His jaw tightened, but he took a deep breath, reigning himself in. "Hermione," he said, his voice lower now, dangerously smooth, "you're trying to provoke me."
"And what if I am?" she countered, her gaze challenging, her chest rising and falling quickly as the tension between them grew unbearable.
He didn't respond—not verbally, at least. Instead, he surged forward, his hands gripping her waist as he backed her toward the bed. His movements were deliberate, yet restrained, as though battling an internal war between passion and control.
"Draco," she started, her voice faltering as the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress.
But he didn't let her finish. He pressed her down gently, his weight settling between her legs as his hands anchored her hips. His gaze locked on hers, intense and unwavering. "Tell me to stop," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his breath ghosting over her lips. "Tell me, and I will. But if you don't…"
Her heart thundered in her chest. She could feel every deliberate touch, every breath he exhaled against her skin. Her mouth opened, but no protest came. The words she thought she should say never made it past her lips. Instead, her hands betrayed her, finding their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
In truth, she didn't hate him. She didn't even loathe him—not the way she used to tell herself she did. He was infuriating, yes, but he was also intoxicating. His presence was magnetic, his touch electric. And for all his possessiveness and sharp edges, there was something about him that made her feel alive in ways she didn't dare admit.
Her body betrayed her further when her hips shifted, her thighs parting instinctively as she pressed herself against him. She didn't care anymore—not about pride, not about logic. She needed him, and the need was overwhelming.
He froze for a moment, his stormy gaze snapping to hers as if to confirm what she wanted. Her silent invitation was all the answer he needed. He lowered himself further, his lips trailing down her thighs, his movements unhurried and deliberate, like a man savoring his last meal.
When his mouth found her, she gasped, her hands tangling in the sheets. The warmth of his tongue against her sent a shockwave through her body. He took his time, his every movement calculated, every flick of his tongue designed to unravel her.
She whispered his name, a desperate plea falling from her lips. He responded with his hands, his fingers slipping inside her, curving expertly to find the spot that made her cry out. His movements were slow, sensual, and deliberate. This wasn't rushed or frantic—it was intimate, almost reverent, as if he was trying to rewrite every harsh word, every misunderstanding, with the way he touched her.
He glanced up, his gaze meeting hers. "I want this to be perfect for you," he murmured, his voice low, his posh accent curling around the words like a caress.
She couldn't respond. Her head fell back against the pillows, her body writhing beneath him as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge. But just as she felt herself teetering on the brink, he pulled back, his touch gentler, slowing her descent.
It was maddening, and he knew it.
"Draco," she gasped, her voice a broken whisper.
"Hermione," he replied, his voice teasing but laced with affection. "You deserve more than to rush this.
Her nails dug into his shoulders. "Please… please, God, enough."
His lips quirked into a smirk, though his gaze softened. "This," he said, his voice low and velvety, "is what McLaggen could never give you."
"Make me come," she pleaded, her voice trembling, her desperation palpable.
Her request wasn't a plea—it was an order. And he finally relented. He quickened his pace, his fingers moving in perfect rhythm with his mouth. Her body arched off the bed as she fell apart in his hands, her cries filling the room. He held her through it, his hands steady, his mouth softening to place reverent kisses against her as she came down from her high.
When her breathing steadied, she opened her eyes to find him watching her, his expression uncharacteristically tender.
"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Please… put it in."
He hesitated, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead. "I don't want to hurt my baby," he murmured, his voice quiet but filled with genuine concern.
"You're not going to hurt the baby," she assured him, her hands cupping his face. "She's tiny. She's safe."
"She?" he repeated, his brows lifting in surprise.
Hermione smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Obviously."
For a moment, he was silent, his gaze searching hers. "Are you absolutely sure this won't hurt you?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable.
"I'm sure," she whispered, her tone steady. "Please… let's just try. I need you."
His resolve crumbled at her words. "Yes, my love," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Okay. Open your gorgeous legs for me."
She smirked faintly, a teasing glint in her eyes as she slowly parted her thighs, drawing out the moment. He let out a low groan, his composure faltering as he settled between her legs, pulling them onto his shoulders.
He moved carefully, his hands gripping her hips as he aligned himself. Slowly, almost painstakingly, he pushed inside her, pausing with every inch to make sure she was okay. His eyes never left hers, searching her expression for any sign of discomfort.
When he was fully seated, he let out a shaky breath, his forehead resting against hers. "You feel… incredible," he murmured, his voice raw.
Her hands slid up his back, her nails grazing his skin as she arched against him. "So do you," she whispered, her voice trembling, her breath catching in her throat.
He let out a low, shuddering sigh at her words, the sound vibrating between them. His movements were slow at first, deliberate, each thrust gentle and calculated, as though he were afraid of shattering the fragile intimacy between them. His focus was entirely on her—on the way her body responded, the quiet gasps and soft moans that escaped her lips, each one sending a thrill through him.
His mouth found hers in a kiss that was deep and consuming, his lips moving against hers with a passion that left her breathless. As they moved together, their bodies finding a rhythm, the room seemed to shrink around them. All that existed was the shared heat, the raw intensity of their connection, and the unspoken words hanging in the air.
They weren't just having sex; they were making love.
She could feel it in every touch, every look, every gentle sweep of his hand against her skin. There was no doubt in her mind that he loved her—truly, deeply, maddeningly. She didn't need him to say it, not when his actions spoke louder than any words ever could. The way he cradled her body, the reverence in his touch, the way he kissed her like she was the only thing he'd ever want—it was enough.
"Give me another one, love," he murmured against her lips, his voice hoarse with need. "Please, I beg you. I need to feel you come around my cock."
His words sent a shiver down her spine, heat pooling in her belly as her body responded to his plea. "Touch me," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He obeyed without hesitation, his hand slipping between their bodies to find the sensitive bundle of nerves that made her cry out. His touch was slow, deliberate, drawing her closer to the edge with a patience that left her trembling beneath him.
When her release came, it was earth-shattering. Her body arched against his, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she cried out his name, her walls tightening around him in a way that nearly sent him over the edge.
He groaned, his movements faltering as he fought to hold on, his forehead pressing against hers. "Merlin, love," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "You're perfect. You're absolutely perfect."
Her chest heaved as she came down, her gaze meeting his, her eyes soft and filled with unspoken emotion. She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, a small smile tugging at her lips.
He kissed her again, deeply and thoroughly, his movements growing more erratic as his control slipped. A few thrusts later, his own release washed over him, a guttural moan escaping his lips as he buried himself inside her, filling her completely.
For a moment, neither of them moved, their breaths mingling as they lay tangled together. His hand smoothed over her stomach instinctively, his touch reverent.
"Draco, I…" she started, but her voice trailed off, unsure of how to express the emotions swirling inside her.
His eyes darted to hers, a flicker of worry crossing his face. "Did I hurt you?" he asked quickly, his hand brushing her cheek. "Did I hurt the baby?"
"No," she assured him, shaking her head. Her lips curled into a soft smile, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You were amazing. Absolutely amazing."
Relief washed over his face, his shoulders relaxing as he let out a soft chuckle. "Good," he murmured, his hand cupping her cheek. "Because I've never wanted to be anything but perfect for you."
Hermione's heart swelled at his words, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him into another kiss. She didn't need to say anything—her actions spoke for her.
He shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling her against him, his arms wrapping around her protectively. His hand drifted down to her stomach again, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her skin.
"She," he said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Our baby girl."
Hermione's heart fluttered, a warmth spreading through her chest as she nodded. "Our baby girl," she echoed, her voice filled with wonder.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there. "I'll take care of both of you," he murmured. "Forever."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was her shadow throughout her pregnancy. If she moved, he moved. If she sighed, he'd ask her ten different questions about how she was feeling. She couldn't go two seconds without him hovering nearby, his worry palpable.
"Draco," she said one evening, her tone laced with exasperation as she made her way to the bathroom. "I'm going to take a bath. Alone."
He immediately stiffened. "But what if—"
"Nothing is going to happen," Hermione interrupted, turning to glare at him. Her bump, now enormous, added a layer of severity to her expression. "I'm fine. I just want twenty minutes to myself without you looming like an overprotective gargoyle."
He looked genuinely hurt. "You're almost due, Hermione. Don't do this, love. What if something happens? What if you slip or—"
"Stop calling me that," she snapped, holding up a hand. "We've talked about this. And nothing is going to happen while I enjoy my bath. Alone."
He crossed his arms, his lips forming a thin line. He didn't like this one bit. All he wanted to do was be near her, to look after her, to dote on her every second of the day. He needed her to feel safe—his definition of safe, which apparently included constant supervision.
She sighed heavily, stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door firmly behind her. "And don't you dare stand outside the door. I mean it."
Offended but undeterred, he stood in the hallway anyway, leaning against the wall just outside. He crossed his arms, glaring at the closed door as though it were a personal affront. His ears were trained for any suspicious sounds—a splash, a gasp, anything that might indicate she needed him.
Inside, she slid into the warm water, letting out a contented sigh. "Finally," she muttered to herself, closing her eyes. Twenty-eight glorious minutes of peace passed, but eventually, her sixth sense kicked in.
"I know you're out there," she called out, her voice carrying through the door.
"No, I'm not," came his immediate and very unconvincing reply.
"Draco," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Please go away. I just want some privacy."
There was a pause before she heard the faint sound of retreating footsteps. Only then did she allow herself to fully relax again.
Being pregnant was challenging in ways she hadn't anticipated. She hadn't expected the constant exhaustion, the cravings, the mood swings. But what surprised her the most was the near-constant neediness.
She hated it. Or rather, she hated admitting it.
Her hormones had her tied up in knots, and she was far too prideful to ask him for anything, especially when it came to sex. Not that he wouldn't oblige—Merlin knew he'd probably move heaven and earth for her if she so much as hinted at wanting him. But there was a part of her that wanted to manage it on her own, to cling to some semblance of independence amidst the chaos of her pregnancy.
Lately, though, it has been frustratingly difficult. Her growing bump made certain… activities nearly impossible. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and left her feeling defeated more often than not.
Tonight, she decided to try something different. After her bath, she dried off, climbed onto the bed, and grabbed a pillow. She settled herself over it, straddling it awkwardly before beginning to rock back and forth.
At first, it felt silly. But as the friction began to build, she closed her eyes, letting her body relax into the motion. Her breathing quickened, and she began to lose herself in the sensations, her hips moving in a slow, desperate rhythm.
And then the door burst open.
"I brought you your—" he froze mid-sentence, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. His jaw dropped, his grey eyes widening as they took in the scene before him. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
She let out a mortified shriek, scrambling off the pillow and yanking the blankets over herself. "GET OUT!"
He blinked, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to form a coherent sentence. "I—tea—you—what—"
"OUT!" she bellowed, her face burning with embarrassment.
He set the tea down on the nightstand with exaggerated care, his face still a mixture of shock and amusement. "I—I didn't mean to—oh, Merlin's beard—were you—grinding on a pillow?"
"GET OUT!" she repeated, throwing a pillow in his direction, though it fell harmlessly to the floor.
He held up his hands in surrender, stepping back toward the door with a mix of shock and confusion. "Okay! Okay! I'm going! But, my love—"
"Don't you dare say another word!" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to make him freeze in place.
"Get out!" she repeated, pointing toward the door.
He hesitated, his eyes darting between her flushed face and the pillow she'd hastily abandoned. "No, wait—what are you doing? Are you okay? Is something wrong? Does something hurt? Maybe we should go to the hospital sooner, or—"
"Enough!" she interrupted, her patience wearing thin. Standing up with as much dignity as she could muster, she crossed her arms over her chest. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she wasn't about to let him spiral unchecked. "Draco, I'm masturbating."
The words hung in the air like a lightning bolt, shocking him into silence.
"And if you don't mind," she added, her tone biting, "I'd like to go to sleep satisfied for once."
He blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then the floodgates broke.
"Why wouldn't you just say something?!" he exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch. "Am I not enough for you? Is it me? Oh, Merlin—this is it, isn't it? You don't love me, and you're going to leave me! Oh, Merlin, I—"
"Enough!" she cut him off again, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're spiraling. Again."
He flinched but looked at her, clearly waiting for an explanation.
"I just felt horny," she said plainly, though her tone carried an edge of exhaustion. "That's it. And I can't reach my bloody cunt anymore because of the baby, and it's frustrating."
He blinked, digesting her words. Slowly, a flicker of understanding—or at least realization—crossed his face.
"Well," he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now but still incredulous, "I can reach it."
Hermione groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Draco, I am not going to summon you every time I feel horny."
"But that's what you should have been doing!" he countered, stepping closer as if the idea was the most logical thing in the world.
She glared at him, her arms dropping to her sides. "We've already fulfilled our 'duty.' We don't need to have sex anymore."
That stopped him in his tracks. His face fell, his usual confidence crumbling into something raw and unguarded. "So that's still how you feel?" he asked quietly, his voice tight with emotion.
"Draco…" she began, but he didn't let her finish.
"You still don't understand, do you?" he said, his voice rising again, this time tinged with anger and hurt. "You still don't get that I'm in love with you? That every single thing I've done—hovering, worrying, trying to take care of you—is because I love you?"
Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. "I know that you are," she admitted softly. "But I'm not."
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with tension. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his emotions teetering between hurt, determination, and an unyielding need to close the chasm between them.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and firm. "Well, that needs to change."
Before she could protest, he closed the distance between them in two strides. His hands gripped her shoulders gently but insistently, turning her so her back was to him.
"Draco, what are you—"
"I'm making you satisfied," he interrupted, his tone laced with a mixture of heat and command.
Her breath caught as he bent her over the edge of the bed, his hands firm yet reverent as they moved to guide her.
"Get on all fours," he said, his voice rough but tender.
"Draco, wait—"
"Hush, my love," he murmured, leaning in so his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "Be a good girl for me."
The endearment sent a shiver down her spine, and despite the whirlwind of emotions, she found herself leaning onto her forearms, her body betraying her resistance.
He positioned himself behind her, his hands caressing her hips as if grounding himself in her presence. Without hesitation, he pushed into her in one smooth, deliberate motion.
"Oh, God!" she cried out, her head falling forward as pleasure rippled through her.
"God's not here," he growled, his grip tightening as he began to move. "It's just me. Now be a good girl and come for me."
His pace was steady, every thrust calculated to draw every ounce of pleasure from her. One hand stayed firm on her hip, guiding her movements, while the other slid around to rest on the swell of her belly.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice softer now, filled with awe as he pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "So perfect."
Hermione whimpered, her mind spinning as sensation and emotion tangled together. She was so close, her body trembling with the need for release.
He pulled her back against him, his chest flush against her back, his hand splayed possessively over her baby bump. His lips found her neck, his breath hot and ragged.
"Tell me," he said, his voice thick with desperation. "Tell me you love me. Tell me you're in love with me, too."
"Draco…" she moaned, her voice a plea.
"Say it," he demanded, his thrusts growing more insistent. "Tell me."
Her hands gripped the sheets as her release built, the tension unbearable. "Please," she gasped, her voice breaking. "Please don't stop."
"Say it," he growled, his teeth grazing her ear. "Say the words, or I'll stop."
Her body tightened, her climax hovering on the edge. "I love you!" she cried out, her voice raw and unguarded. "I'm in love with you!"
And with that, her release crashed over her, her body shaking as she came undone around him.
He groaned deeply, his pace faltering as he followed her moments later, spilling into her with a shuddering moan. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close as they both caught their breath.
The room was steeped in the quiet aftermath of their shared passion, the only sounds their mingled breathing and the faint rustling of the sheets as they adjusted. He cradled her gently against his chest, his lips finding her temple in a lingering, tender kiss. He let his mouth linger for a moment, breathing her in before he murmured, "You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that."
She turned her face slightly, enough to meet his gaze with a half-lidded but pointed look. "You should not force a confession out of me like that," she said, her voice tinged with exhaustion but laced with reprimand.
He smirked, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the small of her back. "Would it really have come out any other way? Besides"—his smirk deepened into a roguish grin—"what's the fun in waiting when I can coax it out of you while you're screaming my name in ecstasy?"
Hermione huffed, her cheeks burning at the memory of how fervently she had shouted those three words. "You're insufferable," she muttered, trying to pull away, but his arms tightened around her, pinning her close.
"I'm your insufferable husband," he countered, nipping lightly at her earlobe. "And I think you secretly love that about me."
She rolled her eyes but didn't fight him further. Instead, she rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. It was maddening how safe she felt here, wrapped up in the arms of the man who had once been her greatest irritation.
"You're lucky I don't hold grudges," she mumbled, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his bare skin.
He chuckled softly, his voice a deep rumble that reverberated through her. "Lucky?" he teased. "No, love, I think I'm very unlucky. Because if you did hold grudges, I'd get to spend all my time trying to make it up to you. And we both know how much I'd enjoy that."
She groaned, hiding her face against his chest to stifle a laugh. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, tilting her chin up so he could look her in the eyes, "here you are, in my arms, telling me you love me."
"Under duress," she shot back, though her lips quirked into a faint smile.
"Sure, sure," he replied, his tone dripping with mock disbelief. "But I saw the look on your face, my love. You meant it."
Her smile widened despite herself, and she sighed in surrender. "Yes, I meant it," she admitted softly. "I love you, you arrogant prat."
His expression softened, the teasing edge giving way to something far more genuine. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, his gaze locked onto hers. "And I love you," he said, the weight of his words sinking into the space between them. "More than you'll ever know."
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the vulnerability of the moment washing over them. Then, with a sudden shift of energy, he grinned mischievously and tightened his hold around her.
"But for the record," he added, his voice playful again, "I think we should practice saying it more often. Preferably while I'm making you scream."
She smacked his chest lightly, though her laughter bubbled up before she could stop it. "You're incorrigible!"
"And you wouldn't have me any other way," he said smugly, rolling onto his side and pulling her along with him.
Hermione shook her head, but her smile lingered. As she nestled closer to him, the warmth of his embrace melting away any lingering doubts, she realized he was right. She wouldn't have him any other way—and maybe, just maybe, she didn't want to.