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Chapter Text

Malfoy’s hand is unforgiving against her own, squeezing hard enough that it aches. She digs her nails in, knowing the sensitive expanse of his pale skin will be marked for hours. 

A fair trade, considering the heavy diamond ring on her finger that feels like a shackle. Her hand and arm still tingle from the binding magic, and she can’t risk looking down at it. She knows if she does, she’ll remember the gold strand that wrapped around her skin, tying them together for the rest of their miserable lives. 

“Smile, Granger,” he hisses through his teeth, the words little more than a disguised threat. The frantic click of dozens of camera shutters drown out any sounds between them. “This is your charade, not mine, and yet somehow you still look like you’re about to get sick.”

“I’m not the one trying to convince the public of my newfound innocence,” she replies sweetly, turning to gaze up at Malfoy in a nauseating show of newlywed bliss. “You would be rotting away in Azkaban if it weren’t for me. At least try to make your gratitude believable.”

Even now, she knows the evidence of his temporary stay is hidden away by a glamour, concealing the permanent ink etched into his neck. 

Malfoy’s own smile feels too sharp, too strained, to be anything but forced. Turning his shoulders to fully face her, and likely to find relief from the onslaught of ravenous press, he lets his hand follow from her wrist to her shoulder. His fingers trace the lace of her sleeve, a pristine gown imported from France just for the occasion. Spent with Malfoy galleons, just because she could. The look he gives it can almost be considered appreciative, but only if it were worn by anyone else.

His belated pause is weighted with unspoken accusations, an ever growing list of their own individual transgressions that make their union more business arrangement than hopeful romance.

“That doesn’t mean we have to play nice. This is a disgusting game and we both know it.”

Because they both know that no real marriage is built on a foundation of hate. And theirs, no matter how much time or energy or determination they put into it, will never be pure. 

“And let Ron and Harry think that you’ve imperiused me into marrying you? Extorted me? Figured out something to use as blackmail against me? They would curse you before you could even draw your wand.”

She’d rather do it herself, and he knows it. Hermione lays her hand on his chest, right over the inner pocket of his wedding robes where she knows he’s tucked his wand away. Pressing the wood into his pectoral muscle, she smiles when he winces. She only wishes she could dig it into his throat like she’s fantasised about so often. It’s unfortunate that her hatred of him is only rivalled by her need for his money.

“Ahh, yes,” Malfoy says with a slight laugh, tossing his head back in a way that is sure to make the light shine off of his perfectly coiffed hair. The reporters go wild for it, the noise from their cameras and their shouted questions doubling in volume. “Wouldn’t want Potter to try and kill me again, would you? I’m sure that would be very bad press, my dearest wife.” 

The title burns, but Hermione embraces it. She adds it to the flames of her anger, fanning it until it fuels her. 

“Go on! Give us a kiss!” one reporter shouts.

Hermione lets her fingers dig in like claws. When she lifts herself up on her tiptoes to meet Malfoy in the middle, she stops just shy of closing the gap. 

“Of course. Because if anyone is going to kill you now, it will be me.” She seals the promise with her lips against his.

Living in the Manor feels like Hermione’s being buried alive. A tightness creeps against her throat every day she wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, wrapped in unfamiliar sheets, next to a man she despises. She can only hope that one day it might choke her completely and relieve her of such a cursed existence. 

Soon, even the reminders of her own reasoning—her very necessary needs—begin to blur into the background. They get buried beneath the endless expanse of her future with him. They fade against the whispers that echo down the halls every time she ventures outside of their room. 

She’s haunted, and she’s home. 

The voices follow her, hissing and spitting insults. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before, and in time it becomes a continuous drone of taunts from long dead legacies. 

Stuffy, dusty old paintings who will never understand that they’re the reason behind the marriage edict. Who started a war they couldn’t finish, and wouldn’t win. Who left behind a society so barren that their own magical lineage was at risk. 

Hermione stares at one in particular; beady black eyes stare back. The Malfoy ancestor spits rapid fire French at her, though she has no idea what he’s saying. A small part of her, petty and spiteful, grows each time she’s subjected to their taunts. 

Malfoy refuses to do anything about it, or them. He’s lost everything—his parents, his reputation, even his staff of elves that used to take care of his every whim. All he has left is a fortune he can’t find any use for and a wife he doesn’t want. 

Both of which he refuses to speak of. It’s been over a week since she’s seen him last, and though the marriage edict requires that they share a home and a bed, he makes it a point to come and go only when she’s asleep. The only evidence of his adherence to the magical oath he agreed to is the faint warmth that remains on his side of the bed by the time she wakes. 

“You’re not going to stop, are you?” she asks the painting, watching him turn red. Even inside the painting, veins begin to bulge in his forehead. Today, however, the worst she can summon is boredom. 

He doesn’t bother to pause his tirade, instead growing louder at her insolence for daring to speak to him. His hands begin to wave in the air, spittle gathering at the edges of his thin lips. 

Sighing, Hermione taps her foot. The sound echoes, dissipating into nothing. Alone. An idea, not new by any means, resurfaces in her mind. It was something that Ron had joked about first, years ago, right after the war when wounds were still fresh and cocky vengeance was something reserved for the victors. 

It only takes a split second to make her decision. Days upon days of verbal-abuse-by-painting has worn her patience thin, and she can’t imagine a lifetime of it. Better yet, she doesn’t have to. She is the mistress of the Manor, and she has every legal right to do as she pleases. 

Magic flows easily through her chest and down her arm, straight through the tip of her wand. Ready and waiting before she opens her lips, her magic needs little more than a whisper to send a stream of flames at the corner of the painting. 

Holding steady, she watches as the canvas begins to burn. 

The name on the little plaque below the frame means nothing, and it goes too. Then the tapestry next to it, then the curtains, until the entire hall has been engulfed. It feels good, but it’s not enough. She keeps going, lighting everything on fire that she can reach. 

Heat presses against her skin, prickling at her hair, creeping closer with every crackling minute. Yet it’s not until two strong hands grab her around the waist and shove her back that her focus breaks. 

“Are you fucking mad?!” Malfoy shouts at her, struggling with one hand to get the fire extinguished. His spells are no match for the mature flames, already set and well on their way to destroying the entire wing. Still he fights, throwing every bit of magic he has at it. He moves with a fluid grace, all long lines and lean muscles beneath his robes, and for the first time she finds it a pity that they weren’t born different people. Still, her body doesn’t seem to register the difference. 

She has no idea where he’s come from, or where he’s been for days, and she doesn’t care. She’s done waiting for him to come around. 

Once the hall fills with smoke, the flames extinguished, Malfoy turns on her again. Somehow he’s gotten ash on his face, streaked across one sharp cheekbone, and her gaze locks on it. Black against his alabaster skin, a mark of her own on his otherwise perfect features. 

The urge to wipe it down to his chin makes her fingers itch. When she imagines his body covered in it, she grips her wand tighter. 

“Why?” he demands. He’s the opposite of his ancestor—instead of righteous fury, Malfoy is strained and cold. His lips thin and his chest expands on slow, deep breaths, but he holds his place. Waiting for her to answer him. 

Hermione sends an unimpressed look at the damage she caused. It’s somewhat impressive that he managed to put it out by himself. Everything is charred and smouldering; covered in smoke and ash. Hundreds of thousands’ worth of galleons gone with a single spark. 

She supposes she should feel bad, considering it’s her money now too. But his distance and refusal to engage with her burns deeper than it should. His resistance is only making her job harder, and she refuses to be the one to make the first move. He won’t get a thing from her until she gets something, too. 

“I was tired of it.” 

“Of what?! Of having free reign in one of the largest estates in Britain?” His voice raises, just a touch louder than before, but still nowhere near a shout. 

She blinks back at his face, perturbed to find her appreciation of his physical features hasn’t dimmed in the slightest. It mixes with the satisfaction at ruining something so dear to him, toxic and muddy all at once. 

“Of all of it.” It’s not an answer, she knows it, and apparently so does he. 

“So you’re willing to burn your house down to what—make a point?”

She was willing to marry a man she hated to get what she wanted. She’s done worse for less. 

“I wouldn’t burn down my house, no,” she replies lightly, then gives him one last look before she turns to head back to their room. “But I will burn down yours.” 

The next day he finds her tucked into an oversized chair she found in a nearby study, and tosses a dossier of parchment onto her lap. He’s washed and charmed and spelled away the evidence of her fire, though she still swears she can smell the faint aroma of smoke every time she steps into the hall.

“For you.” 

She has half a mind to toss it to the floor, but refrains. One childish outburst is enough for the week. 

“What is it?” 

He gives her a single word. “Everything.” 

For a moment it looks like he wants to continue, but he grinds his jaw so hard the muscle begins to strain in his temple instead. She holds her breath, curiosity beginning to grow, but the moment passes. Instead of breaking, he turns and leaves. 

Her palms grow damp by the time she finds the will to flip open the folder. And true to his word, it is. It’s…everything. 

Hermione’s breath dissipates, rushing out of her lungs in an instant. 

Gringotts accounts documents, freshly updated to reflect her name. 

Cursebreaker requests, specifying the library and vaults to be reviewed and cleared immediately. 

Land deeds, waiting for her signature. 

And last, a series of listings for available homes around Europe. Flats, cottages, brownstones… In every shape, size, and colour, there’s a home to fit every need. And according to the Gringotts statements, she has more than enough to buy any one she pleases. 

It takes her nearly an hour to sift through it all, to read and absorb the information. Then another to process it. To truly understand that it took her burning down an entire hallway in Malfoy’s ancestral home for him to pay attention. 

It’s an offering. A truce, of sorts. Giving her what she wanted from the beginning, and her sole reason for marrying him. 

Financial freedom. Enough that she can do whatever she wants, however she wants, without having to compromise her ideals to do what needs to be done. Education reform. Creature rights. Funds and grants for muggleborn students to live and work and learn alongside magical ones from an earlier age than eleven. To pay and pave the way for more opportunities for everyone. 

The victory still tastes slightly of ash against her tongue. 

More owls arrive from Gringotts with appointment requests to get her magical signature added to the Malfoy vaults. Cursebreakers step through the floo first thing in the morning and don’t retire until the sun has set, then come back the next day and do it all over again. She leaves the realty listings for another time, knowing that packing up and leaving will be little more than running away, and watches as Malfoy makes space for her in his home. 

It’s still not hers, and it might never be theirs, but there’s no doubt that something has shifted between them. 

She takes her reading in their room, waiting for him in bed instead of sequestering herself away in the study she’s claimed for herself. The clock ticks closer to midnight, and he still doesn’t come. Her eyes grow heavy and gritty with sleep and exhaustion, but still she waits. 

Finally, quietly, the door opens. Malfoy steps through, his outer robes draped across his arm and his shirt collar unbuttoned at the throat. He looks more exhausted than she feels, though she can’t be surprised. He has been busy, even if it took her lighting a literal fire under his arse to get him moving. Pausing, he leaves his hand on the door when he sees her. Gripping it as if he still might turn and walk out. 

“You’re awake.” Though phrased like an observation, she can still hear the question in his tone. The legally required magical oath that sealed their marriage bond ensures that for the first year, they must share a bed each night. The litany of language that ensured their adherence—all in hopes of reforming society and welcoming a new generation of witches and wizards—wasn’t one that was easily circumventable. 

“I wanted to let you know that I’m going to Gringotts tomorrow to finalise the vault paperwork and to submit my wand for review. I was considering a trip out to Diagon after, if you’d be interested in accompanying me.” 

Though unspoken, her intentions are clear. It’s an opportunity, an offering, for Malfoy to take another step out into the public light with Hermione Granger on his arm. To play the game they started at their wedding ceremony, and to convince society to give him another chance. If not, he’ll be exiled just like his mother was.

He needs her reputation as much as she needs his wealth. With his father locked away in Azkaban for life and his mother exiled to France without her wand, he has little in the way of options left. No one will hire him, or take his money as an investment. Malfoy gold is stained with blood, and Hermione is the only one who can wash it clean. Without her, he’s bound to become a recluse.  

He’s silent for a moment, his grey gaze narrowing on her face. Likely searching for signs of subterfuge, but it’s not a ploy. Tit for tat, as muggles would say. This is her version of his paperwork. 

“What time?” 

She tries to ignore the strange kernel of anxiety that pulls below her sternum, not realising until that moment that she had expected an instant and resounding no. 

“Eleven. I was going to stop for lunch after.” So far, they’ve taken their meals separately. She’s subsisted on sandwiches and small meals scraped together in the vast, now-empty kitchen. Built to house a veritable army of house elves, it feels bereft to use it by herself. 

Malfoy takes a step inside the room, then another. Despite the robe draped across his arms, she notices his hand balled into fists. Strained, as if the mere idea of being seen with her puts him on edge. Any anxiety she has is snuffed out in an instant. 

“That would be fine.” He leaves it at that, heading to their en suite bathroom without any further discussion. Not only is it the most civil discussion they’ve ever had, but also one of the longest. 

She sets her book down on the nightstand and clicks off the lamp, blanketing the room in darkness. By the time he emerges from the bathroom, she’s already asleep. 

If the goblins at Gringotts think anything of her marriage to Malfoy, they don’t let on in the slightest. They weigh her wand and record its measurements, then collect and confirm her personal preferences before taking her to the vaults. Malfoy follows silently, hands in his pockets and a blank expression on his face. She might as well be holding him hostage for as enthused as he is at the prospect of having her muggleborn hands all over his gold. 

She lets out a slight laugh, the ridiculousness of their whole charade finally coming close to breaking the surface. 

“Did I miss something?” Malfoy asks dryly as they climb from the cart that’s taken them to the depths of the underground vaults. 

“Just thinking of how incredible it’s been being married to you, that’s all.” 

Malfoy makes an unimpressed noise. Sure not to blow their cover even in front of the goblins, he lets her take the key to his—now their—vault without any further protest. 

He lets her step through first. Inside is more gold than she’s ever seen in her life, even more than what she saw in Bellatrix’s vault years before. It’s stacked high to the ceiling, and almost completely eclipses the arched door at the back that surely leads to more cavernous rooms. 

“This is it,” he tells her with a pathetic flourish of his hand. “Everything you wanted, and it’s yours for the taking.”

Her lips have gone dry, and she takes a moment to wet them before responding. It’s nearly too much, and the edges of the vault begin to creep closer. Pressing forward, she refuses to let her anxiety distract her. This is her life now, one that she’s chosen for herself, and one that she readily accepts. 

Years spent toiling at the Ministry in low-level positions and sacrificing her ideals never gave her a fraction of what Malfoy has lying around, gathering dust. 

“How much do you hate it?” Her question bounces off the stone ceiling, the only uncovered part of the tomb he calls his bank account. Waiting for his response isn’t difficult, and she focuses on familiarising herself with what’s now equally hers. Behind the stacks of currency, cabinets rest against the wall. Glass doors reveal more treasures: one, with jars full of precious jewels, a second filled with gold chalices, goblets, medallions and more, the third seems to be dedicated solely to a collection of sparkling crowns and tiaras. 

Before she can comment on the ostentatiousness of a cabinet full of crowns, he steps behind her. His body heat is a tangible thing, and in the cold dampness of the vaults she has to fight not to follow her body’s traitorous instinct to lean toward him. He is simply the warmest breathing thing near her, and she’s growing lonelier by the day. 

“More than you know, yet for none of the reasons you’d think.” 

His cryptic words stop her in her tracks, and she turns halfway to look up at him. He’s tall, much taller than she is, yet he isn’t looking at her with any of the emotions she expects. No disgust or hatred, no disdain or scorn. Somehow, his blank expression is worse. 

“And what reasons are those?” She can’t help but follow up, wanting more. 

“Come with me,” he tells her in place of an answer, moving around her body carefully so he can lead the way back to one of the additional rooms. He doesn’t wait for her to follow, and she’s left debating whether or not to fight him on it. 

On one hand, he could be leading her into something dangerous. On the other, she knows that he’s already being subjected to bi-weekly wand checks. He wouldn’t be able to do anything to her without risking himself, and she doesn’t need to think too hard to know that Malfoy is nothing if not a self-preservationist. 

She finds him three rooms back, each one housing an equally offensive amount of gold, and standing in front of a chest of drawers. His blank expression turns to boredom as she takes her time approaching, and he doesn’t glance down as he slowly pulls open one of the drawers for her perusal. 

Inside, nested in velvet, is a collection of rings. 

“If you’d like something different, feel free to pick one.” 

He could have been offering her a plate of radishes for as disinterested as he seems in giving away his family jewels. Shocked, she can’t help but look between his face and the drawer. It’s lined completely full, with rings in every type of metal, every cut of gemstone, and every shade of colour. Large rubies and even bigger diamonds. Emeralds and sapphires and pearls all gleam and sparkle in the flickering light. 

What’s worse, however, is not her reaction to the rings in front of her, but rather the one on her left hand. 

The one that felt like a shackle, but has since settled onto her finger in a way that up until now, she’d forgotten it was there. Nothing extravagant, just a simple platinum band with a single solitaire diamond. Malfoy’s own matches; plain silver metal to adorn his hands alongside the rest of his family and signet rings. 

“Is there something wrong with my ring?” she asks, unable to keep herself from lifting her hand to look at it. At the jewellery shop she had considered it to be elegant in its simplicity, but now it seems sad and cheap by comparison. Still, she loves it. It’s hers, which means more than any of his. 

His lips pull down into a slight frown, features weighted as he watches her. It makes her stomach twist like a knife, souring immediately. She hates being under his scrutiny like this, knowing that she doesn’t have a shield of anger to protect her. Trying to play nice is so much harder than she ever expected. 

“I assumed, if we were going out in public after this, that it might be helpful to…show off something to help sell the story, if you so please. After all, if you’re a Malfoy, I’m sure there’s not an insignificant percentage of people who will expect me to spoil you.” 

“Well then it’s a good thing I’m not a Malfoy,” she snaps. She refuses to change her name, and will do so until her dying day. She is a Granger, through and through. Unfortunately, names aside, she was cursed to admit he had a point. 

Considering the ruse had been her idea, she knows she’s beholden to admit it, too. 

Straightening her shoulders, she forces herself to calm back down. “I’d like to keep my ring for now, thank you. But it’s not a terrible idea.” 

Malfoy’s heavy expression lifts just slightly at her overly polite tone. Blond brows raised, he reaches up two drawers, then pulls out another. This one spans the length of the chest, and is filled almost completely with delicate necklaces. 

“Perhaps one of these might suit your taste, then.” 

Oh. The breath that rushes through her throat sounds more like a sigh than she intends, and her cheeks immediately heat. She’s never been the type to swoon over jewellry before, but even she can admit that the Malfoy collection holds a certain level of quality and craftsmanship that she can’t afford on her own. 

One necklace immediately catches her eye. A silver diamond chain, dotted with crystal clear gems cut in the same style as her wedding ring. It’s extravagant without being overstated, and unlike some of the rest, won't look so much like costume jewels if she tries to put it on. 

She’s already reaching for it before she stops herself, hand outstretched. Her eyes dart up to his, yet his expression is still frustratingly passive. 

“May I?” An accusation might be easier, but a lighter approach is more appropriate for a public exchange like this. For all she knows, a goblin could enter back into the vault at any time to check on them, and the last thing she needs is for one of them to overhear her accusing Malfoy of trying to curse her. 

He gives her a slow nod, little more than a dip of his chin. “The cursebreakers have already cleared and tended to every item in these vaults. If you want it, it's yours.” 

Warmth spreads throughout her chest at his easy declaration, and she studiously ignores it. It means nothing. Carefully, she reaches down to pick up the necklace. The fine metal slips through her fingers, and she holds it up between them. He takes it with a hesitant hand. 

“If you would be so kind, I’m not sure I can get a clasp that small on my own.” 

There’s no mistaking the craftsmanship of the piece when she turns and lifts her hair, offering her neck. It settles against her skin and rests against the dip of her collarbones, the heavy weight speaking to the size of the stones. 

Malfoy doesn’t touch her skin as he clasps the necklace, careful to hold it back and away from her neck. Once done, he lets it drop. 

“There. I’m sure we can get the clasp altered for you if you prefer. Or you can just charm it.” 

Anything to keep from touching her, she thinks, and it’s enough to send her stepping away from him. A wonderful reminder of who he still is, and who she remembers him being. 

She lets her hair down and shakes out her curls, making sure none of the strands get caught in the metal. 

“I made reservations for lunch, so I’m sure there’s a certain level of assurance a reporter or two might also find themselves strolling through the restaurant at the same time.” 

Turning back, she barely catches his muttered, “ clever,” but makes sure to smooth away anything even remotely resembling a smile before heading back out to the front of the vault. 

Two things surprise Hermione at lunch. The first is the lack of fanfare they receive while eating—little more than a pinched expression from the hostess and a few concerned looks as they sit down at their table—but the second is enough that she finds herself deeply unsettled. 

Malfoy is a much better actor than she gave him credit for, because pretending to be out with him is relatively painless. 

He kept close to her on their walk from Gringotts down the street and to the restaurant, one hand hovering just slightly over her lower back as they navigated the crowds. She could feel the barest brush through her clothes, and she knew that if photographed, it would look more like a lovers touch despite it being forced. He let her lead through the restaurant, pulling out her chair and getting her in place before taking his own. 

It’s not until he offers her a menu that he sends her reeling completely. 

“You look lovely today, Hermione.” 

She nearly drops it onto the table, just barely catching it when it slips through her fingers. “Beg pardon?” 

“That dress,” he clarifies, lowering his menu just enough that she can see his slight grin. When she doesn’t reply, he slowly reaches across the table with a meaningful look in his eye. “It’s one of my favourites. I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before.” 

Her mind immediately grinds to a halt when his fingers tangle with hers, trying to process the compliment and the fact that aside from their binding ceremony, this is the only time he’s voluntarily used her first name. Then, his touch registers. Warm against her own, his hand engulfs her fingers. His middle finger and thumb find her ring and begin to toy with it, sliding it back and forth against her knuckle. 

She expected a stunted, strained conversation. Not…whatever this is. 

“Thank you,” she replies slowly, her neck beginning to warm. It was, at least, in character. Two newlywed lovers, blushing and exchanging compliments over lunch. “I hoped you might.” 

She hadn’t, actually. It was something she’d purchased a few weeks before on a whim after seeing it in a shop window. Yellow with little white flowers, it reminds her of warm summer afternoons. She chose it that morning because it felt like a tiny spot of sunshine in an otherwise dreary existence at the Manor.  

Satisfied with her reaction, he sets her hand back down on the table and pulls back. “Have you decided which project you’d like to begin with?” 

He asks it as casually as one might ask about the weather, and she can feel her brain still tripping over itself to catch up. She had expected strained smiles and hissed insults over his gold and their food, not gifts of jewels and soft touches across the table. 

Thankfully, blessedly, the waitress grants her a reprieve. “What can I get for you today?” 

Hermione reads off the first thing she sees on the menu, and barely hears Malfoy’s order. The waitress lingers, tucking the menus under her arm. 

“Anything else?” 

Malfoy lifts his chin, impatience written across his face. “We’re good, thank you.” 

It isn’t until she’s gone that he leans forward, giving her all of his attention. “You were saying?” 

Hermione blinks. She wasn’t saying anything. 

“This is odd,” she says. It falls past her lips as soon as she opens her mouth, acting be damned. 

He licks his lips, then tilts his head. Lowering his voice, he reaches out to touch her once more. 

“There’s a reporter from the Prophet at the table in the back corner. Camera covered by his jacket, but he’s got a Quick-Quotes quill running rapid fire next to his drink.” 

This time, she grabs his hand back, tightening her fingers against his until they’re knotted together. Nails digging against skin, she’s not sure who’s squeezing harder. 

“You could have warned me.” 

His smile stretches. “You could have opened your eyes.” 

Frustration settles in her stomach, because once again, he’s right. She knew this was going to happen. She had practically arranged for it, yet she was still blindsided. 

“I didn’t think they would be waiting for us in here,” she explains, softening her voice until it sounds sickly sweet. “I assumed they’d catch us coming and going outside.” 

He releases his hold on her fingers just enough to tap the side of her hand with his thumb. It turns into another soft stroke, and he doesn’t stop until goosebumps have erupted all the way up to her shoulder. Arse. 

“So, your plans for this week?” 

Clearing her throat, Hermione forces herself to pull away from him. She tucks her hands into her lap instead, ignoring the flighty sensation that’s taken hold in her ribcage. It’s easier to blame it on nerves and discomfort at being touched by him than anything else.

“I’m putting together a proposal to bring to the Hogwarts Board of Governors. They should be meeting this summer to discuss the yearly curriculum, and I’d like to see about implementing some changes in the Muggle Studies program to start.” 

Malfoy leans back, letting her continue. “To start?” 

She tries to gauge his expression, but all she finds is carefully arranged patience. It’s a touchy subject, one she wasn’t originally keen on diving into immediately with him, but if he insists then she’s more than happy to oblige. 

“Yes. I’m fully prepared to fund a faculty position to ensure that it’s no longer an optional subject, and that it’s taught through all seven years. There’s absolutely no reason that pureblooded magical children should be sheltered from an entire world of history and developments just because they’re afraid.” 

“Afraid?” he asks. She knows it’s likely a bad idea to try to rile him up in public like this, but something inside her just can’t resist. 

“Yes, afraid,” she continues. “Just because you’re unfamiliar with muggle and non-magical culture doesn’t mean it’s bad, nor does it mean that they’re out to steal our magic. It’s no different than studying creature rebellions or the history of MACUSA. If the war taught us anything, it’s that we cannot continue the way we’ve been operating. If we don’t make some kind of change soon, history will be bound to repeat itself.” 

Malfoy thinks for a long moment, glancing away as he processes her words. She knows she sounds rote and self righteous, having practised the speech in the bathroom at her old flat more times than she can count. His brows furrow just slightly, but when he looks back at her, he’s composed once more. 

“And you think this will help? Adding classes at Hogwarts?” 

She lets his subtle criticism roll off her shoulders. She’s heard worse from people she likes more. 

“To start, yes.”

Their meal passes in what can only be described as bland, amicable pleasantries. More of what she was expecting and less of what she wasn’t. Fake niceties exchanged over salad and soup and bread, and the more Hermione eats, the more sick she feels. 

Once finished, he leads her out of the restaurant much in the same way they came in. This time, however, Malfoy doesn’t hesitate to fully touch her as they step out onto the pavement and begin their short walk to the nearest Apparition point. He keeps his long fingers wrapped around her waist, the fabric of her dress bunching beneath his grip, and in the silence, she hears it. 

The snap of cameras, following them like fluttering pixies. And with every step, the diamonds around her neck feel like a noose. 

She’s floating on the veil between sleep and awareness when she feels a heavy weight pull against the mattress beneath her body. Warmth spreads below the sheets, the scent of soap and the light spice of aftershave sending her into a deeper slumber. Embraced by a growing familiarity that feels like the creeping hold of Devil’s Snare, wrapping around her limbs and up to her torso until she’s immobile. 

Until the vines turn to touch, hands and arms and legs tangled against her own. Moving against her and with her all at once. Soft touches, light caresses, trailing across her body until she’s desperate for more. A solid form against her back, holding her tight, and a wide palm that slides across her stomach and presses right right where she needs it most. 

Needs him most. 

Malfoy.

Arousal pools, gathering like liquid, molten gold in her core as he touches her. His fingers, long and deft, graze her clit with the same delicate intent that he used on her wedding band at the restaurant. He rolls it between his fingers, exploring her body until she’s arching both into it and against the frame of his body behind hers. An active participant in her search for pleasure, she opens for him. Letting him touch more of her body, deeper, and silently willing him to go further. She can feel everything—the pained noises that threaten to escape her lungs that will let him know just how much she wants it, the hard, thick length of his cock pressing into the cleft of her arse, the ghost of his lips as he whispers unintelligible promises against her neck. 

When the pleasure builds, spreading out from her pelvis, she can’t help but chase it until she’s at the very edge. It’s overwhelming, need spilling out of her like an arterial bleed that she can’t quite stem, and she tenses as she feels her orgasm approach. 

“More,” she begs. He nips her neck in response, his breath hot against the shell of her ear. “Malfoy, please.” 

He’s done this to her, that much she knows. It’s only fair that he finishes it, too. She rocks her hips against the sheets, her thighs tightening as she rubs them together. 

“That’s it…” His voice finally comes into clarity, a low growl cutting through the fog. “Come for me, wife.” 

With a single press of his fingers, she obeys. Her core flutters, muscles clenching, and everything in her body goes taut. It flows through her, spreading more warmth and awareness as her body begins to wake beneath the pleasure. 

Until her eyes snap open, realisation freezing everything in her body until it’s barely a slow crawl. 

In the darkness of their room, she can hear Malfoy’s soft breathing beside her. Slow and steady, and very obviously asleep. With his back turned to her, Hermione is prisoner to the horror that curdles in her stomach, tainting the pleasure that still lingers between her legs. 

Marrying a man she hates is bad enough, but having a sex dream about him is infintely worse. 

She carefully pulls the blankets aside and slips from the bed, padding across the carpet while actively ignoring the slick wetness that’s gathered in her knickers. She wants to be nauseous—she would rather kneel in front of the toilet and retch than acknowledge a sexual attraction to Malfoy—but when she closes the bathroom door, she’s left to face her transgressions in the harsh overhead light. 

And there’s no nausea in sight. Only flushed lips and sparkling alertness in her brown eyes. Curls wild from rolling around against her pillow, she can only hope that she didn’t wake him. That the noises in her dream stayed strictly locked in her throat; that none of her pathetic, pleading cries made their way across the mattress and to his ears. 

With a trembling hand, Hermione pulls her waistband aside and slides her fingers into her knickers. Evidence of her unconscious orgasm is sticky against the outside of her cunt, still warm from her body, and she groans. It’s loud in the tiled bathroom, echoing back at her like an accusation, and she quickly snaps her lips closed. 

Please don’t let him have heard, she begs to the ether. She’s not sure that she can live with the embarrassment if she finds out that he has. 

Logically, she can rationalise it all away. She’s been stuck playing house with Malfoy, seeing and speaking to almost no one else since their marriage ceremony. Sleeping in his bed. Being subjected to his touches, as fake as they are, she knows her body is bound to react. She hasn’t had a lover in over a year and half, ever since the marriage edict was announced, and pleasure has been the last thing on her mind. Now, with access to Malfoy’s vaults and a plan in place, it’s natural that her psyche has relaxed enough to recognise her more base urges. 

It means nothing, and he’ll never have to know.

It’s that mantra that she repeats to herself as she cleans herself, washes her hands, and splashes cool water against her cheeks from the sink. Though it’s still several hours before dawn, she has the desire to wander the Manor in search of coffee and parchment to begin her requests to the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Something that will consume her for hours at least, writing and rewriting her plans until she runs out of ink. Anything to keep her out of their bed and to take her mind off the dream that still haunts the recesses of her mind like a poltergeist. 

But when she opens the door and steps out into their bedroom, prepared to quietly grab a robe from the closet, she stops. She swallows past a sudden tightness in her throat, and tries to stem the panic that rises in her chest like a geyser.  

The bed sits empty, Malfoy’s side neatly made, and her own left rumpled and haphazard. 

Shite. 

Chapter Text

The mail arrives in a wave of owls, copies of various papers interspersed with an expected influx of howlers. She and Malfoy are plastered across the front page, an arranged invasion of their “private” lunch together. 

In the photo, Malfoy’s hand caresses hers, his fingers coming to touch her wedding ring. His head tilts as he compliments her, and like magic, her cheeks begin to blush at the same time her diamond catches the light. Turned towards the reporter at the perfect moment, its orchestrated perfection. Hermione watches it in horrified replay, realising a day too late just how well Malfoy played his part. 

A lesser witch could easily fall for his act. Apparently, her subconscious has. 

Instead of focusing on it, she rifles through the angry red envelopes, all waiting to burst open and screech at her. None of them can hate me as much as I already do, she thinks. She’s sold herself for Malfoy’s galleons, and they don’t even realise it. 

She separates them into piles and sends each one addressed with her name into the nearby fireplace, and leaves Malfoy’s untouched.

Her meeting with the Board of Governors is a colossal failure. 

She comes back to the Manor with magic sparking from the ends of her hair and a bruise in her lower lip from biting it so hard while being lectured by a bunch of old, out of touch wizards. 

They don’t believe it’s worth the effort. Or the time. Or the monetary investment, despite having more than enough money to cover it on her own without ever touching the school’s budget. 

Perhaps this isn’t the right time , they tried to argue. Wounds are still fresh, and this is something that children need to be eased into. 

They said nothing when she suggested that she wasn’t eased into a war. Or when she helped to win it while they sat aside and did nothing. 

McGonagall sends her off after the meeting with a sad pat on the shoulder and a promise to be in touch. “So we can try again,” she says with a patient smile. 

Hermione is tired of trying again and again and waiting for the rest of the wizarding world to catch up. And so, she goes back to her plans. She sequesters herself in her now-claimed study, sending donations to various groups and funds. Anything and everything that will get her name in the papers for something aside from her marriage. 

Creature protection grants. Personalised donations to various wards at St. Mungos. Massive gifts to the National Library, including a few rare books from Malfoy’s collection. Housing funds and job training programmes for displaced werewolves. Hefty cheques to a foundation for war orphan assistance. Rebuilding efforts. On and on and on, until her hand cramps from all the writing. Donating more money in a single week than the Ministry was able to cough up in over five years. 

It takes Malfoy several days to figure out what she’s done. He shoves the doors to her study open and levels her with a hard stare, face reddened with irritation. 

“What have you done with the transfiguration collection from the library?” 

She’s been waiting for this, and honestly, she’s surprised it’s taken as long as it has for him to notice. She half suspected he had wards and alarms set on the library the moment she took the books from the room. 

“I donated them,” she replies, not bothering to look up. She’s received a pile of thank you letters and inquiries for visits from all of her donations, all of which need addressed. 

“They were first editions you insufferable witch!” 

The venom in his tone is cutting. She takes her time setting down her quill, linking her fingers together over the parchment. Strangely enough, his anger soothes her. Especially when she knows that she’s the cause. 

“You’re going to get them back,” he demands at her indifference. “Those texts have been in my family for more generations than you can begin to fathom. They weren’t yours to give away.”

“Actually, they are.” She gives him her best practised, polite smile. The picture of innocence. “I am your wife, after all. And this is half my estate, so I’ll be doing nothing of the sort.”

Interest flares in her stomach, flipping over onto itself at the mere mention of the word wife, and her satisfaction falters. Memories of her dream come rushing back, and Hermione schools her expression while Malfoy stews. Features pinched, his features are in stark, sharp contrast to the soft looks he’d been giving her while at lunch. It makes it easier to remember their roles and their places beside each other. 

Had it not, his next proclamation seals it in permanent, unfading ink. 

“Fine. But it’s my turn to get something out of this now. I’ve been corresponding with a reporter from The Prophet, and I’m agreeing to a feature on our union. Be ready tomorrow morning, and try to do a better job acting than you did last time. Weasley and Potter aren’t convinced, if the howlers they sent me were any indication.” 

He lets the door slam behind him.

As per usual, Malfoy is gone by the time she wakes. There have been no repeats of her sex dream, yet she still comes to every morning with a spike of awareness and an accompanying paranoia that lingers for hours. It follows her through her efforts to get ready—a long shower that fills the bathroom with steam, careful smoothing charms that make her curls glossy and full, makeup spells and tailoring charms to cinch and hem in the dress she chooses for the interview. 

Black, as if she were attending her own funeral. 

She meets Malfoy in the guest foyer well ahead of the time they were set to meet. 

“You’re early.” 

“Am I presentable?” she asks, motioning at herself. Though she’s no pureblooded society darling like the girls she knows he grew up with, she still feels beautiful. Her dress, with its delicate sleeves and scoop neck, frame the necklace he gifted her as if by design. It mimics the cut of her wedding gown, only shorter and darker, and is made of an expensive fabric she couldn’t quite pronounce when Madam Malkin’s sent it over. 

It takes him several beats too long to respond, his grey eyes sharp as they take her in from head to toe. 

“Very much so.” 

Her chest blooms with traitorous heat, and she hates that she finds herself wondering if he’s being genuine or if he’s simply turned on his artificial persona before the reporter arrives. Pressure builds in her throat, an insistent desire to level the playing field, to complete the exchange to the fairest means. Because that’s what their marriage seems to be built on. Everything they’ve done so far has been mutually beneficial. One service in exchange for another, nothing comes free.

“You look nice as well,” she offers. Without coordinating, their outfits almost match. His selection is a three piece slate grey suit with black accents—black leather shoes, belt, and buttons—and silver adornments. A platinum chain connects from the pocket and buttons of his vest and silver cufflinks gleam from his wrists, while his white shirt and black tie are pressed to immaculate perfection. Once again, his Azkaban tattoo has been glamoured invisible. His faded, scarred Death Eater mark has likely seen the same treatment beneath his shirtsleeve.

He’s lengths of lean muscle and elegant lines, all wrapped up in expensive and exquisite tailoring. Despite disliking him, she can at least admit that he’s probably the fittest man she’s ever come across. 

It’s then, standing in the foyer with only uncomfortable niceties to keep them company, does Hermione realise that most of her anger at marrying Malfoy has diminished. The fury that fueled her previously has settled into less of a boil and more of a steady warmth.

Fantasies transformed alongside it, sliding from violent thoughts to forbidden desires. 

His eyes darken at the compliment, and he dips his chin. He offers her one hand, palm up. “Ready?” 

Accepting it takes less than a monumental effort, and his fingers thread through hers easily. His warmth is overtaken by the cool press of metal from his rings, the stiffness of his knuckles settling in between her own. She steps forward, letting her arm intertwine with his, and refuses to look down. It’s a different kind of hesitation than what she felt on her wedding day. It’s less looming dread and more dangerous risk. 

This time, she knows that if she sees their hands clasped together, registers what it looks like versus what she’s very literally dreamed about, then it makes the growing heat in her stomach all the more legitimate. 

She’s saved by the floo, bursting to life with massive green flames. An unfamiliar woman steps through, clutching a notebook against her chest, followed by a man hauling an almost offensively large camera. 

The woman blinks, face filling with awe as she takes in the interior of Malfoy Manor. So much so that it takes a few moments for her to snap out of it to offer Malfoy her hand. “Celeste Archer; The Daily Prophet. Thank you so much for inviting us to your home, Mr. Malfoy. I’ve always been curious about Malfoy Manor, and it’s an honour to be here today.” 

She ignores Hermione completely while she gushes. 

Huh. Interesting approach. 

The photographer, a reedy looking man with mousy brown hair, offers a slight wave from behind his colleague. “Michael Bilwin. Nice to meet you both.” 

Malfoy doesn’t let her hand go as he greets them, then turns toward the hall to their left. “I prepared the sitting room for the interview, if you’ll follow me.” 

She’s not sure why she’s so taken aback by his statement, but she can barely register the reporter fluttering around complimenting the art on the walls. The portraits have been mysteriously silent since the fire, but they watch with curiosity as Malfoy leads them through the Manor. 

He prepared the sitting room? Without elves? Without asking her to assist? In addition to biweekly wand checks, part of the Ministry’s conditions for his freedom were the release of every Malfoy house elf. Which means that for the last several years, he’s been taking care of everything by himself. Part of her assumed he was simply lazing about, waiting for the world to come to him. Considering his unwillingness to take part in the charade from the beginning, she supposes that she had expected the worst. 

Unwelcome admiration takes residence right below her ribs. Seeing him care is somehow so much worse. 

Glancing up towards his face, he’s as impassive as ever. She expects to find annoyance straining around the edges of his eyes or hardening his jaw, but he blinks down to catch her looking. 

One brow lifts. 

Hermione cuts her gaze forward, but it doesn’t do anything to dislodge the embarrassment that cloaks her skin. 

True to his word, Malfoy has prepared the sitting room for their interview. It’s not one she’s ventured into much, but she recognises the changes easily enough. Furniture has been moved around, placing the black velvet loveseat in the center of the room, right across from a leather sitting chair and a small side table. New art has been hung on the walls, one’s she’s never seen before, soft oil reflections of the landscapes outside the Manor. 

All things considered, it’s framed perfectly. As the photographer sets up his camera in the open space beside the leather chair, he agrees. 

“This will make for an excellent shot. Very intimate.” 

Malfoy guides her to the couch, letting her take her seat first before joining beside her. He aligns their thighs together, hip to knee, and leans back when she stays stiff. When his hand comes to her back, she tries not to jolt. 

This time, however, it's not the foreignness of his touch that makes her uncomfortable. It’s the interest that builds in her abdomen. 

Celeste drops into her chair with an excited smile stretching her lips. “Let’s jump in then, shall we?” 

She starts with easy questions, ones they’ve already answered before. Though each one is very clearly directed at Malfoy, he ensures her participation with taps of his fingers against her spine. How did you feel about the marriage edict? Who approached who? Did you have feelings before announcing your engagement? How did you feel when you discovered that the other person also returned those feelings? 

Disgusted, actually, but Draco plays his part with expert level dedication. “The pressure was there, obviously, with everything being on the line and knowing we needed to make a decision quickly. The two year notice they gave us with the edict was going to run out quickly, but I knew without a doubt that I would be lucky to have Hermione’s hand in marriage.” 

She had approached him, plan in hand. Apparated right outside of the Manor gates and banged on them until he came outside. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in years. She’d gone out on a limb, her own desperation recognising his. “Draco brought the subject of marriage up first, actually. We’d run into each other a few times and had gone out for tea on occasion. It wasn’t a traditional courtship, but it was something close. That’s when I first began to realise my attraction to him.” 

The concept of romantic feelings between them were laughable at best. “I think I fell for Hermione first. She’s a brilliant witch, and I was lucky to get the opportunity to start fresh with her after the war. It wasn’t instantaneous by any means, but it was unmistakable once I felt it.” 

Celeste sighs, a dreamy, far-off look filling her blue eyes. Her Quick-Quotes quill scribbles against the parchment beside her, trying desperately to keep up. All the while, Michael tutters over his camera and goes through bulb after bulb of flash. 

“My goodness, you’re both just so romantic. Once torn on opposite sides of a war, and now hopelessly in love. You’re the poster children for everything the Ministry hoped for with the marriage edict. Unifying the wizarding world and welcoming in a new generation without the prejudices of our past. How does that feel?” 

Malfoy looks to her, nodding so that she can take the lead, but she hesitates. The words seem stuck in her throat, lodged behind her tongue like they’ve been cast there by a sticking charm. 

She hates it. Every single bit. She’s tired of being an example, a role model, a public figure. 

It only gets worse when the photographer’s shutter clicks again, catching her staring at Malfoy. His hand, still on her back, begins a slow sweep up to her shoulder blades and down again. Soothing. Calming. Everything he shouldn’t be, but is, and Hermione lets herself indulge. 

“It’s hard,” she finally answers, still keeping her eyes locked with Malfoy’s. His hand never stops caressing her, and she leans closer. “Knowing that some people don’t approve of our relationship, or that everyone’s eyes are on us. It might be an unconventional way for two people to find each other, but it’s ours. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

It’s not a lie, but only they alone realise just how much of the truth is left veiled by her statement. Malfoy’s lips tug into a slow smirk, amusement dancing in his eyes, and she can practically feel the satisfaction radiating off of his body. 

For once their shared secret feels like something sacred, and perhaps a little bit precious. 

Celeste moves on, apparently pleased with her response. “Tell me a bit about your honeymoon. You were nowhere to be found the week following your nuptials, and now that you’ve been married for over a month, has it been everything you’ve hoped for?” 

Hermione’s eyes widen. Her honeymoon was little more than an arson attempt her first week in the Manor. Malfoy’s amusement doesn’t dim in the slightest, and he shifts forward in his seat just slightly. He gives her a look that would put muggle romance novels to shame—it oozes desire and longing in equal measure—and he slowly brings his hand to bracket her jaw. He traces the line of it with his thumb until his fingers are buried in her curls and she is totally and completely in his hold. 

If her breath hitches, it's only because she’s committed to her role.

“Hermione took a trip to an old family estate in the south of France, one I was able to keep after the war. We spent the week enjoying our privacy and getting to know each other better as husband and wife.” 

The corner of his mouth is still pulled up into a slight smile, but sitting so close, a mere whisper away from his face, she can see just how much control he has over his features. His eyes soften and glance down to her lips, caught when she inadvertently darts her tongue out to wet them. 

“It was the best week of my life,” Hermione adds softly, pulled in by the magnetism of his touch and the consuming need to see how far she can take this before he stops her. Her own hand follows the line up the outside of his arm, feeling the muscles beneath his suit jacket, and comes to rest at his wrist. Wiggling beneath the cuff of his shirt and fingertips placed against his pulse, it keeps him in place. 

His nostrils flare, likely smelling the perfume she spritzed on her chest that morning, but before she can lean forward the rest of the way another flash bulb bursts.

“Oh, what a perfect shot!” Michael brings her back into the moment, and the tension breaks as easily as shattered glass. She can breathe again.

With a stiff swallow, Hermione pulls herself away and back to her side of the couch. Malfoy does the same, dropping his arm between them until his knuckles brush the bare skin of her thigh below the hem of her dress. It’s casual intimacy, something that likely looks second nature to Celeste and Michael, but Hermione focuses on it instead of the conflicting feelings that are struggling for dominance inside her body. The conversation continues, though she barely hears it.

It isn’t until Celeste asks a few general questions about her recent donations is Hermione able to come back into the moment. Though there are only a few, and it’s clear that their marriage is the main feature of the article, Celeste’s follow up questions seem to hinge on just how much Hermione has donated so far. Though she doesn’t want to disclose such details, she knows that she’ll need to give a little to make any kind of progress.  

Not just for her own reputation, but for Malfoy’s as well. As is the deal. She tries to skirt confirming the numbers that are being thrown around, or focusing too much attention on any particular endeavour. They need to be seen as blindly generous, and no longer playing favourites. 

“There are so many needs that have fallen by the wayside since well before the war. Our hope is to not only help those that are less fortunate, but to undo some of the damage that has been inflicted by so many years worth of ignorance and bigotry. There’s so much that needs done, but we both know that with enough time and dedication, it will all be worthwhile.” 

Malfoy lets out a noncommittal noise beside her. It doesn’t quite sound like agreement, but Celeste takes it as such. 

“It’s just so lovely to see you coming back into society, Mr. Malfoy. I’m sure that many of these organisations are thrilled to finally have your support.” 

“I really can’t take much of the credit, not with Hermione leading me. She’s really the one we should all be admiring.” 

A man reformed, cured by love and led by devotion. It makes Hermione’s stomach turn sour with how well he can adopt the persona. 

Finally the interview wraps up, and Malfoy stands to escort them out. “Thank you so much for coming. Please feel free to owl us with any follow up questions you might have.” 

Oddly exhausted, Hermione chooses to stay behind. Only once they’ve left the room does she allow herself to relax completely, body going limp against the cushioned back of the settee. Her limbs feel both loose and weak from straining for so long, and she lets her eyes drift closed in the silence. 

She wasn’t built to play pretend. Not like this.

She thought it would be easy, simple, even. 

She never could have anticipated the conflicted feelings and emotions that would war within her, or just how believable it feels. Or how much she finds herself wanting it, or something like it. 

Malfoy alerts her to his presence with a slight clearing of his throat. 

“They’ve gone. You did well.” 

Cracking an eyelid, she watches him as he strolls toward her, only stopping once their shoes are toe to toe. 

“Better than before, you mean,” she corrects. “Though what does that say about your ability to do it so well?” 

A sardonic look flashes across his face. “That I’ve had more practice than you even realise.” 

He doesn’t expand, and she doesn’t push. In the silence, an entirely new question surfaces in her mind. One she never considered, but now feels like the most pressing clue to bridging the gap between them. 

“What would you have done? If I hadn’t come to you?” 

Malfoy doesn’t need to think over his answer, the words coming instantly as if he’s known it for years. “I would have turned in my wand and followed my mother into exile.”

“You’d give up that easily?” She’s shocked, considering how much he’s willing to fight with her to get what he wants. They spent hours shouting at each other just to find a begrudging compromise before filing their marriage request with the Ministry.   

“Before this, there was nothing left for me. No one. If I had tried to find a wife through the marriage edict matching program, they all would have been refused. I have no doubt. Half my childhood friends are either in prison or exiled themselves, and the ones who aren’t may as well be. All things considered, I got lucky.” 

She’s stunned by his honesty. Everyone else she knows has cursed the marriage edict and the law that everyone either had to marry voluntarily, or be enrolled in the matching programme. No one had a choice, and the fact that he considers himself lucky to be with her is more than enough fodder to keep her up for several nights straight. 

“So you’re not upset that you had to marry a woman you didn’t know? Or didn’t like? Because that’s not the impression I’ve had since the beginning.” 

He lets out a dry laugh and nudges her shoe with his own, tapping it twice. “Angry that you showed up here and backed me into a corner? Yes. But not unlucky. Those are two very different things. I can hate our circumstances while still feeling like it could have been much, much worse. You have to remember something, Granger—I was raised knowing that I wouldn’t have a choice in who I took for a wife. That decision belonged to my parents alone, and my marriage was little more than a tool to further our family name.”

“I guess I’ve never considered it that way,” she replies after a brief pause. She knew about arranged marriages in pureblood families, but she’s never given Malfoy's childhood much thought. 

“In a sick sense, I suppose I’ve ended up doing exactly that. Just…in the opposite of how they hoped. It’s quite a beautiful bit of irony. But not everything I said today was a lie, Granger. I could do much worse for a wife than you, and for as much as we hate each other, at least we can both get something out of it.” 

With that, Malfoy turns and leaves the room. In the silence, however, his words hang in her head. 

And for as much as we hate each other, at least we can both get something out of it. 

That's exactly the problem. She isn’t quite so sure she truly hates him any more.

Chapter Text

Days bleed into weeks, and her donations do little to further her own gains. 

The newspaper feature, however, turns out to be the talk of London. Malfoy receives solicitation after solicitation for interviews and public appearances. Investment meetings are sent to his calendar instead of hers, now that his gold is no longer deemed tainted. Though he seems to be picking through them carefully, Hermione can’t help but feel buried under her mounting jealousy. 

She needs to make progress with the Board of Governors. Money can only get her so far, and now they are practically refusing her owls. 

When another request for an appearance at their summer meeting is denied, she sets it aflame. Malfoy arrives within seconds, striding into her study with his wand raised. 

She jumps at his sudden appearance, almost knocking back her chair. “Merlin, where did you come from?” 

His shoulders deflate at the sight of the crumbling, smouldering envelope on her desk.

“I was down the hall. I have wards set up if you set something on fire again. I thought you were angry.” 

“You–you set wards on me?” How dare—

“To keep you from burning down my house again, yes. I don’t think that’s a ridiculous precaution to take considering your history,” he tells her with a roll of his eyes. 

“I disagree.” 

He uses his wand to point at the growing pile of ash in front of her. “Your temper begs to differ.”

“Shut up and get out,” she demands, already irritated enough. “I don’t need this or your attitude today.” 

Life with him has settled into an odd routine. Little more than roommates, they barely interact. To the outside world, their relationship is perfect, but inside the Manor walls, it’s nonexistent. And the longer it goes, the more uncomfortable it feels. She would take fighting over the neverending silence. 

Instead of listening, Malfoy approaches. Bracing both of his hands on the opposite side of her desk, he levels her with a challenging look. “And I don’t care to be told what to do inside my own home.” 

“I don’t care for you babysitting my behaviour,” Hermione retorts.

“I don’t care for you getting pissy at me for something that’s not my fault.” 

“It could be.”

“It’s not.”

“How would you know?” 

“Because I would be enjoying it more, Granger.” 

His smirk shuts her up. 

“Just tell me what’s wrong so I can go back to my business without worrying about what you might light on fire next.” 

Hermione scowls. “It’ll be your robes if you’re not careful.” 

Malfoy has the audacity to laugh, unperturbed by her threats. “From what I’ve heard, it wouldn’t be your first time.” 

When she lets out a frustrated noise, his laugh grows louder. Annoyance flares into anger, and the book on her desk is flying towards him before she can give it a second thought. Though he dodges it easily, the amusement dissipates from his features in an instant. 

“I was going to help, but if you want to—” 

With a huff, she drops her head into her hands. “I’m just…so frustrated. I can’t make any headway with the Board of Governors, and now they’re refusing to see me—” 

“That’s what this little tantrum is about?” He cuts her off. His scoff is the most insulting sound she’s ever heard. 

“Don’t call it that,” she chides. “I know you don’t care, but I do. I’ve been trying to make inroads, and to show them that my intentions are consistent with all of my other philanthropy, and yet the harder I try the less they engage.” 

He gives her an incredulous look. “You think they’re going to admire you because you’re giving away all of my gold to sick and needy children? You think they care?” 

“Of course they do!” The idea that they wouldn’t is preposterous. 

“They don’t, I assure you,” Malfoy replies, shaking his head slowly. It’s patronising, and reminds her of how adults often speak to children. She has to refrain from grabbing another book to toss at his stupid, smug face. 

“I didn’t realise your version of ‘helping’ was to taunt me.” 

Malfoy runs his thumb along his lower lip, thinking for a moment, and when he tilts his head she spies a flash of black on his neck. 

His tattoo. 

Her eyes are stuck on it when he finally speaks. 

“What have you given them?” 

“What?” His question doesn’t make any sense. Something about the ink etched into his pale skin calls to her. She wants to run her fingers over each of the numbers, to trace them and memorise them until they feel just as familiar to her as her own scars. 

“What have you given them?” he repeats, this time slower. 

Finally, she looks away and back to his face. 

“I offered to donate to the Hogwarts discretionary budget, but that didn’t seem to help.” She’ll likely still do so, but she’s been putting it off in favour of other projects. And perhaps just a tiny bit of spite. 

“Not Hogwarts,” he corrects. “The Board. They all want something, Granger. Everyone does. Figure out where their desires lay and make it worth their while.” 

Somehow, despite knowing Malfoy and his family history, she’s still incredulous at the suggestion. There’s no way. 

“You think I should bribe them? I’m not like you, Malfoy. I won’t play dirty just to get what I want.” 

It’s his turn to scowl. “I hate to break it to you, Granger, but you already are.” 

Bitterness burns at the back of her throat. She dirtied her hands the moment she came knocking on the Manor gates. Her grime is now the same shade of his, considering where the money comes from. 

“There’s got to be another way.” 

“Then fund their interests, if you prefer to play philanthropist. Find out what causes they want furthered, and offer to partner with them. Make it less about you and more about the whole.” 

Beneath the bitter taste in her mouth and the rock-like formation of dread taking up residence in her stomach, she knows it’s not a terrible idea. She focuses her attention on the planner on her desk, rather than suffering beneath the knowing look on his face. He looks handsome when he’s smug, and it only makes it worse. 

“Fine,” she says finally. “I’ll try it, if they’ll take my owls.” 

“I’ll see to it that they will. They might not have liked my father, but they’ll still respect his name if I deign to use it.” 

That has her eyes snapping up to his, surprise sparking in her veins like a Baubillious charm. 

“You would?” 

In a blink, Malfoy’s features smooth over, and he straightens his cuffs. Though he rarely leaves the Manor without her, he still dresses in a formal suit nearly every day. “For a price. St. Mungo’s annual fundraising gala is next weekend, and we—you—have been designated as the highest donor for the year. They’d like to honour it.” 

She already knows, because she’s thrown away multiple invitations. “I wasn’t planning on attending.” 

“Then I suppose I won’t call in any old favours.” He gives her a snakelike grin. 

Hermione’s mouth drops open. Any more audacity from him and they would both be at risk to suffocate. 

She gets it. A fundraising gala is the perfect setting for him, dressed up and featured on her arm. Since talk of their relationship has died down since the feature in The Prophet, it’s the prime opportunity to get Malfoy back into the society spotlight. 

“I’ll have to order a new dress,” she finally concedes. “I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.” 

His smile transforms into one of genuine satisfaction, and Merlin, it’s criminal. 

“See that you do. And for the record, I think you’d look incredible in green.” 

“Get out, Malfoy, before I do something worse than throw a book at you.” 

“Pleasure doing business with you, Granger,” he says with a wink, then turns on his heel to leave. 

It’s only when he’s long gone does she release the pressure in her lungs, exhaling so hard that she begins to see spots. 

When they Apparate hand in hand to the arrival spot outside of the St. Mungo’s gala, Malfoy’s touch is more steadying than unforgiving. Fingers intertwined, she only briefly considers digging her nails against his skin, but only from surprise when a wall of press turns to greet them with cameras and quills held high. 

“Hermione! Draco! Over here!” 

“Will you be taking the Malfoy name?” 

“Who designed your dress? You look stunning in blue!” 

Malfoy had barely batted an eye when she showed up in the foyer in a light slate dress, just a few shades off from the colour of his eyes, her body draped in silk from her chest to her toes. With her hair twisted up and her shoulders on display, it lets her diamond necklace speak volumes. 

His own dress robes are pure black, a shadow against the lightness of his skin and hair. The contrast only outlines the attractiveness of his natural features. He’s bold to her softness, and together its become easier to admit that they make a rather complementary pair. 

“Smile, Granger. They love you,” Malfoy murmurs from her side. 

She turns to look up at him, placing one hand on his chest. It rests right over the breast pocket of his dress robes, but she doesn’t feel his wand. Which means he’s keeping it somewhere else, somewhere harder to reach. Somewhere where he doesn’t expect to need it for the evening. 

The change in their dynamic is so stark that it renders any possible reply mootless, and her smile falters just as the next barrage of questions begins.

“How long until we can expect a pregnancy announcement?” 

This time, instead of demanding kisses and public affection, the crowd of press tries to pry into their lives with brutal force. 

“How is it living in the Manor? Does it give you nightmares from the war?” 

She’s momentarily blinded from the barrage of flash bulbs. 

“Have you been in contact with Narcissa or Lucius? Do they approve of your union?” 

“Do you really think that you can buy your way into a new reputation?” 

Every question has her ire rising, right until Malfoy’s arm reaches out in front of her to clear a way through the crowd. With his size, they have almost no choice but to part, allowing him to pull her body next to his. It’s a struggle to keep up in her heels, but she manages. 

The flash of cameras follow them, their movements illuminated into a jerky and jarred struggle by the rapid bursts of light. 

She pointedly ignores the rest of the questions, refusing to let her mind engage with the horrible, disgusting accusations they throw her way. She allows Malfoy tuck her into his side as he ushers her inside, falling into place under his arm easily. Once through the doors, he’s a reflection of her own frustration. Anger burns in his eyes and his jaw a hard line. It doesn’t dim when he looks down at her, clearly annoyed by her scrutiny. 

“Stop staring at me like that, Granger.” The words are clipped and sharp, and his arms fall away as he steps to the side. The entrance to the ballroom is just through another set of doors, and he motions for her to enter first. Alone. “After you.” 

A world of difference from the show of affection mere moments before. She feels foolish for not expecting it, for not being prepared for the inevitable backlash. Never before would she have considered Malfoy Manor to be a safe haven, but for the last few months, it has somehow transformed into just that. 

Tucked away, protected from the public and the press, they’re free to live their lives as they please. Two separate people, bound by a union that means nothing to either one of them aside from the benefits they can reap from the other. Controlling the carefully orchestrated narrative with short trips into Diagon and planned interviews. 

It’s a harsh reminder that’s well overdue. 

It was ridiculous to believe that this wasn’t coming, yet it does nothing to stem the stinging feeling at the back of Hermione’s sinuses. With a deep breath, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.

She’s doing the right thing. 

She’s getting what she wants, and helping others along the way. 

She might not have love, but she has more resources and benefits than she ever dreamed. 

She will not allow anyone to make her feel shamed for her choices. 

“Let’s go, then,” she tells Malfoy.

They’re swallowed by the crowd almost immediately upon entering. Swept up into a parade of introductions and thankful handshakes, Hermione's cheeks ache from the force of her smile and her hand feels disgustingly clammy by the time she finds a waiter carrying a tray of champagne. 

Malfoy, for all his insistence that they attend in the first place, keeps silent by her side. One hand placed delicately— appropriately— at the middle point of her back, and the other politely tucked behind him. A dutiful husband, he lets her lead when questions filter through the various conversations they get pulled into. 

Any trace of his earlier irritation is gone, erased by years’ worth of practice at playing the perfect heir. Now that he’s mentioned it, she sees the signs as clear as day. He leans his head forward just slightly when listening, and taps her spine lightly when it's her turn to speak. His acceptance of their thanks is accompanied by a slight smile and a softening of his eyes. There is no gloating, no smug acknowledgments of his wealth or his singlehanded ability to fund an entire ward for a year. 

Which tells Hermione one thing: he wants his acceptance into society back more than he wants his status. She finds herself repeating bland responses all night, shifting her words into whichever order is most appropriate. 

“We’re just happy to have the means and ability to help.” 

“It was long overdue.” 

“Our future plans are to expand our line of donations into research for medical maladies as well as curse reversal and other hex related injuries.” 

“Yes, we would love to consider assisting with the healer training programme. Send us an owl.” 

When they try to pull Malfoy into the line of discussion with questions of his parents or his estate, his quick non-answers direct them back to Hermione or the subject at hand. 

“I’m more than happy to let my wife take the lead. After all, I do believe she’s done more for our world than the rest of us in this room combined.”

“Life with Hermione has been taking up my time and attention, thankfully. Did you know that she’s recently started a correspondence with the head archivist at the National Library?” 

“Her judgement has my utmost trust.” 

“My mother’s last owl assures me she’s well, but I’m more interested in the recent developments with dragon pox—did I hear you say there was a potential potion that seems promising?” 

Questions begin to drone together, faces turning inconstruable after her third glass of champagne. When she grabs a fourth, Malfoy sweeps it from her hands. 

“How about a dance instead?” 

Her surprise sends her back a step. He follows, one hand still on her back. 

“Really? You dance?” 

There’s a band in the corner crooning light, swaying music, and a crowd of couples have taken residence in the middle of the ballroom as they turn and twirl together. 

Through her champagne haze, she supposes it might be a good photo opportunity. The press inside the gala are much more subdued than the rabid frenzy outside, and her blood is warmed just enough by the alcohol that she finds herself wondering what it might be like to dance with her husband. 

At his nod she allows him to lead her to the dance floor. His hands settle against her waist, spanning just above her hip bones, and hers to the strong line of his shoulders. 

“They’re going to expect you to make a few remarks,” he tells her, but his eyes stay locked above her head. 

“You think so?” Hermione can’t help but scrunch her nose. Though she’s come prepared, part of her still hopes that her appearance alone will be good enough. 

“Without a doubt. It’s a show, Granger. And you’re the prized Granian.” 

When he twirls her, the light airy feeling in her veins turns to heavy sludge. 

“That’s a disgusting comparison,” she replies, settling back into his arms. 

His shrug is barely there, though she still registers it. Not enough that the cameras might notice, but for her and her alone. “I’m well aware of how these things tend to go. Your generosity is little more than a tool to tout their successes to other donors in hopes they’ll take the bait.” 

She’s not so naive that she hasn’t already considered it, but hearing him say it out loud only solidifies the truth. It’s all a game and they’re both little more than pawns. 

“Just as long as I can make the changes I set out to, I don’t care.” 

Finally, he looks down at her, a strange look in his eye. “Admirable.” 

She gives him what she hopes comes across as a cheeky smile. 

“Does that mean you admire me, dear husband?” 

His hold on her waist tightens at the same time that he looks away. 

“Everyone admires you. Even the ones who hate you.” 

Even him. It goes without saying. 

Hermione steps closer on a turn, disguising her desire to align her body against his with the progression of their dance. She tilts her head up, bravery and courage flowing through her in equal measure, and parts her lips to ask the one question she’s been considering for weeks. 

Before she can force the question out, someone cuts in from the side. 

“Ms. Granger? Mr. Malfoy? They’d like for you to take to the stage to accept our official thanks for your generosity.” 

Malfoy’s expression morphs as he releases her—gone is the caring husband, and in its place is the satisfied Malfoy she’s come to expect. 

She supposes she can’t blame him, what with victory being as addictive as it is.

One of his hands catches her arms as she steps back, his palm trailing down her forearm until his fingers are linked with hers. 

“Are you coming with?” she asks. 

“Of course,” he answers, unwilling to miss such a public spectacle. 

Hand in hand, they weave through the crowd and ascend the stage. They smile while a representative of St. Mungo’s describes the depth of their generosity and the plans for their funding. She and Malfoy nod in acknowledgement when the praise turns effusive, stating the historic amount that Hermione has donated. How many lives it will improve, how many magical souls it will save. 

When the applause comes, the loudest is the one from beside her. 

Cameras flash as they accept an honorary plaque commemorating their donation, and again as she gives a short speech. Practised in the bathroom mirror, her mind is little more than a rehearsed set of words when Malfoy echoes her wishes for the future of St. Mungo’s from beside her. 

Once off the stage, they’re welcomed back into a crowd of thankful smiles and congratulatory pats on the shoulder. 

“Congratulations, Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy!”

“Well done!” 

“You’re changing lives, the both of you.” 

“Incredible work.” 

By the time she reaches the back of the ballroom, Hermione feels like she might suffocate from the artificial sincerity of it all. Malfoy drifts back, held up by a woman with a camera and quill in hand. Press, if she has any guesses. 

“Hermione Granger?” A man approaches, his hair greasy and slicked back. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his dress robes, and he appraises her with an unimpressed eye. “I’ve been hoping to catch you all night.” 

She’s never seen him before, yet Malfoy stiffens beside her. Tucked away in the corner, the general masses seem to be giving them a reprieve. It’s a balloon of silence in an otherwise cacophonous room, and the man steps closer. His eyes are dark and glassy, and he sneers at both her and Malfoy when she hesitates. 

“Yes, that’s me,” she answers. “How can I help you?”

His sneer turns malicious. 

“I suppose I was just wondering what it feels like to give up all that heroism for a little bit of Death Eater dick?” In the silence of her surprise, he laughs. “Must be some good cock for you to stoop so low. Or maybe you were never that great to begin with.” 

“How dare you—” She chokes on shock, but when she tries to step back he grabs her wrist with a punishing grip. He twists his palm against her skin until it burns. 

“You must think you’re so clever, assuming you’ve got all of us fooled. But I see it. You’re just as rotten as he is. Him and his like, always scheming, clawing your way to the top. I thought you were better than that.”

Hermione is still processing his words when he clears his throat and spits at her, his saliva smacking against the delicate silk of her dress with a wet thwap. Though before she can react, before her fingers can reach into her small clutch and pull out her wand, the man is thrown against the wall directly behind him. 

“That’s my fucking wife you’re speaking to,” Malfoy hisses, pressing his elbow against the man’s throat. “Or maybe you’ve forgotten who I am and what I’m capable of?” 

Malfoy’s wand is already in place against the man’s chest before he can gasp a breath. Not so hidden after all. 

“Malfoy—” Hermione’s arm shoots out, her hand curling in the sleeve of his robes. Her heart pounds in her ears and there’s only one thought in her head. 

He can’t do this. He’ll lose his wand, or worse, be imprisoned. Everything they’ve worked for will have been for naught.

Malfoy doesn’t respond to her plea, and digs his wand in harder. 

“I could kill you without even blinking,” he says quietly. From her vantage point, the black of his irises have drowned out every bit of grey in his eyes. “Without a whisper. Dead on the floor, right where you belong.” 

The man gurlges, spit gathering at the edges of his thin lips, and his face begins to tint blue. Malfoy is strangling him, the strong length of his forearm slowly cutting off his air supply. 

Hermione tightens her grip, tugging at his arm. “Draco, please. Look at me. You can’t do this.” 

He twitches at the sound of his first name, blinking over at her just briefly before turning back. His expression is already deadly, yet it still sharpens when he leans forward to whisper one last threat.

“If you ever look at my wife again, it will be the last thing you do. I’ll make sure of it.” 

“Draco—Stop—” She tries again, but this time he follows when she pulls at his arm. He releases the man against the wall, who sputters and coughs as he fights to regain his breath. As Malfoy steps away, her hand still wrapped around his forearm, she feels it. 

The tremble in his muscles. The tremor in his frame that doesn’t dissipate with every step that they put between themselves and the man who accosted her. Though her legs are unsteady from the adrenaline, she does the one thing she can think to do—she drags Malfoy into the nearest hall for some privacy, relieved when no one follows them through. 

Despite letting her push him against the wall, his eyes remain locked on the direction from which they came. Fury radiates off him in waves, as if every muscle in his body is pulled taut with the instinct and urge to go back and make good on his threats. 

“Draco,” she repeats, harder this time. He still won’t look at her. Panic rises. If she lets him go, if she can’t get through to him, there’s no doubt in her mind that Malfoy will finish what the other man started. 

Taking his wand, she shoves it into her bag. One less threat, though she’s certain now that she’s seen his show of aggression that he’s likely just as lethal without it. 

Next, she quickly takes stock of her options. She can dig her fingernails into his palms, since his hands currently grip her own. She can pinch him on the arm or neck or cheek in hopes that the slice of pain might knock him out of it. Or, she could do something much, much worse. There’s no question which is the best and worst route to take. 

Hermione kisses him. 

For the first time in months, since the day of their wedding, she reaches up onto her toes and presses her lips against Malfoy’s. Dropping her tight hold on his hands, she places her palms on either side of his face while she coaxes him into submission.

Come on, Draco, she wills him to respond when he goes still. Not even the slightest movement of air in his lungs. She might as well be kissing a statue for as much as he responds to her touch. I’m right here. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine. 

Her fingers find his hair, pushing through the soft, styled strands, and that's when he finally comes alive. Malfoy sucks in a deep breath, almost as if he’s resurfaced after swimming too long underwater, and Hermione begins to pull away before he catches her. She blames her slow reflexes for her inability to react quickly enough when one of his hands cuffs the back of her neck and the other grabs her waist. She falls back into the kiss—now his—as he leads and deepens it. 

It’s been too long, and she’s out of practice. That’s all. 

His lips slide, his tongue sweeps. Opening for him, she tilts her head back and grabs on to his wrist in the same way she did during their interview. He kisses her like a man starved, rough and demanding, overtaking her completely. Their tongues brush and their teeth click against each other, but it’s everything and more. Years and months and weeks and days worth of hate and curiosity. 

Before she knows it, the world spins—she’s the one pressed against the wall and his hand has drifted from her waist to her thigh, squeezing it so hard she knows he’s sure to leave wrinkles behind. 

Kissing him tastes like the sweetness of champagne and feels like the dry heat of fire. There’s a building spark that spreads through her veins, fluttering out from the center of her chest and through the rest of her body. Warming every inch of her until she’s panting against him, her fingers clawing at the lapels of his robes. Every bit of arousal that she’s struggled to suppress comes alive with one deep kiss. 

Only the sound of muted applause, filtering through the closed doors to the ballroom, is enough to break them apart. Malfoy releases her immediately, stepping away and dropping his hands as if he’s been burned. 

Clearing his throat into his fist, he looks anywhere but at her. “I apologise.”

For his behaviour, good or bad? Both, likely. 

Her lips feel swollen and she licks them to rid herself of the sensation, but only succeeds in finding the remnants of his taste. With every passing second of silence, they drift farther apart. Tension grows thick in the air, awkward and uncomfortable, and Hermione finds the wherewithal to nod. 

“We should go. It’s getting late.” 

The fact that they won’t be discussing the events of the evening goes without saying. 

Chapter Text

Hours later and she’s still wet between her thighs. 

Even after she headed straight to their bedroom after arriving home. Alone. 

Even after she stripped off her dress and threw it into the fireplace. No amount of cleaning could salvage it. 

Even after she showered and scrubbed at her skin until it was pink and raw, not just to rid herself of the remains of spit and saliva, but to reset her memories of the way Malfoy touched her body. 

Even after she dressed in her pyjamas and climbed into bed. After she turned off the light and closed her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep. 

Even after Malfoy crept in, well after midnight, to join her. 

Some nights she’s only vaguely aware of his silent weight settling against the mattress. He moves carefully, and with purpose, as to not disturb her.  Over time his presence has grown to be nearly as familiar as her own, but tonight it calls to her. 

Her body is primed and ready to continue—or finish—what they started at the gala. 

Eyes adjusted to the darkness, Hermione glances over at his sleeping form. On his back, his chest slowly rises and falls with steady, deep breaths. His face is relaxed, aristocratic features illuminated by the faint moonlight that peeks in through their window, and it only makes her arousal worse. 

If she were going to fall asleep, she would have by now. But the throbbing ache between her legs demands attention, and Hermione knows that she won’t be able to find any kind of rest until she’s taken care of it. Even if she could, by some miracle, fall asleep on her own? She’s only setting herself up for subconscious participation in another illicit dream. 

Her unfortunate predicament leaves her with two options. The first is preferable—to slowly roll out of bed and head to the bathroom to take care of her needs. Behind the privacy of the door, it will likely only take a few quick strokes of her fingers against her clit before she’ll be coming. But she remembers—the last time she tried to get up in the middle of the night, to assess and hide the evidence of her fantasies—he woke and left. 

The second option is so much worse, but somehow safer at the same time. 

She knows she’ll likely wake him if she tries to get up. But she might, if she’s very quiet and careful, be able to slide her hand beneath the waistband of her knickers and finish the job without any problems at all. Then, if he seems to start to wake, she can easily roll over and pretend she’s been sleeping the whole time. 

Her body makes the decision for her, her abdomen tensing at the idea of it. It’s filthy and a little bit taboo. Getting off in her marital bed, next to her sleeping husband? Trembling fingers find their way into her knickers with little effort. 

The relief is almost immediate. Even the careful, light touch is enough friction that her body relaxes against the bed, a slight sigh escaping her nose. Letting her eyes drift closed, she presses harder. 

She thinks of Malfoy, and the moment he lost control. When he defended her, even when it meant risking his own wand—his own freedom—to call her his wife. How he kissed her like he couldn’t control himself, his hands pulling and touching and gripping her body. 

Her core flutters, pleasure building. She lets her thighs open just a touch wider, increasing the pressure. She’s so wet that her fingers slide through and against her folds easily, and if she had the time and privacy, she might see what it would feel like to prolong her orgasm. Knowing she doesn’t have that kind of safety, she chases it instead. It grows and builds with every memory—every word, every glance, every fantasy that she’s had over the previous months—until she feels it begin to tingle against her nerve endings. 

Until a strong grip wraps around her wrist, stopping her touch immediately. 

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Malfoy’s voice is low and rough, a whispered accusation that might as well be a shout for as much as it affects her. 

Her eyes snap open, and she digs her teeth into her lower lip to muffle the whimper that follows her realisation that she’s been caught. Rather unfortunately, it does nothing to dim her arousal. 

“I’m–” The apology sticks in her throat as she struggles to settle her racing heart. Everything in her body throbs, a mix between unsatisfied need and cold adrenaline. Her muscles tense, and she fights the desire to Apparate away entirely. “I’m sorry—I should have—” 

He pulls her hand free, tugging at her wrist until her fingers are on display between their bodies. The remains of her pleasure ebb like a waning tide, and a flood of embarrassment takes its place. It’s just dark enough that she can’t quite read the nuances of his expression. Narrowed eyes and a curve to his lips, but is it amusement? Interest? Disgust? 

“Should have, what?” he asks when she can’t find the words to continue. Every syllable sends a cool burst of air against her wet fingertips, and she shivers. 

Tension pulls between them the longer she calculates her answer.

“I didn’t want to wake you.” She goes with honesty. It’s only through years of practice that her voice comes out steady; her unwillingness to back down the sole reason she lets him call her out in such a way. 

This is just as much her bed as it is his. She might have kissed him first, but he kissed back.

“And you thought you could…what? Touch yourself, right here beside me? While I slept?” 

Hermione tries to yank her arm back, but his grip only tightens. 

“Answer me,” he demands.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I thought. Because the last time I got out of bed, you woke up and left. I didn’t want to risk it.” 

He makes an amused noise, something deep in his throat that sounds a bit like a laugh. “You’re only half correct. I left, yes, but I was never asleep.” 

She moves to sit up, trying to put space between their bodies, but he easily follows her. Looming, his frame seems even larger in the night. 

“You heard? And you didn’t say anything?” 

Still holding her hand, he brings it closer to his face. She watches, rapt, as his tongue darts out, delicately licking the tip of her ring finger. When he hums his approval at her taste, her entire body heats. 

Sweet Circe. This can’t be happening. She must actually be dreaming. 

“Maybe I liked having one over on you, Granger. And maybe I knew it would only be the beginning.” 

“You didn’t,” she argues, but the venom in her tone falls flat when he sucks her middle finger between his lips. He circles the tip with his tongue, then lets it drag across his bottom teeth. His grip has loosened, but suddenly she can’t find the strength to pull away. “This isn’t about you.” It’s a boldfaced lie, but—

Malfoy’s laugh is a clear condemnation. 

“No? Interesting, considering you were moaning my name the last time. And I have to admit, I think I rather like hearing it when you’re begging for more.” 

Her core tightens when he takes her fingers and drags them across his lower lip, tasting and kissing each one. Combined with the filth of his words, it’s more erotic than any fantasy she could have come up with on her own. Her exhale sounds like a whine, and her thighs tighten. 

“What do you want, then?”

“How do you know I want something?” he whispers, teasing. 

“You could have let me go and pretended to be asleep just like you did last time.” Because nothing they do for each other is without a price. Whatever he wants is worth more than the silent satisfaction of knowing she’s attracted to him. 

Malfoy releases her, giving her her hand back. “Have you figured out why I don’t sleep when I come in here at night?” 

Between the strange combination of desire and horror that’s coursing through her veins and the teasing way he’s just sucked her arousal off her fingers, no. She hasn’t quite had the time. 

“Because you think I might try to kill you in your sleep?” She hopes that’s the answer, at least. He could do with a little more fear in his life. 

He lets out another light laugh, his hand trailing to the hem of her sleep shirt. His fingers dip below the fabric and ghost across her stomach, and she sucks in a breath as he speaks. 

“If only it were so simple. Let’s just say it’s because you’re not the only one with certain thoughts, dear wife. Except I know myself well enough to realise that if I give myself enough latitude to indulge—here in our marital bed, no less—you’ll wake up with my cock hard as stone and right up against your arse.”  

“You’re lying.” He has to be. Because if he’s not, it will change everything. 

“I can think of a number of ways to prove it to you, if you’d prefer.” 

He does exactly that, leaning back and trailing his hand across her abdomen in favour of untying his pyjama bottoms. She can only catch glimpses of his body in the darkness, flashes of pale skin as he pulls his cock free and fists it for her. 

He’s hard already, and she gasps. 

“Still think I’m lying?” he asks, giving himself a slow stroke. She can see the silhouette of his hand moving, and she’s half tempted to reach for her wand to turn on the lights so she can watch him properly. 

Fascination and interest blend into arousal under the preexisting heat in her veins, a chemical reaction akin to potion brewing. One thing still tickles at the back of her mind. He still hasn’t answered her original question, and Hermione knows he’s too observant to have simply forgotten. 

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have ulterior motives, Malfoy. What’s the catch?” she asks plainly. 

Malfoy’s hand stills. 

“There’s my girl,” he says, and she can hear the grin in his tone more than she can see it. “She never misses a beat, does she?” 

Even now, she’s desperate to get back to touching herself. But this is more than a simple passing fancy or a singular indulgence. It’s a barter, a deal, a transaction. Just like everything else. 

“I’m not yours,” she corrects. 

“You’re as much mine as I am yours,” he offers in return, and she hates how much she likes the sound of those words, in that order. “Though I am surprised you don’t get it yet, but if you really need me to spell it out for you: I’m more than willing to take care of your needs if you take care of mine.” 

Merlin, it’s tempting, and the immediate yes almost spills from her lips before she can stop it. There’s a thousand reasons she should refuse. None of them suddenly seem to matter. Instead, she looks at the facts she knows to be true, and falls back to his earlier challenge.

“Tell me about your thoughts, then. Prove it to me.” 

This is more than a tryst. 

More than a one night stand. 

It’s the consummation of their marriage. 

If he’s serious, there’s no going back.

Malfoy grins, his teeth a flash of white in the night, and settles back onto his pillows. 

“Where should I start?” he asks, slowly resuming his slow strokes. His erection hasn’t waned in the slightest, and his pace suggests he’s in no hurry. “How about the day that I found you trying to burn down my house, with magic sparking in your hair? I never thought I would find myself so uncontrollably attracted to your violent side, but I’ll admit that I’ve never seen anything more stunning. That was the first night I found myself thinking of you, and I couldn’t come to bed until I knew that I was sated enough to not attempt to touch you.” 

When she imagines him going back to his study after extinguishing the fire and fisting his cock the same way he is now, face still covered in black ash, she moans. Giving up the fight, she tucks her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and pulls them down her hips and thighs, enough so that he can see when she begins to touch herself again.

“Keep going,” she urges, finding a rhythm that matches his. 

His head shifts, turning to face her to properly watch her hand as well. “There’s the obvious one—the night you dreamed of me. That memory has sustained me more times than you’d like to know. There was another day when you left the bathroom door cracked open while you showered, and it took every bit of my self control to not ask if I could join you.” 

“I would have hexed you for even trying.” Her threat means nothing when she can barely keep a keening moan from breaking through. Pleasure takes hold quickly, ballooning back up to the level it was right before he’d interrupted her. Stroke after stroke, she floats closer. 

“It would have been worth it, in retrospect,” he says with a pained groan. His hand speeds up. “There was every time you’ve called me Draco in public and how much it makes me want to kiss you, just to see what you’ll do and how angry it might make you.” 

Her other hand finds her entrance, her middle finger pressing in slowly. It’s an awkward angle and her thighs fall open, but it feels too good to stop. 

“I might have let you,” she concedes. She most definitely would have let him, but she can’t allow him to get too cocky. “And I might like calling you Draco, too. But only when you aren’t making me angry.”

He pauses just long enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. “I think you like pretending with me.” 

“I do.” Her eyes are drawn to the lines of his chest and the scars she’s never seen before. The black ink of his Azkaban tattoo calls to her like a beacon. 

“So do I,” he tells her, kicking off his pants next. Totally naked, he climbs above her and divests her of the rest of her clothes. She allows him, consumed by the feel of his bare skin against her own. He leans down to run his nose along her collarbone and up to her ear, dropping his voice to a whisper. “We can keep pretending, if you want.” 

Her breath hitches as he settles between her thighs, and she arches against him. “Maybe I don’t want to pretend.”

Not tonight. Not now. 

His teeth find the sensitive spot just below her ear, and he groans when she shifts her hips just enough that the head of his cock nudges against her entrance. Her knees come up to his hips and her hands find his shoulders, sweeping outwards to grip at his biceps.

“Good. Neither do I.” With his confession, he thrusts forward, sliding in until he’s fully seated. 

Their pleasure is a matching draw, mirrored back at each other in the moan that vibrates through her chest and into his. 

Malfoy goes still, letting her adjust to the feel of his cock as it stretches her core. Except, what she hadn’t considered before that very moment, was just how close to orgasm she already was. 

“Oh no,” she keens. “I’m going to—” 

Her inner muscles begin to tense and flutter, the pressure adding exactly what she needed from the very beginning. 

“Go on then, Granger,” Malfoy goads, dragging his hips back before thrusting back in. “Show me what I’ve been missing. Show your husband what you’ve been hiding all this time.”

Manoeuvring his weight back, he puts enough space between their bodies that he can use one of his hands between her legs. His fingers find her clit easily, swollen and sensitive, and she’s coming in two quick strokes. As soon as it starts, he begins to move in earnest.

“Ah! Oh, Gods, Malfoy—” 

The pleasure is too much, the dam finally breaking after so many hours of arousal and unintentional edging. Her orgasm takes hold of every muscle in her body, tensing and seizing until she’s curled up against him. She grips at him, nails scraping as she tries to hold on, but still it goes and goes. 

“There it is,” he boasts, slowing his thrusts to drag out her pleasure. If she weren’t so distracted by the waves of sensation that burst and crash against her nerve endings, she might be annoyed. But instead it makes it worse, seeing his satisfaction of feeling her first orgasm with him. 

She’s not stupid enough to assume this won’t be the first, last, and only time they’re together. 

Every press of his cock and swipe of his fingers sends aftershocks rippling through her body. Her core twitches and contracts around him, the friction more than enough to keep her orgasm going. 

When it finally fades enough that she can open her eyes again, she sees the effects of her lack of control. He’s been marked by her nails, his fair skin lined with pink marks across his chest and shoulders. 

Old interest flares to life in her chest, a determination to see his entire body marked with her signature. Knowing that he will wear them for hours, if not days, the urge calls to her. 

Malfoy was right. He’s just as much hers as she is his, and she wants to see the proof.

Warmth gathers between her thighs, sticking to both her skin and his as he draws out the wetness from her orgasm. Every press and pull of his cock, every thrust of his hips, reignites her desire. 

Leaning down, Malfoy braces his hands on her pillows, right on either side of her face. His hips slow to a languid roll, dragging his pelvis across her clit, and it feels incredible. He ducks even lower and flattens his tongue across one beaded nipple, then another. Each lick sends a shock of pleasure through to her core, and she arches against his mouth. 

“How many are you going to give me tonight?” The way he smirks after he asks her the question should be illegal. She wants to kiss the smug look off his face and do whatever it takes to get the upper hand again. 

“How many do you think you deserve?” she asks instead, reaching up to lick and suck at the delicate stretch of skin beside his collarbone. Right over the ink of his tattoo, using her tongue to trace over his shame, his history, she nips it with her teeth. He stretches his neck for her, allowing the mark. 

Another day, another night, it will be her turn to tease him. To spend hours seeing just how desperate she can make him before she asks him the same thing. 

He pretends to mull it over for a moment, still steadily thrusting inside her. “Enough to make up for all our wasted time.” 

She lets her hand trail down between her breasts, over her stomach, and to her clit. He watches her touch herself for several seconds, slowly tracing and outlining the sensitive nub, before looking back up at her face for her response. 

“Then I suppose we have our work cut out for us,” she says.

Malfoy takes up the challenge, moving back on the bed to reposition them both. He flips her over with strong hands bracketed around her waist, settling her down on her stomach and arranging her just how he wants her. Knees parted and arse up, exposed for him. 

He’s back inside of her before she can complain about the loss. 

The new angle allows for him to press deeper, to drag the head of his cock through her folds so she can feel every bit of him. With his hips pressed against her backside, he uses one hand to trace the line of her spine while the other grips the flesh of her hip. 

“Merlin, you feel better than my best fantasies,” he groans, building up speed to a steady pace. “Why weren’t we doing this from the beginning?” 

With her cheek pressed into the sheets, she lets out a sigh. He’s right. 

“Because you’re an arse,” she tells him, not unopposed to the idea that they could have had hate sex on their wedding night in retrospect. 

His hand comes down with a sharp smack, and a brief sting of pain ripples across her bum. She arches into it, seeking another, but it doesn’t come. 

“You’re just as bad as I am, you know. Worse, even.”

Spreading her arms above her head, Hermione lengthens her spine. Pleasure rolls through her body, and she meets him thrust for thrust. “I’m not.” 

“You’re insufferable, and yet I can’t seem to get enough.” He rewards her with another quick swat to her other side, and she moans. “But apparently neither can you—I can feel you fluttering around me every time I touch you.” 

He’s right. Her growing wetness is irrefutable evidence. 

“That has nothing to do with our current situation. Unless you like it when I make you miserable.” Hermione bears down on him, tightening the muscles in her pelvis to grip at his cock. His groan sounds almost pained. 

“Keep giving away priceless books from my library and we’ll find out,” he says once he’s finally recovered, though his voice drops into a breathless octave. 

Hermione flashes him a grin over her shoulder before reaching down to touch herself once more. 

“Gladly.” 

At her touch, she feels herself tighten around him. Sensation transforms into pleasure, slowly and steadily building once more, and with her face pressed into their sheets she’s surrounded by his scent. For a moment, she can only think of how real it all feels. 

And maybe it is. Maybe this is real for them. 

Malfoy grips her harder, his fingers digging into her hips and arse with enough force that she knows he’s trying to mark her in the same way she did to him. It warms her skin and perspiration begins to gather against her neck and chest. 

She could come soon, just like this. 

“Draco,” she moans his name, shifting her hips back and up even more to widen her stance. To let him slide deeper. His pace stutters, but he recovers by thrusting even harder. 

“Say it again,” he demands. 

“Draco.”

“Fuck, Hermione,” he groans behind her. “If this is what it’s like, being with you? You’ll be the death of me.” 

A lazy smile spreads across her face, hidden by the sheets. Her fingers press down harder, sending more pleasure fluttering through her core. 

“Good.” It’s her right, and hers alone. “We’ve got ten months until we don’t have to share a bed any longer. That’s plenty of time to make good on my threats to kill you.”

She’s on the verge, but it’s his words—his promise—that sends her over. 

“You’re insane if you think you’re ever sleeping alone again.” 

She comes, her body instinctively pressing back against his. Her second orgasm is sluggish, almost, a lazy sweep of sensation that spreads through her limbs in a slow drag. It twitches and tightens at her muscles, not quite seizing, but her body goes still as her nerves light up one by one. Slowly, sluggishly, her body comes down and she releases a sigh.

Draco curses from behind her, his own pace faltering enough that he comes to a stop. He holds his place for a moment, and when Hermione finds the strength and awareness to look back, his features are stiff with control. Nostrils flared and jaw hard, he barely responds when she rocks back against him. She doesn’t want him holding back. She wants him to fall apart just like she has. 

“I can barely believe you’re letting me get ahead. I never took you for the selfless type.” 

That has his eyes snapping open and glaring at her. “Is that how it’s going to be?” 

Crawling forward, she winces when his cock slips from her. She arranges herself on her back once more, thighs spread, and beckons him forward. 

“It’s what we do, is it not?” Equal, always and forever—together. 

It takes little convincing for him to fall over her body, getting back into position between her legs and sliding back inside of her with a slow thrust. She sighs again at the contact, still desperate for more, but the growing soreness between her legs speaks to how long its been since she’s slept with someone. 

When he begins to roll his hips, she gets a front row seat what his features look like when slackened with pleasure. She’s seen him angry and bored and smug, but his best look is this—buried inside of her and on the verge of coming. Her body follows his, lowering and raising her hips with every push and pull. Tightening her core muscles around him and burying her hands in his hair.

She traces a path up to his ear and back down again, letting her nails scrape across his scalp and down his neck. With every pass, every press of her lips and push of his hips, he grows unsteady. His pace falters, thrusts growing shallow, and he sets his forehead against hers.

“Yes, just like that,” she tells him, kissing his neck lightly. “Make me your wife, Draco.” 

With one hand on her thigh, wrapped around his hip, he brings the other up to hold her chin in place. He kisses her hard, his lips and tongue sliding against hers. She opens for him, moaning into his mouth, feeling him and tasting him all at once. 

It’s their first real kiss, and that’s when he comes. He groans into it, his body going still above hers, his cock buried between her folds. She can feel it—every pulse of heat, a growing wetness, and a sense of fullness that speaks to his claim—and echoes his moan. 

Yet he doesn’t stop kissing her. They lay there, together in their bed, until their bodies have cooled and they finally separate. He doesn’t allow her to clean herself, insisting on being the one to cast the cleansing charm and a quick contraceptive spell, before suggesting a trip to the apothecary the next day for a more potent potion. 

“I don’t suppose it would be a bad idea,” she concedes, her eyes growing heavy with sleep when he tugs her against his warm body. Hermione already has a feeling he’s going to make good on his promise in the morning to make up for their lost time, and likely every night thereafter. A monthly potion should feel like a commitment, but it barely registers. 

“I suppose being seen shopping for contraceptive potions might also help to put an end to those questions about an heir.” He yawns.  

It speaks to her exhaustion that she can’t even find the will to be bothered by the suggestion. “Maybe you can take me to Gringotts while we’re out.” 

“You think so?” His response is slightly delayed, a sluggish lilt to his words. 

Hermione hums. “I might like to take another look at those rings now, I think.”

Wrapped in his arms, it's the first night they fall asleep together as husband and wife.