#dhr drabble

[elliebyrrdwrites]

Marriage Law Trope #7

I'm not entirely pleased with how these came. Good news is, when I finally edit them all and put them up onto Ao3, I can work on them a bit more, flesh out the parts I don't find entirely...done. But, like they say, out of sight, out of mind.

Granger tells me that it doesn’t mean anything.

That this joining of our bodies, the consummation of our marriage, doesn’t mean a thing. I tell her that she’s wrong. This? The feel of my hand on her stomach, the feel of my tongue lapping in between her thighs? The way my tongue takes, long, deliberate strokes so that I can taste every bit of her heated arousal? The way she’s cries and whimpers against me, lifting there hips until her mound is pressed into my nose?

The way she grips at my shoulders, my hair, as she looks down at me? The way my eyes captures hers while I taste her?

It’s everything.

I could live for this.

The way she shudders and jerks when I keep going, long after she’s come. I want to see how many times I can make her break in a day. I want to keep having her look up at me all doe eyed and dazed. Like the lust and her pleasure run so deep that she forgets who it is she’s fucking. I want to watch the way she lazily reaches out for me after I make her come and gathers me against her body. I want to feel her cling to me, begging me to slide my cock into her swollen cunt.

It’s soft and swollen and slick. The things is impervious to overuse. Nothing like a useless dick. It can keep going.

And it does.

I just keep fucking her with my tongue, and my fingers, and my dick. I keep making her come, and I keep her all to myself. She never makes it to brunch.

She never makes it out of The house.

All weekend, I keep her. I keep her close, with my fingers bruising her hips and my mouth leaving marks all over her boy, claiming her for mine and mine alone.

She is still insisting that this doesn’t mean anything. She says that it can’t.

And I think she’s trying to tell me that whatever was between her and Weasley never ended before we got married.

Which is fine. That is something I can deal with at a separate time.

Because, I spend the entire weekend buried between Grangers legs like it’s a job. No. I spend my time nestled between her thighs like it’s the only thing I need to survive. Because money, drugs and food are not enough. They mean nothing.

This.

Grangers sweet, tangy sex is where it’s all at.

So. When she rolls out of bed on Monday morning, telling me to let her go, to get my hands out of her hair and out of her knickers, I might have sulked like a petulant child.

I might have hissed when she kicked my shin and I might have scowled at her as she got ready for work.

I’m listening to the sound of the shower and I am watching her get dressed and I’m panicking.

Because she’s leaving and I’m going to be left alone to do nothing. I mean, that’s fine. Because I can paint, but I need breaks from that. I need to take breaks to breathe and drink and eat but the only thing I want to do is breathe and drink and eat her.

It’s angering. Because this isn’t right.

The point is, we don’t belong here. We’re stuck in a marriage that was never borne from love and we’re stuck in a home that neither of us chose but it’s what we got and we’re stuck with it. And we’re stuck with each other.

And the point is, I would have chosen her. In some life or another, I would choose her. Because I am hers. My magic is tethered to hers. There’s an algorithm that the brightest witches and wizards who work for the minister put together and it says the same thing.

I belong to her. Because when I peered in between her thighs and I kissed my way up the inside of her leg, I found that heart shaped freckle, there on the inside of her thigh. And it doesn’t make any sense, but somehow, I know its because I am right. This is the universes way of telling us to give in and to be.

When she’s gone and the house is cold and empty and the light cannot penetrate the curtains or my mind, I leave the house.

The point is, I can’t figure out why Granger wanted me in the first place. How could a witch who was already dating another wizard want me? She’s hardly around and she’s always hated me.

But she gave in to me too easily, too eagerly.

It doesn’t matter that she kept saying it was a mistake. Because, she kept doing it. She spent the entire weekend letting me taste her and have her and she just kept taking. She takes and takes and in return, I end up feeling like I need clarification.

The point is, I can’t sit around this house one more day without settling something.

So, I leave the house.

One by one, each set of eyeballs roll toward me as I step into the Atrium Café inside of the Ministry of Magic. One by one, the chatter dies down and in their place, whispers are born.

One by one, the whispers about Malfoy fill the café as my eyes scan and find Granger. She’s huddled around a little round table with Ronald Weasley. His arm is thrown around her shoulders, his hand is tangled in her hair and he’s hunched over, speaking for only her ears.

She’s staring down at the table, her eyes distant. Her little eyebrows are scrunched up and her little mouth is pursed into a little flower and i know, I know, she is remembering the feeling of my mouth on her body. She’s is remembering her confession of wanting me more than she wants him.

But she doesn’t move away when he lifts his other hand to her cheek and forces her to look up at him.

There’s six million little legs crawling up my body. They’ve taken control, these ants. Because, they’re making me itch and they’re making me stalk through the café as the eyeballs roll around the room and watch as I approach the table where Granger is letting Weasley touch her and all I can do is listen to their commands.

When I reach them and slap a hand over my neck, she looks up at me.

Her eyes widen as they take me in. I’m dressed in a white undershirt, speckled in paint and my slacks hang loosely around my hips. I’m full of terrible flaws, but when she looks at me like that, I forget them all. Because she looks at me like I’m something unique and as terrible as I am, she finds me attractive.

I shake my hair away from my face as Weasley’s eyes sharpen on me. He leans back in his chair, his hand still on her. His fingers are still latched onto her hair and he takes his stupid eyes and he scrutinizes me. He thinks Granger is too good for me. And, she is.

But she has me and I won’t give that up.

“That’s my wife, Weasel.” The entire café falls silent. Everyone has died and this place is now a cemetery as my quiet words seem to echo off of the walls. This graveyard holds the ghosts of our pasts and the memory of our bodies betraying everything we were ever taught.

I can see the rage flare in his stupid face. Because, he goes red and his eyes grow hard as his hand palms the back of her neck.

He’s doubling down and he says, “Only on paper, ferret.”

“Ron,” Granger sighs and makes to move, but Weasley isn’t going to let this end smoothly.

He tightens his hold on her neck and his thumb swipes over the curve of it. The same curve that my mouth sucked and nibbled at.

My head tilts as I run my eyes over her. She’s remembering my mouth on her. She’s remembering the way it felt to give into our wants and needs and how it threw her entire world off balance

My eyes narrow in on her mouth. “I think it’s a little more than that,” I smirk and look her in the eye. “Isn’t that right, love?”

Weasley catches my implication and pushes to his feet. “Piss off, Malfoy.” He leans his hands onto the table and sneers at me. “She doesn’t want you. She was forced into marrying you. Are you actually pathetic enough to believe that it means anything? That, somehow, there is more between the two of you?”

He isn’t finished He’s going to get it all out, now. The opportunity has presented itself to him and in front of the world, he’s decided to vomit all of his words and all of his hate onto me.

“Because, it’s been me, Malfoy.” He spits. “It’s been my bed she crawls into for the past three years. It’s been me who has had her heart in my hands. Her body isn’t meant for you. It never was. Because it’s mine. It doesn’t matter what the legal documents say, because I still get to have her in all the ways you never could.”

It only takes a moment for my body to react.

My leg lifts and my foot kicks into the edge of the table. The table slams into Weasley’s gut, knocking him to the floor and the air from his lungs.

Granger screams and leaps out of the way before I jump on Weasley. He’s gasping for air and fighting to breathe and I make it worse.

Because, I like to use my hands.

There’s the feeling of flesh and bone against my knuckles. I can hear the bridge of his nose break and I can feel the blood pouring out of his nose and into my skin, in between my fingers. It bleeds into the miniscule lines of the top layer of my skin and I can feel it splattering against my face as I continue to beat the man.

I’m hitting him and I’m making him take back all of those hateful words. Because the idea of Granger being with anyone else hurts.

“Draco,” Granger’s calm voice breaks my concentration and my hands falter, they slip with all of the blood and land on either side of Weasley’s head as my eyes flick up to meet hers.

Granger is looking down at me, a mix of anger and resolve on her pretty little face. She holds out her hand and with her eyes, she asks me to take it. She uses her eyes and tells me to come with her.

For just a moment, I hang my head and close my eyes. I have to force the little legs running all over my body to calm down. They’re overly excited by the rush of blood my body takes. The adrenaline is still pounding through my system and it’s taking all of my energy not to do anymore harm. Weasley is coughing and spitting out the blood, his hands covering his face, protecting himself from further harm.

And for a second, I actually feel a shred of remorse.

So, I lift my head and nod my head before I take her hand and let her help me to my feet.

“Oh, Draco.” She sighs and shakes her head. She sounds so sweet, I want to eat her up. She shakes her head and looks up at me with the big sunset eyes and her walls are all the way down as they gobble me up.

I take her little face in my bloody hands and cradle it. I should be angry with her for continuing whatever it is between the two of them, but I can’t. I look at her face and her big eyes and I can’t be angry with her. I see her eyes and I know she’s mine. Somehow, she has always been mine.

“It’s over.” I tell her. “Whatever you had with him, it’s over.” And she just nods up at me, her eyes centering in on my mouth before I kiss her.

In the middle of the Ministry, I declare the inevitable. Because, I can feel her melting into me, all of her resistance is fading away as she slowly gives in.

I forget all about Weasley and when we break apart, I nod once before wrapping my hand around hers. I’m taking her home with me and she wont be able to fight me. She wont want to.

I forget all about Weasley until Granger shouts his name. I forget all about Weasley before his fist reaches out and hits me against the jaw.

I forget all about everything as my body falls and my face slams against the tiled floor.

And as the world goes black and the skin on my brow splits open, my blood spilling onto the floor, I remember one thing.

….

“It’s always going to be him, isn’t it?” Ron is near tears as he watches me tend to my unconscious husband.

Draco’s long body is draped over the couch, his head lolled to the side, his long leg hanging over the arm of it. We’re in Harry’s office, where I levitated his body, so that I can heal him in private.

Harry’s face is pursed in disapproval as he looks between Draco and Ron as he tends to the broken nose that is still gushing blood.

I sigh and sweep a lock of hair off of Draco’s forehead. “He’s my husband, Ron.” I argue but really, he is so much more. He always has been. He always will be.

“He’s a fucking psychopath!”

Harry sighs when Ron’s face jerks out of his hand as he leaps off of Harry’s desk and glares at me. He can see the way my fingers are gentle against Draco’s face. He can see it in the way I take great care to heal his wounds, that he has lost me. He lost me over three years ago when I went back to Hogwarts. He lost me the minute Draco stumbled upon me in the middle of a panic attack. He lost me the second Draco decided to put all of his attention on me.

Even after I lost Draco, I was always going to be lost to anyone else.

“He is not!” Whatever Draco is, it isn’t psychotic. Whatever he is, it’s never stopped me from gravitating toward him. And And I know he wont ever be stable, but it doesn't make him less appealing, less loveable.

“He is and you still want him! He hurt you and you still want him. It’s sick.”

I don’t respond as I seal the gash on Draco’s brow with the tip of my wand. Look, I didn’t plan on being forced to marry the boy who broke my heart. I didn’t plan on having to face the nightmare that is his family for the foreseeable future. I tried to fight it. I did. Because I was so angry at him, I didn’t want to be his again.

I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to see me as anything else but unattainable. Because that is what he was for me.

Because to him, I was nothing. I didn’t exist.

I expected him to shun me the way he had been for the past three years. Instead, he took to me like a moth to a flame. He followed me around with that same wild-eyed look and stalked me like his prey.

It was impossible not to give in this weekend. He was there, in all of his manic glory and the realization that I never stopped loving him was painful. Because he was there, right in front of me, touching me and wanting me and how could I say no?

How could I lie to him?

“He’s just going to hurt you again.” Ron’s voice breaks through my reveries. They shatter the glass bubble I climb into whenever I stare at Draco. His features were hard and harsh, though the beauty of him was undeniable. His eyes expressed everything he couldn’t say.

His eyes always undo me.

“We don’t know that, Ron.” Harry argues. “He’s living with Hermione. His father’s hold on him is loosening more and more each day.” His eyes slide over to Draco, who is still out cold on the couch and I can see the wheels in his mind working. “I think he feels trapped.”

“Are you actually defending him?” Ron shouts in disbelief and Harry winces. “Harry, he just attacked me for having a relationship with Hermione before this stupid law passed.”

Harry shrugged and I can’t help but close my eyes and massage my temples with the tips of my fingers.

“Draco doesn’t just look at me like his property.”

“Bullshit.” Ron hisses, cutting me off.

“I think he loved me.”

Ron throws his head back and laughs, derisively. “You’re mental.”

“Ron, don’t.” Harry scolds him. With a sigh, he opens the door to his office and gestures outside. “Let’s go get you healed and give them some time alone.”

Ron glares over at me for a moment before he heads for the door. But he pauses before he can leave and he looks over at me. “This,” He points to me and to Draco. “This wont last. Don’t expect me to be there for you when it all blows up in your face.”

All I can do is roll my eyes as he and Harry leave, quietly shutting the door behind them.

I stare down at Draco and feel my bones melting into something useless, as I admire him. Because even with all of the bruises and all of the blood, all of the torment that you can see in his eyes, even when he’s asleep, I cant stop myself from wanting to keep him. I can’t help but feel like even in a room full of art, he would be the most beautiful and intriguing thing in the room to me.

My fingers graze his jaw, just barely, admiring the hard bone and muscle under his bruised skin when he gasps.

Draco gasps and his eyes pop open.

His wild eyed gaze falls on me and stun me into place.

For a second, we stare back at each other, wide eyed and frozen.

And then his hand jerks out and thread painfully into my hair.

He pulls me down and his lip curves into a sneer as my face hovers over his before he growls up at me,

“You.”

….

My body falls hard onto the floor, pain cracks into my face. But, my mind drifts up into the edges of the universe. It floats for lightyears. It drifts forever and ever until it lands on a moment.

It lands on a moment that’s been taken from me and given into the heavens like a fading, dying star.

There’s Granger and me. In this moment, this memory, there is Granger and me and we’re alone in the school library. This isn’t he same nugget of gold I’ve been sitting on. This isn’t the secret looks of admiration from afar that I used to spend my time seeking out as a youth.

this is a moment from a different time.

This is a moment that somebody tole from me.

And it is me and it is her and it is our mouths greedily tasting the other. It is our hands roaming the expanse of our bodies, memorizing the lines and curves an divots.

And it isn’t just a dream. I have been dreaming about Granger for years and this isn’t a dream.

Trust me, I know.

Because there is her and there is me and all of the things in between that keep pulling and pushing at us.

I used to kiss her and hold her and she used to let me.

I don’t know if it was for one night or a lifetime but it’s there. That memory of familiarity is still there when I thread my hands through her hair and when she slaps at me with all of her pent up anger.

Her eyes are wide and full of fear as she stares down at me, as I hold her close enough to smell her skin. I’m taking all of her data, all of her smells and textures and I’m stuffing them into my mouth so that I can taste the memory of her again and again. I’m forcing the flavors onto my tongue, iliciting the truth.

“How long?” I ask her, my eyes are stabbing hers and I’m demanding all of the answers she refused to give me before. I’m her fucking husband for gods sake and she still refused to tell me that she belonged to me once before.

Possibly forever.

“What?” She asks, her little voice trembles as I force her head to tilt to one side. I’m exposing the neck that belongs to me and I’m forcing my eyes to trace the lines so that they can rememberrememberremember.

“Eighth year,” I force the words out of my lips as my mind struggles to stay on task. “How long?”

I watch her throat bob as she swallows. I watch as her lips mouth silent words before she finally spits them out. “Not long.” She shakes her head but winces when my hold on her hair tightens, forcing her to stay still.

“We only dated for a short period of time but you wanted me.” She rasps. “You wanted me and you had me for only a little while, and I—” She stops her rambling and presses her lips together and forces her eyes to close.

Granger’s eyes are shut but tears are pushing past her eyelids, clinging to her lashes before they fall onto my face. Like little drops of rain, they land on my face and I loosen my grip on her hair and lift my other hand to her chin, gently pinching it between my fingers as I study her face.

Yes, I can see it now.

There, between her lips and her eyelids, it’s there. She tried to occlude it all away but she failed. Because it’s all here for plain sight.

“You loved me.” My words tickle her lips and she nods, fervently. And she’s been in pain. Her heart was broken by the same boy who she was forced to marry.

And, she was right all along. This thing between us, this marriage? It is not going, at all, like I thought it would.

It’s so much worse.

[shadowsingerdraco]

Wartime Dramione

Prompt: “Tell me you love me”

—

“Tell me,” he says. Hermione wasn’t expecting this reaction. Anger, betrayal — yes. But not this. Not his gray eyes wide in desperation. “Tell me you love me.”

The air was sucked out of the room. She wondered if he could feel her pulse in the grip he had on her wrists. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Draco was searching her face for something she could not give him.

“You know that I don’t.” The words felt like an iron rod down her throat. Not because she didn’t mean them, but because she did.

She watched his shoulders slump before his expression fell into smooth indifference and fixed his posture. Like he turned himself off and back on again. A restart. It was so subtle, so fast, that it was almost undetectable that it had even happened. Hermione missed the days where she did not recognize his occlumency.

“Draco, please—”

His raised palm stopped her. “Don’t.”

She stared at him. He slowly moved his hand down and inside his pocket.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Hermione said.

He let out a loud laugh, it echoing in the cobwebbed room. The rapid changes in his demeanor was giving her whiplash.

“What were you trying to do, exactly?” Draco’s words were venomous. “What did you think would happen once you wormed your way into my life? Made me care about you? Did you think that you would achieve your goal and leave me unscathed?”

She went to respond and he cut her off with, “That’s rhetorical, Hermione.”

The use of her first name felt like more of a slap in the face than any slur he could have hurled at her. She wanted to explain, make it better, but the truth was why it hurt like it did.

“I couldn’t,” she tried. “I couldn’t let myself love you. I can’t.”

“But you had no problem doing to me what you couldn’t handle happening to you.”

Her stomach dropped to the floor. He was right. She hated that he was right. But. But.

“You’re a Death Eater!” She spit, finally saying what she felt was obvious. What she had to know. What she had to believe for all of this to have been worth it.

Draco’s eyes flickered before the wall pushed itself back into place.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m a Death Eater.” His voice was hollow. “I’m the Death Eater who now has a target on his back from the Dark Lord himself. All in the name of keeping you safe.” He ran a hand down his face, his Slytherin ring glinting in the dim light of the shrieking shack. He had apparated them there after the raid at Malfoy Manor.

“Draco-”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell them where the precious Golden Trio has been hiding out all this time when they try to crucio it out of me.”

Hermione stilled. How could he possibly know where they had been staying? She would need to send word to Harry to move their location.

Draco sneered at her. “You didn’t really think that I wouldn’t have ensured that you were safe at all times? That I wouldn’t have tabs on your location in case I needed to get to you before someone else did?”

Hermione hated to even ask, but she had to know. Had to be sure. “What’s stopping you from running to Tom now and telling him?”

“Because I want you to live. Because even when I hate you, I love you. Above all else, I love you.”

—

a/n: i found this in my drafts and sort of love it and am debating picking this back up for a longer piece

[pixydustworld]

Chapter Three of A Terrible Thing ❤️

hi! here is chapter 3 of A Terrible Thing !! thank you to anyone that commented or left kudos 🫶🏽 ily ily ily ily !!!!!!!! — #dramione | e | 7.8k | 3/5

🔗 https://archiveofourown.org/works/54164203/chapters/156368773

[cinnsin]

The Slug Club Christmas party all over again. 💃🕺🏼

Snakes & Stones & Broken Bones

“May I cut in?” Hermione looked relieved until she saw it was him asking, probably hoping for Weasley. “Malfoy?” McLaggen looked at Draco like it was utterly laughable he would try to dance with Hermione, perhaps it was. “Surely you can't have expected to monopolize every dance with such a stunning partner.” Draco took Hermione's hand from McLaggen. “Well, no, but-” “Good man. Thank you for being so understanding.” Draco smoothly pulled Hermione into him, steadied her with his other hand at the small of her back, and waltzed them away from a dumbfounded McLaggen. “What are you doing? Won't your date mind?” Hermione looked up at him with a furrowed brow and pursed lips, in clear disapproval of his last dance partner. “Pansy? Don't worry about her, she's quite the philanthropist.” Hermione scoffed and attempted to pull away from him. “Oh, and dancing with me is charity, is it?” Draco spun her back into him. “Not in the slightest. I meant merely that she too was sympathetic to your cause.” “My cause?” She looked truly confused; did she really think she was that inconspicuous? “Yes, trying to win your break-up, aren't you?” Draco leaned down to whisper in her ear. “McLaggen is a tool, granted, but aren't I a much more useful one when it comes to upsetting the little weasel?” Draco let his nose graze against her cheek as he pulled his face from hers, dipping her low. When he returned them upright, Hermione was flushed, arms littered with goosebumps, and Draco tried not to let it go to his head how her chest was heaving. The way her body reacted to him was incendiary and he had half a mind to carry her out of the hall to somewhere private where he could show her just how thoroughly he'd make her forget Weasley if she'd let him. “You're dancing with me to make Ronald jealous?” She looked incredulous. “How generous.” “If it means helping a beautiful woman, I can be very generous.” Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, I'm well aware.” “Are you?” Draco wondered what she was referring to. Hermione cleared her throat and evened her breathing. “Yes, well, thanks for the offer, but I'll have to politely decline. Ronald seems plenty worked up as it is.” Hermione nodded towards where Weasley was standing, looking like a pressure cooker about to burst. “Your date looks lonely.” She slipped from his hands and walked off the dancefloor. His date. It was the second time she said it like that. Did she think he was there with Pansy romantically? If she did, Draco knew Hermione wouldn't be the type to take another woman's escort just to further her own agenda, no matter how much she didn't like said woman; it wouldn't be right, and she was very preoccupied with what was right. Draco trotted after her. “Would it make a difference to know Pansy and I are just here as friends? I'm free to help you without any hard feelings on her part, I can assure you.” Hermione snorted. “Trust me, I don't need your help. I'm perfectly capable of rattling Ronald all on my own if I so choose.” “I don't doubt it.” Draco followed Hermione to the practically empty Gryffindor table. “Not that I would do that sort of thing.” She grabbed her clutch from below her seat and headed to the back exit. Draco chuckled, knowing she without a doubt would do that sort of thing and in fact already had.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61013398/chapters/155866909

[lolovestoread]

Dramione Drabble

Originally posted on twt

Auror Draco/Healer Dramione

“I don’t like you right now” Hermione mutters as she continues to wrap the injured auror’s shoulder in bandages.

She knew he was hiding something when he left this morning. She should have known it was the danger of the mission he was being sent on.

“Come on, love” he tried again to grab her hands but she shook them off.

“Look Draco,” she started and he knew he was in trouble because after 10 years together the sound of his given name felt foreign to his ears. “I’m not asking for the moon here. I just need to know you’re safe!”

He sighs. She’s right. Of course she is and she knows it. “Ok love, I’ll keep you informed. It wasn’t supposed to be anything dangerous today but we got a hit on the Lestrange case and we had to act fast. I couldn’t get word to you before we all left the office this morning.”

The logical part of her brain knew that. The emotional part of her brain just wanted to make sure her fiancé was safe. “Alright.” She sighed finishing up the bandages.

He pulls her into his arms and breathes in the smell of her shampoo. Relishing in the scent of home. As she melts into his arms. The stress of the day finally leaving her shoulders.

“I’m still going to complain to Harry.” She mutters into his chest.

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.” He chuckles. Letting her go so he can grab her hand as they both make their way out of St. Mungos.

“I love you, you know?” She says looking up at him.

“You’d better.” He replies with a smirk. “Or else the wedding next month is going to be really awkward.”

They both laugh as they make their way home. Together. Safe. Exactly how it should be.

[princessma1foy]

A draft made her shiver as the birds twittered cheerily above her head. She furiously wiped away a tear before it could escape. It was utter bollocks that she should be in such a state over the likes of none other than Ron Weasley. After all, he was just a stupid boy. Just… her best friend.

Hermione’s shoulders fell and she swallowed a sob. She didn’t even know why his relationship with Lavender bothered her so much. It wasn’t like she had a crush on him. It just hurt in a strange way - to see her best friends embrace the mysterious and wonderful stage of growing up that was romance, while Hermione felt as if she had no room in her heart for such things as the inevitable war loomed ever closer.

At that moment, the door creaked open.

Startled, she whipped out her wand and trained it on the intruder before she could register who it was. When she saw him clearly, her grip only tightened.

Draco Malfoy looked just as surprised as she was. The open surprise quickly faded into a guarded scowl.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione demanded, eyes narrowed.

He regarded her with hollow eyes, and for the first time in years, Hermione felt as if she were really seeing him. He looked exhausted - a shell of his former sarcastic, snippy personality. Red-rimmed eyes studied her from a pale, frail looking face. She was almost alarmed - no sixteen year old should look like that.

“Same as you, from the looks of it.” He responded tonelessly as he crossed the room, ignoring her ready wand as he slumped down against the wall opposite her to stare out the window.

Hermione relaxed her wand, albeit warily. This was unprecedented for him - never in their interactions had he let his guard down like this.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t like it. It felt… comfortable.

Wordlessly, she flicked her wand and the birds above her melted into a blanket, which floated down to her hands as Malfoy’s eyes followed it. Hermione hesitated for a split second before silently offering it to her unlikely companion.

Malfoy studied the blanket, then her again with that same unreadable look in his pale eyes before taking it from her. Wordlessly, he held out the half closest to her, and Hermione gladly draped it over her knees before joining him in staring out the window.

“It’s coming,” he whispered hoarsely.

Hermione glanced at him. He looked haunted. She sighed heavily and returned her gaze to the constellations.

“I know.” She paused, and wasn’t sure if she should continue, but - it felt right. “I’m… scared.” It felt strange to say it out loud, to acknowledge it after all these years of burying her fear beneath her red and gold tie. Somehow, it felt like with Malfoy, she could say it.

“Me too.”

The silence seemed to grow a couple degrees warmer.

She had no idea what was going through his head, but somehow, some way, she felt at that moment they understood each other more than two souls ever had.

And when she woke next morning, he was still there - but next to her, curled in for warmth, the permanent crease in his brow gone as he slept, blissfully unaware of the terrors of tomorrow.

She’d stay still for hours just to see him at peace like that.

[draqo-pctter]

tan lines // a dramione drabble

Draco hated the sun. It made his cheeks red and itchy, and had a nasty habit of burning his shoulders. He also hated the ocean. A sticky film was always left on his skin after a dip in the water that no amount of showering could remove.

But, he loved Hermione. And Hermione loved Malta in the summer. And every summer, they took a weeklong vacation with the Zabinis and spent endless hours beside the pool or on the coast and Hermione wore the most eye-catching bikinis Muggle London could make.

words: 512

tags: established relationship, slightly nsfw

click here to read on ao3 / click here to read on twitter

[damsel-in-mistress]

23: Hubris • NSFW • 50 words

As much as she had hated his hubris at school, she enjoyed it now in her early thirties. For nothing was quite as sweet as watching him fall off his high horse and down on his knees before her, devoutly eating humble pie in the form of her dripping pussy.

@microficmay - Read all 37 Snapshots of Dramione here on ao3.

[sodamnradd]

“I’m asking Theodore Nott to the Ball,” said Hermione, dumping her books on the desk. Ginny raised a brow.

“Do you even know who that is?”

“Oh, shush." Hermione took out an emerald green cover from the pile. “I found his sketchbook. The one that's always on his desk."

“Must be some wicked sketches if they've breached your Quidditch-player fever.” Ginny snatched it.

“I suffer from no such ailment,” she scoffed, but her smile gave her away. More seriously, she said, “I’m lonely, Gin.”

All jokes aside, Ginny felt it, too. “But what's so special about Theo Nott?” She didn’t get it. Hermione could have literally anybody.

“Look at the drawings.” Hermione grinned.

“You snooped?” Ginny tutted. “Naughty, Miss Granger.”

She flipped the cover, licking her fingertip to turn the thick pages with an exaggerated flair. “Shut up,” she cried a few pages in. “Shut up!”

“I know,” said Hermione. “There’s maybe a dozen of them in there.”

“And this doesn’t seem creepy to you?”

Hermione shrugged. “They’re harmless. Look, they’re all from a distance. See that one in the classroom? I think it’s from Transfiguration. My hair was braided like that one morning. They’re rather beautiful.”

Ginny sang out, “He liiikes you.”

She handed the sketchbook back, and Hermione began casting spells over it.

“What are you doing?”

“Locking it up.”

“Not only did you snoop, but you also broke his privacy charms?” Ginny’s grin widened.

"I'm Head Girl," she reasoned. "Simply monitoring."

Ginny kicked Hermione under the table, giving her the hurry-up-and-get-on-with-it eyes. Theo Nott had just entered the library with Malfoy, who seemed to have come from Quidditch practice.

Hermione finished casting her spells, then tousled her hair, pretending to study.

As the Slytherins passed by their table, Hermione called out innocently, “Theodore?”

Theo turned at the sound of his name, appearing confused, or maybe distrustful, when he realised it was Hermione. Odd for a bloke supposedly obsessed with her.

“I found your sketchbook,” she said, holding it up.

Malfoy stepped forward, hand outstretched. “That’s mine, actually.”

(340 words, prompt: that's mine actually, cross-posted from twitter, now illustrated by DamnOverdrive)

[morea-alicia]

Day 1 of 100 Days of Smutty Dramione Drabbles

WARNING !! MINORS DNI !! 18+ CONTENT !!

I'm in a bit of a writing rut because of perfectionism and I can't finish a single piece of work. 100 words are easier to perfect than 1000, so here are 100, 100-word, smutty Dramione drabbles inspired by THIS prompt list by @tumbleweed-writes

Find the masterlist HERE

Day 1: "I'm going to fuck you so hard, you're going to forget that guy's name."

Thrust.

“Mine.”

Thrust.

“Mine.”

Thrust.

“You’re fucking mine, Hermione.” He growls above her; platinum, sweat-soaked hair falling delicately over grey, overcast eyes. His calloused hand tightens possessively around her throat.

“Yours, Draco.” She struggles to croak out. From pain. From pleasure. What does it matter when she feels them simultaneously in her core?

She knows it. He knows she knows it. Gods, even her husband knows it. She is Draco's.

Apparating home each night reeking of cedar, musk, and sweat; hours late from her job at the ministry. Ronald knows too.

Thrust.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you forget his name.”

[elliebyrrdwrites]

The Marriage Law Trope part 4

The little guest house is nestled into the far south corner of the property. There’s a pathway that leads from the front gates, winding around the manor, through the gardens, and past the quidditch pitch. It goes along the pond mother had installed before I was born, filling it with koi fish and lining it with cherry blossoms that are charmed with the perfect temperament year round. Every season, the cherry blossoms bloom. Snow and ice cling to the thing branches and the delicate flowers and even I have to appreciate the sheer beauty of it all. Because the pond freezes over and when my mother was younger and I was just a boy, she’d ice skate and pull me around on a sled tied to a string. I don’t remember it, but she swears I loved it.

The path, it snakes its way through the luxurious estate that I was raised on and it leads to a cottage style home that the earth clings to. The moss grows up the side of the white wood slats of planks and the windows are trimmed with aqua green paint and sweet peas that sprout and bloom along the vines that crawl up the sides of the home.

The guest house has three bedrooms. Only the master bedroom has a bed. I can see mother has been inside. Because, while she does her duty as a good little pureblood wife, what she really wants, is the chance of a grandchild. She wants to see me become a father and I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why. Because I’m the worst. I was raised by the worst father in history.

But, she has come into this place and gutted the two spare bedrooms. She’s taken away the opportunity for us to both gravitate toward the only room with comfort to sleep in.

You enter the cottage and you find yourself in the middle of a space of clean, white furniture that opens up to a large kitchen with white countertops, white cabinipetry and aqua green accents hidden throughout. Like the thin little lines of x’s that are pressed into the white subway tiles behind the stove. Or the little salt and pepper shakers, or the jar meant to hold flour.

But it’s all white and clean and I look at the inside of this cottage and I want to see splashes of colors that don’t make you feel clean. I see the inside of this house all whit and blank and empty and I have to fight the urge to cut open my hand and smear blood against the walls or the couch.

Down the hall, there’s several doors. First, there’s a bathroom, all white and black tiled with a little picture hanging over the toilet that is an old advertisement for soap in French.

Across from the bathroom, is a guest room that is barren. Just wooden floors that are meant to look old and worn but really, they are brand new. The wood planks continue throughout the entire house and down the hall is a laundry room, beside that is another guest room that is full of boxes.

But at the end of the hallway is the master bedroom. It’s where the large, king sized bed is. The bed sits in the middle of the east well. Night stands on either side. Everything in this room is warm earth tones because on the west wall is a wall made entirely of glass that over looks the woods crowding the edge of the house. There’s a sliding door that opens up to a wooden deck. On the deck, there’s a table and two chairs. There’s a hammock attached to the two moderately young oak trees.

And this is where we will live.

This is where our story will take place.

Because, for now, this is our home.

Granger must hate this. Her entire life has been ripped apart and broken down. It’s been broken down and stuffed into boxes with labels that don’t tell you anything about what she has done or what she had been through.

Her life has been broken down and stuffed into boxes like an after thought.

Books, kitchen. Photos, more books.

There’s boxes of clothes, and boxes of shoes. There’s boxes of Knick knacks and sports equipment. I didn’t even know Granger liked sports.

But her life is here, compartmentalized into boxes and they’re lining the hallway of our new home and it’s fucking frightening. Because it’s me and it’s Granger and she’s my wife and I feel the need to snoop through her boxes because I know nothing about her.

Yes, she’s the Golden Girl.

Yes, she’s a swot.

Yes, she’s bossy and had big hair.

Yes, her tits are superb and her lips could kill me.

But, I know nothing else.

Since we were forced to get engaged, I’ve seen her cry over the idea of marrying me, only to kiss me on our wedding day like it was a long time coming. She kissed me like she’s been doing it for years. I’ve seen her stand up to my father, as if they have some sort of ancient history of rivalry.

And now she’s stomping into the master bedroom where I’ve been checking for traps or bugs meant for spying and she’s pouting like a child.

“What are you doing?”

Currently, I’m checking the floorboards for any trap doors or hiding places. So, I roll onto my back and I blow out a sigh before folding my arms under my head.

She standing over me in her little cut off denims and her big baggy sweater and she’s chewing on her fat little lip and all I can do is recall the way it felt to have it against my mouth.

“What?” I ask and she rolls her eyes and uncrosses her arms. They fall to her side and her eyes roam over me. The way my plain white shirt rides up, revealing the course hairs that lead from my navel, to below the waistband of my pants. They roam over the tattoo that is branded into my arm. They bounce from my eyes to my cheeks. Theirs sallow and sunken. My skin is pale, my eyes are dark and my lips are almost always chapped. I think, once upon a time, I used to be considered attractive, pretty even. But even the most beautiful sculptures made out of the finest stone can wither away if left out in the elements.

But Grangers eyes are hard to read. They’re always bright and sunny, though something tells me they are dulled, worn down from how they used to be. They’re always guarded.

“I can’t transfigure anything into a bed.”

I suck through my front teeth. “McGonagall would be disappointed.”

“I know how to do it, you arse, but nothing will take.”

I sniff and stare up at her. From here, I can almost see up her shorts. There’s enough of a gap between her skin and the denim that there’s an alluring shadowy space that makes me want to reach my hand out and touch her. It’s enough of a gap and enough shadow to let my imagination go wild. I can imagine a freckle on her inner thigh, oddly shaped like a heart.

Fuck.

I’m not supposed to want to fuck my wife. Not when I was going to marry Astoria and definitely not now that I am married to Granger.

But that kiss.

This witch had cursed me and blessed me. Because despite the never ending attack of ants fueled by anxiety, I feel like I’m alive.

Granger is giving me life and purpose and I hate her for it.

I love it.

It feels good, great even.

She’s looking down at me, expectantly. She’s looking at me like I’m supposed to fix this.

“That,” I prop myself up onto my elbows. “Is most likely due to mother’s meddling.”

“What?” She almost laughs at the idea. Because, yes. Narcissa is a dutiful wife and she does her best to back up her husband but, more than anything, she wants a grandchild.

Something tells me that if I were to have a child, it would somehow give her a chance to do things differently.

Like, shower their child with love and protect them from the patriarchal dictator of a father.

“There is only one bed in this house, for a reason, and something tells me that if one of us was to fall asleep on the couch, it would likely kick us off of it.”

Her lips do that thing, again, where it turns into a little rosebud. She’s staring down at me with unreadable emotions flashing quickly, across her face before she sighs and turns to observe the room. she looks at the wall of windows. She looks at the massive bed. The only bed in the entire house.

“I prefer the side closest to the door.”

Grangers head jerks down and her big golden eyes look down at me with that same unreadable expression. That’s when I realize something.

Granger is occluding. And from what I can tell, it’s only something she’s learned how to do recently.

And I know, I know, it’s because she’s married to me.

And that is when I realize that I’ve been letting my walls down and the longer I’m around her, the harder it is to keep them up.

Trust me, I know.

And now I’m living with this witch. It’s like being behind enemy lines, only the war is over and we have been forced together. We’ve been forced into a new kind of war. One that is all our own and we are the only soldiers, the only collateral and I can’t figure out if there’s even a chance of a winner or a loser.

Granger looks at the bed, the only bed, and I see her swallow as she fights to build those walls back up.

I need to stop her. I need to make this a fair fight. If I cannot keep mine up, then neither can she.

I shift onto one elbow and my other hand lifts to her ankle. My hand wraps around it. Her entire ankle fits inside of my hand. It’s a perfect fit.

And she jerks and her eyes return to me. She takes her eyes and she gives them back to me as I tighten my hold on her.

“This is the chain.” I say, glancing back to my hand. “And me,” I look at her and she’s all wide eyed and her lips are parted as she inhales deeply. “I’m the ball.” I slide my hand up, allowing my fingers to open up as it reachers her calf. “You’re stuck with me.”

I tighten my grip on her calf and she jumps out of my grasp. I grin up at her as she takes a step back and glares down at me.

And before she lifts her chin into the air and stomps away, going back to unpacking her life that has been divided and stuffed into boxes, she almost smirks as she says, “This isn’t going to go the way you think it is, Draco.”

Trust me, I know.

Because she slipped again.

To Granger, I am not Malfoy. To Granger, I am not just the boy who teased her in school.

To Granger, I am something else.

[kaycares22]

At 7:36 AM on a Tuesday, Draco stumbles out of her personal Floo. It sounds like he tumbles out, and Hermione gasps as she whirls around to face the hearth in her kitchen. He’s bent over with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. She’s never seen him look less put together.

“Draco. What’s wrong?” There’s a wild look in his eyes as he straightens, staring at her in a way that makes her feel more vulnerable than when he had her skirt hitched up around her waist seconds after he placed a silencing charm on the door to her office yesterday. She’s grown used to his touch, his taste, his presence in her life in stolen moments. But a wake-up call is outside the protocol of their trysts.

Not to mention that his face is currently whiter than the white blonde of his hair.

“What happened?” she asks when he continues to stare at her with wide gray eyes instead of answering her question. “What’s wrong?”

His hand shakes as he raises it to run it through his hair. “The tapestry,” he finally rasps. “The bloody fucking tapestry.”

“The…?” Hermione frowns as she watches his Adam's apple bob with the force of his swallow. He runs his hand through his hair again, and she thinks to herself that he looks spider-webbed, seconds away from shattering with the force of a breeze. “Here. Come sit.”

Draco’s hand still shakes in hers when she takes it, but he lets her lead him to one of the stools at her counter. He stares at some spot over her shoulder, almost despondent in his panic, until she presses her palm against his cheek. She ignores the voice in the back of her mind that questions why this feels like the most intimate way she’s ever touched him.

His eyes have that same wild quality when he stares back at her. “What happened to the tapestry?”

Rubbing a hand over his face, he mumbles something to himself that sounds like Didn’t think this part through. His hand covers his eyes for several long seconds before he finally lets it drop away. But then his eyes roam her body like he’s searching for an answer, and she wishes he’d cover his eyes again instead.

It catches her off guard when he asks, “How do you feel?”

“How do I feel?” she repeats, sounding daft even in her own ears.

“Do you feel… normal?”

Draco’s eyes scan her body again, and she crosses her arms over her chest to lessen that feeling of being laid bare before him. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Is there something you need to tell me?” He shifts directions as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. And Hermione feels exasperated.

“Draco, what the hell are you getting at?” she sighs.

He falls silent again, but at least this time he holds her gaze. Another swallow, another bob. Another shaking hand through his hair. And then his voice a thin rasp again when he says, “You appeared on my family tapestry.”

Her blood freezes in her veins. She has no idea what that means, and she’s certain she knows what he just said at the same time. But her brain refuses to accept that interpretation. “I- what?”

“Granger, you are now on the Malfoy family tapestry. Which could mean that when you got me drunk on firewhisky last Friday, I married you and managed to forget.” Her stomach flips at the easy way the word married rolls off his tongue, but something in her mind screams at him to stop there.

Marriage. Period. Full stop. As far as this train of thought goes.

But instead, he levels his gaze with hers again as a muscle twitches in his jaw. “But there would be a line connecting your name to mine. Not an empty circle with an hourglass beneath both our names.”

His eyes drop from hers to stare solidly at her middle. She rushes to cross her arms there, to hide it from his view. “That’s impossible.”

But even as she says the words, she hears the lack of sincerity. Impossible would mean she hadn’t been the one to kiss him first. Impossible would mean she hadn’t invited him back to hers that first time, telling herself the next morning that she had been a little too drunk when she hadn’t drunk at all. Impossible would mean he was still just her coworker, not someone who had traced every part of her with his hands.

It was very possible.

“You’ve been a bitch,” he adds, interrupting her thoughts.

“I have not!” She takes a step back to create distance. Her hand itches to slap him. He must sense it because his lip twitches despite the lack of color that remains in his face.

“You were all pissy with me last week when you misplaced your notes on the vampyr rights’ bill.” He waves a hand lazily towards her. “You’re pissy right now.”

“You called me a bitch!” she says, aghast. What had ever made her think it was a good idea to sleep with this man? And then to keep returning at various times for the last three months?

“Yesterday, my hand barely grazed your tit, and you flinched.” He cards a hand through his hair again. It looks unkempt now, and Draco Malfoy never looks unkempt. Neither of them. Neither of them ever looks unkempt because they are calculated and careful and intentional in everything they do.

Except for when she kissed him on an impulse after their co-authored legislation for the protection of centaurs passed.

Hermione has to fight the urge to raise her hand to her own breast to see if it’s still just as tender.

“Well, it’s impossible.” She sounds more sure of herself as she shakes her head and raises her chin. “I’m taking a potion.”

This time, his lip does more than twitch. It’s a sad kind of smirk he wears, and her hand itches again to slap it off his face. “Which would be canceled out by the antidote you took when you had that skin reaction to the asphodel.”

She had held her breath, waiting for him to point out all the potential flaws in her brewing her own contraceptive potion. But the way he takes his Double Mastery of Potions knowledge and easily points out the way her potions would counteract one another leaves her feeling faint.

Hermione feels the color leave her own face. But her stubborn resistance grows a reciprocal amount.

“Well, this is ridiculous,” she mutters as she storms across the room to her discarded wand on the counter. She turns back around to find that Draco is standing again, gripping the counter as if it’s a life raft. She waves her wand and mutters the detection charm, determined to prove him wrong.

And instead, a tiny gold light appears above her abdomen. Flickering like a rapid heartbeat.

Her knees buckle as her whole world upends. But Draco just stares at it with wide eyes, his expression a mixture of fear and awe as he whispers, “Well, fuck me.”

[pixydustworld]

Being married, Hermione supposed, was a lot like being dead. Lonely and unending — but the most prominent similarity, inescapable.

The ring on her finger was heavy and ancient, a cluster of emeralds that managed to sparkle under any light, and carved in the center of the band were two letters: DM

Exactly seven weeks before, Hermione had entered her cramped office on the 4th floor of the Ministry of Magic, and found Draco Malfoy sitting at her desk.

“You’re wasting away here,” Malfoy had said as a greeting, “Working to build a future that no one believes in. You’ll never accomplish what you wish.” He’d glanced up at her, eyes “Not without me.”

They certainly weren't friends, not even acquaintances — none of their recent interactions (a tight-lipped smile as they passed each other in the hall, a shared look over the Atrium when Cormac McLaggen had tripped and fell headfirst into the fountain) warranted an unannounced office visit, nor did it explain why Draco Malfoy, of all people, felt comfortable enough to sit in her chair.

Perhaps sensing her annoyance, Malfoy had continued talking, which in turn, only annoyed Hermione further. “I’ve been thinking about this future you speak so passionately of, the one where we all have space to belong. I’d like to help you bring it to life.”

“Why.” Not a question, more comparable to a demand.

“You are the answer, Granger, to all of this. The Ministry doesn’t care about your ideas.”

“And you do?” Hermione hadn’t bothered to keep the incredulousness from her voice. 

He had shrugged.“I care about a better world.”

At the flat look she gave him, Malfoy had amended his statement: “For Teddy,” he’d said with more sincerity than Hermione had originally thought he could ever possess, “I want him to have a better life than I did.”

The war had been terrible, like a rot that spread through the cool earth, it had touched everyone — and after the dust had settled, Hermione had come to the conclusion that she held no authority over how others healed, and in turn, how they grew. 

Harry had settled into something softer, finding solace in gardening and lazy afternoons, Ron chased thrills, tumbling from one danger to the next, but Malfoy had surprised her most of all, with his dedication to Teddy.

Looking back, Hermione supposed that was the start. The beginning of her defenses crumbling, the crack in the glass that quickly splintered out of control, consuming her vision entirely — acknowledging he cared for Teddy was enough to change her original perception of him, knowing that he’d break apart the world to carve a better future for him, was something entirely different.

“So what do you suggest?” 

“Marry me,” He’d said, “And you’ll have everything you’ll need to rebuild.”

Whatever Hermione had expected him to say, it certainly hadn’t been that — “And what do you get?” She had asked after a long moment, eyes narrowed, always on the defense, especially with him, “Forgiveness?”

“I don’t care about forgiveness.” Malfoy had shrugged, still sitting comfortably in her chair, “All I need is an heir.”

Hermione had laughed, too loud for her tiny office, too loud for their quiet conversation — she hadn’t slept more than 12 hours in the past 4 days, weary and overworked, there had been no room in her crowded head to think about suppressing her initial reaction. 

“You want me to become the next Lady Malfoy?”

“While I deeply appreciate the idea of you having my last name, I am a realistic man. It will undoubtedly be Granger hyphen Malfoy.”

Her laughter had still been something she tasted when Hermione stilled. There had been no humor in his eyes, only open sincerity — “You’re serious?” She had asked, for the first time, feeling the full weight of his words, “No! No, I can’t marry you, I don’t even know you.”

Malfoy had scoffed. “We grew up together, Granger.”

“That does not count!” Hermione had snapped, “This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and you’re proposing to me.”

“Five years.” Had been his response.“One child and unfiltered access to my accounts for the rest of your life. We can make an Unbreakable Vow, if you’d like.”

“You are insane.”

“Perhaps. But I know what I want.”

“What you want,” Hermione had argued, “Is not me.” 

“You are exactly what I want.” Malfoy had sounded so sure, so determined, fighting for something, perhaps, for the first time in a long while, “I need you. And as it turns out, you need me.”

“I don’t need anyone.” Hermione had snapped. Which was true, she could rebuild the world herself with her own aching hands, brick by unforgiving brick. “I can do this by myself.” 

At that, Malfoy had grinned, wide and all encompassing. “I have no doubt about that. But just because you can do it by yourself, doesn’t mean you have to.” He’d said, “Just think about it, alright?”

Unfortunately for her, Hermione had thought about his offer, more than she would like to admit — like a dog scratching at the door, like a ghost determined to haunt her, his words trailed after her, weaving their way into her bones.

Perhaps, she had reasoned with herself, the answer wasn’t ripping herself apart to fit into the narrative the Ministry had decided for her, perhaps the true answer was simple, close enough to touch. 

A month later, after being denied funding for the thirteenth time, Hermione had stormed into Malfoy’s office, ignoring his secretary, ignoring the voice in her head that told her to stop. “Five years?”

“Only five.”

And so, that was how her life had unfolded. A rushed ceremony, Malfoy’s hand warm on her waist, Harry as their bewildered witness; the beginning of half a decade together, a fortune to spend, a world to rebuild — and hovering at the back of her mind was a thought, floating softly, like an early September snow: an heir, owed as payment.

In the year that progressed around them, Hermione was met with yet another startling realization: she liked his company, furthermore, she missed Malfoy’s presence when he was away from her side. She wanted to hate him, wanted to be disgusted by the way his fingers always trailed spirals of fire across her skin in public, hands finding their faithful home in the small of her back — but despite Hermione’s best efforts, she didn't hate him.

She liked him.

Loved him, even.

It hadn’t happened overnight, a slow progression of muddled feelings, dripping to pool at the base of her spine, but one thing was for certain — one day she’d looked up, and had been glad to belong to him, if only for a moment. Hermione had not chosen him, and wouldn’t of, given the chance — but, yet, here he was beside her, a rock in the sea, letting her waves crash against him endlessly; she looked at him and saw an impossible future, one that extended past the five years they’d promised to each other.

Her own feelings aside, the two of them were happy together.

And then, on a Tuesday morning in early June, Draco Malfoy ruined everything.

 “I think we should have sex.” He said conversationally, tone even, “Right now.”

Hermione glanced up from her book. “Now?” 

Malfoy nodded, looking too comfortable sitting on her bed, “If you’re free.”

“I am.” She said softly. When faced with the terrifying problems of her youth, Hermione had always turned to reading — so in her best efforts to remain neutral on the subject of conceiving a child with a man whom she loved, who most undoubtedly did not feel the same way about her, Hermione returned to her old habits.“You can just do it, I’ll keep reading.”

Malfoy blinked at her. “You want to keep reading.”

Hermione nodded.

“While I fuck you.”

Hermione nodded again.

“This is what you want?”

“Yes.” She said through her teeth, “Now hurry up, you could've finished already.” Then, because she didn’t want to stare at his stupidly handsome face (nor the incredulous look on it) any longer, Hermione went back to reading about The Goblin Rebellion of 1752.

Warm hands smoothed up her legs, blunt nails scraping across her flesh, and Hermione narrowed her eyes at the page. “It’s my fault.” He said after a moment, “I’ve neglected my husbandly duties.”

“I should’ve never let you wander so far away,” He continued, fingers beginning to trace the crotch of her shorts, while Hermione dutifully re-read the same sentence three times, “Should’ve fucked you the first night, right there on the Ministry floor.”

Reading about Goblins seemed impossible, made even more so, when Malfoy slipped his fingers beneath the fabric of her pajamas, and began to lightly trace her cunt. “I knew you’d be warm.” 

His voice was closer than before — Hermione glanced away from the blurry page, to find her husband inches away, breath warm on the exposed flesh of her stomach. 

“If this is how you think conception works,” Hermione said tightly, hardly able to breathe, the weight of his touch over her cunt sending shivers down her spine, “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”

“Maybe I want to play with my food.”

“Hm.” 

He was silent for a while, tugging her shorts down past her knees, twisting her open with his fingers; he didn’t speak again until he was licking softly at her center, content, Hermione realized with spreading horror, to spend the entire day between her thighs — 

Her fingers, who seemed to have a mind of their own, slipped down her torso, twisting in his hair, tugging at his scalp. Hermione felt him smile against her cunt, felt the scrape of his teeth on her flesh, caught between his jaws like prey. “How is your book?” He asked thickly.

“Fine.” Hermione whimpered, beyond pretending to read now, “I-Informational.”

“Such a smart girl.”

They both felt how she twitched at his words, tightening around his fingers. 

“So clever,” Malfoy continued softly, still so capable of being cruel, “And strong. I see you when I close my eyes, beautiful,  so tight and wet. Only for me, yes? For your husband?”

The book fell on the bed with a thud. “For you.” Hermione agreed, tugging at him, nails scraping across his skin like thorns from a garden, “For my husband.”

Fingers worked her clit, slipping through the wetness; as pleasure curved up her spine, unrelenting in a beautiful way, Hermione twisted away, grasping at the bed sheets — but met resistance when Malfoy tugged her back to his body. “No, no,” he murmured, adopting a patronizing tone, “Pretty girls don’t get to run away.”

She was still twitching, trapped beneath him in endless pleasure, when he brushed his cock across her cunt, pressing inside with aching slowness. It was instinct to remind him of the protection spell — but the words died in her throat when Hermione remembered what he wanted. What they both wanted.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” He rasped against her breast, teeth scraping flesh, “For so long.”

“A year,” Hermione hadn’t been able to keep the whine from her voice, how her breath hitched, painting her words with sweet desperation, “is not that long.”

Malfoy looked up, eyes glistening. “I’ve wanted you for much longer, Hermione.”

His cock was currently inside of her, carving a home, but hearing her name on his lips somehow felt infinitely more intimate. “You have?”

“If sleeping down the hall from you was all I’d ever get,” Malfoy panted, lips wet and red from sucking at her nipples — Hermione had a terrible vision of him doing that to her when she was pregnant with his child, swollen with him, “I’d gladly take it. I’d take whatever you gave me.”

“You love me?” The world was tilting on its axis, he was somehow still moving inside her, thick and swollen, somehow still pressing deeper.

He nodded, opening his mouth to speak, to fill her head with soft words, overflowing from his lips like a river swollen with rain — but before he could, Hermione twisted in their embrace, eyes narrowed in indignation. “And you didn't say anything?” She twitched when he hit the soft part inside her, words breaking off in her throat, voice turning brittle, “This entire time we could have been fucking? You are an idiot — ”

They’d kissed before, at parties, amongst twinkling lights and spilled champagne — but he’d never kissed her like this. Hungry and desperate, as if Malfoy wanted to consume her, bones and all, to etch a permanent place for himself along her spine. Hermione whimpered, pressing him closer, deeper inside, tightening around his cock; her hands slipped down to the mess of their fucking, squeezing his balls.

“Your poor little cunt,” Malfoy groaned, “Having to stretch around my cock. When we’re done, I’ll kiss it better, I promise, I’ll do whatever you want, stay on my knees for you forever, just let me cum, please, please — ” 

Hermione had barely finished nodding when she felt warmth of his cum inside her, felt as he kept fucking her — desperate thrusts, sloppy and uneven, felt as he pushed himself deeper inside.

It was alarming, the idea that this could grow to something more, blossom, like a late spring flower — to become something beyond what they’d originally agreed upon. That perhaps, she could be guided gently down this path, hand in his own, towards a destination she’d never intended.

To love and to be loved in return.

“Do you think it took?”

Malfoy’s laugh vibrated against the skin of her ribcage, the echo of him inside her bones. “I tried my best.” His fingers slipped through the mess of her cunt, slowly pushing his cum back inside. “Come here, little wife. Let me fuck it deeper.”

All soft limbs and warmth, Hermione opened her legs further, making a home for him between her legs. “I’m not that little.”

Sliding his cock back in, Draco hissed between his teeth at the feel of her, “Not for long,” he agreed. 

[morgan-magic]

Draco felt free. He was unburdened for the first time and it was because of her. Because of love not built on conditions but in lax kisses at one in the morning, in knotted fingers throughout the night, in whispered “mine” during quiet times.

It had started with curious glances across the office, shifted to brushing the backs of their fingers in passing and moved to kissing in ministry cupboards. Now, they laid in twisted sheets, slick with body fluids.

When he woke beside her for the first time and witnessed how she was a breath-hitching beauty even in her sleep, he asked himself if he was lucky. He once considered his luck entirely spent. During the war he had cursed the gods for his ill-fated future. Now he thanked them.

Before, Draco hadn’t realised love wasn’t simply three words. It was the weight of her against his body at night, her hazel eyes searching for him in a crowd, and the double-sugared coffee she left for him in the morning. It was forever promises in the dark.

It was Hermione Granger.

bsky drabble | 182 words | Draco reflects

[lolovestoread]

Meeting the Parents

Originally posted on twt

“Are you sure you’re sure about this?” Hermione asked for what felt like the hundredth time. Brushing imaginary dust off the front of her skirt. She was nervous.

“I promise nothing bad is going to happen. They really have changed since the war Sweet.” He tried to placate her, but it was useless. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy would always intimidate her no matter how long she had been dating their son.

The war had left too many scars.

“Hermione, look at me.” He said while lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “I’m tired of keeping you a secret. You’re it for me, and if they don’t accept that we will leave.”

They stay like that just taking comfort in each other until Hermione’s breathing calms again.

“Ok let’s do this.” She straightens her shoulders and takes a final deep breath.

“Hey,” Draco says, catching her wrist as she begins to walk back towards the front door of the Manor. “I’m serious. One word from either of them and we leave.”

He laces their pinkies together, bringing their linked hands to his mouth to kiss her knuckles.

“I love you” he whispers against her skin.

“I know” she smiles. “I love you too.”

[princessma1foy]

“Please.”

It was a desperate plea. His last hope. He had nowhere, nobody else. Draco studied the unreadable gaze of the witch in front of him as she tilted her head, considering.

The forest itself seemed to hold its breath as he awaited his fate. That it should fall to her - well, the irony was almost cruel. But with Potter and Weasley dead and the Dark Lord’s power inching further by the day, Hermione Granger was the last great hope of the rebellion. All of their fates rested with her now.

“On your knees.”

Her voice was nothing like the excited schoolgirl he remembered from their youth. Its icy, quiet strength sent an unwilling shiver down his spine.

Slowly, he sank to his knees and bowed his head in trepidation. All his senses alert, he stilled as she approached him slowly, deliberately.

Two delicate yet ironlike fingers forced his chin upward. Draco met her gaze with what he hoped was cool determination. He could feel the faint whisper of her breath stir his hair.

Her lips curved upward in a twisted smile.

“I quite enjoy having you on your knees, Draco Malfoy.”

He swallowed but stayed silent despite every muscle in his body screaming at him to snap back. He knew she could see the fire in his eyes when she let out a small laugh.

Hermione held out her hand and Draco stared for a moment before taking it and rising to his feet. Looking up at him from where she now stood no taller than his shoulder, Draco had never seen such a poised, confident yet slightly unhinged look on Hermione’s face as she leaned close with a silky whisper.

“You’re mine now, ferret.”