Chapter 1: Sparkly Shoes
Notes:
TW: There is description of blood in this chapter. It is not fatal or copious.
Read the Russian translation here, translated by Kenni_Gam.
See the end notes for some amazing art for this chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s something about dancing in the middle of a nightclub.
There’s something freeing about imbibing in a few drinks, letting her hair down and dancing to her heart’s content surrounded by her friends. She can feel the music thumping through her feet, up her legs and into her torso, vibrating against her skin. It almost feels like a drug working its way through her system.
When she closes her eyes, feeling the music and the touch of the bodies around her, the lights continue to flash - blue, red, then green, yellow she thinks, then blue and red and green and yellow. It makes her feel like she’s completely removed from her real life. At that moment she’s not a university student trying to make it into grad school, she’s not the bookworm that spends her free time in the library or the one in her friend group pushing for more study time and less partying time.
She’s just Hermione: dancer extraordinaire with slightly flailing arms and awkward legs.
But all good things slowly come to an end. Soon, the flashing lights and the thumping music make her feel dizzy. Her arms and legs feel like they’re trying to move through mud. Did she over imbibe? Is it all catching up to her? She thinks so and awkwardly turns to her friend to point at their table.
Ginny, sweet and wonderful Ginny, catches on and lets her wrap an erratic octopus tentacle-like arm around her waist to steady her as she stumbles over to their table. They splurge that night, intent on celebrating the end of exams, and go all out on bottle service that includes a table watched over by a buff security guard who doesn’t know how to smile.
“Maybe if I stand behind you and push your tits up higher he’ll flash us a toothy grin,” Ginny shouts into her ear, her hands roving her waist and tickling the underside of her breasts.
Hermione rolls her eyes - which, oh God, she will never do again if it means the dizziness goes away - and uses her heavy arms the best she can to push Ginny’s sneaky ones away from her breasts. She looks down and thinks that this dress does the job well enough.
It’s too short and too tight but it does its best to give her some semblance of cleavage. As they move, her sparkly shoes catch her attention and she smiles. They’re her favourite part of her outfit, the one thing she’s really splurged on in the last few months. She watches as they glitter in the flashing lights.
“Are you alright to sit on your own? I’m going back out there, I saw a bloke trying to get a glimpse down my top and I feel like he deserves it,” Ginny shouts, helping her sit on the bench seat around the table.
Hermione nods her head before leaning forward and burying her face in her hands, her head spinning at the movement, “Yes, Gin, I’m alright - go show your tits off.”
Her friend pats her on the head before she takes off, heels clacking loudly on the floor until all she can hear is the music. She attempts to keep her head steady and takes small sips from a bottle of water while she people-watches.
People-watching at a nightclub is entertaining; people tend to move and dance and act as though no one is paying attention to them in clubs. There’s a group of women downing shots in one corner and a couple getting a little too close on the dance floor. She squints to make sure it isn’t Ginny, but she can’t see her identifiable red hair.
A loud commotion from the table next to hers makes her head turn - which, thankfully, does not cause her brain to spin - and she watches as a group of older men clink glasses and shout up at the ceiling. They all take the shot before clapping one of the men on the back.
She thinks she hears the words “last night of freedom” from the group and if she wasn’t worried about becoming dizzy, she’d roll her eyes. Men are so predictable that way, viewing the days before a wedding as freedom; what does marriage mean then? Shackles and a ball and chain?
She’s caught up in her thoughts when she reaches across the table to pour herself another vodka cranberry. The bottle of Belvedere is heavier than she expects it to be and as she pulls it over, it knocks into an empty glass which shatters, pieces spilling all over the table and onto the floor by her open-toed heels.
Without thinking about it, Hermione reaches down to pick up the bigger pieces she can see and rescue her toes from a potential accident but her plan has flaws; namely that it’s dark around her feet and she can’t see where she’s reaching and- ouch!
“Oh fuck,” she whispers, a hiss through clenched teeth.
When she pulls her hand back up she sees the damage: a thick stripe across her palm, a line of crimson already blooming and slowly dripping down her skin. The contrast is stark and she watches as it drips down towards her wrist.
The flashing lights and the music sort of fade away as she stares at her hand, transfixed. It feels like her heart is pulsing in her palm, each beat pouring out additional crimson that trails down her hand, wrist and arm like a drip painting.
“You alright, love?”
A voice she doesn’t recognize pulls her out of her trance and she drags her eyes away from her palm. When she looks, it’s an older blond man who she’s never seen before, but his face bears concern.
“Are you alright?” He repeats, tilting his head as though trying to look down at the mess on the table.
Hermione can’t seem to find the words and instead she tilts her hand at the stranger so he can see the slice across her palm and the streaks of blood.
“Oh ouch, love,” he says, moving closer. He picks up a spare napkin sitting on the table and reaches for her hand, “Let me see that.”
She lets him turn her hand so he can see the cut and he carefully wipes away some of the blood that’s now dripping down to her elbow. She realizes she hasn’t said a word to him yet but she doesn’t feel like she can. Instead her eyes drift up to look at the man.
She thinks he’s with the group at the table next to them, just based on his age. Not that he looks old just...distinguished. His features are the kind you’d see on a model, slightly pointed with carved cheekbones, but he tries to cover it with the rugged beard he’s sporting.
“I can’t see much in here, love,” he shouts to her, turning her hand this way and that as if trying to get the lighting perfect. “I’m going to take you to the back and clean you up, alright?”
She still can’t seem to force any words out so she nods and lets him carefully lead her away from the table. There’s still glass around her feet and he must notice it because before she can take a step, he’s gripping her waist in both hands and lifting her.
There isn’t even time for her to grasp his shoulders before he’s putting her back down, away from the broken glass with the burning imprint of his hands on her body. She thinks it might be shock that’s stopping her from reacting at all to this stranger.
He holds her by her wrist, keeping her palm facing up, and leads her away from the tables and towards a door by the bar. Wasn’t she supposed to have a security guard watching her? Shouldn’t the security guard be dealing with her sliced open hand and not a random stranger?
And yet, she follows him as he leads her through the door and into a labyrinth of hallways. It’s much quieter back here and lights aren’t flashing different colours, just a smooth fluorescent. Her eyes immediately look down at the floor and she watches her sparkly shoes as she moves, clicking loudly in the otherwise quiet hallway.
The door at the end of the hall seems to be their destination and the handsome stranger pushes the door open for her, still keeping his grip on her wrist. There’s blood still welling up but not as much as there had been initially.
“There’s a first aid kit in here somewhere,” he mumbles to himself, flicking on the lights.
It’s a small room with a sink and a table and he leads her to sit down, still holding her hand out flat. Before he moves away from her though, his fingers slip below her chin and he’s looking at her with concern again.
“You still haven’t said anything, love,” he says, voice low and eyes searching over her face. “Can you tell me your name?”
Her name. Yes, she can tell him her name. She can open her mouth, wet her lips and croak out her name to the stranger. It comes out small, but it comes out nonetheless, breathier than normal, “Hermione.”
“She speaks,” he smiles and it’s a beautiful smile with gleaming white teeth and small little wrinkles that form around his eyes. “Alright, Hermione. I’m going to find the first aid kit, you sit tight.”
She sits, just like he said, and watches him as he moves around the room. He’s tall - he’d towered over her even in her heels as they walked - and she finds her eyes drawn to the line of his belt, watching his hips as he moves.
With her free hand, she pulls down the hem of her dress just a little bit from where’s sitting at the top of her thighs.
With a soft case in his hands, he sits across from her at the small table and wipes it down with disinfecting wipes.
“Can I see your hand?” The blond stranger asks one he’s finished cleaning the table and laying out a clean cloth.
Hermione carefully rests her hand on the cloth-covered table and watches the man as he inspects the cut with his eyes. He takes care not to touch anything outside of the cloth, including his hair when a few pieces flop into his eyes, and the first brush of his fingers against her skin causes her to jolt in her seat.
He clears his throat and glances up at her, “It doesn’t look very deep, mostly superficial. I’ll just clean it up for you, alright?”
“Alright,” Hermione says softly,
She winces at the first dab of a tissue to her hand and he takes notice, clearing his throat, “Are you here with others?”
“Yes. A group of us, just out celebrating the end of exams,” Hermione frowns as she watches him carefully clean the blood away from her skin and run a finger down the cut. “Sorry, do you know what you’re doing?”
In the moment she’d been grateful for the help as she stood frozen in the club with blood dripping down her arm. She’d gone willingly with a complete stranger when he’d offered to take her to the back and find a first aid kit, but back here she’s reminded that she has no idea who this very attractive man is.
He smiles a little bit at her question, “I’m a Doctor.”
“A medical Doctor?”
“Yes,” he chuckles, balling up the used tissue and placing it on the corner of the cloth. “I would show you my hospital ID but I’m trying to keep the area sterile.”
Hermione shifts in the chair as he carefully opens a hydrogen-peroxide pad and touches the skin surrounding the cut. He has gentle hands and a calming bedside manner that helps her imagine him in scrubs and a Doctor’s coat, a stethoscope around his neck.
Before he smooths the pad over the cut, he looks up at her again and offers her a kind smile, nodding his head down at her feet, “I like your shoes. They’re very pretty.”
Her eyebrows raise in surprise and just when she looks down and lets her gaze rest on her favourite part of the outfit, he runs the pad over her cut. She hisses and tenses when the cut stings but he grips her hand tighter so she doesn’t move away.
She laughs though, once the stinging has gone away and her cut is clean, “Did you just...distract me? Like you would a child?”
There’s a smirk blooming on his lips and he shrugs his shoulders, “Did it work?”
Hermione chews on the flesh of her cheek before she nods her head, “I mean, yes. But it’s because of how much I love these shoes.”
The blond stranger hums and moves her palm so he can study the cut. She thinks it looks clean and it’s nearly stopped bleeding thanks to his attention.
“I stand by what I said,” he says softly, cleaning away another smudge of red against her skin. “I like them, they’re very pretty.”
Hermione thinks she might blush. Her cheeks are hot and she feels a bit sweaty, but it might also be because it’s hot inside the club. She’s also drunk, so it could be alcohol in her system causing her cheeks to pink. The silence is a little bit awkward between them, she thinks.
She watches as he carefully opens a large bandage and cuts the edges with a pair of scissors so it fits to her hand.
She watches as he traces the side of the cut with his fingers before flattening her hand so he can get the perfect seal.
She watches as he runs his thumb down the bandage once it’s on, right down the centre of her palm.
“I’m just going to wrap it, so the bandage stays,” he mutters, removing his fingers from her skin and picking up a roll of gauze and wrapping it around her palm. “You should check on the cut tomorrow and change the bandage again.”
Hermione nods her head and it brings the dizziness back that she’d had in the club. Will she remember his instructions in the morning? Will she even remember him? Or how she cut her hand? She doesn’t even know the handsome stranger’s name.
She should write it down, she decides. Her crossbody purse is still sitting against her side and she uses her free hand to try to dig into it and grab her phone, but her body twists and her head clouds again.
“Are you alright? Do you need something?”
She squints through one eye and forces herself to speak lest her head spins again, “Just trying to get my phone. I don’t want to forget what you said and...I-I just realized I don’t even know your name.”
She thinks there’s a hint of a smile on his lips and she can feel him using the scissors to cut the gauze he’s wrapped around her. There’s still a heartbeat in her palm, but it doesn’t hurt.
“I can help you with both of those things. Where’s your phone?” He asks, tucking the gauze and antiseptic pads back into the kit.
“It’s just in my bag,” she says, turning slightly to the side while keeping her head level until he can see the bag resting against her hip
“Had a little too much to drink?” He teases, reaching around the small table until he’s holding her purse and unzipping it.
Hermione squeezes her eyes shut when she feels him withdraw her phone. His fingers graze her waist as he lets the bag fall back to her side and her phone slides into her view so she can unlock it for him.
“I’m going to send you a text with everything I just said. Let me know tomorrow that you’re awake and that your hand is alright,” he says, tapping away at her phone. “If something doesn’t feel right you come right to the hospital and I’ll take a look, alright?”
Hermione smiles a little bit at his words, “I will. But you still haven’t told me your name.”
The blond stranger who came to her sudden rescue slides her phone back across the table to her and she grips it with her uninjured hand. It’s probably a bad thing, but it feels like a comfort to have it with her again.
He shakes his head as though he’s laughing at her, “You’re an impatient little thing, aren’t you? I was getting there, love. Now c’mon, let me get you back to your friends before they think I’ve stolen you away.”
He helps her back out into the hallway and lets her hold onto his arm to steady herself as she walks. She should feel embarrassed but the smile is ever present on his beautiful face and she gets the feeling that he doesn’t mind.
Just before they go back into the club - she can hear the music thumping beyond the door - he slows her to a stop and steadies her shoulders, “Remember to change the bandage tomorrow.”
“I will,” she says. “Should I just call you Handsome Stranger?”
She’s almost embarrassed, but has had too much to drink to really think about what she's said. He laughs and places his hand just in the small of her back, leaning forward to grasp the door handle with his other, “It’s Draco. I put it in your phone so you won’t forget.”
She mouths his name: Draco, it’s a bit odd she thinks, but so is hers.
The coffee is just a little bit too hot when he lets it touch his tongue and he pulls away from the mug before he can swallow any of the scalding liquid. In his 43 years he still has yet to appropriately judge when his coffee has cooled down enough.
Draco knows that he’ll put the coffee down, get distracted by something else while waiting for it to cool, and have it be stone cold by the time he remembers that the mug sitting on the island is his.
His eyes travel over the kitchen until they land on his phone sitting on the counter and, not for the first time that morning, he wills it to light up with a text. The clock on the wall tells him it’s nearly 11 and he’s almost ashamed that he’s been awake and waiting since 8:30. He tells himself that he doesn’t want to miss her text, which isn’t necessarily false.
He doesn’t want to miss her text. But that’s the brilliant thing about texts, isn’t it? It’s not like a phone call that he doesn’t hear and shows up as a missed call. Her text will just show up as a text, nothing missed about it.
“Alright, mate?”
He looks up from where he’s been staring into his mug, willing the steaming liquid to cool, and he nods his head at the bleary-eyed man who he calls his best friend, “Alright. You?”
Theo wanders around the island to his coffee maker and throws in a pod before slipping a mug underneath the spot, “Yeah, alright. Except your ex-wife called me at bloody 7 this morning.”
Draco snorts and his eyes move back to his phone, “You have no idea how much I love knowing that in five days you won’t be able to call her that any longer.”
“Sure I will,” Theo says, leaning his back against the counter. “Just because I marry her doesn’t make her any less your ex-wife.”
Yeah, that was a bit of a surprise. The last thing he’d expected was for his best mate to sit him down at dinner and explain that he’d hooked up with his ex-wife one night and one thing led to another and they were dating. Would he mind?
In truth, no, he didn’t mind. He didn’t think it was even fair to consider Astoria his ex-wife. They’d gotten married at 22 and divorced at 23. One year of marriage was more than enough for them both and the split was amicable. They stayed friends and still hung out in the same circles. Still, there was something that squicked him about Theo and Astoria being together.
“In fact, she’s sad about losing your last name,” Theo continues, turning when the coffee maker goes through its final noise. “Says she gets better service when she’s Ms. Malfoy.”
Draco rolls his eyes, “Yes, I’m sure she is.”
He’s not ashamed to admit that there are two Ms. Malfoy’s wandering around using his name. Three, if he counts his mother.
He loses himself in the clock once Theo moves in front of his phone and he watches the second hand countdown. How pathetic has he become? Two ex-wives, his best friend marrying his first ex, his second quite happy to never see him again and he’s at home, waiting for - quite literally - a girl to text him.
Theo seats himself on one of his barstools and slides his phone over to him, “Got a few texts, mate.”
He does not grab his phone and with his heart in his throat. He does not curse the face ID for not recognizing him and forcing him to input his password.
Hermione: hello, it’s hermione
Hermione: the girl with the sparkly shoes
Draco smirks down at his phone and ignores Theo who makes the same mistake that he did not five minutes earlier, letting out a yelp when the hot coffee touches his tongue.
Hermione
Draco: Hello, Hermione - girl with the sparkly shoes.
Draco: How’s your hand?
Hermione: hi 😊
Hermione: it’s a bit stiff, I’m just about to take the bandage off
Draco: Rinse it with water and send me a picture.
“What’s got you smiling like that? Did you pick someone up last night?” Theo asks, spinning his own phone on the island.
Draco narrows his eyes at him, “No, I did not.”
His phone lights up and this time he can see an image attached.
Hermione: does it look bad?
He enlarges the photo and looks at the line of the cut. It’s nothing that she’ll need medical attention for.
Draco: Not at all. Make sure you dry it well and get a clean bandage on there. In a few days you can use some polysporin if you have it.
“Must be a wound then. Illness? Maybe a disease. A gruesome x-ray perhaps?” Theo continues, poking fun at him like he’s done since they were six-years-old.
Draco flicks his eyes up at him again, “Actually yes, it’s a wound.”
Theo snorts, “You’re a creepy bastard, mate.”
Hermione: thank you, dr. draco 😊
Draco: You’re welcome, Hermione.
He wants the conversation with her to continue, but he’s not sure how to do it. He’s older than her - by a lot, he thinks - and she’s...young. She could probably get any bloke she wants in that little tiny dress and bloody sparkly heels.
Hermione: so, do you let all of your patients text your personal phone?
“If only your colleagues could see you now: coming in your pants over a picture of a wound-”
“-Theo! Shut the fuck up, mate! I’m not smiling at a fucking wound. It’s a girl, alright?”
Whatever he thought the result of that would be, Theo smiling at him was not it. He looks far too pleased with himself, almost proud of himself, and Draco rolls his eyes and huffs, looking back down at his phone.
Draco: Just one, actually.
Hermione: oh?
“I knew it was a girl,” Theo mumbles, taking a sip from his mug.
“Shut up, Theo.”
Draco: Yes. She has these very pretty sparkly shoes. Sliced her hand up pretty good last night.
Draco: She told me she wasn’t sure if she’d remember it in the morning.
Hermione: all for naught, i suppose. i remember 🙃
Hermione: what if I needed medical attention?
Draco: Then I’d meet you at the hospital.
Hermione: damn
Draco frowns and continues to ignore Theo who’s still mumbling to himself.
Draco: What?
Hermione: i should have made it sound worse than it is
He grins and looks up at Theo who matches his expression.
“Did she send you a nude?”
He picks up an apple from the fruit bowl and whips it at his oldest friend, who dodges it and laughs. He holds his hands up in surrender and stands, picking up his mug.
“Only joking,” he says, picking up the apple from the wall and brushing it against his shirt. “I’ll leave you to your girl.”
Draco watches him leave his kitchen and looks back down to his phone and his forgotten coffee cup. Stone cold, again.
Draco: You don’t have to be injured to see me.
Hermione: no?
Hermione: i’ll remember that then
Notes:
Here we go! This is entirely selfish and the result of a DD/lg fan fic binge. I also need to thankcaroline for being so, so supportive of this story.
There is some beautiful art for this chapter by the INCREDIBLE vesperics, commissioned by some of my wonderful Twitter friends that you can see here.
Find me on Twitter and Tumblr.
Enjoy xx
Chapter Text
When people think of hospitals, Draco knows they think of the smell. It’s mostly disinfectant; it’s this artificial clean smell that has such a strong chemical wiff to it that it burns your nose. Anyone who says that a hospital smells like sickness or death is really referring to the smell of those chemicals.
Draco doesn’t think of that, though. The smell, after so many years, is almost a comfort. For him, it means things are clean and people are being taken care of and that there’s hope. Without that smell, without the chemicals itching the inside of his nose, there’s no doctors and no patients and no families waiting for good news.
Still, when families tell him that they can’t stand the smell of the hospital, he gets it. Being in a hospital is rarely a good thing for most people, unless you’re a doctor or a nurse or a technician, unless you’re choosing to have your baby there or having a surgery that will change your life for the better. But those times are few and far between.
Mostly, Draco talks to sad people, to people who are grieving and angry. But it comes with the territory and it’s worth it for every life that he can make better.
Like his last case: a woman with a shallow stab wound who, thankfully, did not require surgery. He stitched her up as painlessly as possible and brought her mother in to see her from the waiting room.
He’s not so new anymore that he focuses on how the woman was stabbed, only that he’s able to help her.
Draco looks down at his smart watch as it buzzes to life, thrilled that he’s reached his step goal for the day, and heads down to the cafeteria for a much needed coffee and snack. He’s on hour nine of his 12 hour shift.
As he makes his way down the stairs - his watch will jump for joy when he exceeds his goal once again - he feels his phone buzz in the pocket of his scrubs and a light smile paints his lips with the knowledge that it’s the sparkly shoe’d girl who has overtaken his texts and his thoughts.
They'd talked all day and all night, chatting about anything and everything beyond the state of her hand.
Just as he draws his phone out of his pocket, he sees Blaise standing down the hall, signing off on a few charts. He waves and Draco leans against the nurses station, flashing a wink at the older nurse - Joanne - who’s always trying to set him up with her daughter.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Malfoy,” she says with a grin, taking another chart from Blaise.
He tips his head, “Oh, Joanne, you know to call me Draco.”
Joanne giggles at him and Blaise snorts, signing off on the last clipboard before handing it off, “Joanne, you’re breaking my heart! I thought we had something between us.”
The nurse reaches out and pushes against Blaise’s shoulder when he leans slightly over the desk, “Oh, you two! Always teasing me. Go on, get something to eat before you’re called again.”
Blaise taps the top of the desk and waves his hand at the nurse before tucking his hands into his pockets and gesturing to Draco to lead the way. They walk in comfortable silence; Draco knows that Blaise is nearly finished his shift and from the drag of his feet knows he hasn’t had much sleep, if any at all.
He peeks down at his phone.
Hermione
Hermione: did you know that you can make frozen nuggets in the microwave?
Draco: No, I can’t say that I did. Is that really advisable?
Hermione: the package says it is!
Hermione: beats 20 minutes in the oven
Draco: 20 minutes isn’t that long. My, my, you are impatient.
He can feel Blaise’s stare on him as he texts and he turns to look at the man who he’s known for almost as long as Theo. There’s a light smirk on his lips that tells him Theo has opened his big stupid mouth.
“Is she of age, at least?”
Draco glares at him, “Really, Blaise? Do I strike you as someone who chases after underage girls?”
Blaise shrugs, waving his hand over the sensor for the double doors in front of them, “Honestly? I don’t even know, mate. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you attempt to date anyone.”
“We’re not dating,” he says, because they’re not.
She’s young, a student she told him, meaning she’s likely no older than 21. What could she possibly want with someone as old as he is? Not that he's told her how old he is, but she has eyes.
The faint lines had appeared around his eyes somewhere around 38 and he’d found it more difficult to stay fit without putting in so much effort around 40. He hasn’t let himself go but he’s not ashamed to admit he’s a little softer with age.
“But you want to,” Blaise says, knocking his shoulder into his own. “And why shouldn’t you? Who was your last date? Your second ex-wife?”
Another glare, “Don’t.”
Hermione: patience doesn’t pay 🙃
Draco: I suppose that depends on what you’re being patient for.
Hermione: chicken nuggets 😋
Hermione: that I can make in 2 minutes instead of 20 if I put them in the microwave
“Why don’t you take her to the wedding?”
Draco looks up from his phone once they enter the cafeteria and he heads straight over to the coffee machines, Blaise still at his side. He jabs his finger into the coffee button and waits - patiently.
He shakes his head, “You want me to take a date to my ex-wife’s wedding? Do you want me to cause problems?”
Blaise rolls his eyes and Draco feels his phone buzz in his hand again, “You’ve been divorced for what - 20 years now? You were hardly married. Besides, she’s getting remarried, it’s like the ultimate date!"
Hermione: unless you had something else in mind?
Draco: I might.
His thumb hesitates over the keys and looks back over at Blaise who’s staring at the coffee machine, “She’s young. People will talk.”
“Who fucking cares? You’re twice divorced and going to a wedding to see your ex-wife marry your best mate. You deserve to have a bit of fun.”
If he’s being honest with himself, he knows he’s thinking about her too much. Her and those bloody sparkly shoes and her dark curls and those glazed-over eyes. The fact that she’s willingly continued texting him beyond, do you think my hand will heal? makes something come alight in his chest.
“I’ve already RSVP’d,” Draco says, offering up another excuse.
Blaise pulls his coffee out of the machine, slapping a lid on the top as he does the same, “That’s the beautiful thing about going to your ex’s wedding, you don’t think they’ll do whatever they can to make you more comfortable?”
He knows they will. He’s spoken to both Astoria and Theo, together and separate, to make sure that he’s alright with everything. Theo had asked him to be his best man, as long as he was alright with the wedding. Astoria had asked him to be the Master of Ceremonies, as long as he was alright with the wedding.
Draco: Perhaps, if you’re patient, we can grab a coffee.
He sends the text off with a heavy feeling in his chest. Not dread, exactly, but a strange anxiety that he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager when he had to call his date’s home and pray that their parents wouldn’t answer the phone.
Hermione: coffee?
Draco: Or tea, whatever you prefer.
Hermione: why do you need me to be patient??
Draco: I still have three hours left of my shift and will be desperately tired afterwards.
Draco: You’ll have to wait until morning.
“Did you ask her?” Blaise asks.
They walk away from the coffee machines and head over to the cooler. He looks at the sandwiches but grabs a yogurt instead and waits for Blaise to make his choice.
“No - it feels a bit strange to ask her to accompany me to my ex’s wedding without asking her on a date first, don’t you think?”
Hermione: i think i can do that
His thumb stutters over the keys again - Good g - and backspaces, shaking his head. Not yet.
Draco: Good, I’m glad.
While they’re standing in line to pay, he feels a different type of buzz against his skin and immediately reaches down to his waistband to grab his pager.
He groans and thrusts his coffee and his yoghurt cup at his friend; yet another coffee that he doesn’t get to taste.
Hermione frets over her outfit all night and all morning. She goes to bed with a vague idea of what she should wear and wakes up knowing that it’s all wrong. Draco has seen her exactly once and she was wearing her tiniest and tightest dress and favourite sparkly shoes. She’s not sure she wants him to know that she’s more comfortable in leggings and oversized sweaters.
She’s not sure she wants him to realize that her cleavage had been manufactured thanks to her dress.
But when it’s 9 a.m. and she has exactly 30 minutes before she’s supposed to meet him, she knows she needs to choose, fast. Five minutes before she absolutely has to be out of her house and in a car, she ends up sliding on leggings and an oversized sweater.
So much for fretting.
Dr. Draco
Hermione: i hope you know how patient I’ve been
Draco: Very patient, I’m impressed.
She smiles in the car, the streets passing in a blur and considers what she’s actually about to do. It’s one thing to meet a man in a club. It’s one thing to have said man clean a cut on her hand. It’s one thing to text said man a photo of said cut to make sure that she doesn’t need to have her hand cut off.
It’s another thing to continue texting him. It’s another thing to accept his invitation to a coffee shop. It’s another thing for her to be wearing her nicest bra and knickers underneath her sweater and leggings.
Draco: Just walking in.
Hermione looks down at her phone and checks her position on the map.
Hermione: still five minutes away 😊
Draco: Coffee?
Hermione: a cappuccino please, with oat milk
She can’t help but smile at the way he texts. He never uses smileys or emojis, he always uses proper punctuation but never exclamation marks. He types like someone who’s a lot older than she is - and he is.
She’s carved through her memory of the last two days, trying to remember exactly what he looks like. She remembers platinum hair and cloudy eyes - blue? maybe silver? - and sharp, angular features. She can picture a flash of collar bone and light hair poking out from the opening of his shirt.
And then there’s large hands, enveloping her waist when he lifted her, and muscular arms, pressing against his shirtsleeves. Hermione remembers watching the line of his hips as he moved in that small room, hips attached to two strong legs.
She remembers thinking that he’s maybe around 40, like the rest of his group.
Her phone buzzes again when she’s one minute away and it’s a photo of a table with two coffees. She doesn’t bother to answer because the car is coming to a stop outside of the café and she’s tumbling out and up to the door.
The nerves are floating in her belly but she’s surprisingly excited. There’s something about him that has been pulling her in and she needs to see it through. She’d been beyond thrilled the day before when he’d suggest meeting up for coffee.
As she steps inside, the sound of the coffee grinder and milk steamer fills her ears and her eyes crawl over the patrons until the land on the back of a platinum blond head.
Hermione: i see you 👀
She watches as he checks his phone before he twists in his chair and he’s looking at her again. The weight of his stare isn’t uncomfortable, but the slightest bit familiar, and she flushes when he flashes her a grin.
Bright, straight teeth and a dimple near his right cheek. She can barely see it with the scruff that covers the bottom half of his face but it catches her eye as it appears and disappears.
He stands - because he’s older and clearly a gentleman - and holds himself awkwardly. His right arm is out, away from his body, stuck in between offering her a handshake and a hug. In a moment of bravery, she presses herself to him in a light hug and smiles when she feels his arm come around her shoulders.
“Hi, Hermione.”
“Hello, Dr. Draco.”
Draco winks at her and gestures to the other seat, walking around the table and pulling her chair out. Has she ever been out with a guy - a man - with manners? She doesn’t think so. She doesn’t remember any, at least.
The cappuccino is still warm when she wraps her hands around the mug in front of her and she...waits. He watches her but doesn’t say anything and in that moment, finally in front of the man who has willingly texted her over the last few days, she doesn’t know what to say.
“You know, you don’t have to call me Doctor.”
Hermione tilts her head to the side and swipes open her phone, pulling up the contact card that he’d typed in that night at the club. She turns her phone towards him and raises her eyebrow, “Are you sure?”
His cheeks pink up just the slightest and she grins. It’s unexpected, this adult man showing any hint of embarrassment.
“I didn’t want you to forget who I was,” he says softly, bringing his own mug up to his lips. She watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.
She hums, “Yes, I’m sure that was it.”
The pink is gone from his cheeks and he narrows his eyes, holding up a hand and pointing out his index finger, “So, impatient,” - he holds out a second finger - “and a bit of a brat.”
The coffee touches her lips, just a touch, and she licks them. His eyes follow her tongue.
“I believe I was quite patient waiting for this,” she says. “I can’t deny the brat part, though. Sorry about that.”
Draco shakes his head, “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
There’s a flutter in her belly at his words.
“You’re-” He cuts himself off and trails his eyes over her, around her face and down her neck.
She raises her eyebrow, “Yes?”
“You’re very pretty, Hermione,” he finally says, his eyes moving back up to her face. “I have to admit it took a lot of effort not to ask you for a picture.”
Hermione blushes this time, her cheeks brighter than pink, she knows, and she tries not to think of the dozens of selfies she had taken and convinced herself not to send him. In truth, she wanted a picture of him, too, so she could memorize his face.
She was sure that he had gotten a better look at her than she had of him.
“I almost did,” she admits, shrugging her shoulders. “How old are you?”
He clears his throat and for a second she’s worried. How old could he possibly be?
“I’m 43. Let me guess - you don’t look a day over 21.”
Another sip of her cappuccino and she’s nodding, “Lucky guess, I suppose.”
“No,” he intones. “I can tell.”
Hermione scoffs but he continues before she can say anything.
“You were in a club, so you’re over 18 and you look too innocent to be older than 25,” he says. “You’re still a student, not yet gone to grad school, and you trusted a stranger to take you into the back room of a club.”
He holds his hands out as though he’s discovered a new math equation, “You’re 21, it’s obvious.”
She laughs, “Did they teach you deductive reasoning in medical school?”
“Yes, actually, they did.”
They settle into a more comfortable silence, and Hermione takes another sip or two of her cappuccino. Draco does the same, though he’s finished more of his than she has. She notices that his fingers tap on the table when they’re silent, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next.
She wonders if he wants the conversation to continue as much as she does.
“Well, 43 isn’t that old,” she settles on saying, a teasing tone to her voice.
He scoffs, “43 isn’t old at all.”
“You could be my d-”
“Don’t,” he says softly. Too softly. “Don’t...don’t say that.”
Hermione looks down at the table. She was just teasing but...she sees it wasn’t the best thing to tease about.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that, I was just teasing you.”
He nods and takes the last sip from his mug, “I don’t want you to think that this is something that I do. I don’t search out young women and invite them out for coffee.”
She licks her lips. The thought honestly hadn’t crossed her mind, he didn’t seem like the type.
“Just me?” She asks, flashing a shy smile at him.
He gives one back, “Just you.”
When she swallows the last mouthful of her drink, she clasps her hands together and asks the question that’s been on her mind since they had started texting, “Why me?”
His eyes shift up and to the left - accessing a memory, she’d learned in her psych class - and he taps his fingers on the table again in an unfamiliar rhythm, “Honestly? Something about you draws me in. Your smile, your curls. Those sparkly shoes of yours.”
She giggles and then grimaces. When did she become someone who giggled?
“They’re my favourite,” she whispers.
“Mine too.”
When she looks up at him, she notices the soft lines around his eyes that crease further when he smiles.
“I’d like to ask you something, and you can say no. There’s no pressure.”
Hermione perks up and looks at him expectantly, “Yes?”
His finger tap, tap, taps the table.
“I have a wedding to go to on Friday and it’s going to be...slightly awkward. I was going to go on my own but I would really like to take you with me,” he says.
Hermione frowns. Why will a wedding be awkward? Unless...maybe he’s had some kind of relationship with the bride. Or the groom.
“Why will it be awkward?”
He chuckles in nervous laughter, “My ex-wife is marrying my best mate.”
She chokes on her spit, “I’m sorry, what? Is he still your best mate?”
“He is actually. We’ve been divorced for 20 years so there’s no hard feelings, but the last time I saw her in a wedding dress, she was standing across the aisle from me.”
Hermione chews on the flesh of her cheek. So he’s a man with baggage, albeit old and musty baggage. Being divorced for 20 years is no small feat, especially when he’s only 43. She supposes it’s not that big of a deal, since it’s been so long.
“So you’re divorced and your ex is marrying your best mate and you want me...to be your date.”
He nods, “Only if you’re comfortable.”
If she’s being honest with herself, she really wants to be his date. She really, really, wants to hang off of his arm - she’ll need a new dress, something classier than her clubbing outfits - and see what it feels like.
“Is it strange that we’ve only known each other for a few days?” She asks, tilting her head up.
He hums and leans forward, resting his chin in his hands, “It’s fast, I’ll admit that. But there’s just something about you, Hermione, something that won't let me go."
It's the same for her.
“In that case, I would love to be your date to your ex-wife and best mate’s wedding.”
Chapter Text
The ceremony itself is in the gardens at Stourhead and could not be more different from his first wedding. More than 20 years ago, he and Astoria, surrounded by their friends, family and an abundance of their parents’ business associates, had married in a chapel followed by a reception at Malfoy Manor. It was stuffy and filled with people they didn’t know.
Draco had worn a tux and Astoria had dawned a poofy number that they laugh about to this day. Their parents had insisted; if they were going to do this - unadvisedly so - then they would do it properly.
Neither had even gotten to taste the wedding cake.
But this, outdoors and in the sunshine, surrounded by only close friends and family, is perfect. He knows Astoria and Theo had chosen each and every aspect of the wedding and it shows: soft pinks and yellows, bunches of hydrangea and ivy. It's the complete opposite of their stuffy wedding.
He stands just to the left of Theo in the place of his Best Man. It’s only right; 20 years ago Theo had stood for him in the same spot and then again during his second wedding. But instead of watching the bridesmaids glide down the aisle, his eyes are drawn to the petite curly-haired girl sitting near the back row.
He had almost laughed when he picked her up from her flat that morning, dressed completely in black - in case he wanted to treat the wedding like a funeral, she said - until she giggled and threw off her overcoat to reveal a dress that damn-well took his breath away.
Even now, standing at the top of the aisle, he can see the way it hugs her curves and splits at the thigh. His hand tingles when he remembers placing it on her bare back and feeling her smooth skin beneath his fingertips. He meets her eye and gives her a soft smile which she returns.
“You’ll have to introduce me after,” Theo whispers to him, leaning slightly back to reach his ear.
Draco nudges him back into place when the wedding march sounds, “I think you should focus on your bride.”
He hears Theo’s sharp intake of breath as Astoria walks slowly down the aisle, on the arms of both of her parents. Through her veil he can see the broad grin on her face, so different from their wedding.
He wanted to defy his parents and she wanted to get out from under her parents’ rule. He’s not sure there has ever been more uncomfortable looking wedding photos. He can remember the unsure look on her face as she walked towards him down the aisle. At the time, he’d told himself it was just nerves.
When they got the photos back he realized his face had mirrored hers. It was doomed from the start.
“Fuck,” Theo says under his breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Draco reaches forward and pats him on the shoulder, squeezing, “She looks beautiful, mate. Remember this moment.”
As Astoria reaches the altar, she takes Theo’s hands and Draco is pleasantly surprised by the warm feeling in his chest. He had worried that no matter how much he insisted he was happy for them, his heart would feel a different way.
After three months of a blissfully ignorant marriage, the other shoe dropped and they realized how incompatible they were together. They’d chosen to marry to escape expectations and demands from their parents, hopeful for a little bit of freedom, but they ended up just as stuck as they were before.
He was in medical school, she was focusing on fashion. He worked nights and weekends and she attended parties. They hardly saw each other and when they did, they fought. Two days before their first wedding anniversary, they quietly signed their divorce papers.
His eyes drift to Hermione throughout the ceremony, not able to keep his attention off of her. He realizes that she’s watching him instead of the bride and groom and he winks. She sticks the tip of her tongue out between her lips.
He looks away before he’s forced to adjust anything embarrassing.
Draco makes it down to the end of the aisle with one of Astoria’s friends on his arm before he gives her an awkward smile and pulls away to grab Hermione instead. She’s standing and clapping at the end of her row and he reaches over to wrap his arm around her waist.
“You did an excellent job,” she says with a soft smile, pushing up on her toes and pulling his neck down so she can press her lips to his cheek.
Has a girl ever made him blush so often before? He doesn’t think so.
“Well it was quite difficult standing up there,” he jokes and returns the kiss, pressing his lips to her cheek. “Come, I’ve got photos to take.”
Hermione grasps his outstretched hand and follows him as they walk around the small cocktail-hour tent and over to the gardens that Theo had pointed out earlier in the day.
“I’m quite impressed, actually. I thought it would at least be a little bit awkward, you know, with her being your ex-wife and all,” she says.
Draco squeezes her hand in his and shrugs his shoulders, “Maybe if it had only been a few years, but we’ve been divorced for almost half of our lives now. She deserves to be happy.”
“So do you,” Hermione hums next to him, leaning into his side.
“I suppose it’s a little strange that I’ve chosen to take you to my ex’s wedding for our first date,” he says, hugging her close to his side and letting his palm slip down to her bare back.
“Is that what this is?” She asks, looking up at him. “A date?”
Draco tries to ignore the stutter in his chest and for a split second questions whether or not he needs an EKG, “Well, yes, I thought so.”
She giggles quietly and Draco rolls his eyes, “I’m just teasing. I know it’s a date.”
“You really are a brat, aren’t you?”
Hermione looks up at him with innocent eyes and tilts her head, “Perhaps.”
They reach the garden and Theo and Astoria approach them before he can give Hermione a warning. Theo draws him into a big hug, clapping his hand on his back and letting out a loud “Whoop!” in his ear. When he pulls back from him, he sees Astoria embracing Hermione.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Theo asks.
Draco clears his throat, eyeing the way Astoria is hugging Hermione, “Theo, Astoria, this is Hermione. We met the night of the stag.”
Hermione draws away from Astoria and shows off her palm, still covered in a bandage though not as heavy-duty as the original, “Yes, Draco here came to my rescue after I cut my hand.”
Theo grins at him with a sly smirk, “Oh so you’re the girl.”
Hermione tilts her head with a slightly confused smile before she looks over at Draco, “I mean, I suppose. That was your stag night?”
Astoria rolls her eyes and nudges Theo so she can wrap her arms around Draco in a hug, “Yes, that disaster of a night was his stag. Who has a stag at their own club?”
Draco watches Hermione’s eyebrows raise, “So that’s how you knew where the first aid kit was!”
“Well he bloody well should, he’s the one who put it together,” Theo says, bumping into him with his shoulder.
“Clearly for a reason,” Draco mutters, moving back over to Hermione and capturing her wrist in his hand.
He lightly runs his thumb over the bandage as the photographer comes over to them and pulls the bride and the groom to take pictures. Hermione turns towards him and moves in close. He’s quite a bit taller than her and from the way they’re standing he can see the way her chest moves after each inhale and exhale.
“You know, I was reading about something that heals a cut like that,” she says, snapping her fingers on her other hand.
Draco hums, “Oh yeah? Well I think I should know what that is; being a doctor and all.”
She lightly pulls her hand from his grasp and holds it up, palm facing him, “A kiss.”
His chest thumps again - okay, maybe he should have an EKG done just in case - and he carefully pulls her palm up until he can press his lips against the bandage covering her palm, “Better?”
She shakes her head, “Not quite, another?”
Draco laughs quietly and pulls her palm up again, this time placing soft kisses along the length of the bandage, right over where he knows the cut is. This time when he lets her hand go, she uses it to cup his cheeks and drag her fingers over his scruff.
“I think that did the trick,” she says softly, her cheeks tinged pink.
He thinks, for a moment, that this might be the perfect moment to kiss her until Theo yells over to him, waving his arms.
“Come pose for pictures! Snog your girl later, mate!”
Draco could kill him. The only thing stopping him is the fact that it’s his wedding day.
Astoria and Theo end up torturing him through the photos. They make him stand between them and then replicate some of their old wedding photos but with Theo as the groom. He acts like he’s annoyed but it’s all in good fun, even he can admit that.
Hermione watches them off to the side, a champagne glass in her hand and a grin on her face. He finds he can’t stop looking at her even when he’s supposed to be posing for the camera and during one shot of just Theo and himself she pretends to fan herself while standing with Astoria.
“Do you mind if we take some photos together? Just you and I?” Astoria asks, her hand resting on his arm. “If you’re uncomfortable we don’t have to, but I thought they might be nice to have.”
Draco snorts but nods his head, “You thought photos of us at your second wedding would be nice to have?”
Astoria winds her arm around his, resting her cheek against his shoulder, “More like photos of us actually looking happy at a wedding.”
He’s glad when he looks over at Hermione and she still has the same grin on her face, Theo talking her ear off.
It’s only after they’ve eaten and the speeches are done that he even has a chance to talk to Blaise. Hermione is friendly and talkative, getting to know others at their table, when he presses his hand against her thigh, fingers resting just overtop of the slit in her dress.
“I’m just going to speak to Blaise,” he mutters to her, getting a soft smile and a nod in response. “Save me a dance?”
Hermione looks up at him through her eyelashes, “Hm, I suppose I can.”
Blaise hands him a glass of champagne as soon as he walks over to where he’s standing against the wall. Draco joins him, leaning his back against it and taking a sip.
“She’s a pretty little thing,” Blaise says, gesturing with his champagne glass.
Draco follows his arm, his eyes finding Hermione sitting at their table. She’s sipping on her glass of champagne, still talking to the others at the table.
He sinks his shoulder into Blaise’s arm and narrows his eyes at him, “Yes, she is, and she’s here with me.”
Blaise puts his hands up and winks, “I know, I know. I’m just saying, you were right. She is very young.”
Draco huffs and turns his champagne glass up, swallowing the rest of the bubbly liquid even though it burns the back of his throat a little bit. He’d been wary of bringing her, but seeing her that evening when he picked her up from her flat changed that.
“Did you see her yet?”
Draco looks over at his friend, “See who?”
Blaise tips his glass up, too, “Your ex-wife, who else?”
Draco stares at him incredulously, “Of course I’ve seen her, I watched her get married today.”
“Not that one.”
He swears under his breath and his eyes immediately fly around the room, looking for any sign of the other Ms. Malfoy. Although, he supposes she’s the only Ms. Malfoy now.
“Just teasing, mate,” Blaise says with a chuckle. “She RSVP’d ‘no’ months ago.”
Draco turns to glare at him as Blaise places his empty glass on a tray and plucks a new one from a passing server. He hasn’t spoken to that particular ex-wife in nearly a year now after their marathon 18-month divorce proceedings.
“Nearly gave me a fucking heart-attack,” Draco says through gritted teeth, raising his hand to press against his chest. “Why was she even invited?”
Blaise shrugs and leans back against the wall they’re standing in front of, “I think she and Astoria still keep in touch.”
Draco can’t do anything but shake his head; of course his two ex-wives keep in touch. His father would be thrilled to hear that, almost as thrilled when he told his parents he was divorcing, again, before the age of 40.
“Is your plan to just give away the Malfoy name to every woman in England?”
Yes, that went over well.
“The last I heard she was in France, spending all of my money,” Draco mumbles, his eyes moving back to Hermione. “Good riddance.”
“Did you tell the pretty girl?” Blaise asks, moving to stand in front of him.
Draco lets his gaze leave Hermione and he focuses on Blaise, “Her name is Hermione and no, I thought one ex-wife was enough for now.”
“She seems to be taking everything quite well,” Blaise says. “All things considered.”
Draco chews on the flesh of his cheek. She really does. He knows that things between them are moving fast. It was less than a week ago that he’d seen her in her sparkly shoes and only two days ago that they’d met for coffee.
But he can’t deny that there’s something about her that he can’t get enough of. She’s fun and sweet and exactly the type of girl that he’d always thought about dating but never had. He’s about to say goodbye to Blaise and head back over when Astoria comes up to stand with them.
“Boys,” she says, moving to lean against the wall between them.
“Mrs. Nott,” Blaise says in reply.
Astoria groans and leans her head onto his shoulder for a second, “I’m going to miss having your name. You wouldn't believe the service I’ve gotten for the last 20 years.”
Draco snorts, “I would say you can continue to use it but I don’t think your husband would be too happy.”
“No, probably not. Hermione probably wouldn’t like it either,” she mumbles, snagging a glass of water. “I like her, by the way. I think she could be good for you.”
He raises a single eyebrow, looking down at her face.
“I do! She’s exactly your type. More than I ever was. Or-”
He groans, “Please don’t say her name. She’s like Beetlejuice, she’ll just appear.”
Astoria smacks him in the chest and gulps down her water, “Don’t be rude. I’m just saying, she is exactly the type of girl that I’ve imagined you with.”
Blaise chuckles from her other side, “You imagine him often, Tori?”
“Fuck off, Zabini,” Astoria mutters. “As I was saying, she’s perfect. And that damsel in distress meeting? Could it have been any more perfect for you?”
Draco clears his throat, slightly uncomfortable with Astoria. She’s getting too close to the real reasons behind what his type is and the last thing he needs is for Blaise to pick up on it.
“While I appreciate that, this is technically our first - maybe our second - date. Besides, she’s 20 years younger than I am,” he says. As an afterthought, he mumbles under his breath: “Can’t wait for my father to find that bit out.”
Astoria pushes away from the wall and puts her empty water glass down onto the table, “First, like I said: exactly your type. Second, you’re a 43-year-old man, who gives a flying fuck what Lucius has to say.”
She grabs onto Draco’s arm and pulls him away from the wall, waving to Blaise at the same time, “Now go dance with her.”
He feels every bit like a teenager again when he wanders over to the table and stands beside Hermione. She’s talking animatedly to their tablemates, her curls dangling down her back. He reaches out and loops a finger through one, tugging it until it bounces back.
She tilts her head back, looking up at him upside down, “Hi.”
Draco smiles down at her, “Hello. Would you like to dance?”
She squints her eyes and looks off to the side like she’s thinking about it while he waits patiently, “I would, but I’m rubbish at it so I’m apologizing in advance.”
He takes her hand in his and pulls her out to the dancefloor just as a slow song comes on. He folds her into his arms, one hand pressed to her back and the other grasped in hers. He leads them in simple steps, nothing fancy or regimented, just some light swaying that matches the other couples.
“You’re not rubbish, love,” he says softly, inhaling shakily when she rests her head on his chest. “You just need someone to lead you.”
She hums against his chest and he moves them again, turning them in a gentle circle.
“Like you?”
“Yes,” Draco swallows. “If that’s what you want.”
He wonders if she knows the connotation in which she’s speaking. He’s happy to lead her while dancing, just like he’s happy to lead her in other aspects.
She pulls back from his chest to look up at him and he can’t help but smile at her grin, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
He draws his hand further down her back, until it’s resting just on the edge of her dress, right above her tailbone, “Indeed, you are.”
All it takes is for her to press her chest up against his while they’re dancing and he's whispering in her ear that she’s welcome to stay the night in the hotel with him. She agrees without a second thought, pressing her red lips to his jaw.
She smiles when she feels his jaw clench beneath her touch.
They leave the reception late and she’s more than a little bit buzzed. She’s been sucking back champagne for most of the night, her first sip during the photos telling her it's some of the good stuff.
She’s been pleasantly surprised by how smoothly the wedding has gone. There were no fights or arguments; Draco and Astoria seemed to get along well for being divorced, and all of his friends were, at the very least, cordial to her.
She knows how old she is and she knows how old she looks. It wouldn’t have offended her to hear anyone question it, but she didn’t. Instead, most of the time she was offered a hug or a handshake, a compliment on her dress and her curls and usually a wink intended for Draco that she’d catch.
She’d been nervous; it isn’t like she makes a habit of dating older men. In fact, she doesn’t make a habit of dating anyone. And then this handsome stranger turned out to be a doctor and a genuinely nice guy and she was...hooked.
The hotel is nicer than anywhere she’s ever stayed before and they walk silently through the sitting room until they reach the bedroom. Hermione lets her eyes run over the bed.
She can feel him staring at her, watching the bare length of her back as she toes off her heels. The weight of his stare is heavy, turning her shoulders in and it makes her feel naked, even though she hasn’t removed any clothing.
When she stands straight again, she sucks in a single breath before the whisper of his finger draws a line straight down her back, following her spine. Down, over the ridges, inflaming her skin and her bones. It stops, just at the base of her spine where her bare skin ends and the dress starts, pressing.
“Hermione?” Her name is whispered in a low, gravely tone and she can feel his breath on her cheek.
“Yes?”
His hands come around her sides, fingertips tickling the skin over her ribs just underneath the flat of her dress. She can feel him pressed against her now, her shoulders pressed into his chest, his hips pressed into the small of her back.
“Is this alright?” He asks, drawing his fingers up until they’re brushing the sides of her breasts.
She nods, her voice stuck in her throat.
His hands pull away from her - his whole body pulls away from her - and she whimpers. Her head turns to the side until she can see him standing behind her, his hand clenched at his thigh.
“I need you to tell me with words,” he says, voice quiet. “I need you to tell me that this is alright.”
Hermione turns slowly so that she can look at him. He seems nervous and unsure, his hands curled tight against his legs and his shoulders and back in a stiff, straight line.
“It’s alright,” she whispers.
His hands are on her waist again, fingers brushing the bare skin of her sides and he leans forward, using his finger to tip her chin up, “You’ll let me touch you?”
Hermione almost smiles. How is this man so cautious around her?
“You can touch me,” - she inches closer - “You can kiss me,” - she lets her lips just brush against his - “You can fu-”
His lips crash into hers, his hand tangles in her curls and in that single kiss he owns her.
It’s like nothing she’s felt before. He doesn’t just press his lips to hers or nudge them open with his tongue. He doesn’t just hold her, hands cupping her cheek and her back. No, he consumes her. He takes and takes and takes from her, taking up room in her mouth, taking up space on her skin.
When they break apart she sucks in a deep breath and his hands push the straps down from her dress, baring her breasts. He’s eyes are like stone: intense and hard, greedy as they take in her exposed skin.
“Still good?” He asks quietly, his hands hovering in front of her chest.
Hermione grabs them and presses them to her breasts, squeezing, “Touch me, please.”
He touches her, hands squeezing her breasts. His palms take over, covering her, and he surges back in to kiss her, his lips burning into her own. She lets her hands grip his shoulder and cup his jaw, holding him close against her.
“You’re so fucking pretty, love,” he groans against her lips, his fingers brushing over her nipples. “Do you know how hard it is to take my eyes off of you?”
Hermione becomes frantic at his words, her hands pulling at his bowtie and his shirt, pulling it down his arms. She runs her fingers over his chest, down a smattering of hair to his belt and tugs on it until Draco pulls her hands away.
“Take this off,” he says roughly, pushing her dress down over her hips until she steps out of it. “Go lay on the bed.”
She hops up onto the bed, laying back only in her tiny knickers and watches Draco as he runs a hand through his hair and stares at her. She’s not sure how he does it, how he levels his stare on her with such an intensity that it makes her shiver.
She lets her eyes run over him, standing only in his trousers after pulling his belt out of the loops. He’s fit, with strong arms and shoulders. He’s muscular but not overly so, he doesn’t sport a six-pack or those defined abdominal lines, but he looks strong if a little bit soft.
“Are you sure?” He asks, after he catches his breath.
Hermione throws her head back before she sits up, “I swear to God, Draco, if you don’t get over here and touch me I’m going to do it myself.”
She holds her hand out and tugs him closer when he places his hand in her palm. She pulls him between her legs and over her, finding his lips with her own again. His hands run over her sides, tickling over her ribs before he grabs her hips, pulling them closer to his body.
“Don’t,” he whispers, his fingers catching in the sides of her knickers. “Let me touch you.”
She moans against him as he pulls her knickers down, leaving her completely bare to them room, “Then do it. Touch me.”
He does; he rests his big palm against her belly and pubic bone, his thumb brushing against her folds, just barely touching her clit. She leans back flat, sighing in pleasure at his touch and watches him.
He looks transfixed by her, staring at his hands resting against her skin. She looks down too and inhales sharply at the difference in size. He chuckles, low, vibrating in his chest.
“I could break you,” he says, watching his thumb rub soft circles against her.
Hermione laughs breathlessly, her chest rising and falling, “You won’t. I can take it.”
Draco groans at that, leaning down to rest his head against her sternum. She can feel his nose pressing between her ribs and his lips pressing to her skin. His breath is hot against her.
“You have no idea what you’re saying to me,” he says, finally dragging his index finger over her.
He sits up again, kneeling between her legs, and spreads her with one hand while he slowly pushes a thick finger inside of her. She groans, her legs falling open further and her head falling back onto the bed.
His one finger is like two of hers.
“Look,” he insists, moving his finger slowly inside of her.
Hermione pushes up onto her elbows and looks down between her legs. When his finger is pushed all the way inside of her, his other fingers rest against her skin, fingertips reaching up to her pubic bone.
Fuck. No one has ever made her feel so small before.
“I can take it,” she says again, this time pleading.
He shakes his head with a gruff laugh and moves his finger faster, pressing along her upper wall until he finds the notch that she’s never able to reach on her own.
“Not tonight, love,” he says, moving further down the bed until his mouth is hovering over her.
She kicks her leg out and whines, “Please!”
He retaliates, blowing lightly against her clit while pressing into the spongy spot until she shivers and moans, “God you’re impatient.”
She whines again, this time from the pressure inside of his fingers inside of her, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to her clit. She almost can’t take it, just the image of him kissing her too much. He runs his tongue over her lightly, still moving his finger, pressing and pushing against her.
“I’m going to break you of that,” he says, wiggling his tongue against her. “You’re going to get a lesson in patience, I swear to God, Hermione.”
At the mention of her name and the pressing and pressing and pressing of his finger, her legs shake and she shudders, her belly tensing and pulling until it bursts. She comes, moaning loudly and attempting to close her legs over him.
Draco holds them open, working her through her orgasm until she moves to push him away, too sensitive to let him continue. He pulls his finger out of her, bringing it to his mouth. He licks it clean and she thinks she might be able to come again just from watching him.
He leans down and presses a soft kiss against her hip. She lets her fingers tangle in his hair, “Please, Draco.”
He shakes his head against her, “Not tonight, love.”
“Can I-”
“No, c’mon, get under the covers,” he says, standing up and tugging his trousers off. “We can cuddle.”
Hermione grumbles but does as he says, pushing herself up the bed until she can pull the covers down, “You’re not being fair.”
He snorts and moves into the washroom, leaving the door half-open so she can hear him, “Life isn’t fair.”
She leans over to the night table and grabs the small bottle of water, opening it up to take a big gulp, “I’m literally begging you to have sex with me.”
She hears the sink turn on and she huffs, looking around the room. His shirt is crumpled on the floor and before he comes out of the washroom, she leans down over the bed to grab it, pulling it on and doing up a few buttons.
She’s not sure where her knickers have ended up.
“And I’m telling you, not tonight,” he says, turning the washroom light off and walking towards the bed.
Draco climbs in beside her, still in his pants, and opens up his arms: an invitation for her to cuddle close. She does, resting her head against his chest and tucking her leg between his. He’s quiet and she lets herself listen to the beating of his heart beneath her ear.
“Maybe I just wanted to take care of you tonight,” he says softly, running his hand over her back. “We have lots of time.”
Hermione presses her lips against his chest, right above his nipple, “So you want to see me again?”
He hums, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “As often as you’ll let me.”
Chapter 4: Your Daddy
Chapter Text
There’s just something that Hermione hates about grocery shopping. She hates having to wander the aisles searching for what she wants - why are the rice crackers in the chips and snacks aisle and not in the crackers aisle? - and she hates the way that people dawdle. There’s no reason to stand in front of the oat milk for longer than 15 seconds; there’s only two kinds and they’re the exact same!
So she does everything in her power to push away all of the interruptions and annoyances that plague her when her fridge is practically empty and her cupboards are bare. She readies herself, as though she’s going into war, prepared to fly through the store and pick up everything on her list in a smooth 20 minutes.
She creates her list in the shape of the store: produce and vegetables first, then meats and fish and cheese, the bread and bakery section after that, before the aisles turn into a mismatched collection of items that she does her best to place. Do the sweet potato chips come before the rice crackers? And the diet Dr. Pepper, she’s sure that’s before the peanut butter. As long as she gets it all written down, she doesn’t have to think much while she’s there.
Bluetooth earbuds are also a wonderful invention.
She tucks them into her ears and presses play on her most recent playlist full of calming dulcet tones singing equally of love and lust. It fills her head with thoughts of other things so that she only has to focus on the next item on her list.
Oatmeal raisin cookies
She’s already making good time and avoiding anyone who’s just standing, staring at the shelves upon shelves of baked goods. She leaves her small cart at the end of the shelves and sneaks in to grab the container of cookies that will be gone before she even makes a dent on the fruit she’s also grabbed.
Just as she’s tossing the plastic container into her cart, her music - I’d go hungry, I’d go black and blue - cuts out as her phone starts to ring. Thank God for that annoying robot helper who lets her know that it’s Dr. Draco calling.
She taps her earbud and pushes her cart away from the baked goods, “Hello?”
There’s the sound of something shuffling and then his smooth and deep voice is echoing in her here, “Hi, love.”
This is perhaps a better distraction from the evils that are grocery shopping than her music has been.
“Hi,” she says back softly, but she thinks the smile on her face can also be heard in her words.
“What are you up to?” He asks as she heads down the aisle she knows contains the vegetable chips.
She hums, her eyes searching the shelves, “Just doing a grocery shop, you know, the bane of my existence.”
He chuckles, low and warm, “Not a fan?”
“Nope,” she says plainly, popping her ‘p’. “Still at work?”
“Mhm,” he mumbled, “Another few hours. Just grabbing a coffee and thought I’d check in.”
He told her that he usually worked about three shifts a week though he was on call for more when there was a need. His work schedule made her dizzy to think about; she couldn’t imagine spending 12 hours at work.
She hums quietly while she scoots around some carts just idling in the middle of the aisle, “Well, you’re almost finished and then you can go home and sleep.”
He’s quiet except for his breathing but she can hear what sounds like a coffee machine going in the background. If she’s learned one thing in the two weeks that she’s known him, it’s the simple fact that the good doctor needs his coffee. He relies on it more than anyone else she’s ever known.
Of course, she’s learned more than just his coffee habits. Perhaps the most important thing she’s learned about is that his patience is through the fucking roof. The man could have told her that he invented patience and she would have believed him.
She had woken up the morning after the wedding and climbed on top of him while he was still sleeping, softly grinding against him. She could feel him beneath her, growing hard at her touch, but instead of yanking down his pants and thrusting up into her like she wanted, he smiled.
“Impatient-” he ticked off one finger “-a brat-” a second finger “-and greedy-" a third.
“Please,” she whimpered, pouting.
He grabbed her hips in his big hands and lifted her off of him, tucking her into his side where she couldn’t get into any more trouble, “No.”
She curses his patience every single day.
“What are your plans for the night?” He asks, bringing her back to what she’s doing.
She flushes - a deep and ugly red - when she realizes she’s been loitering in front of the rice crackers exactly like the people she can’t stand. She gets a move on, grabbing the sesame seed ones and tossing them into her cart.
“I’m going over to Ginny’s later for some takeaway but I know she really just wants me to help her pack,” she says, walking quickly over to the freezer section. “She’s leaving tomorrow on her trip.”
“Hold on, love,” he says before she can hear him speaking to someone else - a cashier perhaps?
She picks up her last few items from the freezer section, a couple frozen pizzas and some lactose-free ice cream, when she hears his voice again, “Still there?”
“Mhm,” she says quietly, moving her cart back to where the registers are.
“Do you want to have dinner tomorrow night?” He asks and Hermione can’t fight the smile.
She looks around to make sure that there’s no one around her before she murmurs, “Are you going to give in and fuck me?”
He chokes on the other end and Hermione grins as she gets in line to pay for her groceries. She loves the way she can break his composure so easily with just a few words. He seems so intent on forcing her to be patient and to wait, but he hasn’t taken into account that she doesn’t want to.
“Christ, Hermione. You can’t just say things like that,” he finally says after clearing his throat.
“Will you?” She repeats, keeping her voice low.
He chuckles, the sound of his laugh slipping into her ears, “No, I won’t. Will you come for dinner anyways?”
Hermione huffs as though it’s a hardship, “I suppose, but you better make it worth my while.”
“Impatient, bratty and greedy,” he says. She can imagine him counting off his fingers as he says it.
“Yep! That’s me,” she says. “I have to go, I’m almost at the register.”
He laughs, “Okay, have fun tonight. Text me?”
She can’t explain the feeling those two words give her: text me? How different it is to have a man be so open about the fact that he wants to talk to her, he wants to hear from her.
“I will,” she says and she means it.
Ginny sends her boyfriend out of the house for the evening so they can talk freely on their own. She knows that really means she wants Hermione to give her all the horny details about her new blossoming relationship with Draco. She doesn’t necessarily blame her, if their situations were reversed she would want the details too.
As it is, Harry is a puppy dog who follows Ginny around and is at her every beck and call. She sees it enough that she doesn’t need to hear about it, too.
When Ginny opens the door to her flat, Hermione’s met with the smell of pizza from their favourite place and a glass of white wine pressed into her hand. She drops her tote bag at the door and toes off her shoes before following Ginny into the sitting room.
There, on the coffee table, their pizza sits next to two plates and the rest of the bottle of wine. Ginny knows the way to her heart better than anyone else.
They don’t even bother with any small talk. Hermione grabs a slice of pizza, takes a bite - moans - and the words spill from her mouth before she even realizes it.
“He’s 43, he’s divorced and he won’t fuck me.”
Ginny throws her head back and laughs, sipping down her wine, “God, Hermione, you know how to start a story.”
She shrugs, there’s no use beating around the bush, “It’s the truth. Believe me, I’ve tried. He keeps talking to me about patience.”
“Well, you have none, so that’s probably why,” Ginny says, chewing thoughtfully. “How long has he been divorced? Maybe that’s why, maybe he’s not ready.”
Hermione snorts, “20 years, I don’t think that’s the reason.”
Ginny pauses with her mouth full before she nods, “Yeah, definitely not the reason. Well, what else? Tell me more!”
So she does. She tells her about their coffee date and then their wedding date - “He took you to his ex-wife’s wedding?!” - before she tells her that he’s an emergency room doctor and no, she hasn’t seen him in his scrubs yet.
She grabs her phone and scrolls through their texts while they have a giggle about his complete lack of slang or emoji usage. Her pictures are next and she flips through the three photos that they’d taken at the wedding, two selfies and one that Blaise had taken for them.
“My god,” Ginny says, her hand pressed to her chest over her heart. “That man is immaculate. How does he look like that? How is he even single?”
That is something Hermione doesn’t know the answer to. It strikes her as odd how this man - the most attractive one in his group of friends, in her humble opinion - is woefully single. Sure he’s divorced but he’s had 20 years to find someone else to spend his time with. How did she get so lucky?
“No idea, Gin,” she says, leaning forward to tip the bottle of wine into their glasses. “But he’s sweet and he’s hot and he’s not afraid to let me know that he actually wants to talk to me.”
Hermione turns her attention to her phone to send him a quick text.
Dr. Draco 👨🏼⚕️
Hermione: hello from ginny’s
She doesn’t expect a response because he’s either on his way home or already sleeping but her phone buzzes with a new text almost immediately.
Draco: Hello from bed.
Hermione: shouldn’t you be sleeping?
Draco: Just waiting to hear from you.
She stamps down on the feeling blooming in her chest.
Hermione: well you can sleep now 😴
Draco: Please text me when you head home.
Draco: If you need anything, call me. I’ll answer for you.
“Let me guess, the good doctor has graced you with a text,” Ginny teases, standing up to open up her window.
She comes back to the couch with a small metal tin in her hand and pulls off the lid, plucking a pre-roll and the cigarette lighter from inside. Hermione stands up from her place on the floor and brings her wine and her phone with her to the couch.
“More like he’s asked me to let him know when I’m heading home,” she says, watching as Ginny lights the joint and takes the first hit.
She holds it out for her and Hermione takes the second, third and fourth; short, shallow inhales, pulling it into her lungs just enough and breathing out before it makes her cough. She doesn’t smoke too often, but enough.
Hermione hands the joint back and brings her texts up again.
Hermione: i will, but i’m sure I’ll be fine
Hermione: sleep well 😚
Draco: Regardless, please text me when you leave.
Draco: Thank you, love.
Ginny takes a hit and leans over her shoulder, looking down at their conversation, and she giggles, “Now there’s a man who wants to take care of you.”
She’s not wrong. Hermione gets that feeling from him, too. From the way he texts her and speaks to her - Text me. If you need anything, call me. You just need someone to lead you. - to the way he places his big palm across the span of her back, how he holds her hand when they’re walking.
“I just wish he’d…” She trails off, frowning.
“Fuck you?” Ginny asks, passing the joint back.
Hermione takes another hit, “Yeah. That.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Draco groans and pushes his face further into his pillow, trying to keep the light away from his face. He blearily opens his eyes and turns towards the alarm clock on his night table.
7:45 A.M.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He sits up in his bed, rubbing his hand down his face, and pushes his covers off before whoever is at his door can-
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Grumbling, he steps onto the plush rug beneath his bed and then onto the cool hardwood, his legs taking him to his front door as fast as he can. He doesn’t even bother looking through the peephole, just unlocks it and swings it open.
He’s greeted with familiar dark hair and an iced coffee being pressed into his hands.
“About time, my God, I thought you were an early riser.”
Astoria pushes past him and walks into his flat, her own iced coffee clutched in her hand and a Neverfull on her arm. She pulls her sunglasses off and takes a seat at the island in the middle of his kitchen.
“Shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon?” He asks, letting the door close behind him.
He walks in and leans over the island, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s been 20 years and she still knows exactly what he drinks. Sometimes he forgets what, exactly, it was that broke them apart.
“Where’s your little lady?” She asks, raising a brow.
And then he’s reminded of it, all at once.
“What are you doing here?” He counters, sipping at his coffee.
Astoria groans and rests her head in her arms, “You are so annoying. Can’t you just answer a question?”
“Can you?” He retorts, rolling his eyes.
She sips her coffee and leans back in the chair, “I got back from my honeymoon yesterday and I’m here to find out whether you’ve sacked up and asked out the pretty little thing you brought to my wedding.”
He eyes her carefully, watching as she sips her coffee and stares at him expectantly. Tapping his fingers against the counter he huffs.
“Her name is-”
“-Hermione, I know. But we both know you have plenty of other little pet names you’d rather call her,” Astoria says. “What are you waiting for?”
Draco stands up and runs his hands over his face. She’s always been like this, always pushed his buttons and forced him to open up to her even when he preferred to keep things close to the chest. For every second he can’t remember why they ended things, she reminds him again.
“It’s really none of your business. Look, you woke me from a dead sleep, I just worked a 12-hour shift and I don’t need this from you,” he says firmly.
Astoria stands and walks over to him, crossing her arms over her chest, “No, you’re right. What you need is to tell her what you want. It’s enough moping around, Draco.”
“I don’t mope.”
She laughs, too loud for it to be kind, and he actually feels offended when she lays a hand on his forearm, “You moped for 15 years and then you met-”
“-Don’t.”
“-You met that little bitch who lied and broke your heart,” she says, referring to his second ex-wife the same way he would. “And since your divorce you’ve gone back to moping.”
Draco groans and tries to pull away. It’s too early to deal with this.
“She’s coming over tonight, I was going to speak to her,” he says, hoping they can end this conversation.
“Good, because for the first time in 20 years I can see you being happy and you need her for that,” Astoria says softly. “Be honest with her, she’ll be open to it.”
Draco crosses his arms defensively but nods his head. He knows she’s right and he wants to be open with Hermione, but every single time he’s ever opened up about the desire - the need to… - he’s been shut down.
Even Astoria had shut him down, many, many years ago.
She picks up her coffee, glasses and bag, patting him on the shoulder, “Don’t waste this, I’d like to see you happy in your wedding pictures one day.”
When Draco invited Hermione to his place, he just wanted to feed her some good food and good wine and perhaps spend the night with her in his arms, in his bed. Perhaps he would lay her down on his bed and crawl between her legs again, but nothing beyond that.
Instead, he’s preparing to admit to something that no woman has ever accepted before.
He knows she wants more. She had begged so prettily, so breathlessly, the night of the wedding. It had taken every ounce of control in his body not to give in to her. How easy it would have been to just let go…
But he wasn’t lying when he said he could break her. The mere sight of his thick finger pushing between her folds, of his other fingers resting against her mound, up to her pubic bone, was enough to tell him that he couldn’t rush this.
He would take his time with her. He would take care of her.
When she knocks on his door he lets her in, taking her bag from leaving it on one of his bar stools. She goes for the white wine, not the red, and she chooses the loveseat, not the armchair. They pick at a charcuterie board that the grocer down the street helped him put together.
She leans in close to him, her wine in hand, until her thigh presses up against his and her hair brushes his shoulder. As he drinks, he allows himself to touch her. First, just on her knee, his fingers staying in place.
Then, up her thigh, his fingers dragging against her leggings.
Her hand, up her arm, fingers brushing her cheek and her jaw. The line of her throat.
When she’s nearly panting, her eyes dark and glued to his, he decides it’s as good a time as any to try.
“Have you ever felt like you just want someone to take care of you?
He speaks softly, even though they’re alone, and his eyes immediately find hers, looking for any hidden reaction that she may not verbalize. Hermione tilts her head in consideration before she nods her head.
“It’s the opposite for me. I want to take care of someone with everything that I have. I want to be a place where they can find comfort and safety and intimacy,” he explains, his eyes still locked on hers.
He moves his hand slowly up from where it’s resting against her cheek to the curl dangling in front of her face and he tucks it behind her ear, “I want to shower someone with gifts and be their rock when they need to cry. I want to hold them close in my arms when they need a cuddle and be the first person they run to when they’re happy.”
Her lips quirk up in a small smile and he finds his eyes drawn to them, remembering what it felt like to feel them against his own. Her fingers trail up his own arm until they’re pressing against his lips. He presses a soft kiss to her fingertips.
“I want to tease them like crazy and-” he leans in and presses a soft kiss to her lips “-show them that they’ll never need anyone else. Only my lips, my fingers, me.”
Hermione swallows and wets her lips, “Do you...are you saying you want to take care of me?”
It’s exactly what he wants and he gives her a slow nod, “Yes.”
He watches her carefully, for any hint of being uncomfortable or confused, but her expression hasn’t changed. She’s an open book like this, plied with a little bit of wine and cheese, his touch against her skin.
He wants her like this, always.
“It’s not just that, though,” he says, inhaling deeply. “It’s hard to talk about.”
She tilts her head and lets her fingers trail over his arm, “Is it a...sex thing?”
Draco swallows heavily, because some would say it is and others would say it isn’t. It’s not exactly easy to explain or simple to quantify. It can be sexual but it can also be romantic, platonic and everything in between.
“In a way, yes,” he says. “But it’s not just sexual, it’s...more than that.”
He watches as she considers his words. Her eyes are so expressive and so when they suddenly flash, he’s a mix of worried and intrigued.
“You want to be a Daddy," she breathes. "Have you ever...?"
He nods when she trails off, "Yes, but few and far between."
Hermione chews on her lip, "Is that why your marriage didn't work out?"
One of them, yes. His first marriage had more problems than just him trying to take care of a woman who wasn't interested in it. His second...
"It wasn't the only reason, but yes it was one of the reasons," he says, placing his wine glass onto the table. "Look, I don't want to scare you and if you're not interested then we can go our separate ways. But I have tried dating women who weren't interested, I have forced myself to put that part of me away. It doesn't work and I can't do it any longer."
She surges forward almost as soon as he finishes speaking, pressing her lips to his in a firm kiss. It's the type of kiss that follows a broad declaration of...something.
"I'm not scared," she whispers, lips brushing against his. "I've never been in a relationship like this but I can't deny that it appeals to me."
"Good," he says, letting out the breath he was holding in. He laces their fingers together and says in a soft, low voice, “You have to know then that I don't just want to be a Daddy; I want to be your Daddy.”
Chapter Text
"I'm not scared," she whispers, lips brushing against his. "I've never been in a relationship like this but I can't deny that it appeals to me."
"Good," he says, letting out the breath he was holding in. He laces their fingers together and says in a soft, low voice, “You have to know then that I don't just want to be a Daddy; I want to be your Daddy.”
Hermione is telling the truth, what she says to Draco. She’s not scared.
No, she doesn’t have a ton of experience in the relationship department. She’s 21 and has only had one boyfriend for longer than six months but she’s dated, some only once and others for a few weeks. Regardless of her actual dating experience, she also has eyes.
She watches porn and for years she’s flipped through romance books just looking for the smutty scenes. She also grew up with a Tumblr, during the time when porn ran rampant and people used it to show off their relationships.
When she looks back at Draco, he’s watching her carefully, almost as though he’s monitoring her as he would one of his patients for any bad reactions or sudden erratic movements. She gets the feeling that admitting this to her wasn’t easy, and knows that his marriage had failed at least in part because of his desires.
But he doesn’t have to worry about that with her. It would have to be something much, much worse for her to leave, something like...if he had another three ex-wives that she doesn’t know about.
Hermione wets her lips and swallows, placing her hand on his arm, “Well, I would hope that you want to be my Daddy.”
She nearly laughs at the look on Draco’s face, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline in surprise, “You’re really alright with this? You’re not just...saying that it’s fine to appease me?”
“Why would I appease you?” She laughs. “No offence, Draco - I like you, I truly do - but there are other men out there...if I wanted other men.”
When he nods she knows he does it because she’s right. If she just wanted affection or was more interested in money or even a man who would fuck her, she could find someone else. But in these short two weeks, texting a man double her age, attending the wedding of his ex-wife and best mate, she’s grown to know someone who she realizes she wants to keep in her life.
She clasps her hands together and turns her body to face him, “So, what happens now?”
To her surprise, he gives her a soft smile and leans further into the corner of his couch, “Now? Nothing, we continue as we were.”
Hermione frowns, “But you just said that you want-”
“Yes, I do,” he says softly, resting one of his hands on her knee. “But there’s no reason we can’t get there naturally. You’ve never been in that type of relationship before and I don’t expect you to know what you want yet. So we’ll move slowly and we’ll explore things as we get to them.”
Fair enough, she thinks. Her eyes flicker down to look at his palm, his fingers gripping her knee.
“Do you…” she pauses and looks up at him as he raises his eyebrows, silver eyes focused on her own. “Do you want me to call you Daddy?”
“No,” he says, quick to answer. He almost looks embarrassed, his cheeks a little bit pink, “Not yet. If we do this properly then one day it will just happen and it will feel right.
Hermione picks up her wine glass and finishes the rest of the chardonnay before she moves a little bit closer to him, “Will you fuck me tonight?”
She can’t help but ask. God, she should be thrilled that he’s willing to take things slowly. He’s been so soft with her, so careful, and all she can think about is him taking her to bed to ravage her.
Draco just smiles again - that same annoying pacifying smile he gives her every time she asks - and shakes his head, “No.”
“Please?” She pouts for good measure.
Another head-shake, “No.”
She shift, moving to kneel on the couch next to him and lets her hand rest on his thigh, “Can I-”
“No,” he repeats before gripping her waist with his palms. “Come here.”
Draco tugs her into his lap so her knees are on either side of his thighs and her backsides rests on his knees. He squeezes her hips and tugs her a little bit closer until her hands are pressed against his chest.
“You can always ask for what you want, in fact, I want you to. But I’m not always going to say yes,” he says softly.
Hermione scoffs, “So far you haven’t ever said yes.”
“Hermione,” he sighs and leans forward to rest his forehead against her chest. “Do you think I don’t want to?”
She lets her hand drift up to comb through his hair, “I don’t know, you just keep saying no.”
His breath against her neck makes her shiver and the hand that was on her hip moves to her belly, his fingers dipping below the elastic of her leggings. Her skin burns when his fingers drag across her belly down to her knickers.
“I know you think I’m playing into something by saying that I could break you, but you are so fucking tiny, love,” he says, pressing a kiss to her clavicle. “And I’m going to take care of you. We’re going to work up to it, so you’re going to take my fingers and my mouth until I think you’re ready.”
His fingers slip underneath her knickers and she tries to control her breathing.
“Do you want to stay the night?” He asks, still murmuring into her skin.
She lets out a breathy “Yes,” and before she knows it, he’s pulling his hand out from her leggings and picking her up in his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, holding onto him as he walks them into what she thinks is his room.
It’s dark so she can’t see much of anything, but she feels it when Draco carefully lets go of her and she drops down onto the bed. His hands are back on her hips and he’s tugging down both her leggings and her knickers.
Hermione pulls off her sweater and she can see his eyes flick to her bare breasts when she stretches out on the bed.
“No bra?” He asks, tugging his own shirt off.
Hermione lets her eyes drift over his torso before shaking her head, “Not if I can help it.”
Draco hovers over her, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before he moves down her chest and sternum. He rubs his thumb over her nipple, plucking it with his fingers until she gasps and arches her back.
“I’ll remember that,” he says, kissing down her belly.
His finger is as thick as she remembers and for a second she thinks he’s probably right. If his finger feels this thick, fills her this well, how could she ever take him? But as he works his finger inside of her, his thumb rubbing firm circles over her clit, she wants him regardless.
Before she can open her mouth to beg, to plead, for him to fuck her, he swipes his tongue over her inner thigh and brushes his teeth against the sensitive skin in a warning, “I will stop if you ask me again.”
Hermione groans and throws her head back in annoyance, her hands clenching the covers. It feels good, of course it does, but she wants more. He’s already labeled her as greedy and yes, when it comes to him, she is.
“Give me your hand, love,” he says into her skin, his hand brushing her finger tips.
He pulls it down to her belly and presses it firmly into her skin. Shifting, he moves his arm so he has more room and Hermione sucks in a breath when his finger moves further inside of her. How can his fingers be that long?
“Push down,” he mutters, before pressing his tongue to her clit and curling his finger against her.
She presses her hand down and the pressure inside of her is almost too much. With just a few soft and wet kisses, his lips sucking on her clit and his fingers brushing repeatedly just behind that notch in her front wall, she’s squeezing his finger and crying out.
The orgasm hits her fast and hard. She feels like all the air has been pulled out of her lungs and her legs quiver when he doesn’t let up on her. She squirms beneath his attention but he brings his forearm to rest over her hips, pressing her hand further into her pubic bone.
“Another, love,” he says, pulling away from her just long enough to say the words.
It feels as though her second orgasm is just an extension of the first and her hips roll with the bursting pressure in her belly until her free hand finds Draco’s hair and she yanks, harder than she means to, but enough to pull him away from her.
“Done?” He asks, his head up and his chin digging into her belly.
She nods, her head flopping back and curls spilling out around her, “Done.”
When Draco’s eyes open in the morning, he thinks it’s around 8:30. There’s enough light seeping in through the curtains over the windows that he doesn’t think he can go back to sleep so he carefully rolls out of bed, his sweats slung low on his hips, and softly pads out of his bedroom and into the kitchen.
He’d picked up oat milk the day before, hoping that Hermione would agree to stay the night and aware that she doesn't drink regular milk. So he sets to work, brewing espresso for them both and frothing the milk to add.
His clock tells him that it's just after 8:30 and while he wants nothing more than to leave Hermione slumbering in his bed all day, he has to work in just under three hours.
Their conversation had gone better than he could have ever expected. He was ready for two emotions to flood her face when he said the words: fear and disgust. Instead, she smiled at him and made him feel comfortable.
It only cemented in his mind that Hermione was truly good and kind and perhaps, deep down without knowing it, she was looking for what he could provide. Yes, he’d teasingly listed off ‘flaws’ in her personality - impatient, bratty and greedy - but he knew the type of world that they lived in. Those flaws are signs of strengths; a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it, no matter the obstacles or amount of people who say no.
So it comes as no surprise to him that she continues to ask for him to fuck her. No surprise at all. But he will teach her patience.
He moves into his bedroom, opening the door quietly and pressing the little button that will pull the blackout curtain away from the window, letting the morning light gradually fill the room. He watches her, for just a few seconds, as the light softly caresses her face.
He knew she was beautiful when he saw her that night at the club; warm honey eyes and bouncing curls, plump lips and full cheeks. She looks right in his bed.
Carefully placing the mugs down on the night table on her side of the bed - and it will be, her side of the bed - he sits down and lightly combs his fingers over her hair, brushing his thumb over her cheek. She twitches in her sleep, stretching until she opens her eyes with a yawn.
“Good morning,” he says softly, leaning down to press a light kiss to her forehead.
She hums, reaching her arms out in front of her in another stretch, “Mm, morning. It’s early.”
Draco picks up the warm mug of coffee and brings it closer to her, close enough that he knows she can now smell the bitter liquid. Her eyes pop open and she sits up, her back leaning against his headboard.
“You made coffee?” She asks, pulling the covers up and over her bare breasts.
“I did, an apology for waking you up so early,” he says, grabbing his own mug and tipping it into his mouth. “I have to work in a few hours.”
She sips lightly on the coffee and smiles, “Well you’re forgiven, the coffee is perfect. Is it-?”
“Oat milk,” he says, finishing her question. “I picked it up yesterday. It’s what you ordered at the café, right?”
He knows it is, he went back through their texts to find it and make sure it was the right kind of milk.
Her smile is bright and she holds the cup close to her mouth, her cheeks and the tip of her nose pink, “Yes, you remembered.”
They sip their coffee quietly, Draco lightly trailing his fingers over her arm, until he looks down at his watch. He’s not very superstitious, he’s not, but there are certain things he likes to do before he heads into the hospital.
He goes for a jog, he takes a luxurious shower and relishes in the water beating down on his back and he writes in his journal. It’s nothing complicated or overly necessary to his job, but he likes to keep his thoughts in his journal and away from his mind while he holds people's lives in his hands.
As an intern, he’d slipped with a suture while worrying about his marriage. He swore to himself, in that moment, that he’d never do it again.
“I’m not trying to kick you out, love,” he says, putting his mug back on the night table.
“But you’re kicking me out,” she laughs, crossing her legs and sitting up.
Draco leans down and presses a closed-mouth kiss to her lips, smiling against her at the feeling it gives him, “I’ll take you home.”
He stands and collects her clothes from around the room, shaking her knickers out of her leggings and righting her sweater that she’d pulled off quickly the night before. He puts them down on the bed and scratches her head lightly with his nails.
“You don’t have to do that, I can grab a car,” she says, moving on the bed but not rising yet.
“I want to take you home,” he says plainly before wandering into his closet to pull on a t-shirt and swipe on some deodorant.
By the time he walks back into his room, she’s dressed with her hair piled atop her head in a messy bun. She collects her bag and her phone and they head down to the garage in his building to hop in his car.
The drive is quiet and when he looks over at her, she’s curled into the seat with her head leaning against the window, watching the traffic and people wandering around, already starting their day.
"You okay?” He asks, placing his hand on her thigh.
Hermione turns to face him and smiles, placing her hand on top of his, “I’m great, just a little sleepy.”
Her flat isn’t far from his and when they’re only a few minutes away, he clears his throat. He meant what he said the night before, that he didn’t want to rush them into anything. Of course, that doesn't mean there aren't things that he wants; he wants her to feel comfortable enough to call him Daddy, he wants her to feel comfortable enough to accept his care, but those things take work.
“I have something that I want to ask you to do for me,” he says softly, turning to look at her for a second before turning back to the road.
“Do I have to say yes?” She asks, a teasing lilt to her voice.
He chuckles, “No, of course not. But I’d like it if you did.”
Hermione hums before finally agreeing and he rubs his thumb in soft circles against her thigh, “I like knowing when you’re home safe or when you’re going somewhere. I don’t need to know where you’re going, if you don’t want to tell me, but I’d like to know when you’re heading out or when you arrive home.”
She’s quiet, and for a second Draco wonders if he’s misjudged their conversation. He had tried to make it clear that it wasn’t just sexual, but sometimes it’s hard to take, particularly when the word Daddy is involved.
“Just a text, nothing complicated,” he says.
He pulls to a stop in front of her building and puts the car in park, turning to face her. To his surprise, she has a soft smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes.
“What?” He asks. “Too far?”
Hermione shakes her head and thumbs his hand, “No, I just like that you care. It’s nice.”
He doesn’t get a chance to look at his phone until he’s nearly seven hours into his shift that day. The emergency room is crazy that day, with ambulance after ambulance carrying people in with everything from whiplash to stab wounds, suffering from heart attacks and severe allergic reactions.
He almost regrets his jog that morning when his calves are screaming at him after spending hours on his feet with no break in sight. Finally, the other emergency room doctor comes in for her shift, and he takes the first opportunity he has to go down to the cafeteria and get a much-needed coffee.
His watch had vibrated a few times through his shift, Hermione texting him at random. He’d let her know when he had a second earlier in the day that he was going to be busy and unable to reliably text her back.
Hermione
Hermione: i’m just going down to the café for lunch, it’s a quick walk
Hermione: is that a good text? to let you know I'm leaving?
Draco: Thank you, love. Yes, perfect.
Draco: Not going to be able to text back right away. Very busy here.
By the time he looks at his phone during his break, there's a grey wall of texts that he'd only been able to glance at.
Hermione: that’s okay 😊
Hermione: i got a wrap but they forgot the lettuce so it was just chicken and tomatoes and cheese
Hermione: kind of weird but I still ate it
Hermione: okay I’m walking home now
Hermione: do you think people walk in big groups and get in my way on purpose?
Hermione: it sure seems like they do today
Hermione: i’m home now, and away from all of the annoying people
Hermione: i think I’ll watch a movie, maybe mean girls, something mindless
Hermione: have you ever seen it? i think you’d like it
Hermione: i really hope i’m not bothering you but if i am, just tell me
Draco laughs as he reads through all of the messages she’s sent him throughout the day. He’s anything but bothered, in fact he’s not expecting how happy it makes him feel. Her youth, while something that he still worries about, does something to him.
Draco: You could never bother me. I loved looking down at my watch to see your texts throughout the day.
Draco: How’s your movie?
Hermione: it’s over now, but i’m watching tv instead
Hermione: it’s been really busy today?
He continues down the stairs until he reaches the cafeteria and his feet lead him automatically to the coffee machines, where he jabs his finger into the button.
Draco: Crazy busy, lots of accidents and emergencies.
Draco: I’m just grabbing a coffee before my pager goes off again.
Hermione: i’m sorry 😔
Hermione: i hope the night isn’t too bad for you
Draco grabs his coffee as soon as it’s done and picks up an apple from the fruit bowl, paying for both quickly. He knows his pager will go off in the next five minutes and he so, so badly just wants to sit down and rest his feet.
He finds his favourite little alcove and groans out loud when he finally takes a seat.
Draco: I hope so, love.
Hermione: can I ask you something?
Draco: Anything.
He watches the three dots jump on the screen for an awfully long time before her text appears.
Hermione: can I see you in your scrubs?
Draco chuckles to himself and decides that yes, she can, but likely not in the way that she wants. He sends her a picture that makes it obvious he’s in his scrubs, but not of his face. Just to tease her.
Draco: how about this?
Hermione: well, technically i can see that you’re in your scrubs 😍
Hermione: i supposeeee it counts
He’s typing fast and ignoring his pager buzzing on his hip.
Draco: It’s within your parameters, baby.
He pulls his pager away from his waistband and sighs when he sees the emergency room is paging him again.
Hermione: baby?
His heart stops for a second. Shit.
Hermione: i like that
Hermione: it feels right 😊
Chapter Text
The library at school is Hermione’s favourite place to be. There’s something about the multi-floored building that so naturally encourages anyone who walks through its doors to whisper to their friends and walk lightly on their toes.
It’s as though the word “library” is synonymous with “quiet” without ever having to do anything but exist.
When she needs somewhere to think, somewhere that’s not her flat or the coffee shop down the street, she comes to the library with her extra-large coffee, her laptop and her bluetooth earbuds. She gets lost there, for hours, until one of her devices warns that it’s running out of battery or her stomach growls in hunger.
Sometimes she walks through the stacks, running her fingers along the spines of books that no one has touched in years, her music playing softly in her ears. Once in a while she finds something that seems interesting and pulls it off the shelf, sliding down to the floor to skim over the pages.
She likes it because no one bothers her there, not Ginny or Harry, not Ron or Lavender. No one comes looking for her when she’s in the library.
It’s there, sitting at her usual table, lost in the lyrics in her ears, that her phone buzzes and that annoying little robot voice sounds in her ears to let her know that it’s a text from Draco.
Dr. Draco 👨🏼
Draco: I am just leaving work. I will be there in 20 minutes. OK?
Hermione: i’ll meet you out front of the library
Hermione: see you soon!!!!
Draco had asked her if she would be willing to go on a double date with his friends, the friends whose wedding she had gone to. She was unsure at first, because these friends include his ex-wife, but Astoria had been nothing but kind and sweet to her.
Shortly after Draco had admitted that he wanted to take care of her, he told her that Astoria had pushed her way into his flat one morning, threatening him to get his act together and discuss his desires with her. As far as she’s concerned, Astoria seems to care for Draco the way a sister would a brother, and that makes her feel slightly better.
Hermione tucks her bluetooth earbuds back into the case and stretches her arms out behind her back. It’s the only downside of the library, the horribly uncomfortable chairs, but she deals with it for the silence and comfort it brings to her.
It doesn’t take her long to pack up, quietly slipping her laptop into the sleeve and then into her bag. She takes her phone off the table and pushes her chair in - unlike the engineering-majors who treat some areas of the library like their own personal bedroom, leaving papers and trash and chairs and muddy footprints all over the place - before she heads over to the exit.
It’s warm outside, warm enough that she wishes she had worn shorts or a dress instead of her denims, and she leans against the outside of the building while she waits for Draco to pull up. There’s a part of her - a big part, she’ll admit to it - that so badly wants everyone to see her climb into the attractive older doctor’s car and, as the sun warms her face, she lets herself think about it.
It makes her chest feel tight, in a way that convinces her she needs a cigarette to open up her lungs. There’s a pack in her bag that she makes use of once in a while and she digs one out, lighting it quickly and taking a drag.
It feels good, gives her a simultaneous clear-mind and hazy-mind, giving her something to focus on other than Draco.
She takes her last drag - a deep pull, smoke filling her lungs until her mind goes hazy - when she sees Draco’s car pull up. Exhaling, Hermione drops the butt to the ground and smushes it with the toe of her boot before picking up her backpack and walking down to the curb.
It didn’t even occur to her that perhaps Draco, a literal Doctor, wouldn’t like cigarettes and he’s on her before she can even sit down.
“Please tell me I did not just watch you smoking a cigarette,” he says, voice oddly level and calm.
Hermione frowns and pulls the seatbelt on just as Draco flicks on his blinker and looks into his side mirror, pulling away from the curb. She can’t tell if he’s being super serious.
“Uh, possibly,” she says, tucking her phone into her bag.
As they pull up to the red light he makes a show of resting his forehead against the steering wheel and groaning, “Why, God, why? Why would you make my sweet Hermione susceptible to the pull of cigarettes?”
“Oh, come off it,” she says, rolling her eyes and whacking his arm with her hand. “I don’t do it often.”
“Once is enough,” he mutters, picking his head back up and pressing on the gas when the light turns. “Would you like me to lecture you as Dr. Malfoy or as the man who cares about you?”
“Does it have to be a lecture?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
Hermione sighs and leans her head against the window, her eyes on his hands gripping the steering wheel, “The man who cares about me, I suppose.”
Draco flashes her a smile and moves his left hand to rest on her thigh, “Good, the Dr. Malfoy lecture on cigarettes is pretty bleak.”
She groans and waves her hand, gesturing for him to get on with his lecture. The taste of the cigarette is still on her tongue and she counts it as a win for her. He’s more than welcome to lecture her so long as the nicotine continues to numb her.
“I think I’ve made it fairly obvious that I care about you,” he says, his voice soft and not at all lecture-like, not like her professors. “My priority is your well-being and I would never just make arbitrary demands for you to stop doing something - unless it was legitimately life-threatening.”
Hermione nods her head because, yes, she knows this. She knows that he cares about her and cares about her well-being and wants to care for her more, even though he won’t just do it.
“I believe you when you say that you don’t do it often and if you’d ever like to stop completely, just know that I’m here for you,” he says, peeking at her out of the corner of his eye and squeezing her thigh.
She frowns and lets out a soft laugh, “Wait, what? You’re not going to tell me to stop?”
Draco shakes his head and switches lanes as they approach his flat, “Nope. You’re an adult, love. I’m just here to support you.”
He turns to look at her again, a soft confused smile on his lips, “Why, would you rather I did?”
Hermione shrugs. It’s not that she’d prefer that he gave her some terrible ultimatum, it’s just...well she had read about these types of relationships and they all seemed to come down to the same thing: control. One partner always seemed to need control over the other, whether that was sexually or privately or publicly.
She tells him as much and he squeezes her thigh again.
“Yes, control is a part of it. It’s why I’ve asked you to text me when you go somewhere,” he explains. “But more than that, I want to take care of you, Hermione. And to truly do that, I need you to be happy with me, right?”
She mulls over his words as he pulls into his parking garage, going down into the depths to where his parking spot is.
“I am happy,” she says, placing her hand over his and giving it a squeeze. “So far, I’m happy being with you.”
Draco parks and turns off the car, the small light still on and illuminating them both in the darkened garage. He takes his seatbelt off and twists slightly to look over to her properly, bringing his palm up to cup her cheek.
“Why don’t we continue this conversation later, after dinner. Okay?”
She looks into his eyes and nods, a small smile coming to her face when he leans forward and presses his lips softly against hers. His kisses are always soft, his lips molding to hers as though he’s afraid of breaking her.
Sometimes, when she’s tucked into her bed at her flat, she closes her eyes and snakes her hand down to her knickers, wondering what it would be like for him to actually break her.
As it turns out, Draco and Theo have known each other since they were small children, meeting in their haughty private school and staying friends throughout their lives. She learns that they’d grown up in similar families, both only children with more money than they knew what to do with
“Christ, I swear Hermione, this guy was such a fucking prat at school. He was always going on and on about his father this and his father that,” Theo says, rolling his eyes as Draco huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “As if we didn’t all grow up with the same type of parents.”
Hermione leans into Draco’s side, patting his thigh, and smiles when he lets his arm rest over her shoulder, “Alright, alright, thanks mate. I’m pretty sure I’ve helped you get every girlfriend you’ve ever had, not to mention your wife. You think you’d be a little bit nicer.”
Theo snorts and picks up his wine glass, thrusting it up into the air as if making a toast, “Yeah, sure, mate. They all liked me better than you anyways.”
Astoria elbows Theo in the side and her husband yelps, pouting while she turns back to them, “I don’t like Theo better, just in a different way. You’re a catch Draco, you know that.”
Draco rubs his fingers over her shoulder and looks down at her with a wink, “I mean, I suppose we should ask Hermione whether she thinks so.”
“Definitely a catch,” she says, a light flush coming to her cheeks. “One I’m very happy to have caught.”
Astoria beams at them from across the table while Theo devolves into a chorus of “awwws” when Draco tilts her chin up and presses his lips to hers. Hermione is still getting used to being able to actually touch this completely perfect man in public and she blushes a brighter pink.
“So,” Astoria clasps her hands together, getting their attention again. “What do you do, Hermione? Are you still in school?”
She nods and takes a quick sip of her wine - white, a chardonnay that Draco swore she’d like - before she shifts in her chair, “I am, I’m in my last year studying English literature.”
There’s an awkwardness to the topic that she knows she’ll never get over. The truth of the situation is that she’s 20 years younger than everyone else at the table and hasn’t started her career yet, let alone graduated from university. She tries her hardest to steer the conversation away from something that makes her age obvious, but Draco never seems to mind.
“What are your plans for after you graduate?” Theo asks, popping a chunk of bread into his mouth.
Draco’s fingers rub small circles into her shoulder and she tries to relax under their questioning, “Grad school, focussing on British and Irish literature.
“I’m assuming you love to read then?”
Hermione nods her head, digging her fingers into the napkin covering her lap, “I think it’s probably a little obvious, but yes, I always have. There’s just something about curling up on a cool day with a coffee, a blanket and a good book, the fire roaring in the background.”
She catches the wink that Astoria throws at Draco and turns to look at him suspiciously, “What?”
Draco rolls his eyes but before he can answer, Astoria pipes up again, “Draco has a beautiful fireplace and this great little window seat that would be absolutely perfect for you to read in.”
“You are, of course, welcome to use my flat to read anytime you like,” Draco says softly, letting his fingers trail up and over her shoulder, underneath her curls to trace the back of her neck.
The movement of his fingers causes a shiver to run up her spine and she tries to cover it up with another long sip of her wine and a nod, “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
When she turns to look back at Theo and Astoria, they’re off in their own little world, pressed close together and whispering. She watches as Theo leans close to whisper in her ear and she watches Astoria when she giggles, laying her hand overtop of his arm.
They look truly in love. It’s nice to see.
Draco leans down and she can feel his light exhales against her cheek when he speaks quietly into her ear, “Are you alright?”
Hermione lets her head lean into him a little bit and whispers, “I’m perfect. They look so happy, so in love.”
She realizes then that she’s whispering to Draco, who had been married to the woman sitting across from them, and she turns her face to offer him a sad smile. He surprises her when he leans in to capture her lips, just enough to make her squirm in her chair.
This close, the smell of his cologne and shampoo fills her nose to the point that it overwhelms her. She forgets that they’re sitting in the middle of a restaurant, only aware enough to know that his palm cradles her cheek softly and his lips pillow hers.
A light throat clearing finally gets her attention and she blinks, turning slowly to look at Astoria who’s standing behind her chair, her clutch in her hand and a smirk on her face.
“I think you might need a touchup,” Astoria says to her, winking and gesturing towards the loos.
She blushes, she knows she does because her cheeks burn hot, and stands up shakily from her seat. She’s about to twist and grab her purse but Draco hands it to her, helping her slip it over her head until it’s hanging against her body.
“Hurry back,” Draco says, his hand resting on the small of her back as she moves to walk around the table.
Astoria links arms with her as soon as they’re close enough and she’s grateful for Draco’s ex-wife as she leads her over to the loos and into a small sitting area. She knows that if she pees then she’ll break the seal and be forced to pee another five times before they leave so she approaches the mirror and takes a wide-eyed look at her faded lipstick.
“So, you guys are fucking adorable together,” Astoria says, a smile evident in her voice.
Hermione watches her in the reflection of the mirror as she digs through her purse for her lipstick, “Oh, thank you-”
“No, I’m being serious. He’s smitten, believe me, I would know,” she continues, leaning against the counter next to her. “I knew you two would be perfect together. Tell me, how’s everything going?”
Once again, she feels a tiny bit awkward. Astoria is beautiful, with fair skin and dark hair, darker than her honey-coloured curls, and despite her smooth skin and wrinkle-less face, she knows she’s the same age as Draco.
She hums to cover her nervousness, “Things are...things are going well. We’re spending time together and getting to know each other and it’s...it’s good.”
Astoria’s eyes narrow and she searches her face for something, “Did he tell you?”
Hermione lifts an eyebrow, “Tell me what?”
There doesn’t seem to be anyone around them but Astoria looks around anyways before leaning in close, “About the Daddy thing, did he tell you?”
“Oh,” Hermione says, “Uh...yes, he did.”
“And you’re still here so you must be alright with it?” She asks, taking the lipstick from her hands that she has yet to apply.
Astoria cradles her face in her palm, holding her steady, and Hermione lets her lips relax. Her fingers are firm as she brushes the lipstick on carefully, perfectly following the shape of her lips. She pushes her lips together when she’s finished and takes the piece of toilet roll, blotting the excess colour away so it doesn’t bleed.
“Yes, to be honest Draco told me and then insisted that we continue on as we have been,” Hermione mutters, tossing the paper into the bin. “He won’t even…”
She’s not sure how appropriate this is to be telling his ex-wife, but she seems to be comfortable talking about his proclivities and the alcohol is making her brain just a touch fuzzy.
“Not this again,” she mutters, running her fingers through her hair. “Look, sometimes he needs a bit of a push. Things have been...hard for him the last few years. Have you ever been in that kind of a relationship before?”
Hermione shakes her head and fidgets with her fingers.
“That’s why,” she says softly, grasping her hand and squeezing it. “He doesn’t want to scare you.”
She thought as much and deduced as much from him. He doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t want to scare her, just wants to make her feel safe and comfortable until he’s sure that she’s ready.
When Astoria pats her cheek she realizes that the way she touches her, in some ways, reminds her of Draco. She understands then why their relationship didn’t work out.
Draco doesn’t offer her any wine when they get back to his flat, only some water and she accepts it. She supposes it’s a good thing, she went through at least three glasses during dinner faster than she realized until she had reached for her glass only to find it empty, again.
It didn’t escape her attention when Draco called over the waiter and asked for a glass of water, instead of another glass of wine. She finds she likes it, that he looks out for her.
He settles into the corner of his couch, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hair messy from running his fingers through it. Hermione watches him from where she’s standing and smiles when he holds his arm out, inviting her to sit with him.
“C’mere, baby,” he says softly, patting the couch next to him.
Hermione wastes no time slipping underneath his arm and cuddling into his chest. She feels warm and happily buzzed, her brain just a touch hazy underneath the alcohol.
Draco wraps his arms around her, settling in against her waist and belly, and she tips her head back to look up at him, “So…”
He rolls his eyes, and watching him upside down makes her the slightest bit dizzy, so she twists until she can see at least part of his face, “Don’t even start, love. I thought we were going to talk more.”
Hermione groans, “I would also accept a different form of communication if you don’t feel like talking.”
“No,” he says. “I hope Astoria didn’t bother you too much tonight.”
She shakes her head slowly, “No, she just wanted to see how things were going. She asked whether you told me about, y’know, the Daddy thing.”
He stiffens beneath her when she says the word and it’s as though her brain itches. There’s an...itch, one that she needs to scratch but she can’t...she can’t figure out how.
“She can be a little bit forward,” he tries to explain, his arms tightening around her. “But she means well, she just wants the best for us.”
“I know, I could tell,” she says. “She also told me that you’re being so cautious because you don’t want to scare me.”
She turns in his arms so she’s laying against him, her chin propped up on his chest. He’s frowning and his fingers twitch against her waist.
“We’re taking things slow because this isn’t something that should be rushed,” he says. “You asked me about control earlier, in the car.”
She nods. Control had been the one thing that had come up consistently in her limited research. It’s understandable; Draco has control in everything in his life, it isn’t a surprise that he would want control in his relationship too.
She’s reminded of the way Astoria had cupped her cheek earlier that night and she gets it; it’s hard to have control when you’re both fighting for it.
“Does it scare you to give up control?” He asks.
“No, not with you,” she says, answering him honestly.
Draco nods and traces shapes on her back, “Why is that?”
Hermione considers his question, “I trust you. You’re not trying to take advantage of me or force me into things that I don’t want to do. You take control subtly, nothing overt or overwhelming. It feels...nice, almost like a warm and cozy blanket.”
He smiles at her, “Good. As much control as I like to have in my life, making you feel comfortable and safe and happy is my main goal. As we get more comfortable with each other - as long as it’s alright with you - then we can discuss other ways that you can give up that control that I see you hold onto so tightly.”
She decides to take Astoria’s advice then, because what he says sounds nice. She appreciates how slowly he wants to take things, but she’s a big girl, she can take a little bit more than he’s currently giving her.
“Can I call you Daddy?”
He stiffens again, when she says the word, and Hermione eyes him carefully.
“Not if you’re trying to goad me into other things.”
“Can I try?” She asks, her voice quiet and eyes wide.
He breathes in deeply, his chest moving underneath her and eyes closing tightly for half a second, “Yeah, baby, if you want to.”
Hermione sits up, half sitting on the couch and half sitting over his lap. The lighting in his flat is dark and shadowed and she’s grateful that he can’t see how bright her cheeks have become.
“Daddy,” she says softly, letting her tongue caress each letter.
It doesn’t feel awkward in her mouth. In fact, it feels appropriate, like it always should have been there.
She can feel his heart thumping in his chest and he takes her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss against her fingertips, “That’s it, baby. How does it feel?”
“It feels…” she trails off, not sure how to explain it.
Another press of his lips against her fingers, “Probably the same way it does when I call you baby. Like a tightening in your chest. Like a rightness in your bones.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Exactly like that.”
Draco tugs her by the hand so she falls further into his lap and brings her face to his, pressing their lips together, “Good. I’m glad.”
“Me too,” she whispers against his lips. “I'm not sure I'm ready to always call you that, though."
His lips find hers again and this time it's open-mouthed, their tongues meeting in a flurry. He's holding her tightly, his arms locked around her waist and his nose nuzzling her temple.
"There's no rush, love. No rush at all."
Chapter Text
He has a bad day at work. It’s bad enough that he spends his coffee break in the attending lounge with his head tucked into his folded arms, bad enough that he doesn’t ask for music on in the operating room when he has to dig a slug out of his patient, bad enough that he ignores all of Hermione’s texts that day.
He has to change his scrubs twice during his shift, the first after only 20 minutes when a woman with a sliced carotid artery is rolled into his ER. The blood pours out of her neck faster than they can stop it, faster than they can get a blood bag hooked up. She dies.
And again, once more, after the seven-year-old who was accidentally shot bleeds out on the operating table. He showers both times but has trouble looking down at his hands and his scrubs, still seeing the crimson seeping into his clothes and staining his skin.
His watch taps his wrist throughout the day and he knows it’s Hermione, but the last thing he needs right now - the last thing he can stomach right now - is to read her texts. Her texts are untouched by the terrible day he’s had, they’re unaware that his hands had cradled two people while they died, unaware that their blood had covered him. So he ignores them all, for 12 hours straight.
“I heard about the kid.”
Draco turns around from where he’s scribbling notes onto a chart at the nurse’s station, Blaise standing behind him with two coffees in his hands.
“Yeah,” is all he can manage to say, taking the coffee and placing it down next to the chart.
Blaise moves to lean against the counter next to him, “When are you off?”
He peeks down at his watch, flicking it towards his face to see the time and his eyes catch Hermione’s latest text.
Hermione
Hermione: i’m worried about you.
Hermione: please text me when you can.
“Another 20 minutes, I’m just finishing up these charts before I take off,” he says softly, ignoring the lump in his throat.
Blaise taps his fingers against the counter and Draco tries his best to ignore the noise and slight vibration underneath his pen. He knows he’s trying to offer him some sort of strange comfort, one that only another Doctor can understand, but on this day, he’s unwilling to accept it.
His pen continues to scratch over the paper.
“It was the uncle,” his friend says, crossing his arms and leaning against them.
His pen stutters, stopping for a few seconds, before he continues.
Blaise clears his throat, “I saw on TV during my break. The uncle was trying to shoot someone else, someone who wasn’t supposed to be there, and it ricocheted.”
Draco doesn’t want to know because he’s not supposed to care. He’s not supposed to know how it happened beyond what’s necessary for him to do his job. He’s not supposed to get attached to these people that come across his table, so he tries to tune his friend out.
“You did what you could, mate. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he says, patting him on the shoulder. “Go home, call your girl.”
He nods, once, and is grateful when Blaise walks away.
It only takes him another 10 minutes to finish the charts which he hands off to the nurse before he grabs the coffee and walks back to the attending lounge to change out of his scrubs and back into his street clothes.
He doesn’t look at Hermione’s texts until he’s in his car.
Hermione: i was going to go to the library but I went to the café instead 😌
Hermione: how’s your day going? busy again?
Hermione: i decided on grilled cheese for lunch today with some tomato soup, i hope you have time to eat!
Hermione: what’s your favourite show? we should start watching something together
Hermione: usually you have a coffee break by now but I’m assuming you’re super busy. i hope it lets up soon
Hermione: i’m heading back to my flat now, just walking
Hermione: i miss you
Hermione: i’m back home, going to put some netflix on i think and cuddle up with a book
Hermione: i tried to see if there were any big accidents or something going on at the hospital but nothing came up. i hope everything’s alright
The last text had been sent more than two hours ago.
His fingers hover over the keyboard, the cursor blinking as he looks down at the screen. The last thing he wanted was to worry her, especially about him. He just...he couldn’t have both today.
He couldn’t be a Doctor and talk to weeping families and scrub himself clean of blood while he was being hers. He couldn’t take care of her and joke with her, he couldn’t talk about grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Tapping quickly, he navigates to his contacts and taps on her picture, his phone ringing through the car as he pulls out of his parking spot and heads out of the garage. It’s still light out when he emerges back into the world and he opens his sunroof, welcoming the fresh air into his lungs.
“Draco?”
His fingers tap against the steering wheel, “Hi, love.”
The line is quiet and he knows.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you today.”
The only thing he can hear is her steady inhale and exhale as he comes to a stop at the traffic light. He knows she’s upset, he can hear it and feel it through the phone.
“Can I come pick you up?” He asks because it would be better to just talk in person.
“Why?” She asks immediately.
Draco clears his throat. How honest does he want to be with her? He could always just apologize and tell her things were busy and be done with it. He can swear that it won’t happen again and they can forget that it ever even happened.
Or, he can tell her the truth.
“I had a really hard day,” he says, choosing to tell her the truth. “I would very much like to see you.”
A pause and then, “I was really worried. I understand that you’re busy but you could at least tell me.”
She’s right. He should've sent her a quick text to let her know that he was busy, that he couldn’t talk right then, that the day was getting to him for the first time in years in a way that he wasn’t expecting. But it’s hard to stop being selfish, to only be concerned with yourself, when that’s the way it’s been for years.
“You’re right, you’re absolutely right, Hermione. I’m sorry for worrying you,” he apologizes.
Even though she hasn’t given him permission to come get her, he turns towards her flat instead of his own. He’ll wait for her.
“If you don’t want to see me right now, I understand,” he says softly, ticking on his blinker.
There’s something rustling on the other end, maybe a blanket or clothes, before she answers, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” she says softly into the phone. “You can come get me.”
As soon as they sit down on his couch, he surges forward and captures her lips with his. He knows she's curious about his day, but he just wants to forget for a few minutes. So he throws himself into the kiss and the feeling of her underneath his hands. He throws himself into her and he lets his brain leave behind his day.
She doesn’t deny him and he thinks she knows that he needs it as much as she does.
Draco sits up with his legs spread and his hands holding her waist. He can’t get over how small she looks, dwarfed by his big hands. Years ago, he had contemplated specializing in cardiology or neurology for all of five minutes before he realized how big his hands really were.
Small hands and lithe fingers could do all of the delicate things required inside of a body cavity, like throwing tight sutures onto a heart or finding holes and bleeders quicker than using their tools. He noticed that family members and friends were always somehow relieved to learn that the surgeon working on their loved one had small hands; small enough to fix their heart or lungs, delicate enough to work on their brain.
When Draco looks at his hands, he doesn’t see anything delicate. He sees big and all encompassing, able to crush and smash, to hold and cradle, to keep safe and warm.
Hermione, though, seems to melt into his hands, her waist relaxes into his touch and he flexes his thumbs to help her move against the hard muscle of his thigh. Her thighs settle on either side of his leg, her knicker-covered core dragging against the material of his joggers and he grins at the look on her face.
She’s so impatient, so unable to see the reasoning behind them waiting for anything more, so he gives her what he thinks she can take. She’s taken his finger - just one finger - and writhed under his mouth and still asks for more.
“You think you can take more, baby?” He asks, his fingers curling around her hip.
Her eyes are half-lidded, whether from the wine she’d drank at home or the fact that they’ve been snogging for the last 15 minutes he’s not sure, and she flutters her lashes at him with a small smile, “Please.”
She thinks he’s going to toss her onto her back and push himself inside of her. He can see it in her eyes, in the way that they glaze over and the way that widens her eyes. But she’s not ready, no matter what she thinks.
So he helps her move against his thigh, helps her find a pace that has her whimpering and twitching against him, her head tipping back and eyes closing. He lets his right hand trail down to grip the bare skin of her thigh underneath her dress and presses her harder to him.
“Please, Draco,” she pants, her hips rolling and pushing, dragging until she stutters, rocking in smaller strokes.
He thinks she’s ready, not for sex, but for something else. They’ve taken things at a glacial pace just so Draco could ensure that she wasn’t doing it just to appease him, just to somehow keep him in her life. But he can see it in the way she curls up next to him and texts him through the day that she wants someone in her life to take care of her.
He can be that for her. He will be that for her. Just as long as she…
“Do you want to come for me, baby?” He asks, keeping his voice low and rumbly.
He watches her shiver in his arms, swallow heavily in her throat and push herself harder against his thigh, “Please…”
She trails off and he pounces, “Please, what?”
She rocks her harder against him, pushes down on her waist and grips her thigh tighter in his hand to give her that friction that she’s pushing for. And it’s there, right when she’s on the edge, when he can feel her belly flexing under his fingertips that she opens her mouth.
“Please, Daddy.”
Her breathy whisper makes his chest and his groin hurt, throbbing, and he has to actively stop himself from thrusting up against her knee. Instead, he flexes his thigh, gives her something harder to grind against, and drags her against it until her chest is heaving and her whimpers turn to moans.
“Come baby, you can come.”
He’s watched her come nearly a dozen times now, always unimpeded by his own pleasure, and he loves nothing more than getting to actually watch her; to see her face turn into a near-grimace, to see her chest expand and the way she bites down sharply on her lip.
But it’s after, just after she comes down from the pleasure, when her eyes blink open all glassy and cloudy and she reaches her hands out for him, that he really sees her. He sees a girl searching for someone to wrap her up and keep her safe and warm, for someone to take care of her and keep her.
As she rests her face in the crook of his neck, her thighs shaking over his leg, he presses a soft kiss to her temple and finally says what he’s been waiting for her to be ready to hear, “Good girl, baby. You’re such a good girl.”
Hermione watches him as he moves around the room, turning the lights off and pushing off his joggers and the soft t-shirt she’d buried her face against when he’d picked her up off his lap. The glow of the moon streaks in through the window and the yet-to-be-closed curtains, casting a shadow against him.
She likes the way he looks more than the tight muscles and smooth skin of most of the guys her age. Instead, he’s just a little bit soft with enough curling hair on his chest and abdomen that she just can’t look away.
“What’cha looking at?”
She lets her eyes slowly travel up from the waistband of his pants, up past that trail of hair below his navel, up over his pecs and his throat, his jaw lined with scruffy golden hair, up to those silver eyes that seem to know her better than anyone has known her before.
“You,” she says softly, snuggling further into his bed.
“Ah, not yet,” he says, approaching the bed and pulling the covers back. “You can’t sleep in that, let me get you a shirt.”
She wants to say no, tell him that it’s really not necessary, but sleeping wrapped in his shirt sounds nice so she sits up. Before she can tug her dress off from where it’s bunched up around her thighs, he taps her shoulders.
“Arms up, love.”
Hermione feels like she should blush but she doesn’t, instead slipping her arms up and over her head. His fingers trail down her sides until they’re slipping underneath the material and pulling it up and over her body, over her head and her arms.
She’s not wearing a bra, as usual, and she sits there mostly naked until he grabs a soft white t-shirt from his drawer and brings it down over her head, helping her stick her arms through the holes. She was right, she thinks, as the shirt comes down over her face; it smells like him.
Draco smiles and winks before he tosses his own clothes onto his hamper before walking around to his side of the bed and crawling in beside her. He tugs her into his arms and holds her close, her fingers curling into his chest and his curling around the curve of her backside.
“How are you feeling?” He asks, his nose pressing into her hair.
She hums, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his chest, “I feel really, really good.”
It’s the truth. She does feel really good, almost weightless laying there in his arms.
She’s never gotten off like that before. She remembers being a teenager and tucking a pillow between her legs, pressing firmly against her, and rocking just enough for it to feel good but never getting over the edge that she hadn’t realized existed.
But tonight, she did. She used Draco’s thigh like it was that same pillow, rubbed and pushed against it like she had 10 years ago, and this time, she clawed her way over the edge and he helped her do it. She should be more embarrassed, but she isn’t.
And then, as if he hadn’t already done enough, he’d forced that word from her mouth like he was desperate for it.
“And how did it feel to…”
“To call you Daddy?” She asks, glancing up at him through her lashes.
He nods his head, once, slow.
She snuggles into his chest, “I liked it.”
Draco’s hand rubs down the length of her back, “Good. I don’t want you to feel embarrassed about it or unsure. You’ll tell me if you do?”
His fingers hook underneath her chin and he pulls her face away from where it’s buried in his chest until she’s looking up at his face, up at his liquid mercury eyes. He looks serious, not playful or teasing, but genuinely needing to know that she’s comfortable with the direction their relationship is going in.
“I’ll tell you, I promise.”
And she will, but she doesn’t think there will ever be cause to. Instead, she wants him to tell her what happened.
“Will you tell me what happened today?” She asks, still looking up at him.
She’s been able to tell that something was off since she climbed into his car. He’s been busy before but has always let her know. He’s never gone an entire 12-hour shift without texting her at all, even just to let her know that he’d text her later.
When she’d slid into the car and Draco had held her seatbelt out so she could buckle herself in, he looked different. She was so used to seeing a sparkle in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips. His cheeks were always plump with a smile but this time they stretched over his cheekbones.
He looked gaunt, haunted.
“It’s not happy. Are you sure you want to know?” He asks, his fingers tangling in the ends of her hair.
She nods, she’s sure.
Draco shifts and his fingers twitch against her until he’s rolled over onto his back and she’s resting half on his chest. He folds one arm beneath his head, his bicep bulging and she’s almost ashamed of how her thighs clench together beneath the covers.
“I lost two people today.”
Hermione frowns, “Oh. I’m sorry, Draco.”
She is because she can’t imagine how difficult it is, but she’s also confused. It’s not exactly unusual in his line of work, particularly in the Emergency Room, so there must be something else to it. Something else that’s sticking in his mind, that’s making his eyes appear so hard towards her.
“The first one was a woman who was practically dead before they rushed her into the ER,” his voice is soft and when Hermione looks up at him, his eyes are closed as though he’s remembering. “Her carotid - the artery in her neck - had been cut and there was…”
He trails off and his eyes flip open, glancing at her. Hermione gestures for him to continue, she’s not squeamish.
“There was a trail of her blood on the floor. They couldn’t stop it because of how deep the cut was and I was...I was covered in it,” he says, his hand tightening around her back. “It almost looked like someone had spilled red paint all over the place.”
Hermione rests her cheek against his chest and tries to soothe him by tracing shapes on his abdomen.
“She died with my hands around her neck.”
She presses a kiss to his pec, “That sounds traumatizing. I’m sorry, Draco. But I know you did everything you could to save her.”
He lets out a harsh exhale, almost like a laugh or a huff, and pats her lower back, “I had to shower after. It soaked through my scrubs and my undershirt.”
There’s nothing she can say, not really, to what he’s telling her. So she just continues to listen, running her fingers softly over his skin as a way to offer him any kind of comfort that she can.
“That would have been one thing, on its own. But as soon as I got back out there, as soon as I had put on new scrubs and got the smell of blood out of my nose, they brought a young kid in with a gunshot wound.”
His voice is unlike how she’s ever heard it before. For every time she’s laid her head across his chest or listened to his voice through her earbuds or sat across from him at dinner, his voice has always been steady and strong.
But now...it shakes with...something. Emotion, perhaps.
“It was like everything had gone wrong; they waited too long to call the ambulance, the ambulance took too long getting him to the hospital and I couldn’t find the fucking slug,” he says.
She knows what the shaking is now, she knows the emotion he’s feeling: anger.
He sighs, “And afterwards, after I let a seven-year-old die on my table, I saw the clothes that they’d taken off of him in the ambulance. Do you know what was there?”
He lifts his head up and Hermione feels as though he’s staring into her soul. She shakes her head, “No.”
“A pin on his shirt, just above where the bullet hit him, which said ‘It’s my birthday’.”
It feels like her heart breaks and she knows that his is broken, that he’s been walking around like this all day. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know whether her words can offer him any comfort, so she does something else.
Hermione pushes up off of his chest and leans down pressing her lips to his in a soft kiss. His lips are smooth and immediately press back against her, his hand trailing up her back to palm her cheek and jaw.
She wants to comfort him, wants to make him feel cared for, so she pulls her lips back and presses them instead to his jaw, to his throat and to his chest, until she’s moving steadily down his body. She wants to help him. She wants to give him something after all he’s given her.
“Stop, baby,” he says, hands wrapping around her arms.
Her forehead drops down onto his abdomen, “I want to. Please.”
His grip tightens and he pulls her up his body again, this time holding her in place, “No, let me take care of you.”
“You always take care of me,” she whines. “Let me take care of you instead.”
Draco brushes his nose against hers, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek and another to her lips, “Hermione, I need to know that I’m taking care of you right now.”
He presses another kiss to her lips and flips her hover so his body is hovering over hers, “Let me. Please.”
She agrees; she spreads her legs for him, lets him pull away her knickers and grips his hair while he sucks her clit like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing. She lets him push one of his thick fingers inside of her, press against her walls and smooth over the spongy notch inside of her.
She lets him pull another orgasm from her, then again.
And only then does he crawl back up the bed, wrap her in his arms and press kiss after kiss to the top of her head.
“Go to sleep, baby. I’m here.”
Chapter Text
Having a lot of friends wasn’t ever something Hermione thought she needed. It wasn’t ever something she thought was necessary, as long as she had a few close friends to share things with and to text then she was happy.
She pushes herself out of her shyness for as long as it takes to make a new friend and then retreats back into her shell. So she has Ginny and sometimes Harry and once in a while, when he’s not getting on her nerves, Ron. Everyone else is an acquaintance that she knows through Ginny - who collects friends like they’re trading cards.
It doesn’t make her feel lonely though, not having a ton of friends, and instead she feels as though anyone she considers to be in her circle is someone she could tell her deepest, darkest secrets to.
At this point, she considers Draco to be a bit of a secret, albeit not especially deep or dark.
She hasn’t said a word to her parents - who are both, thankfully, older than Draco but not by enough for it to make a difference - and she’s kept him off of her social media accounts. Not because she’s ashamed, she’s not, but because they haven’t even discussed whether they’re officially dating.
Hermione thinks they are. She can’t imagine that he would have spilled his own deep, dark secret without some sort of thought that they’re more than just friends with benefits or fuckbuddies. He certainly treats her as though she’s more, but neither have come out to label their relationship.
Not yet, a least.
She’s on her way to Ginny and Harry’s flat for an afternoon of pampering and pre-drinking before they head out that night, her bag slung over her shoulder and her favourite pair of sparkly heels in her hand.
Dr. Draco 👨🏼🥵
Hermione: i’m walking over to Ginny’s now 😊
Draco: Alright, love. Got everything you need?
A smile flits across her lips before she can stop it when she reads his words. He’s such a mother-hen sometimes - or, she supposes, a daddy - but she doesn’t find it stifling. Instead, it’s endearing.
Hermione: yessir
Hermione: especially the most important part of my outfit!
Draco: Oh? And what’s that?
She grins and holds her sparkly shoes out in front of her, taking a quick picture of the shoes that started it all, glinting in the sunlight, before she sends it off to him. The shoes were her favourite before she met Draco but now they hold a special place in heart.
Draco: The infamous sparkly shoes.
Hermione: they’re my favourite 😍
Draco: Mine too.
Ginny’s flat is hardly five minutes from her own and it doesn’t take her long to bound up the stairs to the second floor. She doesn’t knock, not anymore, but heads right inside to find Harry and Ginny huddled over their kitchen table.
“Knock knock,” she says, softly rapping her knuckles against the wall.
She puts her bag and her shoes down on the floor and walks closer to the couple where she notices that they’re bent over a half-finished puzzle made up for brightly-coloured flowers. Harry’s frowning and his glasses are resting just against the tip of his nose but he turns his head to smile at her.
“Hey Hermione. I’ll get out of your hair shortly, just trying to work out a few more pieces…” he trails off, his eyes flicking back to the puzzle.
Ginny waves her hand in her general direction, “Come and help smarty-pants.”
Hermione: i just got to ginny’s
She chews on the flesh of her cheek and waits a few moments, hoping to see the three bouncing dots that indicate he’s typing before she puts her phone away.
Draco: Thank you, love. Have fun with your friends, remember to text me.
Hermione: i will!
Hermione: have fun with blaise and theo 😉
“Are you going to come and help or not?”
Hermione looks up at her friend and tucks her phone into her pocket, “Sorry, sorry, I’m coming. It’s just a puzzle, I’m sure the two of you can figure it out.”
Harry snorts and moves to the side so she can bend herself over the loose pieces and the frame of the puzzle, “Not so sure about that, Hermione.”
She spies a piece that looks like it fits into the section they’re working on and smiles when it clicks into place. Puzzles make sense to her; only the right piece will fit into the right place, each making up a part of a whole.
“Where are you ladies off to tonight?” Harry asks, tongue poking out between his lips as he concentrates on the quadrant he’s taken for himself.
Ginny hums and drags her hand though a few of the pieces, looking for the right, “Here and there.”
He huffs, but Hermione knows it’s fake-annoyance, and he nudges his shoulder against hers, “Alright. Hermione, where are you ladies off to tonight?”
Her phone buzzes in her pocket and her fingers reach for it as if on their own, “I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to Harry, Ginny never tells me anything.”
Hermione peeks down at her phone and smiles to herself at the text.
Draco: You know, one day you’ll have to come to The Club.
Hermione: to your old man club? i don’t think so
Draco: Old man? You wound me, baby.
“Christ, you’re fucking smitten, aren’t you?” Ginny asks.
Hermione looks up from her phone and shoots her friend a glare, “I am not.”
“Smitten with who?” Harry asks, looking up from the puzzle and pushing his glasses up further onto his nose.
“No one,” they both reply at the same time.
Ginny puts the puzzle piece down on the table and scoots around it to push against Harry’s back, nudging him towards their entrance hall, “Alright, time for you to go, my love. Have fun with Ron.”
Harry sputters but manages to pick up his hat from a side table and tuck his phone into his pocket, “But what about the puzzle?”
“It’ll be here tomorrow when you come back,” she says, a sickeningly sweet tint to her voice. Ginny presses a quick kiss to his lips and opens their front door, “Bye, love!”
With Ginny distracted for another few seconds, she types out another text to Draco.
Hermione: sorry, daddy 😇
Draco: Behave, baby.
It’s cheeky, even for her, but she’s slowly growing more comfortable in this dynamic. She likes calling Draco by the honorific and she loves when he calls her baby. There’s just something about it that feels so right, feels like they both fit into those boxes, snug and comfortable.
She doesn’t think anyone has ever understood her like Draco does.
Ginny pads softly against the hardwood, back into the sitting room, this time with a bottle each of vodka and gin, “What are you drinking tonight, love?”
She chooses the vodka - it gives her less of a headache than gin does - and she follows Ginny into the small kitchen, watching her pour two vodka sodas into short glasses. Reaching into one of the drawers, she pulls two short straws and pushes one of the glasses across the island.
“Spill, you’re clutching your phone like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” Ginny mutters around the straw.
Hermione shrugs her shoulders and slips her phone back into her pocket, “Things are just...really, really good. While you were away we went on a double date with his ex-wife and it wasn’t even awkward.”
Ginny snorts and sips more of the drink, “Have you fucked yet?”
“No,” she rolls her eyes, savouring the taste of her drink. “He just always looks at me as if I’m something breakable but I can’t explain to you how much I want it. Like...Ginny, there are no words for me to tell you how much I want it.”
“So, you’re just not sleeping with each other?”
Hermione grins and taps her fingers against the island, “Well, I didn’t say that. He’s very focused on making... well, on making me-”
“Come?” Ginny offers, raising her eyebrows.
She licks her lips and tries to ignore her phone buzzing against her hip, “Yes, that. I haven’t even seen his-”
“Cock?”
Hermione sighs and shoots her a look, “Can you stop that? I am capable of saying those words, you know. But yes, I haven’t even seen his-” she pauses, sucking on her teeth, “-cock.”
Ginny hums and leans down, bending over the kitchen island, “Maybe he doesn’t have one. Or maybe it’s really small! He’s trying to prove that he can keep you satisfied even with his micrope-”
“Ginny!”
Her red-haired friend throws her hands up and shrugs her shoulders, “I’m just saying!”
“Well...don’t just say,” Hermione retorts. “Besides, I know it’s not true because I’ve felt it.”
“Maybe he stuffs his pants.”
Hermione ignores her friend and digs her phone out of her pocket after her phone buzzes again.
Draco: Just heading over now for dinner. Text me when you leave.
Draco: Have fun, baby.
Hermione: you too!!
As it turns out, there’s a reason that she only keeps a few close friends and that reason is too many people get on her nerves. It’s a bad quality, she knows that, but give her a couple of drinks and a few drags off a cigarette and she stops caring.
Her night starts out well. She feels good in her outfit and her shoes make her feel particularly cute, so cute, in fact, that she asks Ginny to take a picture of her before they head to the bar which she promptly sends to Draco.
He’s not supposed to have his phone out at the club, he told her, but he texts her back anyways:
Draco: So fucking pretty, baby.
So, yeah, she feels really fucking good.
She feels like she’s high - but she’s not - at the first bar, downing drinks and shots and engaging in a loud rendition of Mr. Brightside with the rest of the patrons. They’re all university-age and she recognizes some of them from various classes over the last few years.
Their group grows while they’re there, with Lavender and Parvati joining them. Ginny attracts attention, as usual, but she feeds off of it.
She never sees her look as powerful as when there’s a groveling simp of a man begging to buy her drinks. Hermione had asked Harry once if it bothered him that Ginny entertained these affections, but he’d shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, saying, “Have you seen Ginny? She’s too good for me, I’m lucky she even comes back.”
She can’t imagine Draco reacting the same way, and the thought of him laying his big palm against her back or belly in a show of possession sends a shiver up her spine.
Even through her vodka-fogged mind she remembers to text Draco when they leave the first bar and head over to the second one. It almost feels like second nature, at this point, to let him know when she steps foot outside of a building.
Hermione: heading to the second bar now!
Draco: Be safe, baby.
It’s the second bar where shit hits the fan. She downs more drinks, more shots, steals drags off of random peoples cigarettes out on the patio and lends her voice to yet another rendition of Mr. Brightside.
And then when Ginny and Parvati head off to the bathroom together, Hermione pulls her phone out to send a text to Draco and Lavender comes to sit next to her.
She and Lavender aren’t exactly friends but they’re not enemies either. At one time - once - during orientation week, she’d slept with Ron in a drunken stupor that turned out to be the worst thing she could have done. Him and Lavender had come out as a ‘couple’ only a week later.
They never spoke about it, but it was always there, this underlying knowledge of what had happened.
Hermione: i miss you
Draco: I miss you too. Are you having fun?
Hermione: mmm yeah, it’s been funnnn
Hermione: i'm drunk
Draco: I can see that, love. Be safe for me, please.
Hermione: i’m aaaaalways safe, daddy
“Figures you would be into that shit.”
Hermione flicks her head up at the sound of Lavender’s voice and lifts an eyebrow, “What?”
Lavender gestures with her hand towards Hermione’s phone, “The sugar daddy shit. Can’t find a man your own age?”
Her brain is in such an alcohol-induced fog that at first she doesn’t even register what Lavender is really saying. A sugar daddy? Where?
“I don’t know what you’re on about, Lav,” she says, eyes flicking back down to her phone.
Draco: I know you are, baby.
Out of the corner of her eye she can see Lavender slam the rest of her drink, sucking hard through the straw until only the ice is left, and Hermione wishes that Ginny and Parvati would hurry up already and get back to the table.
“Is he married?” She asks, fitting her chin into her palm. “I know you like going after men who are already taken.”
Hermione slams her phone down the table and looks at her, confused, “What are you even talking about? When have I ever done that?”
“Well you did sleep with Ron.”
“Yes, before you started dating,” she almost laughs at that, rolling her eyes - which, oh, bad idea. “And what a mistake that was!”
A flash of red hair catches her eye but it’s not Ginny, instead some other pretty redhead that for a second she considers flagging down to take some of the attention off of herself. Lavender sneers at her and Hermione, as drunk as she is, can tell that Lavender is plastered.
“I’m just saying, it doesn’t surprise me that you can’t find anyone the usual way.”
Hermione glares, her anger getting the best of her, and she shoves her phone down the front of her top and stands from the barstool, “You’re a real cunt, Lav.”
“And you’re clearly a gold-digging whore.”
If there wasn’t alcohol at play she knows she wouldn’t let Lavender get to her. As she leaves the table and moves over to the bar, getting the bartender’s attention for yet another drink, she realizes that Lavender had clearly made an assumption - a wrong assumption - after catching sight of her texts.
The bartender comes over and taps his fingers against the bar, looking at her expectantly.
“A vodka soda please, a double.”
There aren’t many extreme luxuries that Draco enjoys, but there is one. He remembers the first time his father brought him to The Club and the way he’d looked around the immaculate building in complete awe. It was truly like stepping back in time, to a place where men and women had their own sitting rooms and locker rooms included a bar.
His membership at the private members club is the one big extravagance that he dishes out his money for, paying a monthly fee that would make most people cry. It’s worth it, though, if only for the quiet place in the heart of London that he has access to, not to mention the phenomenal restaurants, bars and cigar club.
Once every few months he invites both Blaise and Theo for an evening spent at The Club, enjoying a nice dinner, some good drinks and a cigar at the end of the night. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s exactly as Hermione had described it: an old man club.
Sometimes it makes him feel like his father. Only sometimes though.
“How’s the girl?”
Draco puffs on the end of his cigar, enjoying the taste of the tobacco and ignoring the niggling in his brain that reminds him of all the harmful chemicals he’s allowing into his body, “Hermione is good, she’s out with her friends.”
Blaise hums and sips his scotch, rolling the liquid around his mouth, “Like out out?”
“They were planning to hit a few bars, so yes, out out.”
Theo hums and folds his right leg over his left knee, “Wow, you let a pretty thing like Hermione go out for a night on the town? Without you?”
“I’m not her keeper, she’s free to have fun with her friends,” Draco mutters, breathing out a mouthful of smoke.
He ashes the cigar in the crystal ashtray at his side and nods gratefully at the waiter who comes over to empty it, leaving it sparkling clean once more. His proclivity for a few cigars a year is the main reason why he wasn’t more upset with Hermione for puffing on a few cigarettes.
They all have their vices.
“Oh to be 21 again!” Blaise jokes, a stupid smirk on his lips.
“Kindly fuck off, Blaise,” Draco says around his cigar. He turns his attention to Theo who’s softly laughing, “You too, Theo.”
Theo gestures to the waiter and taps his glass, asking for another round of the expensive scotch that they tend to splurge on. They’ve been coming to The Club for years, both of Theo and Draco’s fathers members from the time they were children.
“I’m just surprised,” Theo says. “You’re usually a lot more possessive than that. I have to admit, I would have a hard time letting my 21-year-old girlfriend go out with God-knows-who.”
Draco huffs, “It’s not God-knows-who, she’s out with her friends, and when has possessive ever worked out in my favour? Hm?”
The answering shrugs are enough of an answer for him; his possessiveness had gotten him two divorces and a slew of relationships that ended before they’d really started. He’s trying, really trying, to show Hermione that he isn’t trying to control her life.
Just certain aspects that she’s willing to hand over.
He carefully pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances at their texts. It strikes him as odd that she’s left him on read, only because she never has before. She usually texts him back pretty fast. She’s out though, with her friends, and he’s not being possessive.
He’s not.
Theo and Blaise are speaking in a low tone and he taps on her name to pull up all of the pictures from their conversation, enlarging the photo she had sent him earlier that evening. God, she’s beautiful. Just the perfect vision of everything he’s ever wanted but told himself he couldn’t have.
When he backs out of the photo and to their conversation, there’s another text and he smiles.
Hermione
Hermione: Hi Draco, this is Hermione’s friend Ginny.
Hermione: Any chance you can come and get her? She’s crying for you.
Draco parks on the side of the road and leaves his flashers on, hopping out of his car and into the bar that he knows Hermione is in. He spots her almost immediately, cuddled up to a redhead - Ginny, he thinks, the one that’s been on holiday - and quickly makes his way over to her.
“C’mon, love, dry your tears. Your man has come to rescue you,” Ginny says with a soft smile, winking at him as he approaches.
He runs his hand through his hair, his heartbeat slowing now that he can see Hermione, and carefully rests his palm on the middle of her back. His sweet girl, usually so happy and hardly without a smile, almost immediately turns and crumples into his arms, sobbing into his chest.
Holding her tight, he runs his palm up and down the length of her back and looks at Ginny with a questioning look, raising his eyebrow as if to ask, what the hell happened?
“I think she got into it with Lav while I was in the loo but she’s not making much sense,” Ginny says softly, picking up a small purse that must belong to Hermione and handing it over to him. “You should take her home, tell her I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”
Draco sighs and nods, brushing his fingers over her cheek to tilt her face up to his. Her eyes are rubbed red and glassy, tear tracks sliding down her cheeks to her chin, and her bottom lip actually wobbles when she makes eye contact with him.
His poor girl.
“Alright, love. Let’s get you home,” he says, bending down to fit his palms beneath her thighs and lift her up.
Hermione does the rest, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. She buries her face in his throat and he can feel her soft breaths against his skin. He’s sure people are looking at them, but he doesn’t care.
He holds her close and walks out of the bar. She’s light and he easily opens up his passenger-side door, slipping her into the seat and buckling the seatbelt before closing the door and jogging back around to the driver's seat.
Her head lolls against the window as he starts the car.
She falls asleep on their way back to his place, her hand clutching his as though her life depends on it, and Draco makes every attempt to keep the drive as smooth as possible.
She doesn’t wake until after he parks in the garage and pulls her into his arms again. He carries her like he would a child and automatically, like there’s some sort of muscle memory, she clings to him with her arms and legs.
“Daddy?” She slurs sleepily against his neck.
Draco rubs her back soothingly, “I’m here baby, I’m here.”
“You got me,” she says softly, sniffling against him.
Her fingers grip the back of his shirt and her legs tighten around his waist. He hopes that the elevator doesn’t stop once he gets in and presses the button for his floor. He wants nothing more than to get her into something comfy and give her a cuddle.
“Of course I did,” he says, his hands holding her tight to his chest. “I'll always come get you, Hermione. Always.”
The elevator doesn’t stop and he walks quickly down the hallway to his flat, twisting his key in the lock and pushing open the door with one hand. Hermione grips him even tighter, if possible, intent on not letting go of him.
“Okay, baby. I’m going to put you down and get you out of those clothes,” he says softly, putting her down on the couch and encouraging her to let go.
Draco moves to walk away from the couch but she grabs trousers and tugs, “Don’t leave, Daddy.”
Her words are still slurred and part of him wonders why she’s chosen now of all times to grasp onto the honorific that so far she’s only used when teasing him or when he’s drawing an orgasm from her body.
He picks up the throw that’s lying on the back of his couch and wraps it around her, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, “I’ll be 10 seconds, love. Can you count for me?”
Her eyes are still watery and she looks like she’s still on the verge of crying, but she pulls the blanket tighter around her and nods her head, rasping out a small, “One.”
Draco hurries, sliding down the hall and digging a t-shirt out of his dresser. He makes it back out to his sitting room before she can whisper a very quiet, “Eight,” and her eyes light up when he appears in front of her again, kneeling in front of her legs.
“Talk to me, baby. You said you were having fun. What happened?” He asks, picking up her foot and unbuckling her sparkly shoe.
Hermione sniffs and shrugs her shoulders, “Just sad.”
He hums, slipping the shoe off of her foot, running his thumb over her painted toenails, “Did something make you sad?”
“Yeah.”
When he puts her foot down she lifts her other one into his hands and he unbuckles that one too, “Do you want to tell me now or in the morning?”
Hermione wipes her eyes with the back of her hands and seems to consider his question. He doesn’t want to force her to answer but he doesn’t want her to keep it inside either, not if it’s made her this upset.
“In the morning, please, Daddy” she whispers, letting him pull the blanket down from her arms.
Draco tugs her skirt down and her top off, slipping his shirt over her head which lays baggy on her body. He wraps her in the blanket again and presses a few kisses to her cheeks and her lips, loud and over exaggerated in a bid to make her smile.
“Can you count for me again, baby? I’m just going to get you some water,” he tells her, dragging his fingers through her hair.
She nods and Draco turns to his kitchen just as she starts to count. It takes him less time, but she still counts until he places the water glass on the coffee table, a coaster underneath. Her makeup is streaked below her eyes and he uses his thumbs to rub some of the excess off before taking a seat next to her and lifting her into his lap.
She fits perfectly, as she always does, folding herself into a ball and resting her cheek against his chest. He loves holding her, feeling her pressed against him as though there’s nowhere else in the world that she’d rather be.
“I-I’m sorry I made you come get me,” she whimpers and he can hear the tears again in her voice.
“None of that, baby. I will always come get you, remember? Always, no matter the reason,” Draco shushes her, rocking her in his lap. “I want you to drink some water and then close your eyes, okay? I know you’re sad right now but you’ll feel better in the morning.
He leans forward and picks up the glass, holding it up and helping her take a few sips of water before she pushes his hand away to let him know that she’s finished. She cuddles back into his chest then, gripping his shirt and looks up at him
“You’ll stay with me?” She asks softly, mumbling into his chest.
“All night,” he answers quietly. “Close your eyes, baby.”
Chapter Text
Her head is pounding when she finally wakes up that morning. There’s nothing to blame it on, the room is still dark, the curtains are still tightly closed, and it’s silent. Even when she strains to listen, there’s nothing. Just quiet.
Her mouth is uncomfortably dry and there’s a taste sitting on her tongue that makes her want to be sick. Hermione groans, her stomach gurgles unpleasantly, and she turns over on the bed and buries her face into the satin pillowcase that...doesn’t belong to her.
Hermione pulls in a deep breath through her nose, trying to steady her stomach and calm the ache in her head, trying to force herself to relax and hopefully keep the contents in her stomach in place.
From the feeling of the pillows and the sheets, the fact that the curtains are still shut so tightly, she’s pretty sure she’s in Draco’s flat but can’t remember how she got there. Had she wandered over? Had she called him?
She keeps her eyes closed even when she hears the door open and footsteps pad over the floor until the mattress sinks behind her.
A big palm settles on her back, rubbing back and forth before there’s a soft voice above her, “Good morning, baby.”
She grumbles, hugging the pillow tighter to her chest but relaxing into Draco’s palm.
“C’mon, love, time to wake up,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.
“Don’t wanna,” she whines, squeezing her eyes shut tight.
Draco tucks himself in behind her and wraps his arms around her belly, holding her close to his chest. She squirms when he nuzzles his nose into her neck.
“If you don’t start to wake up, I’ll tickle you,” he warns, fingers skating down her ribs.
It’s like she wakes up all at once, her eyes shooting open despite the ache in her head. Her voice is still sleepy though, rough from disuse and whatever she got up to the night before.
What did she get up to last night?
“No, don’t!” Hermione shrieks, grabbing his hands with hers. “I’m getting up!”
He presses loud raspberry-like kisses to her neck and shoulder, letting her grab hold of his fingers and hold them tightly, “Promise, baby?”
“Promise, Daddy.”
The word feels familiar on her tongue and comes out of her mouth before she can even think about it.
Draco tightens his grip around her and scoots up the bed, his back leaning against the headboard, and Hermione cuddles further into his chest, clutching his thin t-shirt in her hands. She carefully blinks her eyes open, grateful that the curtains are still closed, and tilts her head up to look at the man who’s holding her.
“My head hurts,” she whines, pouting up at him.
He hums, the sound vibrating against her cheek from his chest, and Hermione groans when he moves and jostles her until a lukewarm glass of water appears in front of her.
“I’m sure it does, love,” he says sympathetically. “I need you to drink the entire glass for me, okay?”
Hermione nods, her head jolting, and immediately whimpers when her stomach turns. She buries her face back in Draco’s chest, breathing in his scent while he rubs his palm over her back.
“C’mon, it’ll make you feel better. I’ll help you,” he says softly, petting his hand over her hair until she turns her head again. “Take a sip.”
She leans forward and can’t help but grin when she sees a pink silicone straw in the glass and she mumbles, questioningly, “Pink straws?”
Draco scratches lightly at her back, “Shh, drink your water.”
The room is quiet and dark as she leans against Draco, slowly drinking her water while he rubs her back. Hermione finds her eyes closing while she does, just focusing on the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek until the straw is pulled away from her.
Hermione blinks her eyes open and takes in a deep breath, “Paracetamol?”
“No, baby, it makes your liver work harder,” he says. “And I think you’ve made your liver work hard enough for one day.”
She groans, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, you’re alright. It’s a good thing you’re dating a doctor, huh?” He asks teasingly, poking her in the side with one thick finger.
“We’re dating?”
It comes out of her mouth before she can think about it, any filter she usually has flying out the window with the pain in her head and the ache in her stomach. She cringes and holds her breath but...isn’t this what she’d been wondering about? Isn’t this the question she’d been asking herself?
Didn’t she want to be dating him?
To his credit, his palm continues to rub her back in smooth circles and he doesn’t seem taken aback by her question. Instead, he moves the glass closer to her again and twists the straw until it’s touching her lips, “More water, love.”
She ships the water, lightly chewing on the silicone straw in between sips.
“To answer your question,” he starts, “I suppose I should have asked you.”
Hermione lets the straw drop, swallowing the mouthful of water, and delicately shakes her head, “I didn’t mean it like that, I don’t...I don’t need you to ask me like we’re in a schoolyard or something-”
“-Finish your water, baby,” he interjects, holding the straw up to her lips again.
She does, wrapping her lips around the straw and pulling in water, looking up at him. Draco leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead while she drinks.
“There you go,” he hums, low and gravelly. “It’s a valid question. We haven’t really talked about what we are, have we?”
Hermione attempts to pull away from the straw but Draco nudges it back into her mouth, thumb drifting against the corner of her lips. His other hand drifts down lower, trailing over her back until it’s resting against her hip and backside.
He gives her a bit of a pat, not hard but in a warning, “C’mon, baby. I’ve told you a few times now, finish your water.”
It’s almost second nature for her to narrow her eyes at him, not quite a glare but obvious that she’s just a touch annoyed. To her surprise, Draco chuckles and squeezes her hip in his palm.
“Once you finish you can talk to your heart’s content,” he says lightly. “Just a couple more sips.”
He’s right, there isn’t much left for her to finish and when she does, the straw popping out of her mouth, he pulls the glass away and leans over to rest it on the night table. Draco cuddles her close, pulling her tighter to his chest and gathering her up in his arms before resting his chin on the top of her head.
“Good girl,” he whispers, lips pressing into her curls. He hesitates, fingers gripping her harder for a split second, before he speaks quietly, “I’m sorry if I didn’t make it obvious that this is something serious to me, that you’re someone I want to keep in my life.”
When she thinks about it, he has nothing to apologize for because he has made it obvious that this is serious. He wouldn’t have admitted to his desires if it wasn’t something serious, if he didn’t want her in his life, it just wasn’t blatant. He hadn’t come straight out to ask if she wanted to be his girlfriend, which, truthfully feels a little juvenile now that she thinks about it.
It’s clear to her, now that she’s full of water and cuddled against his chest, that they are dating. Is this what it’s like to date an actual adult?
“You did make it obvious,” she says, pressing a kiss to his chest. “I just didn’t realize it, but you’ve shared so much of yourself with me and that means more than asking me to be your girlfriend ever could.”
He tilts her chin up with his thumb and forefinger and Hermione melts into the press of his lips against her own. The kiss is closed-mouth - thankfully, since she hasn’t had a chance to brush her teeth yet - but it’s full of emotion all the same.
When they pull back from each other, he grins down at her, “Do you want to shower first or would you like to try to eat something?”
Hermione doesn’t hesitate, “Shower.”
They decide to stay in for the day. Hermione showers, enjoying Draco’s rainfall shower head and luxury bath products that line the walls. She uses his body wash, choosing not to wash her hair and suffer the consequences of not having her proper shampoo and conditioner, and knows that she’ll smell like him until she showers again.
When she comes out, Draco has left a towel on the warmer and she wraps herself up, her eyes drawn to the pile of clothes he’s left on the counter. They’re his sweats, his joggers and a t-shirt she thinks she’s worn before, and it takes her a second to realize she doesn’t have any knickers to wear.
She would be lying if she said it didn’t give her a bit of thrill, to put his clothes on without her knickers.
The table is already set when she sits down at the island, a cup of coffee already a light creamy colour and an english muffin smothered in butter. It melts in her mouth and she flushes at the noise that comes out.
“Good?” Draco asks, turning around from his spot at the toaster.
Hermione nods and folds more of the buttery bread into her mouth instead of answering, lest she do something else embarrassing. Draco smiles at her, his nose crinkling at the way she’s eating, before he turns back to bring his plate over to the island.
“Draco?” She asks, after chewing and swallowing.
He takes a sip of his own coffee, a darker colour than hers, and raises his eyebrows, “Yes, love?”
“How did I get here last night?” She asks, sucking some of the butter off of her thumb.
He grins and laughs, “You don’t remember?”
“I...I remember going out…”
He hums before he stands up and grabs his phone from where it’s plugged in on the counter top, dropping it in front of her already unlocked and open to their conversation, “Go ahead, take a look.”
She wipes her fingers on the paper napkin before picking up his phone and scrolling back through the messages.
Hermione
Hermione: i miss you
Draco: I miss you too. Are you having fun?
Hermione: mmm yeah, it’s been funnnn
Hermione: i'm drunk
Draco: I can see that, love. Be safe for me, please.
Hermione: i’m aaaaalways safe, daddy
Draco: I know you are, baby.
She remembers all of this, she thinks. She remembers texting him while at the second bar, while sitting at the table waiting for Ginny and Parvati, while...while Lavender accused her of…
Hermione: Hi Draco, this is Hermione’s friend Ginny.
Hermione: Any chance you can come and get her? She’s crying for you.
Draco: Is she okay? I’m on my way.
Hermione: She’s not hurt, just emotional and very drunk
Draco: 15 minutes.
Hermione: Does she by any chance have a different name for you?
Draco: I’m not sure what you mean.
“Oh no…” she whines, letting his phone clatter to the marble counter and her face rest in her palms.
She didn’t…
Hermione: She’s been asking for you but she’s also been asking for “Daddy”
Hermione: I don’t think she means her father…
Draco: 10 minutes.
She comes to the end of the texts and lets her head drop down onto the marble surface, too embarrassed to look up at Draco or say anything. There’s no possible way for her to explain this away, especially when she’s still only getting flashes of the night before.
She remembers stomping over to the bar and ordering a double, and then another, before Ginny found her way over and got them each a shot or two. It’s at that point where she can’t really remember what had happened. Clearly, she’d been upset and taken it too far. Clearly, she’d sobbed enough for Ginny to contact Draco.
Clearly, she’d called him something that - up until that point - she’d only ever been able to say to him a few times.
“It’s alright, love,” Draco says, leaning forward over the surface of the island and patting her hand. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Hermione snorts - and it’s embarrassing but why not embarrass herself further? - before looking up at him. It’s so unfair how put together and calm and confident he looks, sitting across from her as if they’re not talking about how she cried at a bar and called for him.
“I think I have plenty to be embarrassed about,” she says, muffled against her hand.
“Ginny is your friend and, as you can see in the texts, she didn’t seem all that bothered that you called me Daddy, which - by the way - I’m really proud of you for,” he says, taking her hand in his and holding it in his grasp. “If we ignore the fact that Ginny’s text scared the shit out of me when it came through…”
Hermione grimaces.
“It means a lot to know that when you were upset, you wanted me,” he says, lifting her palm up and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “When I walked into that bar and you saw me, do you know what you did?”
“Probably something that I’m about to regret,” she mumbles.
He lays her palm against his scruff-covered cheek and smiles at her, “You just fell into my arms. You wrapped yourself around me and held on tight and I…”
Draco trails off and closes his eyes for a second, “I felt like you needed me and it was the best feeling in the world.”
She wants to be embarrassed, she thinks she should be embarrassed, but how can she when he says something like that? When she’s given him something that he so desperately wants?
Hermione knows this type of relationship has been denied to him in the past, that his marriage had failed, in part, because there were two opposing forces fighting for control. She can’t be embarrassed or upset or regret something that has given him the feeling of being needed.
“Of course I needed you, Draco,” she says, scratching against his scruff with her nails. “I do need you.”
She stands up from her seat, pulling her hand back from his cheek, and walks around the island until she’s standing next to him. When she lays her hand on his arm, fingers curling around his bicep, she’s once again reminded of his size and strength, his muscles flexing beneath her palm.
“Can I sit with you?”
She barely has time to get the question out before he’s lifting her up onto his lap and cuddling her against his chest. They sit together like that for a few minutes before he leans forward and drags her plate towards them.
“Do you remember what upset you last night?” He asks, pulling her coffee cup closer, too.
She does, but now that she thinks about it, it seems so childish. Last night, in the moment, it had seemed like Lavender had bit her thumb at her, disrespecting her to the nth degree. But now, her mind clear of alcohol and cigarettes, Lavender had only shown her own insecurities and Hermione had taken offense.
Surely Draco, an adult - a Doctor - wouldn’t care. Surely, he’d think her a child for her reaction.
“Yes,” she says quietly, taking another bite of her English muffin. “It was stupid, I...I overreacted.”
He hums, his chest rumbling behind her, “It’s not stupid, love. You were really broken up last night.”
She’s kind of glad that she can’t remember.
“Lavender made a comment and I just took it the wrong way, that’s all,” she assures him, chewing the last piece of her breakfast.
He’s quiet behind her, just sipping his coffee and rubbing his fingers against her thigh.
“Was it about us?” He questions, his grip around her tightening.
“In a roundabout sort of way, but she was trying to make a point about something else,” she vaguely explains. “We’ve never seen eye-to-eye and there’s something she holds against me. It’s really not a big deal.”
Hermione really doesn’t feel like telling him that their issues are around a guy, a guy who she never even really liked but slept with anyways in a haze of alcohol and weed. Draco doesn’t need to know that about her.
Draco sighs and taps her thigh, “That’s all you want to tell me?”
His voice is sharper than she’s used to - and even though she tries not to make the comparison, it almost feels like the way her parents used to speak to her they’d caught her lying or fibbing - and she shifts on his lap uncomfortably.
It makes her feel small.
“If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to tell me, but a reaction like last night leads me to believe that it affected you more than you’re letting on,” he says. “And I want you to know that you can tell me anything. You won’t upset me.”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she mutters.
“Hermione,” he says, tapping her cheek until she looks back at him. “I took you to my ex-wife’s wedding for one of our first dates. If anything, you should be trying to make me a bit uncomfortable.”
He succeeds in making her laugh, and Draco taps her nose with the pad of his finger before pressing a kiss to her forehead. Hermione sighs and sinks into his chest; perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to tell him.
“When we first started at Uni, I slept with Ginny’s brother Ron during orientation week. A week later, he and Lavender were dating. Somehow, Lav found out and she’s held it against me for the last four years,” Hermione pushes it out quickly and shakes her head.
“I know how stupid it sounds, believe me, but then I think she saw me call you ‘Daddy’ in our texts - because I can’t keep anything quiet, apparently - and she accused me of seeing a married man or having a sugar daddy or- I don’t know! It just upset me.”
At first she thinks the rumble in his chest, vibrating against her back, is a growl, until she hears him laughing. Not at her, she doesn’t think, but laughing nonetheless.
“She sounds like a very jealous person, love,” he says. “I was very much single when we met and I don’t believe I’m paying you for your company, though I would be more than happy to buy you whatever you need.”
“I know. I know that, but it was just the principle of it. I would never go after someone who was already married, that’s not who I am,” she complains, letting her cheek rest against his chest. “I don’t want anyone thinking that of me.”
He adjusts her, moving her limbs and twisting her around until she’s facing his chest with her legs hanging over either side of his hips. When he stands, she squeaks and holds onto him tightly, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.
“No one thinks of you like that, love. How could anyone look at you and see someone other than the sweet, kind and confident girl that I see?” He asks, encouraging her to rest her head against his shoulder.
For a second she thinks she’s going to be sick, her stomach rolling, but she realizes it's just her reaction to Draco’s words. It sends her tummy spinning and her cheeks flushing, his words the catalyst.
“Now how about we go lay on the couch all day and watch a few movies. Does that sound good?”
Hermione nods against his shoulder as he walks them over to the couch, letting her fall down to the cushions. Before he moves back over to the island to clean up their breakfast, he pulls the throw down from the back of the couch and wraps it around her.
“I’ll be right back, get comfy for me.”
She snuggles into the throw and curls into the corner, a flash of something - a memory from the night before? - sparking in her brain.
It’s quite possibly the laziest day that Draco has had in more than 10 years. He’s used to at least heading to the gym and running errands on his off days, sometimes meeting up with his friends or, once in a while, making the drive over to Wiltshire to see his parents. But for the first time in a long time, he’s happy to stay curled up on the couch with his girl in his arms.
And she is his girl. So sweet and soft, more trusting than he could have ever asked for, and all for him. It makes his chest tighten with emotion, thinking of the last month or so of his life with Hermione.
More than he probably deserves.
He spends the entire day brushing his hands over her skin and holding her against him, pressing kisses against her cheeks and her nose, her eyelids when she falls asleep during one of their movies.
It isn’t until that evening, when the night sky has plunged his sitting room into darkness, that he untangles himself from her limbs to turn on a few lights and grab his phone off of the counter to order them some takeout. His eyes widen when he sees dozens of notifications, all from Theo.
He doesn’t even bother to read them, just leans over the couch to press a kiss to Hermione’s curls and lets her know he has to make a call. His thumb hovers over Theo’s contact, pressing it once he’s closed the door to his office.
“Fucking hell, mate. You can’t answer a text?”
Draco’s heart sinks and he crosses his arms, pacing, “What’s wrong? Did something happen? Is it Tori?”
He has hospital privileges across the city and drives fast. It would only take him a few minutes to change and rush off-
“What?” Theo’s voice is loud from his phone and Draco pulls it slightly away from his ear. “What are you fucking talking about? Is Hermione okay? You left all in a hurry last night and then didn’t let us know what happened!”
Oh. Shit.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Theo. Everything is fine, Hermione’s okay,” he says quietly. “She was drunk, that’s all. Got into a little tiff with one of her friends.”
He can hear Theo relaying his words to someone else, like Astoria, and he lowers himself into his desk chair, leaning back.
“You’re lucky you called just now, we were going to come by if we hadn’t heard from you soon,” Theo grumbles before it sounds like the phone is being fumbled. “Do you know what it’s like to be nagged by Tori all day?”
Draco snorts, “Uh yeah, I do actually. There’s a reason we divorced.”
He can hear a thunk on the other end of the line and a faint, “I didn’t mean it like that!” before Astoria’s voice comes through, “Is she with you? Have you been nice to her?”
“Yes, she’s with me, she’s been with me all day, and yes, I’ve been nice to her. I’m always nice to her, she’s my girlfriend,” he scoffs.
A sigh and another struggle over the phone, but Astoria’s voice comes through again indicating her the winner, “Alright, well we won’t keep you. I was just worried about you both. Give her a hug and a kiss from me-”
“-Definitely not,” Draco mumbles.
He knows the type of woman his first ex-wife is.
“-And we’ll see you both soon,” she finishes, obviously not having heard him. “Theo says goodbye, too.”
Before he can say anything, Astoria’s already hung up and he stands there shaking his head. He heads back out into his sitting room, Uber Eats pulled up on his phone, and considers what Hermione might like to have for dinner. She’s not picky, exactly, but he knows she’s not a fan of meat other than chicken.
“Any thoughts about what you want to eat?” He asks, shuffling back towards his couch.
She’s quiet and he assumes she’s thinking about it, so he keeps looking through their choices.
“Daddy?”
His head flicks up fast and he squeezes his phone tightly in his hand when he sees her sprawled across his couch, his sweatpants in a pile on the floor and his t-shirt resting just on the tops of her thighs.
Her cheeks are pink but her eyes are sparkling. She’s teasing him, he knows this, but he plays into her hand anyways and takes a step closer.
“Baby,” he says, voice low. “What do you think you’re doing, huh?”
It’s her giggle, he thinks, that makes his abdomen clench and his cock jump in his joggers. Her nose crinkles and she trails her hand down the middle of the t-shirt she’s wearing until her fingers are just brushing the creamy skin of her thighs.
Draco clears his throat and steps closer to her, “Do you need something?”
She nods her head enthusiastically, pressing her thighs together in a way that has him putting his phone down on the coffee table and taking a seat on the couch near her head. Hermione flips over until she’s kneeling on the couch next to him, her hands pressed to his thighs.
“Daddy?” She asks again, leaning in closer to him.
When he breathes in, he can smell his own body wash and the leftover smell of his cologne on the t-shirt. It does something to him, to have her in his clothes and smelling like him.
He reaches over and clasps his hand around her waist, “Yes, baby?”
She sucks her lip into her mouth and gives him that smile that makes him want to cuddle her in his arms and never let her go before she leans forward. He lets his palm trail down until he’s cupping her backside and she stops, just before her lips are pressed to his.
“Can I see you?” She asks, pouting prettily at him.
“See me? You’re seeing me right now.”
Hermione exaggerates her pout, her bottom lip pushed out, “Can I see your cock, please?”
Draco hums and drags his knuckles over her collarbone and up to her throat, “Please, what?”
Hermione whimpers and trails her fingertips down his chest and his torso, over where he knows the thin line of hair is below his navel. She chews on her lip, considering.
“And then can I see it?” She asks, her eyes wide and lashes fluttering at him.
The innocent look on her face almost makes him gulp. She truly has him wrapped around his finger and he knows, deep down, that he’ll give her whatever she wants. He’s made her wait long enough.
“You’ve been so good, baby. You deserve a reward,” he says softly, leaning forward to press a kiss against her throat.
She grins, her cheeks scrunching up and a glint coming to her eyes. It makes Draco’s chest swell with the knowledge that she views just seeing him as a reward.
“Please Daddy, can I see your cock?” She asks, her fingers toying with the button on his denims.
He can’t deny what hearing her say that word does to him. He can’t deny that his heart flutters and his stomach lurches up into his chest. He can’t deny that it makes his hips twitch and his thighs tense and his cock grow hard.
It’s a good thing, considering that’s what she wants to see.
“Yeah, baby, you can see now.”
He carefully watches her face for her reaction while he lifts his hips and dips his thumbs into the waistband of his joggers and pants, pushing them both down his thighs. He cock bounces up and brushes against his shirt, but his eyes stay on her face, watching as she greedily looks over him. Her eyes light up and her cheeks rouge but she keeps her hands to herself and he internally praises her.
She’s more obedient than she realizes.
He’s had enough of her not being in his lap, so he pulls her up until her thighs are straddling his lap. Her t-shirt rises up her hips and he groans when he sees her bare cunt just inches away from his cock.
Draco pulls her closer to him, until his cock rests against her belly so she can see with her own two eyes the reason why they have yet to have sex, why he’s kept her in the dark and instead focussed on making her feel good.
“Oh, Daddy, ” she whispers, her eyes still glued to him. “It’s never gonna fit.”
He groans at her words because he’d had the same thought the first time he’d touched her and pressed his thick finger inside of her, but it’s something else to hear her say it. She presses a little bit closer and continues to stare down.
“You see, baby?” He asks, drawing his fingers through her curls. “Look.”
Draco fists his cock, holding it upright against her belly. The tip rests just over her belly button and he feels her shuddering breath at the knowledge of just how deep inside of her he’d go.
“We’ll work up to it. One day you’ll take it all, but not today,” he says. “You see now, baby? I don’t want to hurt you.”
Hermione’s eyes are wide but she nods, her fingers twitching at her side as she watches his hand squeeze the length of his cock.
“I understand, Daddy,” she says softly, looking back up to his face. “I trust you.”
He notices that her eyes have glazed a little bit and she wiggles in his lap, squirming over his thighs and against his cock. Draco groans at the feeling, and squeezes the base of his cock before lifting his hips and tugging his pants and joggers back up even as she sits on top of him.
It’s uncomfortable, he’ll admit that, but he can wait. He lets his thumb drag down from her hip bone to the smooth skin of her mons. He presses into the skin above her slit, pulling the skin up until it’s taught and her clit pokes through.
“Look at you,” he mumbles. “You’re so swollen already. Have you been wet laying here with me?”
Her mouth drops open when he ghosts over her clit with the tip of his thumb and lets out a moan, “Yes, Daddy.”
He can’t keep his eyes off of her mouth and he moves them so she’s laying on her back against the couch. He lays over her, crawling between her thighs and pushing her t-shirt up onto her belly so she’s completely bare to his eyes.
“What do you need, baby?” He asks, finger tracing her lips until her tongue pokes out.
Hermione whines beneath him, opening her mouth to chase his finger, “Please.”
He shakes his head and pulls the appendage back from her mouth, “I need to hear your words.”
“I-I need something…” Draco watches as she struggles, pink and red bleeding into her cheeks.
“You need something in your mouth?” He asks, letting his index finger rest on her bottom lip. “Now that you’ve seen Daddy’s cock, do you need something to suck?”
She nods her head and opens her mouth, tongue poking out and waiting for his fingers, “Can you ask me?”
“Can I have something to suck, Daddy?”
Draco gives her his thumb, lets her close her lips around him and lave him with her tongue. He groans low in his chest at the thought of her mouth wrapped around his cock instead and gives himself a few seconds to rub his groin against his couch.
“Good girl,” he says. “What a good girl you are, sucking Daddy’s thumb.”
When she moans around him, he pulls his thumb from her mouth with a pop and uses it to rub against her clit, so swollen and warm and poking out between puffy lips. He rubs with an intense amount of pressure and she reacts accordingly, body straining and pulled taught like a bow.
She shudders against the couch and Draco leans down to lick lower, pressing his tongue into her cunt like he has with his finger, his thumb continuing fast and furious circles against her. It doesn’t take long for her fingers to come down and twine in his hair, tugging.
“Come baby, come for Daddy,” he says against her.
She does, thrusting her chest out. He can feel her cunt quivering with every thrust of his tongue until she whimpers and he finally pulls away from her. He looks at his thumb, wet with her, but instead of sucking it into his mouth like he usually would, he presses it against her lips.
“Open, baby,” he says, pushing against the seam of her lips until her tongue flicks out to lick him. “Such a cute mouth.”
She pants when he pulls his thumb free, popping it into his own mouth to savour the taste of her, and she smiles at him, “When can I suck something else?”
Draco leans into the back of the couch and tucks her against him, ignoring the way she pushes her backside against his crotch, “Another day, baby, now think about what you want to eat."
Notes:
Thank you for all of your patience on this chapter. Sometimes life gets in the way but I'm hoping to get back on top of writing and sharing with you all.
A few notes: yes, paracetamol (or acetaminophen/Tylenol) goes through your liver so can actually make you feel worse if you have a hangover! Best thing to do is wait it out and drink lots of water.
Second, I love all of your comments and I read every single one but can't always reply.
Find me on Twitter and Tumblr.
Enjoy xx
Chapter 10: Wiltshire
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“You’ll text me when you get there?” Hermione asks, leaning against him with her hands pressed to his chest, scrunched into his sweater.
Draco leans down to press soft kisses to her lips, holding her close in his arms, before mumbling against her, “The second I get there. And what are you going to do when you get off the train?”
She leans in closer and rests her head on his chest, holding him tight around his torso, and he knows they’re being just a bit over dramatic but he doesn’t care. He leans his head down and breathes in the scent of her rose-scented hair and her moisturizer.
“I’m going to text you and then call you when I get to my parents house,” she mumbles into his chest.
He presses a kiss to her curls and pulls back from her to look down into her eyes, “Good girl. It’s only three days, I’ll be back here to pick you up on Sunday night.”
The clock chimes notifying everyone that they’re at the top of the hour and Draco drags her in close for one last tight hug and another kiss before letting her go and stepping back. She pouts at him and he knows if he doesn’t go now, he’ll pick her up and deposit her back into his car.
They’ll drive back to his flat where they’ll close themselves inside for the entirety of the weekend and forget about their respective responsibilities.
“Don’t forget to text me,” he says instead, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his denims and taking another step back. “I’ll see you in three days, baby.”
Hermione pouts again but nods her head, giving him a small wave. They’re surrounded by people so he’s not surprised when she only mouths the words, “Bye Daddy,” to him, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t need to hear it for his pulse to quicken.
With one last wave and a blown kiss that she returns, he turns around and heads down the steps to get back to the parking garage where he’d left his car. His watch taps his wrist just as he reaches his car and he smiles to himself when he sees it.
Hermione
Hermione: i miss you already 😔
Draco: I miss you more.
It’s a three hour drive to Wiltshire on a good day without traffic and he slips on his sunglasses as he pulls out of the parking garage and back onto the street. He’d decided it was a good weekend to go up to see his parents when Hermione had told him she had plans to go visit her own parents in Cambridge.
This is too new of a relationship for either of them to go with the other, even though he wishes more than anything that he had his girl in the passenger seat. Hermione hadn’t told her parents about him at all and he doesn’t blame her; her parents are less than 10 years older than him and he already knows it’ll be an interesting conversation.
And he hopes that interesting is the extent of it.
He knows that the conversation with his own parents will be infuriating. He plans to tell them that he’s seeing someone but no other details. That’ll be enough to throw his mother into a tizzy and put that judgemental scowl on his father’s face.
They weren’t happy when he married Astoria and his father made sure to express how right he’d been when they divorced.
We told you this wasn’t a good match. We told you this would only end in disaster. We told you that you weren’t ready.
And yet, it was all of those reasons that had pushed him to get married in the first place if only to prove them wrong. They’d shunned Astoria for the entirety of their marriage, pretending as if she didn’t exist. Things actually got better after their divorce and, on more than one occasion, he’d heard that his mother had invited her over for tea.
His second divorce was worse because his parents loved her. It was the opposite of his first marriage; they adored her and were distraught when he came to them with the news of their separation. It was as if the divorce was happening to them. They were like that though, always focused on how something impacted them instead of others.
So, no, he’s not looking forward to telling them that he’s seeing someone and he’s definitely not looking forward to telling them that she’s more than 20 years his junior. It shouldn’t matter, not if he’s happy, but his parents have always seemed to care more about their own happiness.
By the time he’s passing through Andover, his watch taps his wrist and a text pops up on the screen of his car, pulling him out of his thoughts.
Hermione: i’m off the train! just getting in the car now
Hermione: i hope your drive hasn’t been too bad
Draco: Thank you, baby. Drive is good, almost there.
Her text pops up but before he can read it, his music cuts out and his phone ringing fills the space, Theo’s contact card appearing on his screen instead.
“Hello?”
The trees and grass whiz by as he pushes the car just a little bit faster than he should be.
“Here yet?” Theo’s voice comes through his car’s speakers.
“Almost, just passing through Andover. When’d you get there?”
Draco and Theo met each other while away at boarding school but quickly realized they’d grown up in the same county, not far from each other. As much as possible, they try to visit their parents on the same weekends so they can visit all of their old haunts.
“About an hour ago. Is Hermione with you?” He can hear shuffling on the other end, clothes rustling and the jingle of keys.
He clears his throat, “Uh, no. No, she’s up in Cambridge for the weekend to see her folks.”
Theo repeats his words and he hears Astoria mumble something in the background before Theo responds, “That’s too bad, we were looking forward to seeing her. Astoria wanted to take her for a spa day at the Inn.”
Draco snorts, “What is your wife’s obsession with my girlfriend?”
The phone is passed off, clunking and rustling, until Astoria’s voice comes through, “Oh fuck you, Malfoy. It’s not an obsession, I just think she’s so sweet and cute and I want to get to know her better.”
He shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. It’s typical Astoria, trying to worm her way in and make friends with anyone important in his life. Even his ex-wife, who she’s apparently still friends with.
“And yet, why do I feel like you want to steal her away from me?”
She barks a laugh and he can hear Theo whining in the background, wanting in on the conversation, “I’m not stealing, I’m married for fuck’s sake. It’s just…”
She trails off and Draco hums, rolling his eyes.
“She seems like she would be fun to play with.”
Draco chokes on his own spit and groans, his thumb hovering over the hang up button, “No fucking chance. Goodbye, Tori.”
He hangs up before she has a chance to respond and runs his fingers through his hair. He loves her, he does, but it’s frustrating to compete with your ex-wife for the same type of person, for the control that they both so desperately crave.
He knows all of her tricks though, knows the way she lulls others into an environment of safety and comfort, has witnessed it first hand. He also knows that she would never actually compete for Hermione’s attention - she is married after all, to his best mate no less - but will play to her heart’s content.
As he’s considering how to effectively keep Hermione from spending too much time with the brunette, his music cuts out again but this time it’s Hermione’s contact card flashing across the screen.
“Hi, love,” he answers, shifting in his seat.
He can hear other voices in the background before her sweet voice comes through his car, “Hi!”
“Everything alright? Are you at your parents’ house?” He asks, signalling before moving over.
“Uhuh! All good,” she says.
He’s sure it’s because there are others around, people who don’t know his role in her life, but he doesn’t mind. She called him, which is all that matters.
“Good, I’m glad. I just wanted to make sure that you’re there, safe and sound,” he says. “I’ll let you go, honey, okay?”
“Okay,” she squeaks, before he hears some rustling and her voice comes through quieter. “I’ll text you.”
“Bye, baby.”
He hears her soft laugh, nearly a giggle, “Bye!”
It’s only a few seconds before a text flashes across his screen.
Hermione: i’m sorry 😬 my parents were in the next room
Hermione: also, honey???
Hermione: what’s next, dear???
Draco: Brat.
His mother is standing on the front steps when he pulls his car into the driveway and parks near the other two but far enough away that his father won’t grumble. He’s the type of man who will park at the back of every lot, over the line so no one can park beside him.
As a child, Draco was sure he cared more about the car than about him. Maybe not the Jaguar, but definitely the Aston Martin.
He barely gets one of his long legs out of his car before his mother is carefully stepping over the gravel driveway in her heels and wrapping herself around him, clutching his sweater and squeezing him the way only a mother can.
“I missed you, Draco,” she says into his shoulder.
Draco carefully lays his palm against her back, lest he wrinkle the silk of her blouse, and presses a kiss to her cheek. There’s something about the way his mother smells, a comforting scent that always reminds him of when he’d crawl into her bed as a child and cuddle up to her on cold mornings as she read.
“I missed you too, Mum,” he tells her, pushing his car door closed behind her.
He lets her go and grabs his overnight bag before she grips his arm and tugs him back towards the house. He thinks he looks like her, rather than his father, with her sharp features and soft eyes. She passed on her temperament, too, which he thanks God for every single day.
“Your father is just inside,” she says, gesturing towards the house. She drops her voice to a whisper as they approach the door, “It’s getting more difficult for him to use the stairs. He rarely goes anywhere without his cane now.”
Draco frowns, “What did the Doctor say?”
She sighs - loudly, unexpectedly, definitely something she would never do in front of company - and shrugs her shoulders, “He’s refusing to go. Maybe you can talk some sense into him?”
“I’ll speak to him, Mum.”
The foyer looks as it always has, cold and mostly unwelcoming. It has always looked and felt like a museum to him, like the other older National Trust manors that litter the area with sprawling gardens and tours for guests.
The only thing out of place is his father, standing in the middle of the room and leaning heavily on his cane. He looks tired and...old. He is, Draco supposes, in his 60s, but he looks even older than that.
“Draco,” he greets, his voice a familiar tone after so many years. “Close the door, you’re letting in a draft.”
He bites down on his tongue to stifle a groan of annoyance and closes the door behind him, “Father. You’re looking unsteady.”
His father sneers, his lip curling, and narrows his eyes, “I don’t want to hear it, I’m perfectly fine.”
To his surprise, his mother pipes up, heels clicking across the floor until she reaches his father’s side and holds tightly to his elbow, “Oh yes, dear, perfectly fine, sliding and wobbling all over my floors. You know, Draco, my love, I had to ring Mr. Nott the other day because your father fell upstairs and I couldn’t lift him on my own.”
“Cissa,” his father hisses, glaring down at her. “Enough.”
She rolls her eyes and Draco can hardly believe his eyes. How many times has she whacked him for doing the same thing? How things have changed.
“Come, my love. I made some jammy biscuits, just as you like them,” she says, turning to him with a soft smile.
Draco leaves his duffle bag next to the stairs and approaches his parents, gently lifting his mother’s hand from his father’s arm, gripping it himself instead. He schools his features when he feels how delicate his father’s arm feels beneath the bulky sweater.
“You go ahead, Mum. I’ll help Father.”
He waits until the soft clicking of her heels disappears down the hall before he turns to his father and pats him on the shoulder. It’s still jarring to see his hair so short - more white than blond now - and shorn tight against his head, just slightly longer on top. He remembers running his fingers through his silky hair as a child and attempting to grow his own out to the same length as a teenager.
It turned out to be more of a nuisance than anything and he gave up on keeping it long before he began medical school.
“What’s going on with you?” He asks quietly, taking his elbow again and holding him steady as they walk slowly down the hall.
His father huffs, “Nothing, Draco.”
“Mum says you’re refusing to see the Doctor. Your leg should be getting better, not worse,” he intones, looking over at his face.
At first he thinks it’s a scowl on his face, an emotion he’s seen there for the last 40 years, but he quickly realizes it’s a grimace. His father is in pain.
“Don’t bother yourself over it,” he mumbles, taking another tentative step with his injured leg.
Draco moves to stand in front of him, still holding onto his arm, and stops him from walking further, “Dad, what’s going on?”
His relationship with his parents could be considered formal. He was raised like any other pompous child who lived in a Manor house, who was sent off to boarding school. He always called his mother, “Mum.” He always felt closer to her, always fell into her hugs and soft comforting touches.
His relationship with his father was...different. It was stiff on a good day and positively frigid on a bad one. They had stilted conversations over the phone about work and not much else. Until, of course, his father had a heart attack.
Things changed after that. His father had been given a second chance at life and took it far more seriously than his first attempt. He called Draco to ask him how he was, offered his affections far more freely than he ever had before and quietly asked if he’d like to call him “Dad.”
“He’s not helping me,” his father grumbles. “He does not take my concerns seriously and has continued to attempt to increase my medication. I don’t like him.”
Draco rubs his hand over his face, “Then we find you a new doctor. You don’t have to suffer, Dad.”
It’s like his heart breaks when his father finally looks him in the eye. He looks frail.
“Can you help me find someone else?” He asks, reaching his hand out to grasp one of his. “I don’t want to burden your mother with this, she does too much for me already.”
“Of course, Dad. I’ll ask around, we’ll find someone good,” he says, squeezing his father’s hand. “C’mon, I like the jammy biscuits warm.”
It’s early, all things considered, when he slides between the sheets of his old bed. His room mostly still looks the same, a few posters peeling from the walls here and there and photos and knick-knacks on his bookshelves. The bedding is the only thing that looks new and he sighs at the softness against his bare back.
Hermione: ready???
Draco clears his throat and pops one of his bluetooth earbuds in before tapping on Hermione’s name and pressing the FaceTime button. He holds his phone out and attempts to adjust himself properly, peering into the screen.
Hermione’s face pops into view, his own shrinking to the corner, and he grins at the sight of her. She smiles and waves shyly, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Hi, baby,” he says in a low voice.
He reaches over to his night table and grabs his reading glasses, slipping them on over his nose so her face appears more clearly. He can see the vividness of her eyes and the light pink of her lips, curls piled up on top of her head.
“Hi, Daddy,” she whispers, shifting in her bed.
“Let me see you,” he says, tucking an arm beneath his head and smiling at her through the screen.
Hermione holds her phone away from her body so he can see more than just her face. He can’t stop his grin from growing when he notices she’s only wearing the black t-shirt he’d given her, riding high on her thighs and stretched out around her neck.
“It smells like you,” she says softly, her voice sounding in his ear. “If I close my eyes it almost feels like you’re here with me.”
“I wish I was, believe me,” he says, adjusting his grip on his phone.
She hums and brings her phone closer again, “My turn to see you now.”
“Oh is it?” He asks, before lifting his phone up higher and showing her his bare chest, maybe just the edge of his pajama bottoms.
He hears her breath hitch before she breathes out a sigh, “It’s not fair.”
“What’s not, baby?”
He can see her eyes twinkle, crinkling at the corners, “That you look like that!”
Draco laughs and throws her a wink, “How do you think I feel? Looking at you, sitting on your bed in nothing but my shirt and your knickers.”
She giggles at that and gives him a wry grin, “Are you so sure of that?”
The angle of the picture changes so he can’t see her face, just her torso covered in his shirt and the tops of her creamy thighs. Slowly, inch by inch, she draws the t-shirt up the side of her thigh towards her hip, until all he’s looking at is bare skin and the discoloured spot of her birthmark.
He’s kissed that spot, over and over and over again. He’s let his fingers and his tongue trace the shape of it until he had it memorized. He traces the shape of it over the thin trail of hair beneath his navel as he thinks about it.
“Oh, baby,” he groans, his belly tightening and his cock hardening in his bottoms. “Are you naked under there?”
Hermione tugs the shirt up a little bit higher on her hip, still barely covering her core, until he can see the thin skin covering her ribs, “Yes, Daddy.”
Draco lets his hand trail down to cup himself, squeezing just enough to give himself a little bit of friction, and keeps his eyes glued to the smooth span of skin he can see through the screen. He can hear her soft breaths coming through, sounding loud in his ear.
“Is that why you wanted to call? Huh?” He asks, gripping himself tighter. “Were you hoping for something?”
He watches her thighs press together, the edge of his shirt riding up high enough that he thinks he can see her cute pussy between her thighs. It’s shadowed, but he’s been between her thighs enough times now that he would be able to pick her out of a lineup.
The small patch of neatly-trimmed hair on her mons, the way her clit pokes out between her labia, the trail of clear, sticky arousal that trails down her thighs.
“Maybe, Daddy,” she whispers, though he still can’t see her face.
“Good girls ask for what they want,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Let me see your face, baby.”
She reappears, a pink flush on her cheeks and her lips chewed red. He watches as she takes a deep breath, his t-shirt rising and falling with her chest, “I-I thought maybe we could…”
“We could what, baby?” He asks, squeezing himself once more before pulling his hand back. “Are you feeling needy? Is your pussy needy?”
He watches as she squeezes her eyes closed before nodding her head, whispering back to him, “Yes, Daddy.”
“Yes Daddy, what?”
He wants her to say it, to come out and say the words. He’s noticed that she’s more comfortable just being outright physical and less so with talking about things beforehand. He wants to push her out of that comfort zone, just a little bit, in a safe way.
“I’m needy,” she says, her nose scrunching as she says it.
“Tell me what’s needy, baby, or I can’t help you fix it,” he says in faux-sympathy.
She huffs, her teeth digging into her lip, “M-my pussy is needy, Daddy.”
“Does it hurt, baby?” He asks, sinking his incisor into his bottom lip and shifting on the bed. “Does it ache?”
She nods her head, “Yes, Daddy.”
“Okay, baby, you go ahead and press your finger beside your clit,” he tells her, lifting his hips up and pushing his bottoms and pants down his legs. He kicks them off, bunching at the bottom of his bed.
He knows when she does, her eyes closing and some of the tension bleeding out of her features. Her breath comes harder and she lets out a quiet whimper. Draco palms his hard cock, dragging his fingers over the thick vein on the underside.
He can’t help but imagine her own fingertips on him, her fingers half the size of his own, so delicate, so light in her touches. He tries to mimic what he thinks it would feel like until his cock twitches with desire.
“Just rub circles around your clit, baby. Don’t touch it yet, take some of the edge off,” he says.
She nods again, “Yes, Daddy. A-are you t-touching yourself too?”
He hums and circles his thumb and index finger tightly around the head, making short, firm jerks. He imagines this is how it would feel to slip the tip of his cock into her, short, quick fucks into her body, pressing into the notch his fingers find so easily.
“Yeah, baby, I’m touching myself,” he answers, swallowing hard when his thumb rubs over his frenulum. “Run your finger down, tell me how wet you are.”
Her breath hitches as she does it and she pokes her tongue out to lick her lips, “I’m so wet, Daddy. I’m-I’m dripping down my thigh.”
He groans, gripping his cock in his fist and dragging it up and down, “Show me, baby. Show me how wet you are.”
She fumbles with her phone but, slowly, he sees her torso, the t-shirt pulled up above her belly button, and the little patch of hair. Her finger is running in circles around her clit, red and swollen and wet.
His fist moves faster, squeezes tighter, until he’s almost fucking up into his own hand. He almost feels like a teenager again, jerking off in his childhood bedroom. He and Theo used to trade Playboys back and forth, jerking off to giant tits and waxed smooth pussy.
“Good girl, baby. You look so wet. Touch your clit for me, I see how needy your pussy is,” he says, trying to keep his voice level.
He watches her intently, rubbing the pad of her finger on her clit, thighs twitching and clenching together. She squirms when she’s close, as if her body is fighting the pleasure growing in her belly, travelling through her limbs. Usually, he’s there to hold her down, to keep her in place and force her to endure. She does a good job on her own, her finger moving faster and faster until he can hear her gasping.
“Can I see, Daddy? Can I see you?”
“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck. Yes, baby, you can see.”
He taps his screen to flip his camera and then his cock is filling the screen, red and throbbing, his fist stripping tight and fast against the sensitive skin. Hermione moans through his earbud and his pace falters at the noise.
He’s going to come in his fist, jerking off to his girlfriend touching herself in her own childhood bed.
“I need you to come, baby, okay?” he grunts, fist moving faster, thumb flicking over the head of his cock, smearing the precome gathering.
She whines and he knows she’s close but needs something to push her over the edge. He groans.
“Come for Daddy, baby. Come with me,” he groans out, thumb flicking once more.
He watches her cunt contract, her clit pulsing visibly on the screen and it takes half a second for his belly and his sack to tighten before he’s coming, thick drips of white trailing down his cock and fist, all visible to her.
It wasn’t exactly what he had planned, but when she flips the camera back to herself and Draco works himself through his orgasm, she shudders on the screen and smiles so widely that it makes him smile.
“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” she pants out when he flips the camera back to his own face. “Thank you for showing me, Daddy.”
His hand is sticky, his come growing cold and tacky against his skin, and he lays it on his abdomen, “Next time you’ll see it in person, baby.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
It’s cool in the morning, the wind blowing leaves across the lot. He walks around the car to open the door for his mother and offers his arm to help her out. She’s tiny beside him, she always has been but seems even more so now, and he leads her across the lot to the farmer’s market.
It’s something of a tradition for them, starting around the time his father had admitted to his drinking problem when he was no older than 10. It was his mother trying to show him that they could still be a family, he thinks. Every Saturday morning, when his father would go to his Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, his mother would take him to the market.
They’d spend the whole morning together, picking out the best apples and strawberries. Sometimes, she’d prepare a scavenger hunt for him, picking out items that he had to find before she’d present him with his surprise. It brought them closer together, gave them something to bond over until he went away to boarding school.
Their tradition had picked back up when he was in his 20s, every time he would go home to visit. It was their thing to do, their time to spend together. He’d never even brought Astoria with him when they dated or when they were married.
They walk quietly along the aisles between the stalls until they reach a familiar one tucked away in a corner. It looks as Draco has always remembered, a clunky table with a red and white gingham tablecloth, but it’s not the decoration that draws them in: it’s the smell of freshly baked apple fritters.
He can tell there’s something on her mind, but she waits until they’re seated at a small rickety table. Draco uses one of their spare napkins to clean the table as best he can before he places their food and drink down.
She lasts less than a minute.
“I saw her,” she says quietly. “When your father and I were in Paris.”
Draco sighs and closes his eyes. He knew they’d spent a few weeks in France but they usually stuck to Bordeaux, where their house was.
“She asked about you,” Narcissa continues, the paper wrapping of the fritter crinkling in her hands.
He scoffs, “Yes, I’m sure she did. I’m quite sure she was thrilled to be able to poke around in my affairs.”
“She wasn’t poking, Draco,” his mother admonishes. “I think she was genuinely concerned for your well-being. She looked very well.”
“Well she should, wandering around the world with half of my money and my last name, to boot.”
His mother is irritated. He can tell by the way her shoulders tense and her lips purse, but he doesn’t care. He’s never seen eye-to-eye with his parents about his second divorce. They just didn’t understand it.
“You don’t need to take that tone with me, Draco,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I’m simply telling you what happened.”
Draco takes a bite from the apple fritter, enjoying the soft dough and sweet apples, the hint of spicy cinnamon and nutmeg against his tongue. Even the deliciousness of the fritter can’t take away from the bad taste in his mouth, though, from thinking about his ex-wife.
“I know that you care, Mum, but I really don’t want to talk about her,” he says, taking a sip from his coffee. “We’re divorced, we have absolutely nothing to do with each other, and that’s that.”
He wants that to be the end of the conversation but he knows his mother. She’s too persistent for her own good. He starts to feel sympathy for his father.
“You still speak to Astoria,” she mutters, tearing a small piece of the fritter and tucking it into her mouth. “I hear you even went to her wedding.”
He wants to roll his eyes but knows she’ll smack him.
“Astoria isn’t a lunatic,” he grits out. “Not to mention, she married my best friend. Of course I was at the wedding, I was his best man.”
“Draco!” She admonishes.
He shrugs, “She is.”
“I don’t want to hear you speak like that about her, she was very polite when we spoke.”
To stop himself from firing back at her, he shoves more of the fritter into his mouth and focuses on chewing. His mother is watching him, her eyes narrowed, as if she’s looking for something in his reaction.
“I just...I don’t understand what went wrong, Draco,” she says, her voice low and calm, the way she used to speak to him when he was upset. “You were such a good match, so well-suited to each other!”
“Mum, I love you, but it’s enough. We divorced for a reason-”
“-Well I would like to know the reason!”
“We were bad for each other! Okay?” He asks, breathing heavily. “That’s all I’ll say about it.”
Draco closes his eyes and breathes in, then out, trying to calm himself. She’s been on him since the day he told his parents they were divorcing, trying to find out the reason for their failed nuptials.
“Since you’re apparently such good friends, maybe you should ask her,” he mutters, taking another sip of his coffee and burning his tongue in his haste.
His mother sniffs, “I did.”
“And?”
She taps the table with a manicured finger and looks off to the side, “She wouldn’t tell me.”
At least she has that much sense, he thinks. At least she’s not out to ruin his life, to destroy his relationship with his parents. At least she cares about him enough to keep her mouth shut.
“Then perhaps that should tell you that it’s personal and we won’t be sharing it,” he says, trying to force some finality into his tone.
It doesn’t work on her. It never has. She reaches across the table and grasps his hand, the touch of her wedding band and eternity ring cold against his skin. It’s like a shock to the system and he looks down at his left hand, an imaginary wedding ring wrapped around his finger.
“It was just so sudden, Draco. You have to know how surprising it was for us,” she says softly. “I see how much it hurt you and I can’t bear to see you hurting.”
Draco shakes his head and squeezes her hand, “I’m not hurting anymore, Mum. I’m…”
He trails off and she quirks an eyebrow at him.
“You’re what, my love? You can tell me,” she says, patting his hand.
“I’m seeing someone.”
She freezes, her hand tightening around his almost imperceptibly. It isn’t how he wanted to tell her and he doesn’t think that he’ll give her any other details, but he needs to give her something. He needs to get her off of this trail of digging into his divorce.
He watches her face carefully, sees the way she purses her lips and clenches her jaw. He sees the way she straightens in her seat, the way her eyes harden as she looks at him.
“Oh.”
Chapter 11: Pretty Baby
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
His fingers feel like icicles as Draco dashes from the front door over to where his car is parked, gravel crunching beneath his feet. It’s cold that evening, colder than he expected it to be, and he grumbles at himself for forgetting to bring his coat with him to Wiltshire. He’d much rather be sinking into the comfortable couch in his parents’ sitting room, watching football with his father, but no such luck.
There’s a reason he and Theo try to coordinate their visits home and it’s not their parents. It’s their fondness for the pub they’ve been visiting since before they could legally drink.
The first thing he does is switch on his seat and steering wheel warmers, rubbing his hands together in the few seconds it takes for the car to warm up. The speed with which his car both warms and cools is one of his go-to reasons as to why, exactly, he needs a luxury vehicle.
A simple, “Because I wanted it,” never seems to be reason enough for those who feel the need to ask.
His phone buzzes against his hip and he tugs it out of the pocket of his denims, the screen lit up with a text from Theo.
Theo
Theo: We are leaving now.
Draco: I am too. See you soon.
He can’t help but chuckle, knowing that Hermione would laugh at their stiff texts despite being such close friends, and leaves his phone in the empty space near the front console as he takes off out of the lengthy driveway. He knows the pub they’re going to is about 15 minutes away, if he drives a little faster than he should, and he carefully chooses one of his playlists as he waits to turn onto the road.
Draco hums along with the music, Donny Hathaway’s voice crooning through his car speakers, and taps his fingers on the wheel as he drives. Being home, being back in Wiltshire, always leaves him feeling a little strange, as though he’s right back where he was as an 18-year-old, dreaming of moving away for school.
He happily admits to being a bit of a terror, just a bit too much testosterone pumping through his veins along with the belief that he was invincible, and he frequently took off in his father’s Jag to joyride around the area with Theo right there next to him in the passenger seat. He pushes the car a little bit, down the dark road, and grips the wheel a little tighter, a remnant of that same excitement pumping through his blood.
It makes him smile for a minute, thinking back to that time in his life; back before he’d gotten married as a 22-year-old, before he’d gotten divorced a year later, before he’d married and divorced again just 15 years after that, before his mother bothered him incessantly about said ex-wife that he would do anything to just forget about.
Since his second divorce, it’s a time he’s thought about often, wondering what he’d do differently each time. It drove his mind in circles for years, trying to figure out what the better path would have been. He always finds an issue though, there’s always something indirectly related to one of his choices, his mistakes, that he’s not willing to lose.
His phone rings through the car and he looks down at the screen, still humming along to the song under his breath, before he answers it.
“Hi baby,” he says, lessening his pressure on the gas and slowing down to a more respectable speed.
There’s some rustling on the other end before he hears her, voice soft and a little raspy, “Hi Daddy.”
“What are you up to?” He asks.
She hums quietly and yawns, he thinks, “Just woke up from a nap, missed your voice.”
Draco sinks his teeth into his lip, biting back the groan from edging out from his throat. He can just imagine her, cuddled up in her blankets, curls messy and framing her face, nose pink and lips chewed red. Her eyes are always just slightly glazed over when she wakes up from a nap and he wants nothing more than to tug her into his arms and nuzzle his nose into her throat.
He sighs, “I wish I was there with you.”
“Do you?” She giggles. “Here? In my childhood bedroom, with my parents just down the stairs?”
“Why not? I only want to cuddle you,” he says, his car rolling to a stop at the lights.
“That’s all? Just a cuddle?”
His phone vibrates against the console and he eyes it, a text from Hermione appearing. He frowns and picks it up while he sits at the red light, opening the text to see a picture of her, just as he’d imagined.
There’s a faint smile on her lips, the tip of her tongue just poking out, and he can see her bare shoulders above the edge of the blanket she’s wrapped in. She looks warm and comfortable and, just for a second, he considers how long it would take him to drive to her.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, though he knows she’s heard him from her giggle. “You’re so pretty, baby. Just gorgeous.”
“Still just wanna cuddle me?” She asks.
Draco shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up just in time for the light to turn green, “Do you think you can tease me into fucking you?”
She groans quietly on the other end, “I thought I might be able to tempt you.”
He shakes his head and flicks on his blinker, waiting to turn into the lot of the pub where he can see Theo’s car already parked, “Hermione, baby, you tempt me every single day.”
“Not enough, clearly.”
He chokes a laugh and parks his car, pulling the visor down to check his hair in the mirror, “More than you think, more than enough. Any more and I wouldn’t be able to resist.”
He knows that’s what she wants to hear but it’s also the truth. His patience is slowly - very slowly - waning even though he knows it’s for the best. Perhaps he has a little bit of a size kink, perhaps it makes him a little hot to have her work up to taking his cock, but mostly he doesn’t want to hurt her.
She feels teeny tiny underneath his palms, his thumbs touching when he wraps his hands around her waist. His lone, solitary index finger fits into her so snugly, as though he’s already pushing her pussy to the limits.
It’s both a turn on and a worry.
“Well,” she sighs, “I’ll just have to try harder then.”
“I would expect nothing less,” he says, turning off his car. “Alright, baby, I’m just about to walk into a pub. What are you going to do tonight?”
She hums into the phone and he can just imagine her pressing her arms up and stretching out, “Gonna go down and help my mum with dinner and then I believe we have another riveting game of Uno on the schedule for tonight.”
Draco grins, “Well I’m rooting for you. I’ll text you?”
“Mm, yup. Oh! Send me a picture? Please?” She asks, making her voice sound small and whiny.
“Sure, baby. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow,” he says softly, smiling down at his phone. “I have to go though, have fun.”
“Okay, Daddy. You have fun too!”
He ends the call and steps out of his car, heading towards the entrance to the crappy little pub that had become his and Theo’s hangout so many years ago. It still looks the same, a little scary and rundown, and the door creaks familiarly as he steps inside.
It takes only a second for him to see his best friend, Astoria pressed tightly to his side and her forehead pressed to his as they whisper something back and forth. He tries to make sure his footsteps are loud as he approaches and might drag the chair back a little noisier than he has to.
“About fucking time,” Theo groans, pushing a pint in his direction. “What did you do, walk here?”
“No,” he says, before taking a deep pull of his beer. “I was on the phone with Hermione. Speaking of, I need one of you to take a picture of me to send to her.”
Theo snorts and Draco is lucky that his confidence runs deep or he’d be blushing at the request. Astoria seems to like the idea though, because she pushes Theo to take a seat beside him and steals away his phone, snapping a few pictures of them.
“You two are so cute,” Astoria gushes, handing his phone back to him after she’s chosen the best photo to send to Hermione. “It’s too bad you didn’t bring her along.”
“I don’t think Lucius and Narcissa are ready for that bombshell yet,” Theo mutters, nudging him with his elbow.
Draco lifts an eyebrow but keeps his eyes on his phone, typing a message to go along with the photo.
Hermione
Draco: Theo and Astoria say 'Hi.'
He receives a string of emojis, each one more random than the last before she responds.
Hermione: *Panting Emoji* *Heart Eyes Emoji* *Weary Emoji*🥵😍😩
Hermione: do you buy your sweaters a size too small?????
Draco: No? Does it look small?
He frowns and looks down at the green sweater he’d slipped on over a grey button down.
Hermione: you just look...big
Hermione: so big
“Is she calling you fat?”
Draco turns to look at Theo and rolls his eyes, “No. She said my sweater looks too small.”
“Let me see,” Astoria demands, holding her hand out and swiping his phone.
“Don’t-”
“-I’m not going to go snooping, don’t worry,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes. She laughs, “It’s a compliment, Draco. You fill out that sweater quite nicely, if I may say so.”
Theo lets his pint glass bang down onto the table and wipes his mouth of foam with the back of his hand, “Hey! What about me?”
Astoria hands him his phone back and pats her husband’s hand, “Sorry, my love, you don’t have Malfoy arms. Even Lucius…”
She trails off and Draco groans, tipping his glass back until he’s swallowed the rest of the beer, “Please don’t continue that thought. Need I remind you that he was your father-in-law at one point?”
She shrugs and glances around the small pub. It’s a Saturday night so it’s full, the fireplaces lit to combat the frigid cold from outside. He smirks to himself, imagining his father enjoying a drink in a place like this. He doesn’t think he’s ever stepped foot inside a pub.
His parents hadn’t been the kindest to Astoria when they were married, convinced, as they were, that their marriage was a bad idea. They’d entertained stilted conversations with her but his mother never invited her over for tea and his father barely managed to keep his scowl contained.
It slowly got better over the years, after they’d divorced. At least now they could be in the same room without an intense amount of awkwardness.
“My dad told me about your dad,” Theo says quietly, nudging his arm. “Is he doing alright?”
“No, not really. Mum said he’s in a lot of pain and his leg isn’t getting any better but he refuses to see the doctor. Says he doesn’t like him.”
Theo shakes his head, “Can you find someone else for him? Dad told me your mum was really upset.”
Draco sighs and rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, “Yeah, I’m going to have to. She can’t continue to deal with him like that and he’s embarrassed, doesn’t want her to see him so weak.”
“Typical,” Astoria muttered, folding her arms on the table. “Did you go to the market this morning?”
Theo holds his hand up to the lone waiter for another round and Draco nods, “Mhm.”
“And did your mother tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Her eyes flash between him and Theo, widening as she looks at his best friend like she’s trying to convince him to say what she doesn’t want to. Draco rolls his eyes, because it could only be about one thing.
“Christ, not you, too,” he grumbles, accepting the new pint and handing off his empty one. “I really, really, really don’t want to talk about her.”
Theo gives his wife a pointed look and mumbles, “I told you…”
“You’re no fucking help,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Look, Draco, I know you don’t want to talk about it but I also know you haven’t told Hermione about all...that...and you’re not dealing with it the way you need to.”
“I did deal with it.”
“No you didn’t! You can’t even say her name,” Astoria says emphatically. “Don’t you think that means you haven’t dealt with it?”
Draco swallows a big gulp of his beer, looking down at the scratched table and ignoring both Astoria and Theo. He did deal with their situation. He dealt with their issues and their divorce and their divorce agreement and her subsequent fleeing of the country. He’s dealt with it and he’s done dealing with it.
He’s done talking about it.
“Astoria, I’m going to say this once and once only,” he starts, clasping his hands around his glass. “I do not want to discuss her. I do not want to discuss the divorce, or the situation, or-”
“-She’s seeing someone.”
It’s a strange feeling, in the moment, in the few seconds after his ex-wife says what is a particularly boring three-word sentence. His chest squeezes though, tightening until he doesn’t think he can breathe, before it finally lets up. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, trying to shake her face out of his mind.
“Good for her, so am I,” he settles on saying, keeping his eyes down.
Theo clears his throat and he hears his fingers tapping against the table, “It’s pretty serious, Draco. We just...we thought maybe it would be good for you to have a conversation with her, before...”
His hands slam against the table and it surprises him. He’s not a violent person and he tries to keep his anger in check, but he just can’t take it anymore.
“I don’t want to talk about her. She’s free to do what she wants, I’m thrilled she’s in a serious relationship and I hope it works out better than ours did. That’s it, I’m done.”
They lapse into an awkward silence and Draco picks up his beer, draining it in one swallow. He’s tired of talking about his past and talking about his choices. He’s tired of people in his life dwelling on his mistakes.
Astoria reaches out and pats his hand with her own. It takes him aback, for a second, when he sees her engagement ring where his own used to sit. He shakes his head, clearing the thought because it’s been 20 years since she wore that thing.
“Draco?”
He looks up at her, slightly taken aback by the serious expression on her face. He looks between her and Theo, frowning, “What’s wrong now? Did something happen?”
Theo clears his throat, “Nothing’s wrong, mate.”
“Then what is it?”
Astoria squeezes his hand and gives him a soft smile, her thumb rubbing back and forth against his hand. He finds himself holding his breath, unsure of what they could want to tell him.
She takes a big breath and looks up at the ceiling before turning her eyes back to him, “I’m pregnant.”
Draco’s brows raise and he leans forward a little bit, looking between his friends, until he breaks out into a big grin and stands up. He marches around the table and pulls Astoria into a hug, wrapping her up tight and squeezing her.
It’s sort of strange, he thinks, because many, many years ago he’d imagined this exact scenario. He’d imagined that one day, Astoria would sit him down and tell him they were pregnant and he’d wrap her up just like this, holding her tight and safe in his arms.
He shakes the seeds of jealousy he can feel growing in his chest and presses a kiss to the side of her head instead, “I’m so happy for you, Tori. Seriously, I’m thrilled, I know how much you wanted this.”
She’ll make a perfect mum, he knows that much. When he pulls back from her, she’s wiping away tears and he knows there’s probably a wet patch on his sweater but he doesn’t care. He turns to his best and oldest friend, holds his arms out and grins at him, “Didn’t take you long, mate!”
Theo laughs and they collide in a hug, patting each other's backs. Draco leans into his ear and whispers, quiet enough that Astoria can’t hear, “I’m so happy for you, Theo. I know you’ll be a great dad. I know it.”
When he pulls back, Theo wraps his arms around his wife and holds her close, his palm laying over her still flat belly and Draco forces his smile brighter. He’s happy for them, he really is.
He is, he tells himself.
He is.
Draco 😍
Hermione: i am SO EXCITED to see you!!
Draco: I’m excited too, baby. I just got to the station.
Draco: Are you going to stay over?
Hermione looks out the window of the train and watches the rain streak against the glass. It’s dark and gloomy out and almost two hours earlier she’d hugged both of her parents in the car before darting into the station to wait for the train.
She usually loved being back home and spending time with her parents. As an only child, her first friends were her parents and she had so many memories of family game nights, taking evening walks with her dad and spending her Sunday mornings baking with her mum. But this time felt different.
This time she felt like she was missing out on something, going back to Cambridge while Draco headed to Wiltshire. It was too early for either of them to meet each other’s parents, she knows that, but a part of her wished that they’d had more of a conversation about it. As it was, they’d simply let each other know of their plans and went off in their separate directions.
She shakes her head and texts Draco back.
Hermione: is that okay?
Draco: Of course, baby. You can always stay over.
It’s incredible how easily his texts make her blush. She feels like she spends most of her day flushing red and hot, eyes glued to her phone. She’d more than once had to rush into the washroom at her parents’ house, fanning her face and splashing it with cool water.
She’d also avoided calling him in front of them, the desire to call him by the moniker she’d grown fond of too much to avoid.
Hermione: can we get nuggets for dinner?
Draco: Anything you want.
The train shudders beneath her and slows down as they approach the station, other riders already starting to gather their belongings and make their way to the doors. Hermione stays seated, not needing to rush off the train and fight through the crowds. Draco will wait for her.
She throws her bag over her shoulder when the train comes to a complete stop, the station appearing through the windows, and follows the line of people off the train. She feels light on her feet as she hops down from the train and walks to the interior.
Hermione: just off, walking to you now!
It doesn’t take her long to get to the interior and she grins when she catches sight of Draco. He looks tired, leaning back against the wall behind him, a baseball cap on his head and his arms crossed in front of his chest making his arms bulge against his henley.
Her phone buzzes with a text, likely from him, but she ignores it as he stares down at his own, oblivious to her. When she’s close enough to see the way he’s chewing nervously on his bottom lip, she takes off in a run, her sneakers slapping against the linoleum and he looks up at the last minute, just as she launches herself into his arms.
“Oh, baby,” he says with a smile, his palms clutching under her thighs as her legs wrap around his waist. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
Hermione reaches up to push up his baseball cap, leaning in to press a kiss against his lips, “I like this.”
He gives her a lazy smile, shifting her weight in his arms to lean down and pick up her bag before walking them towards the exit, “Thank you, baby. I missed you.”
She hums and leans her head onto his shoulder, “I missed you too. It felt like a week instead of a few days.”
Draco agrees and continues walking them in the direction of the parking garage. She’s sure there are people watching them, an older man carrying a younger woman, her legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck. She feels a little bit like a child, but she doesn’t care.
He makes her feel safe and sheltered from strange looks and prying eyes, in a way that no one ever has before. She’s starting to realize that he makes her feel like herself in the midst of the chaos of the world.
“How was home?” He asks, arms holding her tight against his chest.
Hermione considers his question, “It was good, it was nice to see my parents and spend some time with them. I think they missed me.”
“Of course they did,” he says, shoes tapping against the concrete of the garage. “Did you win at Uno?”
She giggles and buries her face into his shoulder, his henley soft against her cheek, “Yeah, once or twice. Also a few other card games. Oh! And chess.”
The sound of the car being unlocked catches her attention and Draco taps her thigh in warning before encouraging her to unwrap her legs from his waist and stand on her own two feet. Before she can turn to open the car door and slip inside, he’s cupping her cheek and leaning down.
Her eyes close on their own, but instead of his lips pressed against hers, they brush against her cheek when he speaks, “Have I told you how pretty you are?”
There’s that blush again, that stupid, infuriating blush that blooms so readily against her cheeks and her chest. Her fingers curl into his shirt and she runs her teeth over her bottom lip, “Not today.”
His lips press against her cheek, over and over again until he reaches her lips. They’re soft and plump, taking over her mouth in the way only he knows how. She melts into the kiss, pressing against his body and letting her fingers spread against the muscle of chest.
“You are so pretty, Hermione,” he whispers against her lips, fingers curling into her hair. “My pretty baby.”
He straightens up and Hermione lets her face fall into his chest, letting out a shaky breath at his words. At this rate, her cheeks will be on fire for the rest of the night, but if he continues to talk to her like that then she doesn’t mind so much.
“You’re so unfair,” she mumbles into his chest.
He huffs a laugh, chest rumbling below her cheek, and pets a hand over her curls, “Just telling you the truth. The prettiest baby there ever was.”
She lets him tug her towards the car, opening the door and helping her inside. She even lets him bend low over her and tug the seatbelt across her chest and over her lap, making sure she’s buckled in before closing the door.
They stop and pick up nuggets on the way back to Draco’s flat and Hermione talks his ear off about her time at home. She tells him about the park near her childhood home and the trails through the woods that she wished he could see. She tells him about the cozy bookstore just a few streets away and her favourite Italian restaurant next door.
When they park in the garage below his building, Draco takes her bag and their food, leading her up to his flat. He’s quiet about his own trip home, however, and it makes Hermione wonder if something happened while he was there.
She had sort of admitted to her parents that she was seeing someone, but hadn’t given them any additional information. She didn’t think they’d necessarily be angry about her chosen partner, but she didn’t think they’d be happy either. She was hoping for indifference, at best.
“Enough about my trip home, how was yours?” She asks, plucking the fast food bag out of his hand and plopping down on his couch.
She pulls the nuggets and a few fries out of the bag, tossing them into her mouth and chewing, looking at him expectantly. His face tenses, just a little bit, and if she wasn’t looking for it she wouldn’t have noticed.
“It was fine. The usual.”
Hermione frowns, “Nothing special happened?”
Draco sighs and takes a seat next to her, laying his arm along the back of the couch behind her and stealing a french fry from the bag, “Well, my father has decided that he doesn’t like his doctor now and he’s having more trouble walking. So, I’ll have to find someone else.”
She hums, “I’m sorry, that’s not easy to deal with.”
He shrugs, “Well, it wasn’t all bad. Astoria and Theo told me some good news last night.”
“Oh?”
She dips a nugget into sweet and sour sauce, chewing happily while he watches. She takes a bite of another one before offering the rest to him, smiling when he accepts the bite and nips at her fingers.
“Mhm,” he mumbles while chewing. “They’re expecting Baby Nott.”
Hermione’s not sure why, exactly, she frowns, but she does and Draco notices. He tucks a curl behind her ear and rubs the pad of his thumb against her chin, “It’s alright, baby. I’m happy for them.”
“Still,” she mumbles, taking a sip of her drink. “She’s still your ex-wife. You must have...I don’t know, thought about that kind of thing before.”
Draco swallows and grasps her hand, pulling her closer into his chest, “Yeah, I had. But it was a long time ago and I’m happy for them.”
“If you say so,” she says softly, tilting her head and puckering her lips until he presses a soft kiss to them. “But, it’s also okay if you’re not right now.”
She doesn’t feel jealous, surprisingly. She’s mostly just concerned over how Draco feels. It’s been a long time since they’ve been divorced but it doesn’t change the feelings and plans that they’d once had. It wouldn’t surprise her if he was feeling conflicted.
He doesn’t respond, just brushes his fingers over her arms and the hem of her sweater. He accepts bites of food from her fingers, nipping and sucking sauce off of her fingertips. It’s nice, something that she’s missed over the last few days being away.
It doesn’t last though, she’s never been good at staying quiet, always filling silences with meaningless chatter. She munches on the fries, tucking one between his lips when he bends down over her shoulder and mouths at her wrist.
“Are you still going to make me wait?” She asks, licking salt off of her thumb.
“Wait for what?”
Hermione sighs, “You know.”
“I don’t, actually,” he laughs, tightening his arms around her. “Enlighten me.”
He knows, she knows that he knows, but it’s so like him to force her to say things that make her uncomfortable. Well, not uncomfortable just…
“Stop squirming, baby,” he says, pressing his palms to her thighs. “What am I making you wait for?”
She lets her hands rest on his, marvelling at the obvious size difference, “Making me wait for you to fuck me.”
Draco laughs and leans in to nuzzle his nose against her curls, dragging down her cheek to her throat, “You think you’re ready?”
No, she knows she’s not. When she closes her eyes she can picture his length and girth pressed up against her belly, can picture him coming over FaceTime as his hand strips up and down. She’s not ready, but she wishes she was.
“Well, no, but-”
“But what? You want me to hurt you? What kind of Daddy would I be if I knowingly hurt you? Huh?”
Hermione groans and tosses her head back against his chest, “You said I could see you next time.”
He hums against her back, fingers trailing up her wrists and forearms, just grazing her skin, “I did say that, didn’t I, baby?”
You did, she wants to say to him, you promised I could see you next time. But all that comes out is a whimper when his fingers crawl across her shoulders and down over her chest, palms cupping her breasts.
She shudders against him, pressing her chest out and into his hands, “Please, Daddy.”
“Such pretty pleading,” he says softly. “Okay, you can see, baby. But you have to listen to me, alright? If you don’t listen, then you don’t get to see.”
It’s easy for her to agree because there is nothing she wants more in that moment than to see his cock again, to see him come. She desperately wants to watch his face, to see what he looks like when the pleasure is just too much.
“I’ll listen, Daddy. I promise.”
Draco tugs her around so she’s facing him, sitting back on his thighs, closer to his knees. His hands immediately go down to his belt which he quickly opens before unbuttoning his denims. She can see the way he tents the material of his pants, his thick cock straining against the dark material.
Her fingers twitch with the need to touch him, but he grabs both of her wrists in one hand and presses them to her belly, “No touching, baby. You’re going to sit there and keep your hands to yourself. No touching me or you, alright?”
She whines, loudly, plaintively, but he clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “None of that. If you can’t, then you don’t get to see.”
“I can, I can, Daddy. I won’t touch, I promise.”
He hums and slowly lets go of her wrists. He presses her hand onto his shoulders, just so he can raise his hips and tug his denims and pants down to his knees before pressing them back against her belly. His shirt is next, grasping the back of his shirt and tugging it off before tossing it to the floor.
It’s a different situation for them. Usually, she’s the one naked while he’s clothed, but this time he’s the one naked. It should give her some sort of power, some sort of feeling that she’s the one in control, but she’s not. Not even a little bit.
He still holds all the power in this situation and her fingers tie together to keep them still.
“Watch, baby,” he says, grasping his cock in his hand and stroking himself.
He has a nice cock, the nicest one she’s ever seen, she thinks. Thick and long, the best of both worlds, with trimmed dark-golden hair at the base. It’s unfair how attractive he is, how much she wants to run her fingers and her tongue along his body.
She wants to trace a path down his chest, dragging her teeth along his muscles and the softness in his abdomen. She wants to run her tongue along his hip bones and press an open-mouthed kiss to his cock.
Instead, she watches as he jerks himself off, fingers in a tight circle around his cock. His chest rises and falls quicker with each stroke and Hermione watches intently. She memorizes everything about him: the way his breath hitches on the upstroke, the way his fingers squeeze the base of his cock, the barely-there whimper that escapes his throat when she meets his eye.
“I really want to touch you, Daddy,” she whispers, her eyes still glued to him.
He groans softly, his hips flexing with his movement, “I know, baby. But you can be a good girl for me and watch.”
Technically, he’s giving her exactly what he promised. He told her that she could watch next time, not that she could touch him and make him come, just that she could watch him. So she watches, she accepts the gift she’s been given to see him so vulnerable.
His throat convulses just before he comes. A choked sound leaks out from between his lips and his muscles tense in his belly, hardening and tightening, a thick vein popping along the line of his pubic bone and up into his belly.
Draco pants and his free hand clutches her hip, fingers digging into her backside, “Fuck, baby. Hermione, watch, baby, watch.”
She almost laughs. Where else would she be looking?
“I’m watching, Daddy,” she whispers. “Please, I want to see you come.”
And he does, thick, white stripes of come leaking out onto his belly, onto the tense muscles, and splattering along the line of dark-golden hair underneath his belly button. She’s transfixed, her eyes wide as she watches his cock twitch in his hand, beads of come sliding down his cock.
She hears him groan, hears his panting breath and watches his teeth sink into his lip. His eyes are locked on her, watching her watch him, waiting to see her reaction. He finally pulls his hand away from his cock, letting it rest and soften against his belly, and he holds his hand out, away from her, wet and messy.
“Can I…?” She trails off, her eyes glued to the smears of come along his fingers.
He notices where her eyes are glued and slowly, very slowly, he brings his hand closer to her, his index and middle fingers pointing out towards her lips. She wraps her hand around his wrist, mostly, and pulls his fingers into her mouth.
He tastes bitter and the texture isn’t something she necessarily enjoys, but she laps at his fingers anyways, swirling her tongue around them and sucking on his skin. A part of her almost treats it like an audition, and she shows off some of her talents in the hopes that next time he’ll let her put her mouth on him.
“So fucking pretty, baby,” he whispers, still catching his breath. “My good girl. You’re doing such a good job.”
Her cheeks flush, again, and she straightens up, a smile threatening to appear across her spread lips. She can hardly taste his come anymore, but continues sucking on his fingers. She doesn’t even realize that she’s rocking her hips against his thigh until he hums deep in his chest.
She doesn’t realize how close she is until she’s gasping, a spark flaring in her belly. She pulls her lips off of his fingers and pleads, “Please, Daddy. Please!”
Draco nudges her lips with his fingers again, letting them rest against her tongue, “You come for me, baby. Come against my thigh, sucking on my fingers, with the taste of my come on your tongue.”
And she does, her eyes closing and hips rocking and mouth sucking. When she opens her eyes, his fingers are no longer in her mouth and she realizes her knickers and leggings are sticky against her thighs.
“C’mere,” he says softly, tugging her into his chest.
There’s drying come on his abdomen and she can feel his soft cock against her belly, through her sweater, but she doesn’t care. She cuddles up against him and sighs against his shoulder, fingers clutching his ribs and sinking into his hair.
“I missed you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Feeling alright?”
She hums, pressing her lips against his shoulder, “Feeling perfect, Daddy.”
Chapter 12: Manners
Notes:
ETA: Throwing this in here again, since we're diving into the lifestyle quite a bit here: this story features DD/lg content. If you don't know what this is, please do your research.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione leans against Draco in the elevator, enjoying the feeling of his arm around her, bracketing her chest so she’s pressed to his torso. Her hands rest against her sides and she tips her back so she can see him, pink lips and pale skin, silver eyes already looking down at her.
The stars had aligned that day, Hermione without classes and Draco, for once, not on-call. They made plans to spend the whole day together and Draco had picked her up the night before after he’d gotten off of work to stay at his place.
It’s always something special to wake up together, for her eyes to slowly blink open and her back to move in a long stretch, only for Draco’s arm to fold over her again and clamp down. He’d capitalized on her in his bed, holding her tight and pressing soft kisses to her shoulders, his thick, muscular thigh slotted between her legs.
Who was she to deny an early-morning orgasm? It was almost easy to forget that they’d never had sex - the intercourse kind - with the amount of orgasms he pushed on her. They explored each other more erotically than she ever had before and there was no doubt in her mind that he now knew her body better than she did.
But, afterwards, in an orgasm-drunk daze, she looked up at him expecting to see that familiar sleepy smile on his face, only to see something else. It was only there for a second, like a flicker, before the sleepy smile pressed out through his lips, but she saw it: longing and a hint of fear, as though there was something he wanted but was afraid she would deny him.
The elevator doors close and they start their descent down to the ground floor. Draco had proposed going for a walk around his neighbourhood with promises of an oat milk latte and a buttery croissant from the café down the street.
She leans her head back against his chest and peers up at him, “Hi Daddy.”
“Hi baby,” he smiles back, leaning down to rest his chin on top of her head. “I need you to do something for me when we’re out.”
She lifts her eyebrows and nods, “What is it?
He hums behind her, vibrating through his chest, and his free hand trails down her arm until he grasps her hand in his tightly, lacing their fingers together. She looks down and takes note of how small hers looks in his big palm.
“Can you hold my hand when we’re walking?”
She flexes her fingers in his; she’s not a baby, she’s capable of leaving the safety of her own home or Draco’s home without holding onto someone’s hand like she’s a flight risk. But, she likes the feeling of her hand dwarfed by his, of his care in a blatant and physical way.
“I’ll hold your hand, Daddy,” she agrees.
Draco presses a kiss to her hair, “Promise?”
“Promise.”
It’s chilly out and she can see their breaths with their first steps out onto the street. His building leads out to a quiet side-street with a park just across the way and there’s a few people milling about, couples out for a stroll and mums pushing prams. It’s a distinctly different vibe than her own neighbourhood, full of over-tired and hungover university students most days.
They walk quietly, just enjoying each other's company, but Hermione’s mind is racing. She’s not one of those people who can let something lie. Her automatic response is always to deal with the issue or, in this case, find out what the issue is.
It’s been...problematic, to say the least, in some of her other relationships and friendships. She’s been accused of being pushy or attempting to force others to talk about things they may not want to talk about, but that’s never her intention. She just tends to stew over things she doesn’t know the answer to.
And she’s stewing over that look of longing she saw in his eyes.
“Can I ask you something?”
Draco squeezes her hand in his, “Of course, baby. Anything.”
Hermione tugs them over to an empty bench along the path they’re walking on and takes a seat, patting the spot next to her. Draco sits, unintentionally taking up most of the room with his size, and lets his arm rest on the back of the bench behind her.
She wets her lips and opens her mouth a few times, trying to find the best way to ask her question without putting him on the defensive or making him think that she’s not happy with how things are going.
“Do you want more?” She asks, turning to the side to look at him.
Draco frowns, his silver eyes bright in the early-morning sunlight, “What do you mean?”
“In our relationship, do you want more?” She asks, biting into the flesh of her cheek. “I mean I know I call you Daddy but that can’t be the only thing you want out of this.”
He takes her hand in his and rubs softly over her skin with his thumb, “It’s not only what I want, it’s what you want too. I told you before that things will progress naturally, we don’t need to rush it.”
It’s Hermione’s turn to frown this time, his response not exactly the answer she’s looking for. There was something about the look on his face that morning that told her he was being more diplomatic than honest with his answer.
“So…” she trails off, “If I told you that I wanted to move a little bit faster, what would you say?”
He laughs, “I would say we need to have a larger conversation before you decide you want to take things further. Are you comfortable with me dictating more rules? More consequences? Relying on me? Giving up more control?”
She thinks she is. It’s not like his current rules are such a hardship, texting him when she leaves her flat and keeping in-touch throughout the day. He already dominates their sex life, which is just fine with her, and takes care of her in a way that leaves her warm and fuzzy inside.
But mostly, if it’s something that he wants and enjoys, then she can enjoy it too. At least, she thinks so.
“I’m ready.”
His lips twitch and he smirks, as if he’s in on something she’s not, “Oh, are you? How about this: just for today, we’ll add some more rules and see how it goes. Alright?”
Hermione nods her head, a smile spreading on her lips, “Deal, but don’t go easy on me just because I’m new to this.”
Draco cups her cheek with his palm and draws her in for a few kisses, just soft ones that last barely a second on her lips. He nuzzles against her nose, pressing another kiss to her forehead before standing up from the bench and tugging her along with him.
“Okay, baby, let’s head over to the café,” he says, before they set off on the path again. “Don’t let go of my hand, alright?”
She nods her head and squeezes his hand a little bit tighter, knocking into his side as they walk.
“Still want an oat milk latte and a croissant?”
“Yes, I think so,” she says, following him along the path. “Are the croissants good?”
He swings their arms playfully and grins, “They’re the best. You’ll like it.”
They dash across the street to duck into the café and Hermione smiles to herself at the first sniff of coffee and freshly baked pastries. It’s almost like a comfort scent to her, now, with how often she spends at her own local café. This one is much of the same, a few small tables tucked into a store that’s just a little too-small.
Draco walks up to the register and smiles politely at the barista, launching into their order, but before she can pipe up with her own, he squeezes her hand tight and orders for her. It’s alright, she supposes, standing just behind him, it’s not the worst thing for him to order for her.
They walk down to the end of the counter to wait and Draco pulls her into his chest, hugging her tightly to his front while they wait, before whispering in her ear, “No reason for you to talk to strangers, baby. Daddy will take care of it.”
Hermione blushes red at that, immediately wanting to look around to see if anyone else is close enough to hear, but Draco holds her tighter. They wait like that, her cheek pressed to his soft sweater peeking out from his jacket.
He grabs their order when it’s ready and Hermione attempts to let go of his hand to help, when he tuts at her, “Hold onto my jacket, please.”
She frowns. Holding onto his hand is one thing, but she is capable of letting go of him for the few seconds it’ll take to sit down at a table. She agreed though to additional rules so she holds onto the bottom of his jacket while they walk to the table.
“Sit, baby,” he says, pulling out a chair for her and spinning it around the table so she’s sitting right next to him. “I’ll help you eat.”
“What? I don’t need help-”
Draco shushes her and pulls the croissant out from the paper, tearing off a piece and holding it up to her mouth. She can feel her cheeks burning when the pastry touches her lips and she tentatively opens her mouth and chews it.
“Good girl,” he mumbles, tearing off another piece. “Swallow for me.”
Hermione nearly chokes, swallowing hard around the pastry that seems to be a thick lump in her throat. This is the control aspect, she thinks, but it’s far more control than she ever thought she’d be giving up. She eyes him curiously and he throws her an infuriating smoke, tucking another bite into her mouth.
It’s like he knows that maybe this is too much for her. But she asked for it, wanted him to add more rules, and she’s not about to back down now. She just needs to take a deep breath.
“Coffee’s hot, baby,” he murmurs, taking the lid off of the paper cup and blowing softly across it, all of the steam floating away from her. “Do you want a little sip?”
“Please,” she says, nodding her head.
Her teeth sink into the flesh of her cheek - out of annoyance or the fact that she’s squeezing her thighs together, she’s not sure - when she watches him take a small sip from her cup first, testing the temperature, before bringing it carefully up to her mouth. He tips the cup just enough for the warm liquid to spill through her lips and she knows he watches the way her throat moves.
Draco pulls it back before she’s had her fill and she huffs, “I wasn’t finished.”
He tuts at her again, bringing his thumb up to wipe away a drop of coffee she hadn’t yet licked. He brings his thumb up to his own mouth, his tongue flicking out to clean it.
“Small sips, you can have more in a few minutes.”
She’s a mix of infuriated and warm. She thinks he’s doing this on purpose, to show her that she’s certainly not ready to explore this potential aspect of their relationship, especially not so quickly. But at the same time…
Well, she doesn’t hate the way he takes care of her. She doesn’t hate it at all.
“Am I allowed to speak?” She asks, leaning back in the chair and crossing her arms over her chest.
He smiles at her and inclines his head, “Of course, baby. Just remember your manners.”
Manners? She frowns and shifts in her seat. She’s never been accused of being poorly-mannered before, only ever polite - sometimes too polite, Ginny would say.
“What are we going to do after this?” She asks, letting her hands rest in her lap.
Draco looks at her expectantly, a single golden eyebrow raised which makes him look like one of her old disapproving school teachers. When she doesn’t say anything else, he sighs and takes her hand in his, giving it a small squeeze.
“C’mon, baby. You know better. How should you address me?” He asks patiently.
Hermione sits silently before she whispers, hopefully too quiet for anyone else in the small café to hear, “Daddy.”
“Ask me again, properly.”
She huffs, “What are we going to do after this, Daddy?”
It’s not like her to deny something, especially a feeling, but she’s conflicted with the way her thighs keep squeezing, a pulse flickering between her legs, and the frustration that’s brewing in her mind.
Does she like giving up this level of control? Her pussy certainly seems to think so, the traitor that it is, leaking everywhere for his smooth tones and muttered Good Girl. Her mind is not so convinced, concerned that what’s happening is somehow decidedly not feminist, not even adult.
Draco leans forward and pecks her on the lips before bringing the latte back up to her lips, letting her swallow down another few sips, “Well, since you’re being such a good girl,” - her eye roll is met with a soft pinch to the skin of her wrist - “I thought I’d spoil you a bit. How does that sound?”
Her chest feels warm and she leans in a little bit, gladly opening her mouth enough for him to feed her the last piece of the croissant. It melts on her tongue and she squirms a little bit in her seat, “I think that sounds good, Daddy.”
When he said he wanted to spoil her, he meant it. They grab a car and she’s practically wiggling in her seat when they pull up to a department store. She’d mentioned wanting to go shopping weeks ago and he’d been planning to bring her that day regardless of the extra control he was exerting over her.
Control that is, admittedly, beyond what he usually enjoys in a relationship. Is he pushing her boundaries a bit? Absolutely. He’s even pushing his own boundaries. He’d just barely stopped himself from laughing when she begrudgingly gripped the bottom of his jacket, but he was making a point.
She’d surprised him with her request to move faster, to add more into their relationship, and he’d gotten the distinct impression that it was coming less from a place of what she wanted and more to make him happy. The tenacity with which she pushed him for it, though, was typical of his young girlfriend.
The only solution, in his mind, was to throw her into the deep end, albeit in a controlled and safe manner. He knows her well enough to recognize her tells; he saw the frustration when he fed her the croissant, the annoyance when he gave her a small sip of her own coffee and the exasperation when he’d insisted that she call him Daddy when speaking to him.
He was pushing her, showing her what some relationships in their particular vein could be like, but he wouldn’t push her beyond what she could take.
“Don’t let go of Daddy’s hand inside,” he said softly to her, holding her in his larger one as they walked into the department store. “If you want to look at something, just ask, baby.”
Hermione agrees and he leads her through the store, all the way to the home goods where he knows the soft throw blankets are. He has a throw on his couch that she frequently wraps herself in but he wants her to have something of her own, to make her feel safe and comfortable.
He can see them stacked along the far wall and he tugs her over there, lips twitching into a smile when he notices how wide her eyes have gotten. If he still had any doubts as to whether this lifestyle was a fit for her, the look on her face would have quashed them.
As it is, he knows how well suited she is, how her body and mind react to the way he takes care of her.
“I want you to pick out a blanket. Can you do that for me, baby?” He asked, pulling her close to his chest. “I’m going to let go of your hand and you can look.”
She tries to stifle a grin and nods her head vigorously, “I can do that, Daddy.”
Draco leans down and presses his lips to hers in a smothering, pressure-filled kind of way. More than their usual light pecks, less than the kisses he laves on her lips when she’s underneath him. Enough to show her that she’s his, just as a reminder.
He watches her wander off to the far end of the blankets and he knows she plans to make her way through them all before she picks one. It’s fine with him, he thinks, as he takes a look at the pillows nearby. He doesn’t tend to frequent Harrods, not like his mother does, but he can appreciate their goods.
His watch taps his wrist and his phone buzzes against his thigh, Theo’s name popping up. He takes note of where Hermione’s standing - she’s not a child, he knows that, but he still doesn’t want to lose sight of her - before he pulls his phone out of his pocket and answers it.
“Hello?”
“Alright, mate?” Theo’s voice comes through the phone.
Draco wanders, running his fingers over the pillows, “Yeah, alright. You?”
“Are you around? Wanna meet for lunch? We just finished at the doctor.”
He hums, looking back up and away from the decorative pillow he’s tracing, immediately finding Hermione’s curly hair amongst the throw blankets. “Hold on,” he mumbles, pulling his phone away and pressing it to his chest.
He walks up behind Hermione and she tilts her head back at him, pointing to a white blanket, “I like this one, Daddy.”
“It’s pretty, baby,” he hums, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “Do you feel like going for lunch for Theo and Astoria? We don’t have to.”
“No, Daddy, we can go. I’m still looking though.”
He tilts her head back and presses a kiss to her nose, “No rush, take as long as you want.”
She continues surveying the piles of different blankets and Draco lifts his phone back up this ear, “Yeah we can meet you for lunch. Give us an hour?”
“Sure, sure,” Theo says. “Things going well then?”
Draco rolls his eyes. No doubt he was able to make out pieces of their conversation, even with his phone pressed to his sweater. As if Theo had any room to talk; he’d heard more than he ever wanted to hear about his best friend and his ex-wife.
“Things are just fine, Theo,” he tells him. “Text me where you want to meet.”
He hangs up and wanders back over to his girlfriend who’s tapping her foot with her finger pressed against her lips, deep in thought.
“Which one do you want, baby?”
Hermione hums, her eyes passing over the different colours and fingers brushing the different textures.
“The pink one, please.”
He reaches up to the top shelf and takes down the pink blanket with the pompoms, holding it out to her with a smile.
Draco taps her nose, “What do you say?”
“Thank you, Daddy,” she said, pushing up on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his.
“You’re welcome, baby.”
A small part of her was expecting that he would relax their new rules for their lunch date with his best friend and his ex-wife, but no such luck. Instead, Draco holds her hand in the car and reminds her to remember her manners when they shuffle out.
She now knows that means calling him Daddy when she speaks to him and she can’t think of anything more embarrassing than saying it in front of his friends. So she vows to herself that she simply won’t speak. It might seem strange, but it’s the better option.
She’s gotten the feeling from Astoria that maybe she’s more similar to Draco than different, but it’s only ever been a hunch. In any case, she’s not comfortable following these rules in front of anyone that can hear her.
So silent she will be.
Draco walks her into the restaurant, his hand low on her back, and guides her towards the table where Astoria and Theo are already sitting. Astoria stands and comes around the table with her arms outstretched, “Hi Hermione!”
She takes a step forward but is yanked back when Draco grabs hold of her hand, “What did I say, baby?”
Hermione frowns and wraps one arm around Astoria in a half-hug, the best she can do with Draco hanging onto her other one. Astoria gives good hugs, tight and comforting, sort of like Draco and she smells warm and spicy, like cloves and cinnamon.
She thinks she can feel a hard bump press into her own belly with how tightly they’re pressed together, but she doesn’t look or ask any questions.
When she pulls back, Astoria is looking at Draco with an odd expression, her eyes bouncing between his face and their linked hands, but she pulls Draco down into an equally tight hug.
“Uh, could you let go of her hand?” Astoria asks, pulling back and crossing her arms over his chest. “What are you, a caveman?”
Draco huffs and pulls out a chair, patting it until she sits down, “Mind your own business, Tori.”
Astoria sits back down and nudges Theo with her elbow before looking at her, “Is he giving you a hard time? You can tell me, sweetheart.”
Her lips twist in a wry smile and she shakes her head, keeping her lips pressed tight together.
“Christ, Draco. Is she not allowed to speak?” Theo asks, eyebrows raised high into his hairline.
“What? Of course she can speak,” he tells Theo. “Right, Hermione?”
Hermione mimes zipping her lips closed and smiles at her boyfriend when he shakes his head, rolling his eyes at her. She knows she’s pushing it, but she just can’t call him Daddy in front of everyone.
“Come on,” Draco sighs, standing up out of his chair and gesturing his hand. “We’ll be right back.”
Hermione stands and slips her hand into his, following him out to the front of the restaurant. Draco spins her around and wraps his arms around her, holding her tight to his body and pressing his lips to her forehead.
“Had enough?” He asks, sighing into her curls. “Just say the word.”
Hermione groans and nods her head against his sweater, “Please? I can’t call you Daddy in front of your friends.”
He tips her chin back and leans down to kiss her. His lips mold to hers and his palm cups her cheek. The brush of his nose against her cheek makes her shiver until he eventually pulls back, leaning his forehead against hers.
“You did well, baby,” he says softly. “I know I was pushing your buttons. You see why we need to talk more, though? It’s not something to rush into.”
“I know, I understand,” she mumbles. “I just thought you wanted more.”
He sighs, running his fingers through her hair, “Even if I do want more, I want you to want it too. I don’t want you to do things just because you think it’s what I want. Do you know what makes me happiest?”
She shakes her head, “What?”
“You being happy and feeling safe with me. Nothing makes me happier,” he says, thumb sweeping over her bottom lip. “I don’t want to see you pushing yourself into something like this again. Alright?”
His voice is firm but she knows it comes from a place of care and concern, not anger. She presses up on the tips of her toes and puckers her lips until he presses his to hers in a quick peck.
“I won’t, I promise.”
He nods and pats her backside, "We'll talk more about it later."
They walk back into the dining room, their hand still clasped together, but this time he doesn’t say anything when she pulls her hand from his and takes a seat. She turns to look at Astoria and Theo and smiles.
“Draco said you just finished at the doctor. Congratulations, by the way, I’m sure you’re both so excited!”
Astoria grins wide and reaches into her purse to pull out a sonogram picture, passing it over to Draco as Theo replies, “Everything looks good, they said. We don’t know the gender yet but they said another four weeks and we should be able to tell.”
Hermione watches Draco as he smiles down at the photo, running his finger over the picture, “How far along are you?”
Astoria takes a long sip of water, “Just about 14 weeks.”
“Looks like you,” Draco teases, handing her the photo. “Are they keeping an eye on you?”
“Yes, Dr. Malfoy,” she says, rolling her eyes and holding onto Theo’s forearm. “By the way, they couldn’t find another way to call me old? Who decided on geriatric pregnancy?”
Their lunch is actually quite nice and she learns some more about Draco and Theo’s childhood. She learns that Draco had dominated at practically every sport they'd ever played and Theo had actually gotten better grades at school. At one point, Astoria leans back in her chair after finished her pasta and Theo reaches his hand out to rest on the small bump poking out of her middle. Her eyes flick over to Draco who’s smiling, but it’s not his usual smile.
Usually, his lips stretch over gleaming teeth, light shining through his eyes, but not this smile. This smile looks sad.
It’s only after their lunch, after they've said goodbye, that she gets the chance to ask the question that’s been on her mind. She’d tried to bring it up before, but he’d brushed her off.
“Is it hard?” She asks him, leaning into his side as they walk down the sidewalk. “Watching them like this?”
Draco’s quiet, his fingers running up and down the length of her back, “Yeah. A little bit. But I’m happy for them, especially Astoria. She’s always wanted to be a mum. For a long time after we divorced I kicked myself for pushing off trying for a baby.”
He winces as he says it and Hermione frowns, but she doesn’t feel jealous.
“You wanted a baby with her?” She asks, softly.
He hums and tips her chin up, “I wanted to make her happy, but that’s not the only reason to do something, is it?”
It’s not, she knows that, especially after the day they’ve had. But there’s still something about his answer that doesn’t feel entirely truthful.
“So you don’t want children?” She asks, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
He smiles, and it’s the grin that she loves, “Well, I didn’t say that.”
Chapter 13: Do You Trust Me, Baby?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time they get back to Draco's flat, spending the rest of the day window shopping — and sometimes really shopping — it's nearly dark out. They stop to pick up takeaway on their walk back and things feel better now that she has some of her freedom back. It's a complicated thing, she understands that quite clearly now, and her brain is still trying to make heads or tails of it as she grabs some cutlery and sets the table.
She watches Draco as he unties the takeaway bag and takes the containers out. He's oddly domestic, she thinks, though his chosen profession should have been enough to convince her. His hands are careful as he scoops some of the pad thai noodles that she'd asked for onto her plate before also giving her some of his rice and coconut green curry.
She clears her throat, "Water?"
"Please, baby," he says, taking a spring roll out of the bag and laying it on her plate. "Straws are in the cutlery drawer."
Hermione hums quietly while she moves around his kitchen, using the ice and water dispenser on the fridge to fill their glasses before grabbing a pink silicone straw from the drawer. It had been something small that she'd never even mentioned to him, only remembering the once that she'd pulled her own silicon straw out of her purse while they were out for lunch.
Settling into her seat, Draco disappears further into the flat and comes back with a few sheets of unlined paper and two pens. He places one of the sheets on the side of the table near her, “Can you eat and do a little activity for me?”
She rolls her eyes, "I am a woman, apparently we're good at multitasking."
"Bratty," he mumbles, before taking his own seat and leaning over his paper, "Divide the paper down the middle and then I want you to write 'Like' on one side and 'Dislike' on the other."
She holds the paper steady and draws the pen down the centre, trying her best to keep the line straight. It wobbles a little bit to one side, but it more or less leaves two even sides to the page. She writes the words neatly on either side of the centre line, turning the paper sideways to underline them both with a straight line. When she looks up and peers over at his page, she laughs at his chicken scratch scrawl.
“Oh my God, Draco. How does anyone read that?” She asks, stifling her laugh. She pushes up on the balls of her feet to lean over the table but Draco huffs and covers his paper. "How do the nurses read your notes?"
“Hush, don’t worry about my writing. I can read it just fine and they've never complained.” he says, drumming his fingers on the table.
Hermione scoffs, "Only because you're so charming."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, baby," he mutters, winking. "I always thought there should be a class in medical school on how to get on a nurse's good-side. I'm only doing what I can to have a smooth day at work."
She takes a forkful of noodles into her mouth and chews carefully before responding, "Yes, well, I'm sure talking to you is the best part of their day and not just because you sweet talk them."
She still frequently opens up the picture he'd sent her of him in his scrubs, biceps pressed against the short sleeves and thick thighs underneath the light blue material.
"Anyway," he laughs, twisting his pen in his fingers. "While we're eating, I just want you to think back over today and all the things that you liked and would like to try again and then anything you disliked. Just write them in the columns, I won't be offended or hurt if there are things we don't agree on, alright? Do you understand?"
It's the tone of his voice that makes her nod her head and respond with, "I understand, Daddy."
She's not sure how he does it, slipping back and forth so fluidly between laughing with her and Daddy-ing her, all in the span of a few seconds. She always has the same reaction, too, responding to the changes in his tone appropriately.
"Good, baby. If there's other things you know you want to try or don't want to try, you can write them down too. We'll talk about them afterwards," he says, his own pen now scribbling a line of items in the 'Likes' column.
They eat in relative silence, only the sound of cutlery against their plates and pens scribbling on paper interrupting them. That is, of course, until she takes a bite of the crunchy spring roll. She winces a little bit at how loud it sounds in their silence, but Draco just flicks his eyes up at her and smiles, as though he thinks it's endearing.
It's not hard for her to think back through their day and fill out the columns. The dislikes come easiest, her pen moving smoothly across the page as she recounts some of the more controlling things that had happened. She also has a few ideas of things that they've yet to try and she has no interest in trying.
When she peeks over at Draco's list, he's filling out both columns equally, bouncing back and forth between his likes and dislikes unlike her. Once she thinks she's finished with the 'Dislikes' column, she moves on to the other. She flushes as she gets to some of the more sexual things she's enjoyed with him — and some things she wants to try.
When Hermione puts her pen down, Draco is quietly eating his curry and watching her with a fond expression on his face. She laughs, suddenly, and he raises his eyebrow in a question.
"You know this is also how they discussed limits in 50 Shades of Gray," she says, though Draco's table is significantly smaller than the table in the scene.
He frowns, "I've never seen it."
Hermione sighs and shakes her head as though she's beleaguered by his comment, "We'll have to watch it together. You'll like it."
"I don't think so," he mumbles, bringing his napkin up to wipe his mouth. "I've heard enough about it to know it's not my kind of film."
"Don't know if anyone's described it as a film before," she mumbles, taking another forkful of her noodles. "But we'll have to watch it anyway, I'm curious as to your reaction."
When she leans forward and sucks on the pink straw, she's very aware of how his eyes stray to her lips. And sure, maybe she toys with the straw a little more than necessary but she's once again left wondering why they're practising such an intense form of abstinence. Intense because his personal brand involves as many other sexual acts as possible.
It's next to impossible to survive on his fingers and tongue alone. Most days, he makes her feel crazy with how much she wants just wants to feel him inside of her, like she's some sex-starved woman, desperate for attention. But she's never had a man rebuff her (many) attempts to sink his cock into her cunt.
Even just thinking about it, considering it, makes her squirm in her chair.
"Finish up," he tells her, spoon and fork clinking down against his plate. He gestures towards her straw, "And stop doing that, I know you're attempting to tease me."
She scoffs, "Attempting?"
"Hermione," he says, voice low and warning. "We need to have a conversation first, one that I intend to have with you sitting in my lap, which we can't do if you don't behave."
"Naked, I hope," she quips.
He narrows his eyes, "Not a chance."
Spooning the last few bites of the curry he'd put on her plate, she wipes her mouth with her napkin while Draco stands and takes their dishes to the dishwasher. It's strange, to let him do all of the cleanup when she's so used to taking care of herself all alone in her flat, but it feels nice, too.
"Why don't you get your blanket and get comfy on the couch?" He asks, bringing over a damp paper towel. "First, hands."
Frowning — a little unsure — but listening all the same, Hermione holds out her hands and watches as he carefully wipes them down. His hands are gentle on her skin, making sure they're clean, before he folds the towel and slips a few fingers underneath her chin to hold her steady.
He purses his lips, "Like you're going to kiss me, baby."
She does, eyes fluttering closed while he gently drags the damp towel over her mouth, before pressing a kiss to her lips, "There you go, all clean."
As he steps away, Hermione picks up her pen and scribbles another note in the 'Likes' column.
Standing up, she grabs her new blanket, pink with pom-poms on the end, from the shopping bag and settles onto a corner of the couch while Draco finishes cleaning the table and puts their dirty dishes into the dishwasher. His patients are lucky, she thinks, to have a Doctor with such a nice bedside manner. She tells him as much.
"Do you have a waitlist for patients?" She asks, sitting cross legged underneath the blanket,
He hums and fills the kettle with water, "Doesn't really work like that in the emergency department. They take who they can get."
Hermione sighs and lets her eyes close, resting her against the back of the couch, "If they knew they could have you, I'm sure they would wait."
"Oh, yes, I'm sure," he laughs, the clink of mugs landing on the counter. "'Gunshot wound? I'd like to wait for Dr. Malfoy, please. I could bleed out? Ah, that's no problem.'"
She giggles and opens her eyes, watching his expression as he adopts what she assumes is a mimic of a patient's voice, "I just mean that you're sweet and patient and — to be quite honest — getting to look at your is its own pain management. I would know."
"Well, you're welcome to try to convince them of your very scientific finding," he says, tossing a teabag in each mug. "But I think they would still opt for the first doctor available. Not to mention the pain medication if it's offered."
"No, I'm perfectly fine keeping you all to myself."
The kettle whistles and Draco turns it off, pouring hot water into each mug, "I'm all yours, love."
She shifts in her spot as he walks over with both teacups, setting them down carefully on the coffee table on top of coasters — kind, attentive, clean, organised, her list could go on and on and on — before he steps back over to the table and grabs their lists. He sits down on the other end of the couch, tucked into the corner, before holding his arms open.
"Alright, come over, pretty girl," he says, gesturing. "I thought we could start with your list and see if there's anything matching on my own. Does that work?"
Hermione crawls over the couch, tugging her blanket with her, and settles into his lap. He tucks the blanket in over her, making sure she's both warm and comfortable before handing over her list. She chews on the flesh of her cheek, a little nervous to vocalise some of the things she's written down.
"Where should I start?" She asks, rubbing over the corner of her paper. "Dislikes maybe?"
He nuzzles his nose against her neck, pressing a kiss to her jawline, and nods his head, "Wherever you want, baby. You lead this conversation."
Humming, Hermione rests her index finger on the first point of her list. She feels a little bit nervous to say the words out loud, but she knows that Draco won't let her get away with pushing her list at him and zipping her mouth. So she takes in a steadying breath and focuses on his own breath on her neck and hands wrapped around her belly and ribs.
"I didn't like not being able to speak to people other than you," she starts, steeling herself. "I like calling you Daddy, but not in a situation where everyone can hear me, and I really, really hated having to hold onto your jacket at the café. Holding your hand is one thing, and I like holding your hand, but this was..."
She trails off and he nods against her shoulder, "It felt demeaning, like I was actually a child, not like you were taking care of me. Usually your control is a welcome thing, it makes me feel warm and safe but that...that did not."
Draco clears his throat and his thumb rubs against her ribs soothingly, "All things I put on my 'Dislike' list, too. All things I would consider to be high protocol, which I also don't like except on rare occasions and almost never in public."
He slides his paper in front of her and drags his fingers down a few points on the list.
Dislike
- High protocol (public)
- Speaking restriction
- Title requirements
- Feeding/drinking help
- Movement restriction
Her eyes trail over his list, noting that he's written 'medium protocol' and 'low protocol' in his 'Likes' . She frowns, "Can you explain the different levels of protocol?"
He peeks over her shoulder to look at his list, “Well, most of the time I prefer low protocol. You call me Daddy when you feel like it and you follow very few, very simple rules most of the time. Like usual.”
She hums and nods in understanding, “And medium protocol?”
Draco rubs his beard over her shoulder, “Medium protocol is somewhere in the middle, and we’ll decide together what that looks like and when it’s appropriate, but it could mean asking for permission to do certain things."
"What kinds of things?" She asks, genuinely curious and trying not to take notes, as though she's in a lecture.
"It could be anything, really. I could have you ask permission to wander away if we're out together or, conversely, ask for permission to touch yourself."
Her heartbeat thumps loudly in her ears and she swallows, "Oh."
"We can talk about it," he says, rubbing over her ribs. "We won't do anything without discussing it first."
“Alright, Daddy,” she agrees. "Can I ask another question?"
"Of course you can. This is the time to ask."
"If you don't like those things we did, the 'high protocol' , then why did we do them?" She asks.
She had partially convinced herself that the things they did during the day were all things that he enjoys, and subsequently worried that maybe she wouldn't be able to keep up with his wants and desires. Could she deal with not being able to speak to others around him? Could she call him Daddy in every scenario?
No. She didn't think so. But, was it crazy that she had considered it anyways? The clingy part of her was willing to do what she had to in order to keep him in her life.
He hums against her back, "Well, you asked me not to go easy on you, tried to tell me how ready you are, and I knew it wasn't coming from a place of honesty, but rather a place of wanting to please. I needed you to see how dangerous it is to do that, to engage in a relationship only looking to please someone."
She huffs, feeling a bit like a child being admonished, "I'm not only looking to please you."
"Look at me, please," he says, before shifting her in his arms until she's sitting sideways, still under the blanket, legs over his lap. Hermione looks at him, teeth sinking into her lip. He makes her feel so small like this, small and safe and comforted, his arms wrapped around her waist to hold her close.
"This doesn't work if you don't enjoy everything that we do," he says plainly, expression serious. "Even if it's something that I want to do, how can I enjoy it when I can see so plainly on your pretty face that you hate it? So many times today I nearly pulled you into my arms and stopped the whole thing because I only want to see you happy."
Hermione sighs and nods her head in understanding, "I get it, I asked for the wrong reasons, but it doesn't change the fact you don't need to treat me like I'm some delicate flower that can't...I don't know! As though I can't take it or comprehend it, which brings me to my next dislike: not having sex!"
Draco looks at her with a small smile pulling on his lips and leans into her, capturing her lips with his own before she can say anything else. It's full and passionate, slow and focused. Her heartbeat slows and she pulls back with a gasp, understanding colouring her face.
"Are you kissing me to calm me down?" She asks, fingers grasping his shirt.
He smirks at her and shrugs his shoulders, "Did it work?"
It tickles something in her brain and she feels like she has deja vu, like they've been in a similar situation, like she's heard those words before. She tilts her head as though bringing forward a memory and...yes, there it is.
"You've said that to me before," she mumbles, hand trailing up from his chest to cup his bearded cheeks. "The night we met."
Another smirk, another nod, "What a good memory you have, baby."
Her hands slide down again and she pushes against him a little bit, "I can see through your flattery, Daddy. I told you another dislike of mine, did I not?"
He leans forward, his forehead pressing against hers, and they breathe together. It's oddly intimate, their exhales mingling together, their eyes locked, his blond mixing with her brunette. She stays silent, both enjoying the moment and waiting for him to respond.
"You know how you like it when I take care of you?" He asks, whisper-soft. "You know that feeling it gives you?"
Hermione nods her head. It's a warmth that travels through her blood, a pressure that fills her belly, a high that clouds her mind. She feels it when he holds her hand or presses his palm against her back, when he puts her dinner on a plate, when he holds her close and cuddles her under a blanket, when he kisses her.
"We will have sex," he tells her with a soft smile. "I promise you. We have an..." — he pauses — "obvious size difference between us and I can't tell you that it doesn't turn me on to see how small you are, to imagine how you're going to take me. But beyond the turn on, it's something we have to work at, too. I don't want to hurt you, Hermione. I never want to hurt you."
"You won't," she mutters, noses rubbing together. "You won't, I know you won't."
He pulls back and offers her a small smile, "Do you trust me, baby? Do you trust me to know when the right time is? When you're ready?"
And that's the question, isn't it? Every relationship is built on trust, but theirs even more so. Draco relies on her to freely give up control, to want to give up that control, and trust him to make decisions for her that both keep her safe and make her happy.
She sees what he's getting at then, her brain all of a sudden catching up to his timid smile. It's strange to see him look so unsure, waiting for her to tell him that either, yes, she trusts him or, no, she doesn't. It clicks all of a sudden, the reason they haven't had sex yet.
"You're waiting for me," she says, instead of answering his question. "You're waiting for my trust to reach a point where it's...oh, what's the word? Almost...tangible. Right?"
He wraps his arms around her and tugs her tight into him, one big palm coming up behind her head to crush her cheek into his chest. He's solid underneath her and she giggles when she feels his lips press to her curls repeatedly.
"My smart girl," he praises, squeezing her tight. "I'm not trying to torture you, as much as you might think I am. I'm really not. I just want some things between us to be certain, to be right, before we take that step. You know, there are some caretakers who say no sex at all, until that trust is built."
"Thank God you're not one of them," she mumbles into his sweater. "I don't think I could take it."
He snorts, "Me neither. I can't bear to keep my hands to myself when I'm around you. Do you know how jarring that is? I'm an old man, love, and yet I can't keep my hands to myself like a toddler obsessed with his favourite toy."
The analogy makes her laugh and she pulls back to fake-glare at him, "Are you calling me a toy?"
"A little bit, baby," he grins, lips chasing hers once again. "But you want to be my toy, don't you? Once in a while?"
He leans in, his breath hitting her neck and earlobe, and whispers, "You like it a little bit, don't you, baby?"
She does. She does like it, more than just a little bit, to be treated like his toy. A toy so well-cared for and adored, one that the owner can't bear to part from, that the owner needs in his grasp. Hermione squirms over his lap and pushes away from his chest, just enough to hold their lists out again.
"Clearly you already know the answer, Daddy," she smirks, shooting him a look. "But I believe we have a little bit more to talk about."
To Draco's delight, their list of 'Likes' match up more than they differ. Their thoughts seem to move along the same path, their desires seem to mirror each other's, and he already feels a little bit more comfortable in their relationship knowing that things aren't so far apart between them. He wants her to feel comfortable and to trust him, and that trust is already there.
He sees it in the way she reads him her list and points out some of the items, in the way that she tells him she likes the way he keeps an eye on her and fills her plate with food. He sees it in the way she tells him the things she has a desire to try, things she wants him to control in her life. They match up well and for the first time in more than 20 years, his instincts seem to be right.
It's difficult for him to sit patiently through the conversation after that, what with Hermione wiggling in his lap and saying words that make him stare at her lips.
"I think I'd like to try orgasm control, too," she says, as though talking about the weather. "It could be fun, right?”
Christ, he thinks, how did he get so lucky with her? He still doesn't know.
At last, when they've made it through their lists, when they've talked about things that are more intimate than he'd intended for their negotiation that night, he scoops her up in his arms and takes her into the bedroom. He ignores the tea that neither of them had touched, long gone cold, and she squeals against him, arms wrapped tight around his neck, legs hanging over his arm.
She's been so good — to be honest, he has too, just waiting and waiting and waiting — and she deserves something special. They both do, they deserve to feel something close to having sex. He's dying to feel her from the inside, to know how tight and warm and soft she is inside. But he can wait. He's good at waiting.
It’s the first time they’ve both been naked together. Usually he undresses her but keeps himself clothed, both as a way to manage her expectations and keep himself calm, cool and collected. But he tugs off her clothes and underthings, tossing them messily to the floor behind him, and his own clothes follow.
He doesn’t miss the surprise on her face as he moves around the bed, cock thick and hard bobbing in front of him, too heavy to rest up against his belly. He moves to sit against the headboard, legs out and spread a little bit.
“C’mon, baby, up on my lap,” he tells her, patting his bare thighs. “Facing me.”
She looks unsure but does as he says, crawling over his lap before sitting on his thighs. His cock is resting against his abdomen now, dribbles of precome around his navel, and he grins when Hermione clenches her fingers into fists to avoid touching him.
It takes everything in him not to just lift her up and slide into her little cunt, but he can’t. She’s not ready and he doesn't intend to push their relationship faster just because he can't calm himself.
“Are we…” she trails off, swallowing and wetting her lips. “Are you finally going to fuck me?”
Leaning in, he nuzzles his nose into her curls and breaths in her rose-scented shampoo, “No, baby, not yet. You’re not ready yet.”
Gripping her around the waist, Draco leans back a little bit and tugs her even closer until she gasps, one hand coming up to press against his chest. She’s pressed right against him, her cunt spreading enough that her clit is crushed against his cock.
“Can’t fuck you yet, baby,” he mumbles, fingers gripping her hips. “But we can play like this. Do you want to play for Daddy?”
Hermione whimpers and tips her head back, curls tumbling down her shoulders and back, brushing against his hands.
“Huh, baby? You wanna rub your cute little pussy on Daddy’s cock?” He asks, stopping himself from thrusting against her. He wants to see her do it, to watch her rub up against him, to press her clit to him, to cover his cock in her arousal. "Do it for Daddy."
It doesn't take much convincing. In fact, it takes no convincing at all. She grips his shoulders in her hands and slowly drags her cunt against him, tight and even, like she's practised for this. He groans, his head falling back, the knowledge that this is the first time her cunt has touched his cock. It's memorable.
Hermione moves faster against him and his eyes are glued to her breasts, bare and bouncing near his face. He leans forward and steals a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard on the pert bud. Her eyes close and she whimpers, folds dragging against him.
It's almost like having sex. It's close enough and, to be honest, he's not in a good position to stop it. Hermione could move against him a little bit too much and slide him into her core without him ever telling her no. A small part of him wants her to do it, wants to watch his cock sink into her little pussy and feel her muscles work around him.
"Please, Daddy," she gasps, hips jerking. "It's too tempting. I-I-I want you so bad."
He pulls off of her nipple with a pop, wet and glistening in front of his face, leaning his head back against the headboard. He watches her like this, watches the way her body moves, the way her belly ripples and waist twists. She feels hot against his cock, almost burning him.
"You're doing such a good job, baby. Playing with Daddy's cock so well. You like that, don't you? You like feeling Daddy against your pretty little pussy, rubbing against your cute little clit."
She cries out then, hands gripping his shoulders tighter, hips jerking hard against him, belly tensing in front of his eyes. She pants and digs her teeth into her lip, "I want to come, Daddy."
And Draco nods his head, encouraging her, "Do it for Daddy. Come all over my cock. Push that clit against my cock, baby."
The slick slide of her folds is enough that he’s right there with her, tensing his own abdomen to slow his quickly impending orgasm until she finally shudders against him. Her head falls forward onto his shoulder, panting breaths warming his skin. Her breasts press close against his chest, dragging his saliva down his pecs.
Draco thrusts up once, twice, three…four…five…six, finally. His hips tighten and he grunts deep in his chest, jaw itching to open and snap down on her shoulder, to break her perfect, unblemished skin just enough to tell everyone that he was here.
His cock softens against her belly in the mess he’s made on her skin. It slowly drips down onto his own thighs and brushes against his abdomen, thick and sticky.
“So pretty when you come, love,” he whispers, trailing kisses along her shoulder and throat, up the cut of her jaw and over her cheeks. He ends on her lips, tongue seeking out hers to twirl to and caress.
“So good for me, baby. Just perfect, you felt so good on my cock,” he says, rubbing a big palm down the length of her back.
Hermione shivers in his arms, thighs tensing and tightening around his hips until she lets out a small gasp and a choked laugh, “Holy fuck.”
He grins, brushing his thumb over her full bottom lip, “See? We don’t even need to have sex yet.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on there, I didn’t say that,” she says, dragging her fingers through his beard. She tugs lightly on the hair and presses her lips to the sharp line drawing along his cheekbone. “But this was…it was perfect, Daddy. It was so good to feel you like that.”
Draco leans back and lets his eyes float over her, catching on the cum drying on her belly. He traces his finger through it, absentmindedly rubbing it into her skin. It’s primal, almost embarrassing, but she just smiles at him as though she likes it.
It’s like ownership, a little bit. Another step of trust they’re building with each other.
He hums and rubs his hands over her hips, holding her tight, “You have to let me up, baby. Need to clean this off you.”
He’s half a second away from lifting her up off his lap when she leans forward and wraps herself around him, burying her face in his neck, “Not yet, please. Just a few more minutes.”
Breathing in her scent, he buries his face in her curls and nods his head, “Alright, baby. A few more minutes.”
Chapter 14: Really Mean
Notes:
Two updates in two days. Please make sure you read Ch. 13 if you haven't already.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Standing in the entryway with her foot outstretched, Hermione can't help but huff at the sight in front of her. It makes her stomach twist in annoyance to see Draco knelt down in front of her, one foot up on his knee so he can tie her shoelaces. His fingers are soft and careful as he manoeuvres the lace through the loop and pulls it into a neat bow.
The act should make her smile and blush, that he cares enough about her to literally get down on his knees. The fact he's tying her laces is secondary, but for some reason it doesn't.
"Other one," he says quietly, tapping her ankle. Hermione switches feet, pressing the bottom of her white sneakers onto his lap, "I can't believe you still tie your laces like that."
She rolls her eyes and huffs, tempted to undo his handy work and tie them the way that she likes, "There's nothing wrong with tying them like that. Plenty of people do it."
"Sure, maybe children, you know, before they turn 11," he mutters, looking up at her for a second before his eyes flit back down. "I know I baby you, love, but double loops? Really?"
Her foot slides down his leg but he catches it in a big palm and scoots it back up, fingers untying the messy bow, "You're one to talk."
"I think I know how to tie my shoelaces like an adult."
Another eye roll, this one he catches with narrowed eyes, "If I see you do that one more time today, we're going to have a discussion you're not going to like."
With all of his talk of her acting like a child — all because she ties her shoelaces differently than he does — she figures she might as well buy in completely. Once her foot hits the ground again she stomps it, just a little bit, but enough for it to count as a mini-tantrum, "You're being really mean to me right now."
And it's ridiculous, so, so, so ridiculous, but she feels close to tears. Maybe she's just emotional or perhaps, deep down, it's a touchy subject. Both things are possible — her period must be due any day now, for starters — but she hears Ginny's voice in her head, berating her for trying to find fault with herself before finding fault with him.
It's one thing for him to help her with her shoes and another for him to poke this hard at her. What if she couldn't tie her shoes the other way? What if she just likes tying her shoes the way she always has? What if it means something to her: the memory of her mum teaching her how to tie a functional bow on the walkway in front of their house?
Draco stands up and frowns, arms crossed over his chest — a bad sign, she thinks, defensive at her accusation — and sets his mouth in a firm line, "I'm being mean to you? How?"
Before she can respond, there's a quiet knock at the door and then it's being pushed open. Astoria slips into the now crowded entryway and stops suddenly, noticing them so close to the door. She looks between them both and raises her eyebrow, "What's going on?"
Hermione glances at the woman for a second but leaves her stare on her boyfriend, still standing in front of her in his defensive position. He's eyeing her carefully as though he's trying to remember and work out their conversation in his head. He's quiet, at best, when he's upset about something or deep in thought.
Sometimes it seems as if his head is so full of questions and considerations that he can't possibly speak and ruin his running internal dialogue. She waits patiently as he works things out, his eyes expressing enough that she doesn't feel the need to push him.
"Can you give us a second, Tori?" He asks politely, looking at her with an expression she's never seen before. She thinks it might be the expression he uses with patients or fellow doctors to appear more professional. Something to block out his actual emotions.
Astoria seems to understand his expression and nods her head, flashing her a small smile, "I'll wait down in the lobby, take your time."
She slips out almost as though she was never there at all and Hermione does her best to hold eye contact with Draco. He looks exceptionally serious and touches her upper arm with soft fingertips, "Can we sit down? I'd like to talk about this."
Nodding, she follows him a few feet over to the living room and takes a careful seat on the couch, hands folded in her lap. Draco sits in the armchair, instead of beside her like he usually does. Maybe she is overreacting, she starts to think, panic crossing her face.
He clears his throat and rubs a hand over his abdomen, straightening out his sweater, "Before I say anything, can you tell me what’s made you upset?"
"I'm not upset," she butts in, eyes narrowed as she looks down at the grey rug on the floor. Now she's on the defensive.
Draco holds up his hands placatingly, "Poor choice of words, I apologize. Can you explain to me why you feel I was being mean to you?"
Her eyes sting with tears but she does her best to hold them back, looking up at the ceiling and letting out a whistling breath through her lips. She doesn't not want to cry while she gets this out. She wants him to take her concern seriously, doesn't want him to just blame it on her emotions or her hormones.
"I didn't like some of the things you said to me or your tone," she says, as calmly as possible. "It made me feel like I had done something wrong or that I was...stupid, for not knowing how to do something in the same way that you do. I already feel like you know so much more than me; you're a doctor and you're older than me and, to be honest, you probably do. But I don't like being made to feel stupid."
His jaw works as she speaks and he gives her slow nods, as though he's trying to show her that he's actively listening. Her fingers feel numb from how tightly she's gripping her hands in her lap and she shakes them out. Her eyes still burn, but she's proud of herself for getting it out.
She's extremely non-confrontational, just taking most criticism and comments to avoid an altercation or a fight. Ginny would be proud of her, she thinks, steeling her shoulders.
Draco scrubs a hand over his face, scratching over his beard and sighs, "I'm sorry, Hermione. I need you to know that I don't think that about you, I never have. It is never my intention to make you feel that way and I will do everything I can to watch my tone in the future. I was trying to tease you, but I understand that I took it too far."
The tears fall and she's thankful she hadn't put on any makeup in anticipation of her outing with Astoria. She nods her head and wipes her eyes discreetly, accepting his explanation and apology. He's genuine, she can see it. He's always been genuine with her and there's no reason for him to do differently now.
He stands up, gently rubbing his hands on his trousers, and stands in front of her. From this angle, he towers over her in a way that makes her heart thump in her chest.
"Please don't cry, baby," he says, lips turned down in a frown. "Can I give you a hug?"
She hardly has the opportunity to nod her head before he's lifting her up and into his arms, cuddling her close to his chest. His palm rubs big circles against her back and he nuzzles his nose into her loose curls. She can both hear and feel whispered apologies against her forehead and it makes her cry harder.
He feels badly, that's clear to see.
"Hermione, you are so incredibly smart. Intelligence has nothing to do with age or how many years you've spent in school. Your brain is a beautiful place, love, and I don't want to ever make you feel like it's not. Can you forgive me?"
"Yes, yes of course. I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying."
He shushes her and continues to rub her back, not commenting on the fact that they're keeping Astoria waiting. He doesn't seem to care, the most important thing being that she's happy and feels safe.
"You don't need to apologize for having feelings," he says quietly, turning around to sit back down in her spot, cradling her close. "You know what, though?"
She sniffles and pulls back from his chest, "What?"
His thumb is soft against her cheek, brushing away the tear tracks that have slipped down her face, "I'm really proud of you for saying something and not just keeping it in. I know that's not always easy to do, but you did it and that's so important for us, for us to be honest with each other when something happens that we don't like."
Choking out a small laugh, she rubs her nose and sniffles, "It just hit a nerve. I probably overreacted."
"Nope," he interrupts. "If something that I've said hurts you, then I want to know, regardless of whether you think you're overreacting. Which, I don't think you are."
Hermione wraps her arms around his neck and breathes him in, slowly calming her breath until the tears have stopped. She's grateful that Draco seems to be so self-aware, that he doesn't take offence or move into defensive mode when she expresses her concerns. It's something different for her and something she knows can be rare in some relationships, even some friendships.
She takes a few minutes before stealing away to the toilet to wash her face, trying to relieve the puffiness around her eyes. When she walks back out into the flat, Draco takes her hand and walks her down to the lobby where Astoria is waiting. Astoria smiles when she sees them and wraps Hermione in a tight hug, as if she never walked in on their tiff upstairs.
"Come on, sweet girl," she says, grabbing her hand and tugging her towards the front door. "The spa awaits us! Fizzy drinks, pedicures and the best part, no boys."
Draco trails behind them, his hands in his denim pockets with a small smirk on his face. When she turns back to look at him, he winks and she blushes at being caught. Astoria lets go of her hand as they get closer to her car: a sleek, black SUV that's definitely made more for people of her height or Draco's than for her own short stature.
He opens the door and helps her inside, taking the seat belt and buckling her in before she can do it herself. He leans forward and tips her chin up, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to her lips that leaves her breathless.
"Enjoy the spa," he whispers. "Tori has my card, it's my treat."
Hermione rolls her eyes, "I do have money, you know."
He ignores her, "Text me when you get there, please."
With one last kiss, he closes the door and Hermione looks around the luxurious car. It's the one thing that she thinks is the benefit to being friends with people who are older than her and set in their careers and generally in their lives. She's used to climbing into Uber Pools and making sure to get to the club or bar before midnight, when there's no cover charge.
But Draco and his friends hardly lend a second thought to the things that she and her university friends frequently focus on. It’s almost…nice not to have to worry.
Her eyes flick up to look out the window and she sees Astoria and Draco having a chat, both with serious expressions. Astoria pats his arm and leans in to press a kiss to his cheek before waving and walking around to the car, opening up the door and hopping in.
"Finally," she groans, turning the car on. "I thought we'd never get rid of him."
Draco lunges to hit the squash ball before it can bounce out after Theo's serve. The only sound inside the court is the THWACK of the ball against their rackets, the wall and the floor. Every once in a while his white Nike's squeak or Theo lets out a low grunt with the effort it takes to hit the ball.
The Club is his ideal place to spend a free afternoon. It's easy to call Theo and set up a time at the squash court, don their whites and get an hour in before they move upstairs to the bar. He still hasn't been able to get Hermione to come with him, but he thinks that the social event at the end of the month might be the best time.
It'll give them an excuse to dress up a little bit and enjoy some nice champagne and finger foods. He'll get to show her around all eight floors, including his favourite room: The Great Hall. It's cavernous with large stained-glass windows and bench seats around family-style tables. He knows she'll love it.
He readily admits that it's a bit stuffy, that there are a lot of rules they're supposed to abide by and that his monthly dues are a little more than he'd like to spend, but he enjoys getting to leave the real world for a few hours every week and enjoy a good scotch. He thinks she'll come to enjoy it, too.
He sends the ball careening into the wall and watches as Theo lunges bit misses it, the ball hitting the floor just behind him. He swears under his breath and shoots him a glare. Draco shrugs his shoulders.
"10 to 8," he smirks, twisting his racquet in his hands. "My serve."
It's the last set and he only needs one more point to win. Shouldn't be too hard, he thinks, Theo seems off his game.
He tosses the rubber ball at him, "Let's get this over with."
He seems to be grumbling extra hard today but Draco shrugs it off and steps into the serve box. The rally is competitive but Draco is victorious at last, Theo lunging to hit the ball back to the wall but missing it, again. He groans and tosses his racquet, cracking against the floor as Draco pumps his fist before patting his friend on the back.
He palms the ball and his racquet, walking with Theo to the back of the room to wipe his forehead with his towel and take a few sips of his water.
"Good game, mate," Draco says good-naturedly.
His friend shoots him a look and rolls his eyes, "Yeah, it was just great."
Throwing the ball and his racquet into his sports bag, he frowns, "What's going on with you?"
Theo shrugs, "What do you mean?"
"You don't seem like yourself. Is everything alright?"
Another shrug and Draco realizes how much he hates the movement. Putting his bag and his bottle down, he turns to face his friend and stares at him expectantly. They're not always the best at sharing, but if Theo made it any more obvious that there's an issue, he'd already know what it was.
Leaning down, Theo grabs his phone from his bag and swipes his thumb through his text messages before tapping on something. He looks up at Draco, hair a little bit sweaty and drooping into his eyes, before sighing as though he's harbouring a secret that could end the world.
"Did you see Tori earlier?"
He frowns and slowly nods, "Yes. I walked Hermione down to the car."
"Did she..." he trails off, rubbing his hand over his chin, "did she say anything to you?"
Draco clears his throat, "Uh, no. I mean I gave her my card for the spa and Hermione and I had a little tiff, so I was just letting her know, figured she'd be able to help with...that."
Clutching his forehead, Theo groans and paces and Draco gets nervous. Is there something wrong with him? With Tori? With the baby?
"Do you remember what you asked me the other day? About...well, about her?"
He freezes, crossing his arms over his chest and swallowing hard. Of course he remembers — even if he'd had a glass or two of scotch at that point — but it's something he wishes he could forget. He never should have asked. but the question had been itching in his brain for far longer than he cared to admit.
He thought, rightly so, that he could trust Theo enough to ask him the question, that Theo wouldn't say anything to Astoria or to Blaise or any of their other friends. He didn't want it getting back to his parents or, God-forbid, to Hermione. Not yet.
"What's the guy like?" He asks, finger tracing the rim of his crystal glass.
Theo lifts his eyebrow in question and throws back the dregs of his drink, "What guy?"
He huffs, it was hard enough for him to ask in the first place. He doesn't want to have to explain it to death, "The guy. The one that...that she's seeing."
"Honestly, I have no clue. I've never met him or talked to him," Theo says slowly, eyes narrowed like he's thinking carefully about his words. "I can ask Astoria if you want—"
"—No. No, don't," he shakes his head and waves his hand, regretting it. "Forget I asked."
"Yes, I remember."
Theo hands over his phone then and Draco's hand shakes in the time it takes him to grasp it. He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes focus on the two figures he can see. They're posing in front of a garden or in some kind of park. There's bushes and trees behind them and a stone path beneath their feet.
She looks...every bit the way he remembers: pale with plump, pink lips, those same sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. There's a smile on her lips, something he hasn't seen in years at this point, and nestled onto her left ring finger is a big sparkling diamond.
"I had to ask Tori, I don't have her on social media but I knew she still had her on Instagram," Theo says quietly, shuffling his feet. "I don't know anything about the guy except that his name is Viktor and he's some kind of athlete."
It's like his stomach is in his chest, rising up to block his throat. The guy is big, bulkier than him, more muscular, with dark, shorn hair and of average height. Viktor is the complete opposite of him, at least physically, and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. He's not jealous, that's not it, he's just...
"Looks like a prick if you ask me," Theo mumbles, shooting him a look. "But apparently they're very happy, according to Tori."
He hums, eyes still glued to the picture, "Yeah. I'm sure they are."
"Hey," Theo said, punching him in the arm. "You're happy, too, with Hermione. Don't forget that."
And of course, he could never forget about the sweet girl who fits so well into his life, as if the place had been carved out years ago just waiting for her to take her place. But it's...it's hard to see someone that you married, loved, hated and divorced turn to someone else, be happy with someone else.
In both of his marriages, he always set out with good intentions. He had high hopes with both of his wives, things he wanted to accomplish with them, a level of trust he wanted with them, a family he always wanted to have. As cold as his parents could be, as strained as their emotions sometimes felt, they'd been together for more than 40 years.
He wanted that. He still wants that.
He thinks, maybe, he’s finally found that with Hermione. But he’d felt that way when he married each of his ex-wives, too. Could he even trust his own feelings anymore? His track record says a loud and clear no.
"I should never have asked you," Draco says, shaking head and handing the phone back. He can't look at them anymore, he can't take in their smiles and that stupid fucking diamond ring sitting on her finger, in the place that his own ring used to sit.
A ring that’s still sitting in his sock drawer, underneath all of the singles that his washing machine has seemingly eaten. Astoria’s is in there, too. He’s never been able to sell either of them.
Theo slips his phone back into his bag and gathers his things, "It's alright to be curious, mate. I would be too. But you just need to remember that you split up for a reason. Right?"
He nods. Theo's right. Their issues were a result of things they couldn't work out together, things that were more serious than a little misunderstanding or conflicting feelings. He had turned into a person he couldn’t even recognize towards the end of his second marriage. A person he was truly ashamed to be.
"Right. You're right," he says, letting out a deep sigh. "It’s just…I look at her and I wish more than anything that she’s miserable. I hate that she’s so happy, Theo, and I know that’s a terrible thing to say but I can’t help it.”
Wincing, Theo nods his head and pats him on the shoulder, “I get it, mate. I do. Just try not to think about her. Let’s go up for a drink, that’ll take your mind off of it.”
Draco agrees and grabs his own bag and pulls his phone out to check it before having to stash it away again in the clubhouse.
Draco grabs his own bag and pulls his phone out to check it before having to stash it away again in the clubhouse.
Hermione 😇
Hermione: just got to the spa, have fun with theo!
Hermione: draco..........
Hermione: IT'S TOO FANCY HERE
Hermione: I DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW HOW MUCH IT COSTS
Hermione: (but i love it thank you 💕💕)
Draco smiles and chews on the flesh of his cheek. He knew she would feel like it was too much, but he didn't care. He wants to do nice things for her, to buy her nice things, but he needs a way to ease her into it. It's not necessarily about accepting gifts, but he's hopeful that she will.
Draco: It's nothing you need to worry about, baby.
Draco: You deserve it. Just relax and enjoy it.
It's nice to spend some uninterrupted time with Astoria without Draco or Theo around. She's curious about the woman, maybe more so than is normal, she's sure, but there's so many things about the woman that she wants to know about.
When they get to the spa, hey both change into fluffy white robes and slippers in the locker room before heading into a large room with two pedicure chairs.
There's a light smell of lavender in the air and they each take a spot while the nail technician turns on the massage-feature of the chair and brings over flavoured water and light biscuits. Hermione relaxes back into the chair and closes her eyes. She's had her nails done before but has never been to a spa, to a place where she can truly relax and let someone else take care of her for a few hours.
"You can get a massage after this, if you want," Astoria says from beside her, crunching on a biscuit. "Loosen up all that tension in your back and shoulders."
She frowns, "You're not going to get one?"
She hums, one hand rubbing over her belly, "They say you should be careful with prenatal massages in your first trimester, which I'm through but...just a little nervous, you know?"
Hermione doesn't know, but she nods her head anyway. She thinks it's only natural to worry through a pregnancy, especially because it's still something that scares her a bit. But on top of the normal worries, Astoria is in her early 40s and having her first child, a child that, according to Draco, she's wanted for a very long time.
"I can understand that," she says, taking a sip of the cucumber water while the water bubbles away around her feet. "How are you feeling generally?"
Her boyfriend's ex-wife waves her hand, "Mostly good, honey. Morning sickness seems to be about done and my energy level has gone back up, so no complaints from me."
She feels awkward having this conversation with the woman, first, because she's Draco's ex-wife, and second, because it seems like a conversation for adults. And she is an adult, but around Draco and his friends it's hard to feel like one sometimes. Her day-to-day issues are just of a different magnitude, like whether she did well on an essay for her class or if she'll have time to finish a book.
She turns her attention to the nail tech and chooses a magenta colour to be applied to her toes, something bright and pretty. Astoria opts for a navy blue and Hermione offers her a small smile.
"That'll look nice," she says politely, leaning back into the chair.
Astoria shrugs her shoulders, "It'll look fine. Now, why don't you tell me how things are going with Draco."
"Oh..." she says, clearing her throat. "Things are good. We're...good."
"Oh, right, of course. So that wasn't a little tiff I walked in on this morning," Astoria laughs, shifting in her chair. "Don't worry, honey, I know it was Draco's fault."
Hermione winces. Had that been what they were chatting about outside of the car? Do Draco and Astoria share...things like that? Her instinct that this woman is more similar to Draco than she is to herself is still there, lingering in the back of her mind, but that doesn't mean she wants Draco sharing their private chats with her. It's private for a reason.
"He didn't tell me anything, Hermione. Just that he'd said the wrong thing and you'd reacted appropriately. It happens from time-to-time, we can't always be perfect or say the right things. We're just human, too."
Ah, she thinks, is that an admission?
"So you're—" she clears her throat, "You're like Draco, then."
Astoria laughs, loud enough that she startles the nail technicians who are scrubbing their feet and ankles with an exfoliant. She apologizes and reaches for her own glass of water to take a sip.
"Yes, honey, I guess you could say I'm like Draco. It's a wonder we didn't work out, yeah? Both fighting the other for control all the time," she shakes her head and runs her fingers through her hair. "And I mean, all the time. Although, I have to say, he's very lucky to have found a pretty thing like you."
Hermione blushes because... oh, she was not expecting the compliment. She's also not sure how to react to her boyfriend's ex-wife essentially coming on to her. Because, that's what she's doing, right?
"I kind of figured," she says, ignoring the compliment. "I mean, I just got the same kind of feeling from you that I get with him. Different, though, very..."
She smirks, "Maternal?"
And that finally breaks the already fracturing ice between them. Hermione snorts, laughing into her water glass while Astoria does the same. It's proof of what she had already thought, that Astoria was Mommy to Draco's Daddy which meant that Theo was...
Her facial expression must give something away because Astoria shrugs, "Draco and Theo have relied on each other since they were children. Draco took him under his wing while at boarding school and kept a bit of a leash on him when they got older. He was a bit of a wild-child, still is if I'm being honest."
"Right," she says, nodding her head slowly. "So you're that for him now."
"Just like Draco is that for you," she smiles, leaning over to pat her palm against her arm. "He's been good for you, I can see it."
She's not wrong. Draco is good for her, better for her than anything or anyone she's ever had in her life before. It means something that Astoria can see the difference, means that maybe she's done something right for the first time in her life.
"He is good for me," she agrees, popping her foot up on the cushioned bench so her toes can be painted. "I'm still learning though. We still haven't...you know."
Astoria groans and shakes her head, "I don't know how he's managing it. He has far more patience than I do, honey, I can promise you that."
"More patience than me, too."
The magenta is bright against her skin, dark enough for winter but something pretty that she hopes Draco will like. Astoria sighs and stretches her arms up above her head before resting them on her bump. She left her phone in her locker when she'd changed and she desperately wants to check and see if Draco has texted her back. Maybe before her next service — maybe a facial, maybe a massage — she can dip into the locker room to check.
"You're good for him, too. You know that? He's needed someone like you in his life for a long time, especially in the last few years," Astoria says.
"Why the last few years?"
There's a bit of an awkward pause then, enough that she turns her head to look over at the older brunette woman in the chair beside her. Her lips are pressed together and her eyebrows are furrowed, as if she's deep in thought. As if she might have said something she shouldn't have.
Hermione clears her throat and waits patiently, watching the nail tech carefully paint the small nail of her pinky toe.
"He's just had a rough time," she says softly, tangling their fingers together and squeezing. "He's had some bad luck, that's all. Things haven't exactly gone his way."
It makes sense. It does. But she eyes Astoria's face carefully, taking in the way her forehead crinkles and her lips twitch, and she knows that maybe she's not being entirely truthful. It's not like she needs to know everything about her boyfriend — he certainly doesn't know everything about her — but she is curious about a few things.
Namely, why he seems to have one ex and it's Astoria.
"Did he see a lot of people over the years? Did he date a lot?" She asks, keeping her voice level.
Astoria hums, "Here and there. Nothing ever really worked out, though. He always said that no one ever clicked with him or wanted the same things that he did. He's a very caring person, someone who wants to take care of others. It makes him truly, genuinely happy but no one has ever really been able to give him that. Not in the way that he wants."
Hermione chews on her lip, "I can, though. I do. I give him that."
"I know you do," she smiles. "And you're both better for it. Look, Draco is one of the best people that I know and he really, really cares for you. If we weren't so opposite, if we weren't both looking for something that we weren't capable of giving, I would have done anything to keep him."
It's only been a few months, but she feels that way too. She can't imagine losing him or choosing not to be with him. Not at this point, not with the way that their relationship is going. She wants to explore more in their dynamic, both for herself and for him, and she wants to experience holidays and birthdays and lazy days with him.
"He's a good person, Hermione. Don't hurt him," she says softly. "Please."
She frowns, "Never."
A pause.
"Well, as long as he doesn't hurt me."
Chapter 15: Baby-Talk
Chapter Text
In most careers, distraction is fine. It’s not ideal, but it’s inevitable. It’s easy to think of other things during monotonous tasks like emailing a colleague or completing research, like waiting on tables or helping someone choose clothes. It’s not dangerous, not like distraction is when you’re a doctor.
The word distraction might as well be another word for death, in his career. Distraction leads to mistakes and mistakes lead to further injury, illness and investigation. So usually — for his entire career, actually, save one single day when he threw a stitch that slipped because his mind was on…other things — he’s made a concerted effort to push away all distractions.
He starts this day the same way he starts all others: he goes for his run, he takes his shower and he stops for an iced coffee before arriving at the hospital for his shift.
But his day is anything but normal. Despite his best efforts, despite all of his precautions, he cannot focus. He tries to be present, grinning and teasing the nurses like they expect him to, stretching out his hands to avoid an anxious shake while he stitches up a wound. He jokes with the kids who end up in his ER and is patient with the elderly.
But he can’t stop thinking about his girlfriend; he can’t stop picturing the dimples in her cheeks when she smiles and the way she presses her lips together when she’s thinking, the way her skin feels underneath his palms and how she presses herself against his chest when he calls her baby.
But mostly, he can’t stop thinking about his plans. After he finishes his shift and picks her up from the library, after they park in the garage and head up to his flat. It’s something he’s been thinking about, something he’s wanted them to move towards, and he thinks she’s finally ready, that they’re finally ready.
Hermione 😇
Hermione: i can't wait to seeee youuuu
Hermione:this day is taking too long
Hermione: like i'm literally counting the minutes
Draco: Me too, baby. I can't wait to see you.
Hermione: shouldn't you be able to make time go faster?
Draco: The more you think about it, the longer it will take.
He tries to tell himself the same thing, eyes flickering down to his watch, minutes moving slower than he’s ever thought possible. He needs to focus on work, needs to be present for the sake and wellbeing of his patients.
So he closes his eyes and downs the lest dregs of his coffee, enjoys the final minute or so of his break before his pager goes off, lets himself have one last thought of his little girl — nose probably buried in a book, fingers tapping away on her computer, cozy in the university library — and then shakes his head to clear it.
He pushes through the rest of his day, trying his best to ignore the way his watch taps his wrist, texts from Hermione coming through at regular intervals. He’s working towards a reward, he tells himself, a reward in the shape of his girlfriend.
So he orders labs and stitches wounds, he washes his hands and jokes with his favourite operating room nurse as she’s holds his gloves open, he throws sutures into a damaged liver, avoids looking at the face that’s been covered on his table.
He waves at Blaise and they chat for a few minutes before he spends the last 20 minutes charting at the nurses station, stealing gummy bears from the bowl that Sharon slides over to him. She winks and mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, “…only doctor in this hospital with a few manners.”
By the time he’s showered and changed out of his scrubs, throwing on his softest pair of grey joggers and a sweatshirt from his alma mater — Oxford, of course, as if he’d had a choice — he bounds down four flights of stairs to the parking garage, his stethoscope tucked into his briefcase and his briefcase in his hand.
He checks his texts and lets Hermione know that he’s leaving.
Hermione: there's gotta be something in the air because i CANNOT CONCENTRATE
Hermione: this is horrible 😭
Hermione: i can't wait until you come get me
Hermione: had to go get a coffee down the street
Hermione: cause i'm at serious risk of falling asleep
Draco: Did the coffee help, baby? I hope you're not too tired.
Draco: I am just leaving work now, see you out front.
While he drives, his mind wanders again, thoughts on the pair of pajamas he picked up only a few days before. He picked them from the Little Miss section of the department store, Hermione petite enough to fit into some of the larger sizes.
He feels like they’re in a good place, now, a good point in their relationship where they’ve had the limits and preferences discussion and dabbled in some areas of the lifestyle. She’s reacted pretty positively to his minute controlling interests in her life, save for their foray into high protocol.
(And even then, it had been without a prior discussion, and she hadn’t swept it completely off the table when they had talked…)
He adjusts the heat in the car as he gets closer to the library and flicks on the seat warmer for the passenger seat. She seems to run cold, always bundled up and curling into blankets and his sweaters. As he comes to a stop in front of the old building, he changes the radio station.
The door pops open and he’s at once assaulted with a gust of cool wind and Hermione’s groan, her hair blowing as she tries to slip into her seat, “It’s always like a wind tunnel around here!”
Draco hums and takes her bag, twisting to place it in his backseat as she closes the door and adjusts her coat. Her curls are wild and he reaches over, smoothing them down and tugging her close so he can press a soft kiss to her lips.
“Hi, baby,” he says, thumb stroking her cheek. “I don’t think it’s just here, it’s very windy today.”
She huffs and leans her head back against the seat, eyes closing, “Well, it’s annoying. My hair’s going to be so fucking tangled now.”
Draco frowns. She has a potty mouth — which is fine, he swears too and he’s not there to police the way she speaks — but this comes off as more frustrated than he expected her to be. Her fingers tap an uneven rhythm against her leggings and her mouth twists down into a frown
“You alright? Did something happen?” He asks, signalling before pulling back out onto the road.
He lets his fingers tangle with hers, resting his hand on her thigh as he navigates the streets of London with careful precision. Hermione squeezes his fingers and sighs loudly.
“Just didn’t get much work done today and I’m running out of time,” she mumbles, turning in the seats so her knees are pointing towards him. “I couldn’t concentrate at all.”
“I had a tough day, too. Really had to force myself to concentrate,” he tells her, making a right turn toward his building. “It happens, Hermione. You’re allowed to have an off day.”
She shrugs and brings her nails up to her mouth, “I guess. I just wish I had stayed at home instead of wasting my time at the library, though. I don’t feel like I accomplished anything.”
She’s a perfectionist, he knows, always working just a little bit harder, writing just a little bit more, spending just another five minutes perfecting an argument or a sentence or even considering a word choice. It's hard for her to feel like there's time being wasted and he understands.
They pull into his garage and he parks in his spot, getting out of the car and reaching into his backseat for her bag before she can get it. As he walks around the car, her tote bag over his shoulder, she gives him a soft smile and leans into his side, wrapping her arm behind his back.
He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head and they walk over to the elevator.
“You don’t have to carry that, Daddy,” she says softly, tugging on her bag. “Although you do look very cute with The Very Hungry Caterpillar.”
He snorts as they step into the elevator, “Is that what this is?”
“Uh, yes. You know, the book,” she tells him, throwing him a look of disbelief. “I know you’re old, Daddy, but I think the book is older.”
Hermione tugs his key fob from his hand before he can react and swipes it before pressing the button for his floor. She turns around and walks straight into his chest, burying her face in his sweater.
“Oh, I see, it’s hurt Daddy’s feelings day, then?”
She laughs into his chest and shakes her head, “I’m kidding, Draco. You’re not old.”
As they stand there together, he’s convinced now more than ever that Hermione is beyond well-suited to this type of a relationship, that she’s probably been craving it, not knowing what it is. It’s in the way she clasps his hand in hers, holding on tight and expecting him to lead her; the way she cuddles up to him after dinner, making herself as small as possible, face buried in his chest and thumb tickling her lips.
But mostly, it’s in the way her lips form a pout and she resorts to baby-talk when she’s tired, words simple and few and far between, voice soft and light.
“Daddy, ‘m sleepy,” she whines, fingers clutching his t-shirt or his joggers. “Bed, please?”
So when he thinks about the pajamas as they’re stepping off the elevator, just cute pink shorts and a tee with a smiling teddy bear holding a big, magenta heart, he knows without a doubt that she’ll slip into them and positively melt.
Hermione kicks off her shoes and immediately heads to the fridge, pouring cold water into the cup that he got her, one with a straw and a lid. She’d given him an emphatic no when he brought up the idea of a sippy cup, along with anything else she deemed too babyish, so he compromised.
Same premise, just more adult. So much so that it hadn’t even crossed her mind when he gave it to her, just accepted it with gratitude and a sweet kiss on the cheek. It gives him the same feeling, though, watching as she tucks herself into the corner of the couch, cup resting on her knees and straw between her lips.
He kicks off his own shoes and joins her. She scoots closer as if on autopilot, cuddling into his side and sipping on her water as she flips through the channels on his TV.
“How are you feeling?” He asks, fingers slipping through her curls, tugging lightly on some of the tangles.
She shrugs her shoulders, “Alright, just a bit annoyed with myself. But I’m fine.”
He hums, nails scratching lightly against her scalp, “Feel good enough to try something with me?”
“Like what?” She asks, turning her face up to look at him. “Sex?”
He rolls his eyes, “No, not sex. I bought you something.”
Hermione chews on the inside of her cheek — he can see it, watches as she sucks her cheek in until it’s concave, notices the way her mouth moves — and sets her cup down on the coffee table, “Something fun?”
“Well I think so,” he tells her, pushing up off the couch and holding his hand out.
She takes it, slipping her fingers between his, and he tugs her along through the hallway and into his bedroom. It only takes a second to grab the bag off of his dresser and he hands it to her with a small smile.
“Go on.”
She bounces a little bit as she kneels on his bed before reaching into the bag and pulling out the pajamas. Her eyes widen a fraction as she unfolds them, laying them out beside her. They’re a stark pink against the light grey duvet cover and Hermione drags her finger around the shape of the bear.
His fingers clench into fists at his side, belly tightening as he watches.
“Want to try them?” He asks, keeping his voice soft. “I thought maybe we could take a little…” — he pauses, eyes flicking up to think of the right words — “adult break.”
He can see her brain working overtime, considering and thinking combing through scenarios that don't yet exist but might. She's open-minded, and for that he's grateful, but it comes at a price sometimes.
Hermione sits back on her heels, index finger pressing against her lips, before she slowly nods her head, a shy smile coming to her lips, “I’d like that, Daddy. Can you help me put them on?”
“Of course, baby,” he agrees, grateful and relieved, stepping forward toward his bed. “Arms up.”
With a smile and a small wiggle of her hips, Hermione lifts her arms up so he can push his hands underneath her sweater. Her skin is warm against his palms and he quickly meets the thin lace of her bralette as he pushes both over her head.
Her arms lower and he allows himself a small glance at her naked breasts, nipples pink and crinkled in the cool air of the flat. With a small tug, he pulls the pajama top down over her head and arms, sitting just above her belly button.
“The heart matches my toes,” she mumbles, looking down at the shirt. “Did you do that on purpose?”
Draco smiles and slips off her leggings, leaving her knickers on before working the shorts up her legs, “It’s a pretty colour on you.”
It is, complimenting her skin tone and her curls. She presses up on her heels so he can pull the shorts up to her hips, before grabbing her foot in his hand and pressing a kiss to her toes.
Hermione giggles and pushes against his hand, “Daddy! You know I’m ticklish.”
“Are you? I don’t think so…”
He does know, so he does it again, pressing annoying little kisses to her toes while he drags his finger up the arch of her foot. Her thighs squeeze together and she laughs, belly tightening as she tries to squirm away.
“Look how pretty you are, baby,” he says, pulling his lips away from her foot but letting her press it against his chest. “Comfy? Do they feel alright?”
With a grin and a wandering finger, dragging down between her breasts and circling her belly button, she nods her head, “Perfect, Daddy. They’re perfect.”
She thought the pajamas would be too small. Mostly, she had this fear that the shorts would ride up uncomfortably against her crotch and the last thing she wanted was an unintentional cameltoe in front of her boyfriend. Even an intentional one…too uncomfortable.
But they’re perfect, hugging her curves and showing off just enough of her body without looking overtly sexual. It surprises her how much the pajamas actually do for her, how much she finds she likes looking down and seeing the cartoon teddy bear with the big magenta heart.
Draco drags his palm down her side and leans down to press a kiss to the bear on her shirt. Before he pulls back, she wraps her arm around his neck and pulls him down for a real kiss. There’s a strange, heady feeling, a sensation that runs down her spine and warms her hips and belly.
Sure, Draco gives her bites of food with his fingers and holds her cup so she can suck on the straw. He holds her hand when they walk around the city and keeps her wrapped in his arms while they watch television. But this is…purposeful.
There’s only one reason for wearing the pajamas, there’s no other meaning to them, only to explore and experience a space that she’s been brushing with her fingertips for the past month or two but never submersed herself in. It’s been like an itch that needs scratching but she’s never been able to reach it.
Until now.
“C’mon, baby. I have some things you might like,” Draco says, thumb brushing over her wrist.
Hermione stands and follows him back out to the sitting room, tumbling down onto the couch and pulling her blanket around her shoulders. He pets the top of her head with his palm before walking over to his office and pushing the door open.
He rustles around for a few seconds before coming back out with a small gift bag in his hand. Hermione snatches it as soon as he gets close enough and excitedly pulls out the tissue paper. It’s two colouring books and a big pack of pencil crayons
“Oh,” she says, softly, breathily. “Colouring books? For me?”
They’re not the adult ones with small, intricate details like she’s seen in places of prominence in book stores throughout the city. No, they’re very clearly for children with cartoon drawings of trees and animals.
“Want to colour for me, baby?”
Hermione shrugs her shoulders, suddenly shy. It’s…childish, and she doesn’t know how to push forward, how to tell him that yes, she does. She wants to, she wants to give it a try and let the feeling sink in, but it’s complicated.
This is where her brain tells her that what she’s thinking of doing is ridiculous, something for children or for people who who are already settled into a relationship like this. But is that really her? Can she really push away her troubles and her stress and the adult part of her brain that questions why this is even necessary?
“I…I want to, I just—“ She cuts herself off, not sure what she wants to say or how she wants to say it.
Draco smiles and drags his fingers through her hair, “I understand. It’s a little nerve-racking, huh? How about this,” — he gathers a few pillows and tosses them onto the floor before sitting down and pulling her down with him — “Let’s do it together.”
She keeps her blanket wrapped around her shoulders and lets Draco tug her into his lap. He opens up one of the colouring books and flips through the pages until she points to one that she likes, a picture of different cartoon birds in a tree.
He opens the pack of pencil crayons and she chooses forest green to colour in the leafy part of the tree.
“Do you think this is a good colour?” She asks, holding the point just on the page, not hard enough to make a mark.
“It’s your picture, baby. You pick whatever makes you happy,” he tells her, arms wrapping around her waist as she leans forward and starts to colour.
And that’s…interesting, to be able to choose what she wants and do something with the sole purpose of making herself happy. It’s not like school where she writes and reads because she’s been told to, because she has to in order to complete her degree.
As much as this is for Draco — as much as she knows it makes him happy and flicks the pleasure-centre of his brain to take care of her like this — it’s really for her.
So she colours, shading in the leafy part of the tree before switching forest green out for bark. Draco carefully slips her off his lap as she leans over the table, shading in the tree trunk, and gives her a soft kiss on the crown of her head. He wanders off but it matters not.
It’s like she finally has a second to breathe, doing something for herself. Her day and her school work and her usual thoughts and concerns fade far enough into the background that she finds her full attention is on the picture at her fingertips. She hears Draco walking back and forth, the tap turning on, dishes clinking, the fridge opening and closing, but it doesn’t take her attention away.
When he returns, it’s with a small pat to her head and a bowl of sliced apples that he places down next to her picture. He carefully settles himself down onto the floor behind her, legs spread around hers, and leans back against the couch.
“Cerulean or light blue?” She asks, holding both up and twisting around to look at him. “For the sky.”
Draco hums, “Light blue is pretty.”
Hermione nods and puts cerulean back in the box, pressing up onto her knees to colour in the sky. That is, until there’s a nudge against her lips: an apple slice. She parts her lips and takes a bite of the snack, chewing while she continues drawing.
Her first reaction is to tell him that she can feed herself. It’s just apple slices and she has her own hands, she can do both. But then…
That’s exactly what this exploration is about. It’s okay for her to let go, to let someone else take care of her, to do something that makes her happy and relaxed. So she chews and, every once in a while, turns her face to the side, opens her lips and accepts the small bite of apple.
“So your fingers don’t get sticky,” he tells her quietly, thumb brushing her bottom lip.
She presses her lips to his thumb in gratitude, apple tart on her tongue. His free hand is warm against her belly and side, his chin resting on her shoulder as he watches her finish colouring in the picture. It’s not distracting so much as a comfort, knowing that he’s sitting with her.
When she finishes, slipping the pencil crayon back into the box, Draco lifts the picture up to look at it and she feels shy again, hopeful that he’ll say something nice. It’s not like it’s an essay, something that matters, but she finds she needs his praise.
She needs him to tell her that it’s pretty, that she did a good job, that he appreciates her effort.
Draco places the picture back down onto the coffee table and slips the deep blue pencil crayon out of the box, setting it just next to her hand. He squeezes her around the waist, hugging her from behind, and presses a loud, wet kiss to her cheek.
“It’s very pretty, baby,” he praises, nose nuzzling her jaw. “Can you sign it for me?”
She turns and quirks an eyebrow at him, “Sign it? How come?”
“So I can hang it in my office. It’ll make me happy to look at it every day.”
And…she bites her lip, uncertain, brown eyes glancing over his silver ones.
“Not your— not your office at the hospital, right?”
Because someone will absolutely think it’s coloured in by a child with excellent fine motor skills but she’s not. She’s an adult, she’s his baby. Does she want everyone seeing her drawing? If she signs it — Hermione — then people who know her, like Blaise, will know that she coloured it. And she just, well, she just can’t—
“My home office, Hermione,” he tells her, smile pressing against her cheek. “We’ll put it up together, I promise.”
And that…that sounds fine with her. So she picks up the pencil crayon and signs her name to the paper with a flourish and she’s proud of what she’s done. She’s happy that he likes it, that he wants to keep it.
“Like that, Daddy?” She asks, turning in his lap to look at him.
“Just like that, baby."
The hot water tap squeaks as he turns it, watching the water fill his bathtub. Draco lets it run and bends down to open the cabinet underneath his sink, pulling out the small basket he stocked with bath bombs and bubble bars.
He feels more relaxed, calmer, more confident than he can remember being in ages. This is what he loves: to take care of another person, to feel like someone needs him, that they depend on him.
Admittedly, it’s probably not a good thing, to need to feel wanted. He’s sure a therapist or even his mother would have something to say about it, but he doesn’t care. Not when his chest feels so warm and his brain feels settled, when there’s a sense of purpose inside of him that hasn’t been there in God knows how long.
He thrives when others rely on him, when they think him strong and capable enough to take care of them. His occupation helps, but it’s less that they want him — Draco Malfoy — and more that they want the person who does his job— Dr. Draco Malfoy. And it’s fine, it fulfills a little bit of the desire inside him, he makes do.
But this…this is better.
Maybe it’s a remnant of his childhood, maybe it’s ingrained in his very being from centuries of expectations of men or maybe it’s just a selfish desire for someone to view him as the strongest, the biggest, the person most able to provide. Whatever it is, he doesn’t care.
As long as Hermione wants it from him, as long as it fulfills a desire in them both, he’ll give it to her.
Draco pads out into the bedroom where he’d left Hermione on the bed, curled into a ball underneath her blanket, thumb tickling her lips. He’s noticed it before, seen her thumb gravitate towards her mouth when she’s sleepy, briefly wonders if she was a thumb-sucker as a child, but knows she was adamant about not using a pacifier.
It doesn’t bother him, it’s not like it’s something he needs from his partner— just something he’s willing to accommodate if they want it.
He runs his hand over her back and tugs the blanket away from her. They’d dozed on the couch after hanging up her picture in his office, and she’s still sleepy: eyes hardly open and limbs slow and sluggish.
“C’mon, baby, up you go. I’ve just run the bath,” he tells her, pulling her up to sit against him. “Arms up, please.”
She whines and buries her face into his chest but lifts her arms so he can pull the pajama top off and over her head. Her skin is warm and he laughs as she pushes her shorts and knickers down for him, kicking them off her feet and onto the floor beside his bed.
“Carry me,” she whines, pouting when he stands up from the bed, holding her arms up for him.
He was going to, regardless, but he likes the way she needs him. He can see she’s a mix of tired and still swimming in that comfortable space she’d sunken into while colouring, languid and relaxed, eyes searching for him throughout rooms when he wanders away.
When he leans down to pick her up, she wraps herself around him before he can grab her, arms around his neck, legs around his waist, and he sinks his fingers into her fleshy backside, into the meat of her thighs. Hermione presses kiss to the line of his beard and against the cut of his cheek as he walks them into the bathroom.
“Daddy?” She asks him, words sounding slurred, sleepy.
“Hmm?”
“Are you coming in the bath, too?”
He nudges her legs down so she’s standing before helping her step into the bath and sink down into the warm water, can’t help but smile as she lets out a small moan of satisfaction and sinks deeper.
“Yes, baby. Just let me get these towels on the warming rack,” he tells her, throwing two towels onto the metal rack on his wall.
“Warming rack?” She mumbles, likely to herself, before scooting forward to make room for him behind her.
He nods and chooses a bath bomb and bubble bar, dropping them into the bath, “You’ll thank me once we get out.”
Removing his own clothes, he slips into the bath and tugs her back against his chest, sighing as the warm water seeps into his sore and tense muscles. He stands a lot during his shifts, operating or walking or talking or filling out paperwork, and as he ages his back carries more of the strain.
His thumbs sink into her lower back, pressing into the small knots he can feel from her perpetual bad posture, constantly leaning over tables and slouching in chairs. He lets his fingers drag up her spine, following all of the notches of her vertebrae.
“Feels good,” she murmurs, pulling her hair over her shoulder so it’s out of his way. “This is nice.”
“Yeah?” He asks, leaning in to press his lips to the top of her spine. “I’m glad, baby. It’s nice for me too.”
She hums, “You don’t feel like you’re just running after a toddler? Helping me colour? Giving me a bath? Holding my water?”
He snorts and shakes his head, “Mm, no. I like taking care of you like this, I like seeing you small and needy.”
“That’s me,” she sighs, a moan tumbling out of her mouth as his thumb presses just to the left of the middle of her spine. “Your small, needy girl.”
She’s coming out of her sleepy, relaxed state, bantering with him like she normally does, twisting in his lap and obscuring the bubbles. There’s a glint her eyes, sharp and gleaming, as she straddles his thighs. It’s hard not to choke out a laugh when she presses her palms to his chest and tries to rub against his still soft cock.
“Not quite there yet, baby,” he smiles, hands gripping her waist. “Turn back around, I’ll take care of my needy girl when we’re out of the bath.”
She pouts and tips her forehead to his shoulder, “Why not now? Please, Daddy.”
He sighs and turns her himself, lifting her off his lap until she’s twisted around, “Well we’re not having sex and I don’t feel like drinking bathwater so, you’ll have to wait.”
“Drinking bathwa— oh, oh,” she shivers in his arms and leans back against his chest. “I-I think I can wait, Daddy.”
“I’m sure you can.”
She does, albeit not patiently, and she’s practically bouncing on her toes when he helps her out of the bath, wrapping her in a perfectly warmed towel. Her eyes widen at the feeling and she peeks at the rack, keeping her fingers to herself.
“It’s like magic. How did I not know you had a warming rack?” She asks, pulling the towel tighter around her body. “You’ve created a monster, Daddy. You’ll have to warm all of my towels now.”
“When you’re here, you can have as many warm towels as you like. But I don’t think they’ll stay warm if I bring them all the way to your flat.”
She shrugs her shoulders and makes sure her hair is still up in its high ponytail, “I guess I’ll have to stay here more often, then.”
Draco leads her into his bedroom, palm pressed against her back, “You can stay whenever you want to. You know that, even if I’m not here.”
Hermione flops down onto his bed, towel opening and showing off the tops of her thighs. Just a little bit higher and he’d be able to see her core. Tightening his own towel, he lets himself flop down on his bed next to her.
His hair is damp and there’s still water on his chest. Normally, he’d never let them lie on his bed like this, insisting they dry themselves off and leave the towels in the hamper. But he’s so relaxed, so happy, in that moment and he wants nothing more than to reward his girl.
“Feeling good, baby?” He asks, fingers trailing over her thigh. “Good afternoon?”
She turns over, chin pressed into his chest, “It was really nice, I really liked it, Draco. I was nervous, at first—“
“I could tell,” he mumbles, shooting her a cheeky smile.
“But once I got into it, once I realized that you would help me and take care of me, support me, it was really easy to fall into it,” she explains, pressing her lips to his chest. “And the pajamas helped me get there.”
He nods his head, thumb brushing her cheek, “You looked perfect, like that. Happy, relaxed, letting me feed you, asking me to carry you. My perfect girl.”
Lifting his head up, he pulls her closer by the chin and presses a soft kiss to her lips. Hermione sighs into his mouth and mumbles, “There’s no bathwater here.”
He smirks against her, “You’re right about that. Towel off, please.”
She moves fast, kneeling up so she can pull the towel off, body exposed to his eyes. Her skin is warm against his palm, nipples flat, pink and round, perfect mouthfuls. He shuffles further up the bed and pats his bare chest.
Hermione stares, brows furrowing, lips parted and tongue flicking out.
“You want me to—“
“Yes,” he says. “C’mon, baby. C’mon up.”
She tugs on her bottom lip with her teeth, fingers coming up to rub against her chin, “I haven’t ever…”
Draco tuts, reaching out a hand to her, “Well that’s not true. I’ve had my tongue in your pretty little pussy before.”
“Okay, yes, I’ve done that. I just mean I’ve never been up like— that,” she mumbles, shuffling forward on her knees. “What if I suffocate you?”
He rolls his eyes, “You won’t. But, if you do, suffocation by way of being buried in my girlfriend’s cute little cunt doesn’t sound so bad. Now come on, knees up past my shoulders.”
She still hesitates and he stretches his arms up, “Alright, we can just go to sleep.”
“No!”
He closes his eyes and can’t help the grin that spreads on his lips when he feels her thigh bracketing his abdomen and her fingers pressing against his chest. She shuffles up his body and he helps her, tugging her up, closer, until her knees are next to his ears.
“Comfy?” He asks, hands coming to grab her backside, squeeze the flesh in his palms.
She shrugs uncomfortably, “Not really— oh!”
He doesn’t let her wallow in being uncomfortable, doesn’t want her to associate this with being self-conscious or unsure, so he tugs her down to his mouth and licks against her with the flat of his tongue. She sighs, contentedly, and her fingers find their way into his hair.
She’s soft against his tongue, wet, soaking and he likes it. He enjoys the feel of her against his mouth, enjoys sucking her clit between his lips, digging his tongue into her, letting his nose brush against her.
But most of all, he enjoys the way she sighs and rocks her hips, pulls on his hair, tightens her thighs against his cheeks and ears.
Whispers his name, calls him Daddy in that small, soft voice. Grinds her cunt against his lips, against his beard and his moustache, cries out at the rough chafing.
And that’s all he needs, he thinks, fingers digging into the backs of her thighs. For the rest of his life, maybe.
This is all he needs, her shivering body in his palms, her moans filling his ears, her cum on his tongue.
And her sobbing, moaning call of “Daddy”.
She’s all he needs.
Chapter 16: Big
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s chilly out, but it’s the only reason she feels comfortable enough going to the open-air market. On nice days where the sun is out and you don’t have to bundle up in a scarf and a coat and warm boots, the market is beyond busy; people walking every which way, stopping in the middle of aisles, standing directly in her way when she’s just trying to buy some apples.
So she goes when it’s cold and the majority of people prefer to be inside. Tucking in her wireless earbuds, she adjusts her tote bag over her shoulder and starts to wander. She stays close to the middle of the aisle, away from the tables and stands, and does a loop around the market to see all that there is.
More often than not, she’s a buy-at-first-sight kind of person; she’ll pick the first cherries she sees with no regard for the price until she wanders around the corner and sees shinier, cheaper ones. She usually leaves the market on those days with a small pout.
Hermione prefers the open-air market, the way it sounds and smells, the way produce looks brighter and sweeter and how vegetables look heartier and well-cared for. There’s no bumps and bruises, she doesn’t feel like she has to pick through items to find the perfect piece.
There’s trust there, with the people who bring the fruits of their labour to be sold, and she’d rather hand them her minimal money than the conglomerate down the street, anyway.
It’s easy to listen to her morning playlist, the one that’s soft with crooning voices and brings a wash of calm over her, while she wanders, eyes cataloguing all the booths she wants to come back to. She steps a little bit closer to a stand filled with grapes and offers the woman working the booth a smile.
“Would you like to try one? What kind of grape do you like?” The woman asks, wiping her hands on her apron.
Hermione taps her lip with her index finger, “Something sweet, not too tart.”
Something juicy, she thinks, that will burst on her tongue. Something that will go well on a cheese board or with a glass of wine at the end of the day.
“Try these,” the woman says, plucking two grapes, one deep blue and the other reddish in colour. “The blue is a boskoop glory: very sweet, a dessert grape. The red is a fragola strawberry grape, also very sweet but tastes more like a berry.”
She likes the boskoop glory, almost sickly sweet in taste, but her tastebuds tingle around the fragola strawberry grape. It’s sweet and tasty, one that she knows Draco will also enjoy.
Licking her thumb she points to the red-coloured grapes and nods her head, “Those ones please. A bunch or two.”
And…buying fruit because she thinks Draco might enjoy it is something new. He probably won’t even have the opportunity to try any. It’s not like he comes to her flat very often and she’s never fed him grapes. But it’s the thought that counts, she thinks.
With her grapes in her beeswax bag and into her tote, Hermione continues making her rounds. She tries a few other fruits, pops a bite of celery into her mouth that would be the perfect vessel for a scoop of almond butter, and stops to buy a steaming cup of tea when she’s finished.
That is, until her music stops and her earbuds let her know she’s receiving a phone call. With a double tap to the earbud in her right ear, she answers the call just as she’s accepting her tea.
“Hello?”
There’s a short pause before her favourite voice spills into her ears, “Hi baby. What are you up to?”
It must be his break already and she smiles to herself, moving away from the booth to let others place their order, “Hi! I’m just out at the market, grabbing some fruits and veggies. How’s work? Are you on break?”
“Just sat down with a coffee,” he sighs, voice tired. “Is the market busy?”
He knows she doesn’t like to go when it’s packed and just the little nod that he pays attention makes her smile grow.
“Nope, pretty empty today. Too cold for everyone else.”
He hums in her ear, “Are you bundled up?”
He’s Daddying her but she doesn’t mind it. She, of course, slipped on her short, white puffer jacket and the black and white scarf she stole from her boyfriend.
“Yes, Daddy,” she whispers, blowing on her tea. “I bought some grapes.”
“Oh yeah?” He asks. “Just grapes?”
There are other things rolling around in her tote, but the grapes are the only things she wants to tell him about. The way they exploded with flavour on her tongue, the way she closed her eyes and savoured them, the way she chose them with him in mind.
“No, but I thought you might like them. Maybe we can have them tomorrow,” she tells him, dragging her feet back to the entrance. “I miss you.”
Draco’s quiet on the other end and for a second she’s not sure if her earbuds caught the sound of her voice. She stops in the middle of an aisle and contemplates whether she should repeat herself. Maybe he missed it, maybe he’s being paged, maybe—
“I miss you too, baby,” he says with a sigh. “So much, you have no idea.”
Hermione laughs, “Actually, I think I do. It’s only been a few days but it feel like a month.”
He clears his throat and she hears the sound of fabric rustling, “Might have to be a bit longer. I have to fill in tomorrow night again.”
That is…not at all what she wants to hear. So far, every single free night they’ve had, they’ve both had to cancel on the other. First Hermione, so she could finish her paper, then Draco the next night, who had to fill in for a doctor who’d called out.
“Again?” She whines, a pout forming on her lips. If she was at home and not in the middle of a market, tote bag full of food hanging over her arm, she’d stomp her foot, too.
“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I didn’t have to. Believe me, there’s nothing I want more than to spend the night with you. How can I make it better?”
Her eyebrow quirks up on its own and her mind is immediately filled with multiple ways he can make it up to her when they do finally see one another. Instead, she settles on something that will give her the immediate gratification she’s looking for.
“Well, I’m very sad, but I suppose…you could send me a picture of you in your scrubs.”
He laughs before letting out a faux-exasperated sigh, “I think I can do that, as long as it’ll make you happy.”
Her lips pull into a smile when she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket and she walks faster, eager to get back to the privacy of her flat. She knows what she’ll be looking at that night in bed, all by herself.
“I had an idea, though,” he says, voice a little rough, a little tired. “If you’re up to it.”
“More torture?” She asks, teasing, walking out through the gates of the market and towards her flat.
It’s late enough now that the sidewalks are considerably fuller than they were when she left her flat. As she gets further down the street and closer to her building, the change from families to university students is obvious.
She likes it though, enjoys the attitude and feeling of her neighbourhood. On Saturday mornings it’s always a mix of students like herself, heading out for an early morning start, and students like the ones stumbling in front of her, finding their way home after a long night.
She’s been both over the years.
“I have never tortured you,” he says and she can hear the scowl in his voice. She giggles.
“Not yet, anyway,” he mumbles, sounding further away. “But no, I thought that maybe, even though I can’t be there, you’d like to stay at my flat tomorrow night. I heard there might be some of that cheese you like and those black-pepper crackers.”
Hermione gasps, “The goat brie? But it’s so expensive!”
“There’s also a bathtub that misses you and, of course, your reading nook,” he tells her, ignoring her cheese-scrutiny.
Her nook, the one just off to the side of his fireplace and close to the floor length windows, the one that makes her feel warm and cozy. The perfect place to crack open one of her favourite books and read for hours.
“The towel warming rack?” She asks, as though it really makes that much of a difference.
“I’ll leave instructions on how to turn it on,” he promises. “Will you stay?”
Hermione hums and walks up to her building, swiping her fob, and letting herself in. She finally takes her phone out of her pocket and unlocks it, opening it up to the picture he’d sent her.
He takes her breath away, as usual, and she can’t stop staring at the way his arms stretch the material of his scrubs. Or the way his thighs stretch the material, or his shoulders, or his chest, or his…
“Fuck me,” she whispers as quietly as she can, waiting for the elevator.
“Pardon me?” Draco asks in her ear, accompanied by a soft chuckle. “Such naughty language for a little girl.”
He’s speaking softly, to avoid being overheard, but his tone sends a shiver down her spine. It’s so unfair, the affect that he has on her.
“Just looking at your picture, more convinced than ever that people come into your ER just to see you.”
He huffs a laugh, “They definitely don’t, but I appreciate the…compliment?”
“Definitely a compliment,” she mumbles. “Are you sure your scrubs fit you properly?”
They’re awfully tight around the hip and thigh area, she thinks, zooming in for a closer look for…science, of course. She’s just being helpful. It can’t be comfortable if they’re too tight, constricting his waist and…other things.
“They fit just fine, baby,” he sighs. “Stop changing the subject. Are you going to stay over tomorrow night?”
The elevator doors open and she waits for a few people to leave before stepping inside. She loves his flat, feels very at home there, but…staying there without him? It feels big to her.
“I’ll think about it.”
Hermione thinks about it for five minutes before making up her mind, but continues to tease and torture Draco a little bit. She’s not usually on this side of the teasing, the comfortable side, and she takes advantage of it, knowing she’s making him squirm.
Draco 🥰🥵
Draco: Have you thought about it?
Hermione: still thinking 🙃
Draco: OK.
Draco: I just need to know so I can leave my spare key with the front desk.
Hermione: okay 😊
Draco: So please let me know.
Hermione: i will 🥰
She puts him out of his misery shortly after, assuring him of her desire to stay at his flat. And she does want to. She misses him, more than she thought possible, and just being able to be in his space, to sleep in his bed, will help.
She hopes.
Letting herself into the flat, Hermione puts the key down on the table near his front door and sets her tote bag onto the kitchen island while pulling off her ankle boots. There’s a note on the island, along with a box of her favourite black-pepper crackers, and she leans herself over the granite to read.
Hermione,
You have the run of the place. Please help yourself to anything in the fridge and the cupboard. Cheese is in the big fridge and there’s a bottle of Chardonnay chilling in the wine fridge. I expect you to make good use of my couch, the bath and my bed. Instructions for the towel warming rack are in the toilet.
I’ll be thinking of you often,
Draco
Turning around, she opens the big fridge and smiles when she sees the more expensive but easier-on-her-stomach goat-milk brie. She pulls it out of the fridge and digs around in a few of his cupboards for the designated cheese board that she knows exists.
It’s already late afternoon and the days are getting shorter as they get closer to Christmas. Orange light shines through the flat as she unwraps the brie and builds her board. It doesn’t take her very long to set it up the way she likes, stealing a few of his kalamata olives and the spicy mustard in the fridge door before laying out the crackers.
Her last addition is some of the grapes she bought the day before from the market, which she plans to leave in the fridge for Draco to try. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she takes both to the coffee table and gets comfortable, pulling her throw down to wrap around herself.
Draco: Everything OK?
Hermione: everything is perfect!!!!
Hermione: thank you daddy 🥺🥰
She includes a picture of her wine and cheese, the television on in the background, and smiles when he hearts her picture, the most he can do when he’s working.
As the flat grows darker, and her cheese dwindles, his lights slowly flick on thanks to the timer they’re on. He lives a life so different from hers, with so many luxuries that she’s only ever dreamed of.
He’s more settled than her, has worked for longer, has had time to figure out what he wants and accomplish those things, but sometimes, she sees the discrepancy very clearly. She’s lucky if all of her lightbulbs work in her flat or if the dryer in her building warms her clothes until they’re sufficiently damp, but not wet.
So she basks a little bit, enjoying the luxuries and pretending for a second that they’re hers. She’s startled out of her thoughts by the buzzing of her phone, a text coming through before it rings.
Draco: Bath time, baby.
She picks it up with a grin, cuddling further into the couch, “Break time?”
“Yes, finally. It’s been a busy afternoon and I think it’s only going to get worse,” he explains. “Everything alright? Did you find everything okay?”
“Everything is just perfect, Daddy. I didn’t realize we had a set bath time,” she mentions, tossing her blanket to the back of the couch and moving her now empty cheeseboard and wine glass to the kitchen.
Before she can move them into the sink and turn the water on, she hears Draco tut over the phone, “Leave the dishes, baby. I only have a few minutes and I want you to get your bath started.”
She pouts to herself, unused to leaving dirty dishes, “Are you sure? It won’t take me long.”
“I’ll do them in the morning. C’mon, go get the water started.”
It doesn’t take her long to pad down the hallway and into his bedroom, flicking on the light as she enters. His bathroom is just off to the side and she sees two towels already laid over the warming rack and her pink pajamas folded on the counter.
“Bath bombs and bubbles are under the sink. I left you your pajamas there, in case you wanted to wear them after,” he says, clearing his throat. “There’s instructions on how to turn the towel warmer on, too, but it’s just the smaller switch next to the panel.”
She hums and sees it, pressing until a small red light comes on, “Got it. I’m just going to put you on speaker, hold on.”
Laying her phone down on the counter, she taps the speaker button and moves to the big bathtub, turning on the taps until there’s hot, bordering on scalding, water filling the tub. She bends down to pull out the basket he keeps under the sink, full of different bath bombs and bubble bars, picking a sparkly one that smells like roses.
“Wish you were here,” she says in a sing-song voice. “You’re better at drawing baths than me.”
“Believe me, baby, it’s taking everything in me not to just leave work right now.”
That makes her feel warm inside, wanted, and she smirks as an idea comes to her mind. Tugging off her sweater and her leggings, left in her cozy socks and a plain cotton bralette and matching knickers, she peers at herself in the mirror
“Are you alone?” She asks, teeth digging into her lip.
“Mhm,” he mumbles. “The on-call room is surprisingly empty tonight.”
Picking up her phone, she switches their call to FaceTime, setting up her phone on the counter and waiting for him to pick up. He answers with a cheeky grin on his face, looking both tired and adorably ruffled, hair messy on his forehead.
His beard is thicker than usual, but she knows he hasn’t had time to do much other than work, go home and sleep and work again.
“Do you have something to show me, baby?” He asks, fingers passing through his hair.
Hermione shrugs her shoulders and takes a few steps back so he can see her, full-bodied. She isn’t in the most impressive lingerie and her hair is a bit of a mess, piled high on her head, but she relishes in the look Draco gives her through the screen.
It’s wanting and hungry, desperate almost. For her.
“So pretty, baby. The prettiest,” he coos, shifting on the screen. “You gonna show me more?”
She flushes, cheeks red, nervousness setting in, but nods her head and slips off the bralette until she’s bare-chested. She takes a second to bend down and pull off her socks, too, until she’s only left in her kickers.
“Fuck,” he groans quietly, eyes wide and glued to the screen, taking her in. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”
“Not kill you,” she corrects, thumbs slipping into her knickers as she slides them down off her legs. “Just tease you, like you always tease me.”
“Don’t be naughty,” he grumbles. She can hear him shifting on whatever he’s sitting on— a bed, a couch? She isn’t sure.
Turning around, she sees that the bath is nearly full and leans over to turn off the taps, knowing full well he’s getting a good view of her backside. She likes her arse, plump and shapely, and Draco’s hands always seem to find their way there.
“Just thought I’d show you what you’re missing tonight.”
He scowls at her and fumbles with his phone, muttering a very quiet “shit” as his pager goes off, beeping loudly. He groans as he reads it and scrubs his hand over his face.
“I have to go, baby, I’m sorry. Text me when you’re out of the bath, please. You look— fuck. So pretty, just gorgeous, Hermione.”
She smiles and approaches her phone, making sure that her breasts are still in view. If she thought his scrubs were tight normally, she can only imagine how tight they are now.
He looks slightly pained when she speaks, “Alright, Daddy. Have a good shift, I’ll text you.”
“Bye, baby. I’ll be thinking about you.”
The water is hot on her skin when she steps in, bath bomb spinning and fizzing, glitter floating in the water. As she leans her head back on the bath pillow, she closes her eyes and lets herself relax. Lets herself think about her boyfriend in his scrubs as her fingers glide down her belly.
Her alarm goes off early that morning, early enough that she can get herself up and ready for class without rushing. Draco’s flat is a little bit further from campus so she needs the extra time, but mostly she wants to bask in his small luxuries.
The Chanel La Créme Main on his vanity, his Dyson hair dryer, the Peter Thomas Roth under-eye gel patches that boast 24K gold. She takes her time using it all, dancing around his bathroom in her pink pajamas listening to the Hamilton soundtrack.
She knows, without a doubt, that she could get used to living like this.
When her fully-charged phone tells her she only has another 30 minutes before she absolutely has to leave the flat, she slides down the hallway on socked feet and into the kitchen. There’s already a cup waiting at the Espresso machine and a small note above one of the buttons.
Push for coffee.
Draco clearly thought of everything she might want before he left his flat the day before, leaving little notes for her and making sure things are loaded and ready to go. As soon as she presses the button, the machine whirs and comes to life, a slow drip of coffee falling down into the cup.
As it fills, she opens the fridge and reaches for the now familiar oat milk that always seems to be in his fridge and pours it into the milk frother that’s attached. The result is a perfect cappuccino and she takes a closer look at the mug before she picks it up.
It’s cream coloured with a small sunrise that reads, “good morning, beautiful.”
Hermione shakes her head and doesn’t try to suppress the beaming smile that spreads across her lips. He’s far too good to her, she knows.
Pulling out her phone, she picks up the mug and holds it up, snapping a quick picture that she sends to Draco along with a dozen heart-eye emojis. She doesn’t know how she got so lucky, how she found this man who anticipates her every need and knows just how to make her smile, but she’s not in the mood to question it.
As she takes a sip, she notices something on the counter, just under where the mug had been: a gift card for the ride-share app she frequents. There’s a small sticky note with it and a brief note that reads:
My treat.
- Daddy
If she tucks the note into her wallet along with the gift card, well, that’s her business.
She steals a banana off the hook on the counter and slowly sips at her coffee, scrolling through her social feed and reading articles as they peak her interest. She knows that Draco is probably getting ready to leave the hospital by now and they’ll either miss each other completely or have enough time for a quick kiss before she’s out the door.
She dawdles for as long as possible. Reorganizes her tote bag, tucks yesterday’s knickers and leggings into his hamper, sprays a tiny bit of his Louis Vuitton Sur La Route onto the cuff of her sweater, all the while humming along to her music.
When there’s nothing left for her to do and she’s almost bordering on being late, she resigns herself to leaving. She lingers by the front door as she pulls her coat on, picking off invisible lint, before bending down and slipping her right foot into her ankle boot. She’s just reaching for the zipper when—
Bonk!
Hermione laughs and straightens up, moving away from the door as it’s pushed all the way open and she lays eyes on her boyfriend for the first time in days. Before he can say anything, she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist as his hands come around her to cup the backs of her thighs.
He drops whatever’s in his hand, walking further into the flat and kicking the door shut, before he pushes her back against the wall and presses a hungry, desperate kiss to her lips. It’s deep and consuming, like he’s devouring her mouth with his lips and his tongue.
His fingers dig into her thighs and his beard scratches against her cheeks and chin but she doesn’t care because it’s him, living, breathing, firm against her.
“Are you okay?” He questions, breath warm against her lips, one hand coming up to cup her head. “Did I hit you with the door?”
She waves it away and tries to go after his lips again, “I’m fine, Daddy.”
But that’s not enough for him. He pulls back for her, pressing her harder against the wall, and cups her cheeks in his hands. He runs his eyes over her forehead and he drags his thumb over the spot, watching her for any sign of a wince or discomfort.
She licks her lips and whines, “I’m fine, Daddy!”
Draco presses a kiss to the spot on her forehead before his lips trail down her cheek and back to her lips, down her jaw and to where her neck meets her shoulder. He hugs her tight and breathes her in and she closes her eyes and—
She has to go.
“I’m gonna be late,” she says softly, fingers playing with the curling hair at the back of his neck.
He groans into her shoulder and drags his teeth over her skin before pulling back and leaning his forehead against hers. He rubs the tips of their noses together and she giggles, unwinding her legs from around his waist.
“You don’t know how badly I want to ask you to skip class,” he mumbles, fingers toying with one of her curls. “I have to go back in tonight—“
She groans and thumps her head back against the wall, “Are you serious? We’re never going to see each other again.”
“Don’t pout,” he says softly. His lips find hers again, “Come back tonight? I like knowing you’re here.”
Hermione hums and side steps him, leaning down to slip on her other boot. She zips them both and picks up her tote bag before turning back around and walking straight into his chest.
“To sleep here again?”
He makes a noise of agreement and wraps his arms around her shoulders, tucking her face into his chest. He’s warm but still smells like the hospital, like disinfectant and harsh soap.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I’m off tomorrow and you’re off tomorrow, so…”
She agrees, pulling back again and walking backwards to the door, “Okay, I’ll be back tonight, but tomorrow we’re not doing anything and we’re not being disturbed. Tell the hospital…”
She trails off and he smiles, following her to the door, “Tell them what? That I have a little girl at home who needs me?”
He follows her with kisses, short, sweet ones as she opens the door and steps out into the hallway. It would be so easy to step back inside his flat and toss away her phone, climb back into his bed and cuddle up to him.
“Yes,” she says, walking backwards down the hallway. “Tell them exactly that.”
She returns that night, slips on her pink pajamas, finds her colouring book in the top drawer in his office along with her pencil crayons and works on a picture of two birds inside a nest. She signs her name to it when she's finished and leaves it on the island for Draco to find in the morning.
Something tickles her neck.
She grumbles and turns over, fixing the pillow under her head. She’s just drifting off again when— there, another tickle. Just underneath her jaw, something featherlight accompanied by something coarse. She squirms and bats her hand in the direction, scratches her nails over her neck and settles back against the pillow again.
Hermione lets out a soft breath and inhales, Draco’s scent filling her nose. It’s strong like this, surrounded by his duvet and sheets, his pillow underneath her, his cotton undershirt she slipped on before bed in place of her pajamas.
But the tickle is back and she thinks a feather must be sticking out of the down pillow so she huffs and turns over and blinks her eyes open, straining against the light shining through the curtain which she swore she closed the night before and—
“There she is.”
Draco. Blond as ever, dishevelled beyond what she’s ever seen, beard thick and prickly, silver eyes surrounded by the faint lines that she loves. Greyish-purple bags under his eyes, tired beyond belief from days of filling in shifts at the hospital, lips plump and pink, pressing into a small smile.
“Daddy,” she mumbles, sleep thick and tacky in her mouth. “What time’s-it?”
He hums and drags his thumb over her lips, palm cupping her cheek, “Just on 6:30 now.”
She yawns and stretches her arms up above her head, his shirt rising high on her belly. His warm hand presses to her waist, fingers digging into her ribs and Hermione snuggles in further to the bed.
“Cuddle me,” she pouts, waiting for him to slip under the covers. “It’s early, still. Let’s sleep.”
He pulls her close as though to cuddle her, as if he’s going to wrap his arms around her and hold her cheek to his chest, but instead he slips his hands under the shirt she’s wearing. He traces over the notches of her ribs, fingers brushing the swell of her breasts.
And then he pushes the shirt up and off her body until she’s bare, just her tiny purple knickers on.
“Don’t wanna cuddle,” he mumbles, eyes searching hers. “Don’t wanna sleep.”
She thinks he finds what he’s looking for, searching so deep in her eyes, because he leans down and presses a light kiss to the skin above her nipple, just where the skin crinkles. Her breath hitches in her throat when his tongue peeks out.
“Must be tired,” she sighs. “You— you had a long night.”
Draco shakes his head and twirls his tongue over her sensitive skin, draws his teeth over the ripple of flesh, before sucking her nipple into his mouth. Her fingers find their way to his hair, scrunching and tugging as he works his mouth on her.
She shivers when he pulls the duvet and sheets back, but he covers her body with his own, lips trailing down her sternum and her belly, tongue licking a circle around her belly button. He nips at the skin there and sucks a small purple mark.
“Daddy?” She sighs, trying to get his attention. “Daddy?“
He pets her over her knickers with the palm of his hand and her thighs tense, knees pulling up to make room for him. But she’s still tired, still a little bit disoriented.
So she curls her fingers into his hair and tugs, pulling until he lifts his head and his lips come off her hip bone. His eyes are a little bit glazed and his fingers grip her thighs tighter, as though he’s afraid that she’ll leave.
“Draco, it’s early, you just got home. Come sleep with me a little bit—“
He groans and shakes his head, “No. Can’t sleep.”
“What?” She questions, pushing herself back a little bit until she can sit up. “Why can’t you sleep? Did something happen?”
He crawls back up her body, caging her beneath him, “You happened.”
Hermione stills, eyes wide, “Me? What did I do?”
Finally, he sits up on his knees, still spread over her thighs, and pushes his hair back from his forehead. She’s never seen it this long before, messy and curling a little bit at the ends. He laughs a little bit, chest puffing out as he inhales.
Reaching over his shoulder, he tugs his henley off, revealing pale skin and golden hair trailing down from his chest to beneath his navel, leading into this joggers he’s wearing.
“What don’t you do to me? Teasing me the other day with that little show in the bathroom, leaving your knickers in my hamper, rolling around in my bed until all I can smell is you, sending me pictures of your pretty face and your perfect little body.”
He groans and presses the heels of hands against his eyes, “I’ve been able to say no, to control myself, every single time you’ve poked and prodded and asked. And yet now… you’ve been so good all week, being a perfect little girl, and I can’t wait anymore.”
Hermione can hardly believe what he’s saying. Is he….does he mean it? Is he really saying that there’s no more waiting? She’s only been begging him for months, trying to convince him that she’s ready.
“Are you— are you saying that you want to have sex?” She asks, voice small and questioning. “I think maybe you’re tired or delirious or something—“
Draco laughs and shakes his head, “No, baby. My patience has been spread thin for the last month and after the week we’ve both had…” He trails off and leans closer, cupping her cheek and meeting her lips with his own. “I want nothing more than to feel you.”
Hermione kisses back with more force than she knew she had, tongues meeting and lips pressing hard, almost until it hurts to kiss. His free hand trails up her side and his lips move to her cheek, to her jaw, to nibble on her earlobe.
He presses dozens of kisses to her face and her neck, reverent, loving kisses that make her feel adored. She kind of likes that it’s going to happen now, so early in the morning, sleep hardly rubbed out of her eyes.
There’s no chance to worry about it or daydream, no opportunity to wonder how it’ll feel or what her reaction will be. No time to feel anxious about his size, his length, his girth, about how he’ll fit inside her. She wants him and she’s going to have him.
“We’re going to take our time,” he promises her, lips brushing against her skin. “I’m going to make you feel so good, baby, make sure you can take me. I won’t hurt you, I won’t let you be uncomfortable.”
And it’s reassuring, to know that he’s thinking about her like that even when he wants her so badly.
“Is that okay?” He asks, pulling back from her. He looks her in the eyes, “Do you want this?”
It’s the easiest answer she’s ever given. It doesn't feel like a big decision to make, to tell him. It feels like a decision she was always going to make.
“I want this.”
Notes:
Fragola strawberry grapes are actually delicious and remind me of cabernet franc ice wine, if that's your thing. Hard cheese, aged cheese and goat cheese are typically lower in lactose than other types. Oh, and kalamata olives are the superior olive.
Did anything else happen in this chapter?
ETA: I am bad at responding to all of your comments (we know this) but I read each and every single one and am very grateful. I even respond in my mind.
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Enjoy xx
Chapter 17: Daddy?
Summary:
CW: body image, weight insecurity
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Draco looks at Hermione underneath him, naked except for her purple knickers, her curls wild and spread across his pillow. In a way, it’s the perfect scenario for this. Sleepy and easy, relaxed with the sun shining in through the windows. Cozy in his bed, no opportunity to tense or worry, to anticipate something.
His biggest worry is hurting her, his little girl, and he knows that coupled with working her with his fingers and mouth first, being relaxed, limbs lazy, will help even more.
Perhaps he can blame it on the sleep deprivation, being overworked, not being able to groom his beard or hair properly, not being able to go for his usual runs or stick to his routine, but whatever the reason, this is the only way to cure how pent up he feels.
Because even through his exhaustion and the absolute shit he’s been through the last couple of days, working for more hours in a run of days than he’s ever supposed to, he’s still found himself hardening over every single thought of her.
It could be the fact that he knows she’s in his bed, using his things, naked in his shower, covering her beautiful body in his soap, walking around the city with his cologne sprayed on her sweater, cuddling into the corner of his couch with her blanket, colouring pictures for him and leaving them on his kitchen island for his perusal.
It could be any on of those things, or any one of the other things he can’t seem to focus on at the moment, with her body trapped beneath his legs and thighs. It doesn’t matter. He knows they’re ready for this step, both buying into the lifestyle and the relationship, connected.
He hopes he’ll be able to last long enough to give her more than a few thrusts, to fill her for more than just a minute or two. But for as long as he’s been making her wait, he’s been waiting longer. Never indulging in her mouth or hands or the way she grinds her little pussy on him unless she asks for it.
And while he’s staring at her, chest heaving with his unsteady breaths, clearly overwhelmed by it all — the prospect of feeling her like that, of connecting that way — Hermione reaches up with soft fingers and brushes against the skin of his cheek and overgrowth of his beard.
“I like it,” she whispers, a sleepy smile on her lips, beaming from her eyes.
He shakes his head and rubs his own palm over the growth, “It’s too long, starting to come in grey.”
She hums and shakes her head, smile still on her lips, “It’s distinguished, Daddy. I like it.”
Her fingers trail down his chin, over the tendons in his neck, clavicles and shoulders, firm pectoral muscles and the, regrettable, softness of his abdomen. He winces as her fingers brush over the skin and trail of hair.
“Don’t do that,” she says firmly, pinching his waist. “You look perfect, always Daddy. Like me, right?”
She brings his hand down to press on her tummy and he leans down to press a kiss just underneath her belly button, “Little flatterer. You are perfect, baby. But some Daddies have this thing called stubborn old man fat. Sticks around no matter what.”
And Hermione, his sweet girl, so strong in her convictions and her feelings, pinches his hip again and frowns, “I said don’t do that. Don’t talk badly about someone I care about.”
He grabs her hand and holds it away from his abdomen, “Stop pinching.”
“You stop first.”
He shakes his head fondly, pulling her hand up to press kisses to her fingertips, “Okay, no more. I promise.”
Hermione holds her hand out, pinky extended, “Pinky promise? Or I’ll be forced to pin you down and tell you how much I like you. All of you.”
He extends his own pinky and shifts so her legs are resting over his thighs, purple knickers close to his joggers, “Pinky promise.”
“Now, I thought we were going to have sex…” she trails off, teeth pressing into her bottom lip.
“We were going to do that, weren’t we?” He asks, sitting up again, fingers drifting over her nipples.
They’re tight, drawn up into points surrounded by crinkled skin, and he brushes the pad of his thumb over her until she breaths out a happy sigh. Her eyes fall closed, body relaxing underneath him, and he leans down to lap and suck at one of her breasts.
Her skin is beyond soft and supple under his lips, capturing her skin with his teeth and working her with his lips until she’s covered in small red and purple bruises. He loves to see it, marks that he’s left on her body.
When he pulls back, he sees her thumb pressing into a yellowing spot just on her hip where he’d sucked a bruise onto her skin the last time they saw each other. And that… that makes his cock twitch in his joggers and his head flood with images of her pressing into the hurt spot, thinking about him.
His eyes drift down again to her knickers, small but cute, riding high on her hips with barely enough fabric to cover her slit. He hums, “Where’d you get the knickers?”
“Dunno,” she mumbles, eyes blinking open to look at him. “Why?”
He snaps the band against her hip and shrugs his shoulders, “I like them, think I should get you more. Grown up knickers, but still with a pretty little bow for my baby. Like a present.”
Her giggle is— everything, and more. He feels like he’ll do anything to make her smile, anything to keep her happy and make sure she knows how adored and cared for she is. When he tucks his fingers into the sides of the little knickers and carefully pulls them down her legs, he makes a show of tucking them into his pocket to go back to later.
And when she’s bare in front of him, little yellow and red and purple bruises dotting her skin that he’s spent time making with his lips and teeth — marks of adoration, he told her; marks of ownership, she’d quipped back — he sighs and tucks his forehead down against her pelvis.
“Everything okay, Daddy?” She asks, fingers twining in his hair, pulling lightly against his scalp. “If you don’t want to—“
“I want to,” he laughs into her skin. “Believe me I want to.”
But there’s a little tingle in the back of his head, scratching a corner of his brain, that he should tell her the truth, at least about this. So he presses a kiss to her skin and sits up, crawling up and over her body until their foreheads are pressed together.
“You just make me a little nervous, baby. You know that?” He asks, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. “I always want everything to be perfect for you.”
She huffs at that, her breath hitting his face in a puff and she winces — “Sorry, morning breath, I know. — before she nuzzles her nose against his cheek, “You know that this isn’t my first time, right? I have had sex before. I know that you’re, well, bigger than anyone I’ve ever been with before but there’s nothing you can do that will make this experience anything other than enjoyable. Alright?”
And it’s there, that moment, with his baby comforting him that brings things around full circle. It’s what makes him realize that this relationship is incredibly different than his others, that they lean on each other. It’s not only him offering and giving pieces of himself, but she is too.
She does as much for him, more sometimes. And it’s moments like this that… that convince him how right things are, how right this is, that for possibly the first time in his life he’s made the right decision.
It’s a true partnership, in that they need what the other provides.
“You’re incredible, Hermione. You really, truly are.”
It’s sort of like whiplash, Draco’s soft words of uncertainty and show of insecurity leading directly to his face buried between her legs. She knows this; she knows the feeling of his beard scraping her thighs and his tongue brushing over her clit. Knows the brief pinch as he presses his index finger in, longer and wider than one of her own.
So it’s comfortable and familiar and has her legs tensing underneath the grip of his fingers, hips bucking as he increases the pressure of his tongue against her clit. But he’s teasing her, not giving her enough to go anywhere, just a taste to keep her wound up.
“I don’t want to hurt you, baby,” he mumbles against her folds. “So I need to open you up. I need to make sure you’re nice and wet and pliant and happy on my tongue and fingers, huh? Right, baby?”
Her whine is hardly an answer but he seems to accept it.
“It’s alright, baby. Daddy’s got you.”
Her fingers trail down her belly until they’re fisted in his hair, gripping it tight while trying to move her hips against his mouth. She’s feeling greedy but it’s his fault for waking her up out of a dead sleep, for pulling her clothes off and telling her that he can’t possibly wait any longer.
Because she’s been begging for months. Practically since the first night that they met inside that club, his fingers tracing the cut on her hand. She’s been pleading with him and grinding her body against him and sneaking her fingers where they don’t belong.
She’s dreamed of what it will feel like, of how his cock will fill her. How it will press against her walls and up against her cervix, not a crevice of space going unfilled by him.
A cry spills from her throat when his fingers tighten on her skin, pressing hard, and his tongue pulls back. It’s just the feeling of his lips against her then, pressing soft kisses to her folds.
“Please, Daddy,” she whines, kicking out her legs. “Please don’t tease.”
“So fussy, baby,” he breathes, capturing her hand in his and pulling it away from where it’s gripping his hair. “Need to stay still for Daddy, alright?”
Draco takes a second to push himself up and adjust both of her hands until they’re resting on her belly, curled into fists, “Hands there, please.”
He sinks back down, beard scratching against the inside of her thigh, along the same path that his lips take. Her hips jolt up at the tickle of his tongue against her clit and he sighs, pulling away.
It’s barely harder than a tap, the open-handed slap against the fleshy part of her thigh, but she sucks in a breath with wide eyes and stares at him with a wobbling bottom lip. He brushes his thumb gently across the spot but it doesn’t hurt, it was just a surprise.
“What did Daddy tell you?”
She wets her lips and blinks her big brown eyes up at him, “To be still.”
He nods, “Then be still.”
She huffs and keeps her hand in place, “It’s too hard, Daddy.”
She only gets a hum in response before he’s pressing back down between her legs, slipping both his index and middle finger inside of her. She’s taken two of his fingers before, grinding down on his hand while he tugs on that spongey spot inside of her.
But he’s bigger than two fingers, bigger than three, too. Longer, thicker, firmer, pulsing with blood. It’s not like she’s never seen him, never felt him pressed up against her belly, but she’s about to feel him inside of her.
There’s a reason to be nervous, to feel anxious, over how exactly he’s going to fit inside of her. She knows that she’ll be able to take him, but at what cost? Probably a little bit of pain, more than pinch, more than a stretch, but it will be worth it in the end.
Except Draco would never allow himself to hurt her, not even by accident, not even in the throes of passion. So he twists his two fingers inside of her, tugging on her walls and pressing up as high as he can. He lashes his tongue against her clit and sucks on it rhythmically.
“I can take it now, Daddy,” she pleads, nails digging into her palms. “Please.”
Draco shakes his head, face rubbing against her pussy and her thighs, “I don’t think so, baby. You’re so eager but there’s no rush.”
There is, she thinks, there is a rush! She thinks she might die without his cock inside of her. But he resists her pleading and her begging, still some small bit of strength left in him.
“Breathe in baby, slow breaths,” he instructs, breathing with her, his chest rising and falling as he sneaks in the tip of a third finger. “Have to take all three first, alright? Show me you can be a good girl for me.”
Hermione tries to relax her muscles, tries not to wince when he pushes his fingers in all the way, jolts when he leans down to lave her clit with the flat of his tongue. She squirms as he presses insistently against her g-spot, alternates between licking and sucking her clit.
Tries to listen to the words he’s saying but has to force herself to concentrate.
“You’ll tighten up again if I let you come,” he says against her, lips and tongue messy. “But your body will relax, so will your mind. I’ll let you choose, baby. Want me to make you come?”
She pants, considering, and squeezes her hands into tight fists. Of course she wants to come, but the prospect of waiting just a little while longer, of coming while clenched around his cock, is just too big of a draw.
She needs that, she doesn’t want to wait any longer. As far as she’s concerned, she never wants to have an orgasm that’s not around his cock again.
“No,” she shakes her head, back and forth. “No, I only want to come on you.”
He stops the tugging motion inside of her, just twisting his fingers instead, “You’ll come on me here, baby.”
Shakes her head again, more adamantly, “Not like this. I only want to come on your cock, Daddy.”
His free hand comes down to push her thigh up until her knee is pressed against her chest, opening her up more. He pulls his fingers free and uses both thumbs to spread her folds, eyes searching her almost too intently. He hums and swipes his tongue along her, flicking inside of her before trailing back up to her clit.
“Just a little more,” he tells her, humming, while he presses his fingers into her again, fucking her with short, sharp strokes. “You’re so tiny, baby. But you’ll stretch, you’re getting there. Might have to get you to practice, to open yourself up for me in the future.”
She moans at that, can’t help it, thinking about fingering herself open in his bed, waiting for him to get home. Maybe falling asleep slick and stretched open, waking up to the feeling of him pressing his cock inside of her.
“Yes,” she pants, keeping her fantasy to herself. “Yes, please, yes I-I-I can do that.”
“I’ll get you some toys. Would you like that? Not as big as me, of course, but something to get used to,” he mumbles, pulling his fingers out again.
He holds her open with his thumbs again and this time nods, making a sound of satisfaction. Hermione squirms with anticipation as he climbs back up her body, settling his hips between hers.
He grabs her waist with his still-wet fingers and cups her cheeks with his other hand, flashing her that beautiful smile she loves to see.
“If it hurts, you tell me and we’ll fix it,” he says, expression serious, eyes locked with hers. “I mean it, Hermione. We can change positions, try something else, but I don’t want to look at you and see pain in your eyes.”
His fingers are soft as they brush her cheeks and she nods her head, “I understand, Daddy, I do. I’ll tell you, I promise. Please— try, I just want to feel you.”
And it’s… slow. The way he shifts over her body, the way he moves his hand from her waist to her hip, the way he presses soft kisses against her shoulder and neck. But finally — finally — he sits back and drags his cock over her folds, rubs teasingly against her clit before notching the head against her opening, just holding there.
Presses slow, barely pushes in, stretching her and she does her best to keep the slightest wince off her face. There’s no way she’s stopping this now, no way that she’s asking him to pull out, to try a different position.
She wants this, no matter what.
“Please, Daddy,” she begs, hands moving to grasp his sides. “Please, I want it.”
But he shakes his head, breathing out noisily through his nose, “No, just relax. Let me in, baby.”
Her nails dig into his ribs and he gives a jerk with his hips, enough that her breath feels like it’s been punched out of her and there’s a small sting of the stretch. But it’s not bad, nothing like what he made her think it would be like.
She feels full and good, mostly comfortable wrapped around him.
“That’s it?” She asks, panting, fingers grabbing. “Daddy? Is that it? You said—“
Draco laughs and his hips jerk again. He shakes his head and squeezes her hip, “No, baby. Give me your hand.”
She does, lets him lay her hand against her mound and then further down, feeling her folds and his cock. But it’s not the root of his cock, like she thought it might be — she’s comfortably full — when her hand wraps around him.
He’s barely inside of her, more of him outside than in, and she wants to groan. She’s comfortably full and he’s barely pushed a third of himself inside of her.
“Oh my god, oh-oh my god, Daddy. How— how are you going to…“
Moving her hand away, he presses his thumb to her clit and brushes around it in circles, shushing her, “You’re alright. Daddy’s here, honey, you’re okay. We can just stay here, just like this. You wanna come? Daddy’ll make you come, baby.”
He makes small motions with his hips, rubbing against her sensitive walls, and brushes closer to her clit, giving her the pressure she needs. Her hips move underneath him and before she can say a word her cunt is clenching around him, pulsing, as a small balloon of pleasure bursts in her belly.
She’s coming on his cock. Sort of.
It’s not the most toe-curling orgasm she’s ever had, but enough that her head feels a little cloudy and her fingers feel slightly numb. Draco though… he’s tense, holding himself taught and tight, keeping his hips in the same place.
“I’m gonna push in, baby, alright? Tell me no,” he says, thumb tapping against her clit, sending little zaps of pleasure through her spine.
“Please!” She gasps, squirming in place, trying to wrap her legs around his hips, trying to pull him closer.
And—
And—
And—
Her eyes roll back and she squeals, high and whining, breath gone from her lungs, fingers gripping his sides and he’s— oh, he’s in her. She can tell, can feel him all the way in her belly, can feel the way his pelvis brushes against her mound, knows that she’s taken more just a third of him. It stings a little bit but the stretch is good.
He leans down and groans against her neck and shoulder, lips pressing kisses and sucking the thin skin into his mouth, breath puffing out of his nose hot and wet.
“Lemme see, lemme see, Daddy. I wanna see,” she begs, pushing at him, panting.
“Stop, baby, stop moving. C’mon, Hermione— give me a second.”
He shudders against her and she clenches around him, delighting in the moan he lets out, reverberating against her neck. This is what she wanted, this is what she always wants, to be connected this way.
Finally he pulls back and moves his hips a little bit, pulling out and pushing back in again, driving a whine straight from her lips. She pushes up on her elbows and looks down, mesmerized by what she sees.
His hips are pressed flush against her, only the root of his cock not buried inside of her cunt. She can’t believe it, can’t believe that she’s taken all of him inside her. But when she inhales, that’s when she sees it. The vague outline of his cock in her belly, pressing up near her belly button.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Draco groans, fingers tracing the shape. “You are fucking incredible, Hermione. Look at you, baby. Worried for no reason, look at you taking me.”
And all she can do is laugh, throwing her head back, breathless laughter spilling from her throat as she presses her fingers to the place where he’s filled her. She is pretty fucking incredible, she thinks. He’s completely and totally right.
He adjusts between her thighs, moving his knees and pulling her leg up to rest against his chest, before he gives her a few test thrusts. Hermione lets out a small whimper, small moans that she can’t possibly keep inside of herself.
He’s thrusting shallowly but brushing deliciously against the spongey part inside of her, bumping her cervix like a friendly neighbour just trying to say, “hello.” It feels better than she ever thought possible and she urges him to go faster, to fuck her harder.
“More please,” she begs, groaning when he leans down, pressing her leg up higher. “Please, Daddy, I can take more.”
She thinks he’ll shake his head, tell her that he’ll control the pace, only give her what he knows she can handle. But he looks at her quickly, their eyes connecting, and he must see something that he’s looking for because he nods his head and grits his teeth.
He fucks her with long, measured thrusts, hard enough that her body jolts up on the bed each time. He holds her close though, hips slapping against hers, fingers holding her hip and her leg in a bruising grip.
And she loses it. She fucking loses it.
This is what she knew he could do to her, how she knew he could make her feel. Like a fucking toy, like a doll, like something to play with and fuck and hold and take pleasure from. But he’s not selfish. He leans down and sucks her nipple into his mouth, moves his hand from her hip to sneak between them and press into her clit.
“Daddy,” she whines, can’t help it.
A groan, followed by: “I’m here, baby. I’m here, Daddy’s here.”
And he’s there, he’s there, he’s there, pressing into her from every angle—
“Please, Daddy,” she doesn’t know what she’s pleading for, but she pleads. “Please, please, please—“
Breath on her skin, moisture on her neck, sounds reverberating in her ears, “It’s yours, Hermione. Yours, baby, it’s yours. Anything— everything.”
So she takes it. She takes everything that he’s giving her and presses her hips back against him, tries to fuck him back the best she can stuck underneath his body. She grips his hair in her fingers and hold his face in front of hers.
Pulls him close to press a kiss to his lips, sloppy and biting, teeth clashing, rough but loving. It means something to them both because he pulls away and groans, forehead down against her clavicle, swearing against her skin.
“My baby, huh? You’re my little, baby,” he mutters. “Acting like a little baby whore.”
And that… yeah. That.
Her belly tightens out of nowhere, her toes curling, teeth biting down, fingers pulling hair, cunt clenching around his cock tighter than she ever thought possible and yelps as she comes. Cries, too, tears falling loose from her eyes as her orgasm rolls through her like a tornado displaces water, makes it ripple and spray.
And while she wants him to come inside her, she really, really does, she hardly has the mind to let it be known before he’s pulling out of her quickly, stripping his cock once, twice, three—
He comes with a muffled grunt, splattering all over her belly and up high on her chest, holding her leg still against his chest as it shakes with the remnants of her own orgasm. The only sound in the room are their loud pants and the faint curse from Draco as he rubs circles into her calf.
“Didn’t know,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Should’ve talked about it.”
He knows she’s on the pill but it’s not like they had time to discuss whether she wanted him to come inside of her. She waves her hand, too tired to speak, and pats the bed next to her. She wants nothing more than to cuddle, to burry her face in his chest.
“Gotta get a towel.”
Her voice is raspy as she shakes her head, “No, stay.”
He’s going to leave, already pushing up when she runs her fingers down her belly and rubs his come into her skin. He groans as he watches before joining her, fingers pressing come into her belly and breasts, where it landed.
“Stay,” she repeats, bringing her leg down and wincing at the feeling. “Please, Daddy. Cuddle me.”
He moves off of her and lays down on his back, holding his arm open for her to cuddle against his chest. They’re both warm and a little sweaty but she knows it’ll start to dry and she’ll get cold, so she reaches down to pull the duvet cover up over them.
“You were so good, Hermione,” he says quietly, lips pressing to her hair. “Took me so well. I’m never going to forget this.”
Hermione nods sleepily against him in agreement, “Me neither, Daddy. It was perfect.”
He hums, finger scratching at his chest, "Feel alright? Are you hurting?"
She shakes her head, "No, I might be a little sore later but it was good. It was very good."
"You're my perfect girl, you know that?" He asks, fingers rubbing circles into her back. "My perfect baby."
When they wake it’s later in the afternoon. The sun has faded behind clouds and Draco’s room is dark and cool, his chest rising and falling underneath her cheek. She shifts and feels a twinge in her hips, sore but pleasantly so.
She feels… different, but she not quite sure how. She’s still Hermione, she’s still the same person she was when she woke up that morning but something still feels… different. Better? Happier? Fulfilled? Fuller? Smaller? Bigger? Warmer? Colder? Cared for? Adored? Loved?
A mix of it all, she thinks.
Her thighs are aching, her skin sticky, and she can feel the press of Draco’s soft cock against her belly, a little wet patch of drool on his chest, just next to her lips. And it’s messy but it feels right.
“Awake?” His voice is a low rumble underneath her cheek, fingers trailing up her back.
She hums and presses her lips to the soft hairs on his chest, “Mm yeah. I’m awake.”
He wraps his arm around her and holds her close as he rolls flat onto his back, tilting her chin up to press a kiss to her lips. He’s warm and familiar against her, like they’ve been doing this all along.
And they have, just not so intimately.
“You must be hungry,” he says, once he’s pulled back, stretching his arm behind his head, bicep bulging attractively.
Hermione pushes herself up to look at him just as her belly rumbles and she mumbles shyly, “Just a little bit.”
Draco pulls her up for another kiss before kicking the blankets off and rolling out of bed. She stares unabashedly at the shape of his arse as he bends down and slips into his joggers from earlier, scratching at his bare chest.
Before she can slide out of bed, though, her boyfriend is pulling the duvet cover back up and tucking her in, leaning over her with his hands planted on either side of her head. He smiles and presses his lips to her forehead.
“Stay here, baby. I’ll bring you coffee, some breakfast and then I’m going to feed you and cuddle you for the rest of the day. Deal?”
Her smile is so big, so bright, that it hurts her cheeks and she giggles, “So we’re staying in bed all day?”
“Mm,” he hums, lips pressing to her eyelids and the tip of her nose. He moves closer to her ear and whispers, “And later, if you’re feeling up to it, I’m going roll you onto your side, curl around your back and press my cock back inside of you.”
Exhaling shakily she nods her head in agreement, “I think I’ll be feeling up to it.”
She throws her arm over her eyes as he saunters out of his bedroom and holds in the desire to squeal and talk excitedly to herself like she might do at home, alone in her flat. Instead, she rolls over into the pillows and buries her face.
It’s something she’d always done as a child, particularly when trying to get ahold of herself. She buries her face in a pillow or blanket and holds her breath, just until her throat starts to itch with the desire for oxygen. She holds it, eyes closed and flashing white, heart thumping wildly in her chest.
And then when it gets just to the wrong side of painful, to the point where she can’t quite remember what had her so excited or so out of sorts, she pulls her face back and sucks in a deep, fresh breath. Her thighs quake and squeeze together as she inhales lungfuls of air and feels more settled after.
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand and she reaches over to grab it, eyes still closed and feeling around. Picking it up, it feel slightly larger than hers and when she opens her eyes she realizes that it’s Draco’s phone. The screen is alert, lit up with a few texts but she can’t see who they’re from.
It buzzes again, another three or four texts from the same person coming through.
She’s going to have words for the hospital if they’re calling him back in, she thinks, but kicks her way out of his bed and pulls on his t-shirt. It reaches nearly to mid-thigh but if she were to bend over, her whole backside would be visible.
“Daddy?” She calls, padding down the hallway and around the corner, peeking into the kitchen.
He’s standing in front of the stove, ladling pancake batter into a frying pan. Her oat milk is sitting on the counter and she can hear the sound of the coffee maker in the corner. It’s incredibly domestic, watching him move around his kitchen.
Knowing that he’s doing this for her.
“Yeah, baby?” He asks, twisting his head to look at her before turning back to the frying pan. “Why’d you get up? Something wrong?”
She shakes her head but gets distracted, pointing at his fridge, “You’re not going to keep that there, are you?”
It’s the picture she’d left for him the night before, of the two birds nuzzling each other in a nest, her name signed in blue pencil crayon in the corner. She likes it but… maybe not out in the open.
He grins, “No, baby. But I didn’t want to get it dirty and I like looking at it. I’ll put it in my office later today, with your other pictures.”
She nods and turns her attention back to his phone, vibrating with another text, “Your phone is buzzing. I just came to give it to you.”
He waves his hand and flips a pancake, “Can you open it for me? The code is 5760; it’s my parents’ birth years.”
Hermione feels something settle in her chest at the knowledge of how much he trusts her, enough to give her his phone password and ask her to open his texts. It’s something so strange, so unusual for so many people closer to her age.
But the small show of trust means the world to her, and she happily types his passcode in and opens up his messages.
They’re all from Astoria, about six or seven. All rambling, at least a paragraph of information per text and it takes a minute for her to read through them.
The pancakes sizzle in the pan. The coffee maker hisses as it finishes.
A lump lodges in her throat.
She looks up again after a few minutes, Draco turned around to face her with concern colouring his face. She’s missed him calling her name and she shakes her head, licking her lips.
“Draco?”
“Yeah, baby? What’s going on?”
She swallows, tries to push the lump down, tries to calm her heart and her breathing.
“Who’s Pansy?”
Notes:
Have you ever seen that movie Witness for the Prosecution? It ends with a voiceover that says:
The management of this theatre suggests that, for the greater entertainment of your friends who have not yet seen the picture, you will not divulge to anyone the secret of the ending of Witness for the Prosecution.
Please watch your spoilers to let everyone enjoy this chapter.
Find me on Twitter and Tumblr.
Enjoy xx
Chapter 18: Trust of the Innocent
Notes:
Chapter title is from the quote:
"The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool." - Stephen King
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Can I see my phone?”
Hermione chews on the inside flesh of her cheek. She digs into it with her incisors, pinching, hurting, something to keep her grounded before she turns tail and runs. Already, her fingers itch to find her own phone and dial Ginny, to ask her to come get her.
She twirls his phone in her hands, frowning, before shaking her head, “No. I’d like to know who Pansy is first.”
She’s struck by this desire for him to explain himself before she gives the phone back. Something is itching in her brain, telling her she needs the answer while he has no context, so he can’t tell her a partial truth.
He sighs and scrubs his hand through his hair. It’s wild, sticking out uncharacteristically, and he’s beyond disheveled standing in front of her. It’s like looking at a completely different person, the way he’s holding himself and looking at her.
Like he’s… shutting down.
He looks away for a long moment, lips rolling against each other, words just out of reach and yet on the tip of his tongue. She does not enjoy this, does not want to see her boyfriend so visibly uncomfortable, does not like confronting people about things, about anything.
“She’s not important,” he finally says, eyes flickering back to hers for a second before moving away again.
She lets herself release a slow breath. This is a different Draco than the one she’s been seeing, than the one she’s gotten to know. The Draco who made them wait months before having sex on account of having a non-sexual connection. The Draco who wraps her in blankets and runs her baths, buys her practically the adult equivalent of a sippy cup and silicone straws, makes sure there’s always oat milk in the flat and cheese that’s easy on her stomach in the fridge.
The one who’s always honest with her (she thought), the one who encourages her to be herself, to let herself need him, who hangs her pictures on his wall and presses bits of coffee cake and lemon scones and sweet, juicy grapes into her mouth.
He’s nowhere to be seen. This one is closed off, eyes hard, body tense and stiff. Unyielding and seemingly unwilling to share something in his life that must be important.
Hermione chews on her lip and shakes her head, “I don’t understand…”
“It’s complicated.”
His voice is… flat, serious, emotionless. So unlike her Draco, her Daddy. His face is blank, stoic, no familiar curl to his lips or soft wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. His fingers are white from how tight they’re gripping the kitchen island.
Her stomach hurts.
“Just— just explain it to me,” she pushes, taking half a step closer. “Explain it.”
The pancakes are burning on the stove — she can smell it, see the smoke rising from the pan — and the coffee machine hisses as the last drops slip into the mug. It’s the same yellow mug with cheerful writing that she used the day before but it feels discourteous now, sneering.
Good morning, beautiful.
It’s too sunny and cheerful for this grey, dreary mid-morning.
Draco works his mouth, lips pressed closed in a tight, straight line. It’s clear that whatever is going on is difficult for him. He looks almost pained and his arms flex as he rhythmically tightens and loosens his hand against the countertop.
The kitchen island is still separating them but Hermione likes it that way. She knows that one brush of his fingers over her cheek or down her neck and she’ll be putty in his hands, will lean her face into his chest and pretend like nothing happened. She’ll press his phone into his hands and slip into his bathtub.
But as quickly as she has the thought, he’s moving, walking around the island and stepping close to her. His hands are out, as though he’s going to grab her, to touch her, and his face is a mess of emotions. Like he’s warring with himself, trying to find a way out of this.
Hermione takes a step back before he can reach her and shakes her head, “Please don’t touch me right now.”
Devastation colours his face. It’s plain and clear to see, but she ignores it. She doesn’t like doing this, being like this, but she can’t just let him tip toe around her questions. She can’t.
“Please just sit, Hermione. I won’t— I won’t touch you, I swear,” he says, shakily taking a few steps back, gesturing to the bar stool to his side. “Please, Hermione.”
“I’d like to stand here, actually,” she says, standing her ground. She shifts on her bare feet and clears her throat, “Explain it to me, please.”
The smoke rises higher behind him and Draco finally seems to notice. He turns around and flicks off the dial, moving the pan to one of the cool back burners, a bitter smell filling the air.
While he’s moving, back turned towards her, he finally speaks: “She’s an ex.”
Her breath gets caught in her throat and her hand comes up to press against her breast, trying to soothe the ache that’s blooming. All this fuss for an ex?
“An ex-girlfriend?”
A few pieces of cutlery clatter into the sink and he grips the counter again, his back flexing with the strain, then corrects her, “Ex-wife.”
The flat is silent except for the soft buzzing of the fridge. Hermione swallows heavily and unlocks Draco’s phone again, her eyes slowly reading over the texts that his other ex-wife had sent.
Tori
Astoria: I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear from me but I’m going to tell you anyway because I love you and I care about you and I only want what’s best for you.
Astoria: I'm meeting up with Pansy in a few weeks when she comes into the city for lunch and she has asked me to see if you would also come.
Astoria: She wants to talk to you, to clear things up, get some closure, and I think it would be good for you too. I can be the buffer or I can leave you two to talk on your own.
Astoria: Please think about it. Maybe it would be a good way to tell Hermione, too.
She locks the phone again and walks quietly over to the kitchen island, placing his phone down carefully, “Here.”
Draco turns to look at her but doesn’t immediately reach for his phone. It’s too late anyway, she’s gotten his secret out of him. She’s surprisingly not angry, not happy either, just feeling… well, she doesn’t really know how to feel.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, a tick in his jaw. “It’s not easy for me to talk about.”
Hermione shrugs her shoulders and turns around, bare feet tapping against the flooring as she moves back into the hallway and to his bedroom. His louder steps sound behind her but she ignores it and tugs his t-shirt off, flinging it onto the floor.
Her knickers are nowhere to be found so she just pulls her leggings on and the oversized sweater folded neatly next to her overnight bag, quickly dragging her fingers through her curls. There’s no elastic around her wrist so she tucks a few strands behind her ears and leaves it. She can feel his eyes on her.
“Are you… we should talk,” he says, changing his thought mid-sentence.
She almost has the urge to laugh. This grown man who has taken her apart and put her back together, has held her and kept her, has comforted her and taken care of her, sounds so unsure of himself, so uncomfortable. It’s not funny, none of this is funny, but she doesn’t know how else to react.
Shaking her head, she slips on her socks while she’s standing, balancing on one foot and then the other, before swinging her bag over her shoulder and walking towards the door. His hand reaches out to grasp her wrist but he stops himself, pulling it back.
She did ask him not to touch her.
“You’re leaving?”
Hermione pauses next to him and nods, “Yeah, I’m going to go.”
She’s scaring herself with how calm she sounds and feels. In her single-mindedness she has one goal: to leave his flat and get to Ginny’s. Once she’s at Ginny’s, maybe the feelings will come rushing out, maybe she’ll know whether she’s angry or sad or upset, whether she even wants to know more.
Right now, at this moment — a whole whopping five hours after they had sex for the first time — she thinks she knows enough.
“Please don’t,” he says softly, hands clenched into fists. “We should talk. I-I’ll tell you, I’ll explain it, Hermione.”
She takes in a steadying breath, “I really think I should go.”
It takes everything in her not to comfort him, not to sink into his bare chest and wrap her arms around his back, to hold him tight. He’s hurting, she can see it in his eyes, whether it’s the fact his secret is out or she’s trying to leave, it’s there. But the pain in her chest tells her she’s hurting too.
And right now, she can’t be his comfort and he can’t be hers.
“Are we… is this—“
Over?
She hears it even though he doesn’t say it, and interrupts with a strong and emphatic, “No. No. I just… I want to go.”
Moving down the hallway, she knows that Draco is following her, just a step or two behind, still keeping his hands to himself. She slips on her shoes and watches as he grabs his phone from the kitchen island.
“Alright. Let me at least get you a car,” he says, keeping his eyes down at his phone, teeth digging into his bottom lip.
She shakes her head, “No, you don’t need to do that. I’m fine just walking.”
“Hermione, please.”
It’s like he’s hanging on by a thread, his whole body shaking, chin quivering, eyes beyond imploring, begging her to see that despite it all, despite what just happened, he needs to see that she gets away from him safely.
It’s sort of selfless, if she thinks about it. He’s helping her escape him, helping her put distance between them that he doesn’t want but she does.
“Alright. Okay, you can get me a car,” she says quietly, gripping the strap of her bag. “I’m going to—“
“Ginny’s,” he finishes, nodding his head. “I know. Car will be here in two minutes.”
She swallows, hard and heavy, feeling like she’s trying to keep her lungs and her heart from leaping up her throat. She’s made it this far, now all she needs to do is wrap her hand around the doorknob and open it, just needs to take a step into the hallway and then a few more to the elevator.
But it’s like she’s glued to the floor, her feet won’t move even though she wills them to. Maybe she should stay, maybe they should talk this out right now. But she can’t, she needs to leave, to let herself think clearly. She needs to have some space, to come back to him on equal footing when she has knickers on and there isn’t a twinge in her thighs.
She closes her hand around the doorknob and it’s like a rush of words tumble out of Draco’s mouth.
“It’s been five years since we’ve been divorced. We rushed getting married and then we had serious problems, Hermione, the kind that you’re supposed to know about before you say your vows but we didn’t talk about. I haven’t seen her since the day we signed the divorce papers. I swear it, she’s not—“
“Please don’t,” she whispers, turning a little bit to face him. “Not right now, not yet. Just let me have a little bit of time. You… you lied to me, by omission maybe, but it’s still a lie. And I’m sorry it’s hard for you to talk about but you still should have told me that you have another ex-wife. It’s not the same as an ex-girlfriend, Draco, and you know that. So please, just let me go, let me have some space.”
He’s standing close to her, eyes wild and pleading and she sighs, “Please, Draco.”
Draco’s throat bobs as he swallows, closing his eyes tight and anxiously running his fingers through his unruly hair. He nods and takes a step back, his lips tremble as he says: “Please text me when you get to Ginny’s. Or have Ginny text me. Just so I know you're safe.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
She closes her hand around the doorknob and twists, pulling it open and stepping out into the hall.
“So you had sex,” Ginny repeats, taking a sip of her mimosa.
Hermione nods, “We had sex.”
“And it was good.”
“It was really good,” she says, pulling her knees up on the couch. “Like— he’s so big, Gin. It’s like he moved all of my organs out of the way.
Her friend shakes her head, “Okay, ew, I don’t share that kind of stuff about Harry.”
The scoff is out before she can stifle it and she wrinkles her nose, “As if, Gin. I’ve known Harry just as long as you and I remember when he lost his trunks in the pool that time—”
“He was 13! Things have changed, believe me,” Ginny argues. “Whatever, enough about Harry. So everything was fine and then in the morning you checked his phone and…”
“And…” Hermione trails off. ”Yeah. I don’t really wanna talk about it.”
Ginny rolls her eyes, “What a cock.”
Hermione agrees and sighs, downing the last of her mimosa. Leave it to Ginny to always have a bottle of (terrible) sparkling wine and a jug of orange juice in her flat. Hardly any food — Ginny and Harry are the queen and king of takeaway — but there’s always plenty of alcohol and other indulgences to tide over the most upset of visitors.
And she is upset, almost two hours after leaving Draco’s flat, the feeling burning in her stomach like acid.
“How did you get into his phone?” Ginny asks, standing up from the couch to pull the juice and sparkling wine from her fridge. “Were you snooping? Did you already suspect something?”
She groans and holds her champagne flute out, “No, that’s the worst part. He gave me his phone passcode and he asked me to see wo had texted him. I thought… ugh, I thought it was proof of how much trust we have between us. I mean, who else do you know that just gives away their passcode?”
Ginny tops her own glass off too, then hums and agrees, “Maybe it’s just an old man thing. It took a few years before I put my thumbprint onto Harry’s phone.”
“He’s not an old man,” she grumbles, picturing the way his back had rippled that morning, his body tense. “He’s just…”
“A cock.”
The front door slams shut and both Ginny and Hermione try to peer around the couch, Harry coming into view with his gym bag and a towel wrapped around his neck. His eyebrows are raised as he toes off his shoes.
“Who’s a cock?” He asks, plucking his glasses off the hall table and slipping them on. “You’re not talking about me are you?”
Ginny waves her hand as Hermione takes another gulp of her drink, “No, not you, love. Just Hermione’s very fit boyfriend. Or, not boyfriend, er— I’m not quite sure right now.”
“We’re still together,” she tells Ginny, then turns to look at Harry. “Apparently he has another ex-wife that he didn’t tell me about until I saw a few texts in his phone. Which is… fine, I don’t begrudge him that. He’s had relationships before me, I know that, but he lied.”
Harry takes a seat beside Ginny, still sweaty from his workout, and steals a sip from her mimosa, “I mean, he didn’t lie, exactly, he just didn’t fess up.”
Ginny takes her drink back and scoffs, “It’s the same thing, he lied by omission. You don’t think it’s important to tell your girlfriend that you’ve been divorced twice? That you have two ex-wives wandering around?”
Hermione huffs and lets her head thump to the back of the couch, “Two that we know of. What if there are more? What if this is only the tip of the Titanic iceberg?”
“The Titanic iceberg?” Harry asks, nearly in a whisper.
“You know, because there’s way more underwater that you can’t see,” Ginny replies quietly. “Oh, come on, Harry. Haven’t you seen the movie?”
She squeezes her eyes shut tight and stares up at the ceiling, her fingers curling around her phone in her lap. She’d texted Draco as soon as she’d gotten to Ginny’s but hadn’t looked when she felt the buzz of a text coming through only a few minutes later.
She tilts her head back down and pulls up her phone, ignoring the Titanic conversation going on between her friends.
Draco 🥰🥵
Hermione: i’m at ginny’s
Hermione: thank you for the car
Draco: Thank you for telling me, Hermione.
Draco: I want to give you space but I would also like to talk about this. I’m here if you need anything in the meantime. I’m so sorry, Hermione. I never meant for this to happen.
She huffs and rolls her eyes. He never meant for this to happen? Well he could have fooled her. What did he expect? Withholding information like that? There was only ever one way for this to go if he wasn’t going to be honest from the start.
A few hours removed from being in his flat, from seeing the texts on his phone and looking at a very different man than the one she’s used to, she’s mostly filled with uncertainty. She’s upset, but not necessarily angry, more confused over the situation. Over someone she thought she knew.
It’s not the fact that he has two ex-wives. Really, she couldn’t care less about that. He’s twice her age, he’s practically lived a full life before she’s even started hers. So no, it’s not the multiple marriages.
But if he was lying— not telling her about this, what else is he not telling her about?
Harry taps her leg and shakes her out of her thoughts, a frown on his face, “Do you want me to go… have a chat with him?”
She does laugh this time, “No offence, Harry— I’m very grateful for the offer, but no thanks.”
He shrugs his shoulders and swings his arm over her own shoulders, tugging her close to his chest. Ginny rests on his other side, lazily slurping her mimosa from her glass, and she sighs.
“Did he tell you about her? Tell you why he kept it a secret?” Ginny asks, talking into her glass.
Hermione shakes her head, “No, I left before he could. I just… wanted to get out of there.”
“Wait… so he was going to tell you and you just left?”
Well, when she puts it that way…
But, no. She left for a reason, she needed to leave.
“I mean, I practically had to beg for him to just tell me who she is. He just kept saying that she isn’t important and then, finally, that she’s his ex. It was only because I asked that he told me she’s his ex-wife,” Hermione says, pushing herself up and off of Harry.
She wanders over to her overnight bag and digs around until she finds her purse and the small pack of cigarettes she keeps for emergencies. Ginny stands and moves over to the big window near the bench seat in their kitchenette, sliding it open and flopping down.
It only takes her a second to light it, taking a long drag before passing it off to her friend, “I don’t know, Gin. I just felt like I needed to get out of there, to breathe for a second. It’s just… I needed us to be on a level playing field and things are… we’re, well—“
“Kinky,” Ginny interrupts, shrugging her shoulders. “I mean I figured that night at the bar when you couldn’t stop asking for Daddy—“
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Harry grumbles, covering his ears. “Really, Hermione?”
She narrows her eyes and glares at her friend, “Hey! Don’t kink shame me.”
“Go take a shower,” Ginny mumbles, waving him away. “This is a grown up conversation.”
Harry sulks but heads down the hallway to their bedroom and Hermione scrubs a hand over her face, accepting the cigarette back between her fingers.
“I was hoping we’d never have to discuss this but yes, I suppose that’s an appropriate word,” she says, taking another drag. “But more than that, we just had sex this morning, Ginny. For the first time! I mean— my vag still aches.”
“So take a day or two and then ask to meet somewhere neutral or have him over to your place instead. Don’t make him wait too long though, don’t let this fester. If you’re angry, have it out. If you’re sad, let him know,” Ginny says, patting her on the leg.
She’s right. She only wants a little bit of breathing room, doesn’t intend to drag this out for too long. She just needs to get her thoughts together, needs to come to terms with her own feelings before sitting down with him.
She has questions, things she wants to know, primarily why he kept this from her. But she also knows that there’s something about this that genuinely upsets him, that he finds difficult to talk about. She doesn’t want to force him to relive something painful, she just wants to understand.
And, not to mention, she wants to know if there are any other ex-wives wandering around.
“Why are men like this?” She asks, letting her head fall back on the window frame.
Ginny sighs and leans her head against her shoulder, “Troublesome fools. I wish I didn’t love them so much.”
Draco wallows. There’s no other way to put it. Of course, it’s his own fault. He’s done this to himself.
He frowns, lips curled down and eyes narrowed as he walks through the hospital, back into the Emergency Room. If there was ever a day he wanted to call in sick and force one of his colleagues to take his shift for once, it was that day.
But instead he’s there, his white coat on over his dark blue scrubs, worn-in Nike’s tapping against the linoleum and his stethoscope around his neck. He still looks the part, still looks like Dr. Malfoy, still attempts to flash a polite smile at the nurses and his patients.
Cracks a joke when it’s appropriate, finds other ways to distract when it’s not.
It’s been a light day, just a few stitches and a fractured wrist. He’s been able to pass it all on to his interns, letting them have some supervised experience, and had slipped away to grab a coffee while things were slow. He knows it can change in a single second, that by the time he gets back to the ER it could be overflowing.
As he walks through the hall, it’s strange, quiet, without his watch buzzing against his wrist every once in a while. He’s so used to Hermione texting him throughout the day and looking down to see her sweet messages, smiling at nothing as he works on patients and consults on cases.
The nurses always catch him, though. They always seem to know when something is going on in his life; when he’s happy they pat his cheek like he’s their son and when he’s upset they rub his arm soothingly.
His arm has been rubbed no less than 10 times already that day.
Which is why it’s no surprise when Blaise approaches him in the ER, a tablet in his hands and a frown on his face, Joanne — his favourite nurse — walking quickly in the other direction. He groans to himself and takes a gulp of his coffee.
“What’s with the long face?” Blaise asks, nudging his side with his elbow. “The nurses are talking, they’re very concerned.”
Draco shrugs and plucks the tablet out of his hands, reading over the patients currently in the ER, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” Blaise asks, leaning against the counter. “So this has nothing to do with Hermione finding out about Pansy yesterday?”
He curses under his breath. Fucking Theo. He’d told his best mate as soon as Hermione had left, initially calling his ex-wife to grumble at her for sending the texts. When she hadn’t answered, he’d called Theo to give him shit, too.
Instead, Theo had torn a strip off of him. First, for trying to blame his wife for something that was Draco’s own fault. And then, for not being honest with the only woman he’s ever felt so comfortable with.
In his excuses — “I wasn’t lying, I just didn’t tell her. It’s not the same thing!” — he had realized the exact type of asshole he sounded like. Hermione was right as she left his flat, he lied by omission about an important piece of his past. Did that make him a liar? Was she questioning his honesty?
He deserved Hermione’s ire, Theo’s too.
“I’m going to kill Theo,” he grumbles, shaking his head and approving a test as it comes through. “What did he tell you?”
Blaise shrugs his shoulders, “Just that you didn’t tell Hermione about Pansy and that she found out from Astoria’s text. Christ, mate. Why didn’t you just tell her?”
His watch buzzes against his wrist before he can respond and his head snaps down to look, hope spreading in his chest that it’s Hermione. It’s not, though, it’s Theo.
Theo: Send her some flowers.
Draco rolls his eyes and shoves his hand into his pocket. He knows his friends mean well, but he came to work for a distraction, to let the self-inflicted pain in his chest lessen just a little bit. Instead, it’s only growing.
“I don’t know, Blaise. It’s not like I’ve been asking myself the same question since she left my flat,” he tells him, gesturing for him to follow as he walks towards a bed. “C’mon, I need to check on these sutures.”
Blaise follows him and they peek around the curtain, smiling at the young patient that’s wincing slightly as the intern sutures a deep cut on their cheek. He hums as he looks it over, taking note of the technique.
“Suture type?” He asks, even though he can see it.
The intern — a tall woman named Dr. Katie Bell — ties off a suture and snips it with the scissors before she answers, “Intermittent. The cut is a bit jagged so this gives me more control over closing the wound.”
He nods in agreement and gives another smile to the patient, “Good choice, Dr. Bell.”
He and Blaise wander away, giving the intern space to work. If there’s one thing he’s learned as an attending, it’s that giving interns the space to work without a hovering supervisor is the best way to train a new doctor. They’re nervous enough as it is.
It’s like when you’re learning to drive. He always found himself to be more nervous, more anxious, when his father was in the car, death grip on the handle by the door and clear panic on his face. It was easier to practice on his own without the threat and fear of his father exploding at him.
“It was stupid, I know that, but I hate spending even a second of my day thinking about her,” he says, moving back over to the nurse’s station. “I just thought it didn’t matter, we aren’t together, we don’t talk. It’s not like with Tori where we’re still friends. I didn’t think there’d be any reason, any chance, that we’d ever run into her.”
Blaise hums and crosses his arms over his chest, “I don’t think it’s the fact that you have two ex-wives, mate. I mean, she’s fine with Astoria, right?”
Draco nods his head. He’s been happy with how well Hermione gets along with Astoria.
“You should’ve just told her flat out that you’ve been married twice. Better to be honest than for shit to come out when you least expect it.”
His watch buzzes again and he feels like Pavlov’s dog, his heart beating faster at the feeling against his wrist. He knows it’s not Hermione but the hope still blooms.
Theo: Does she like chocolate? Maybe send her a basket of treats.
He ignores it again, flipping his wrist so he can’t see the small text bubble from Theo.
“Yes, Blaise, thanks. I know what I should have done, but I didn’t. And now Hermione is— I don’t even know. The way she looked at me… I’ve been through two divorces and never felt anything like that before.”
Blaise pats him on the shoulder and sighs, “That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”
“I think it means I fucked this up,” he says. “I tried to talk about it with her but she just wanted space. I don’t blame her, it was too little, too late. I know she needs time to think about things and come to terms with her feelings but… things were good. They were so good and I completely buggered it up.”
Another buzz of his watch and huffs audibly, tilting his wrist up.
Theo: A spa weekend. Tori said she loved the spa.
He’s so annoyed with his friend that he actually takes the time to pull his phone from his scrubs pocket and unlock it, navigating to his messages. Before he can reply to Theo, though, another text slides down from the top of the screen, his phone vibrating in his palm.
His watch vibrates, too, and it’s the same pavlovian response: increased heart rate and the bloom of hope.
Hermione😇
Hermione: actually left my flat today and it feels weird not telling you
Hermione: i’m at the café, just got here
Hermione: anyway i hope work isn’t too bad today
Draco: Thank you for telling me, Hermione. I always want to know that you’re safe. I hope you’re having a lovely day.
“I know that smile,” Blaise laughs, patting him on the back. “She text you?”
Draco hums, “Yeah. It’s not our usual but it’s something, more than she gave me yesterday, more than I probably deserve.
A phantom hand rubs against the back of his arm and he turns around, a hint of a smile still on his lips. It’s Joanne, a pair of surgical gloves in her hand, and she grins when she sees his expression.
“Ah, there he is,” she coos, palm coming up to pat his cheek. “You’re too handsome to be frowning, Dr. Malfoy.”
He sighs and shoots her a small wink, “You think so? Even if I tell you I’ve buggered up my relationship?”
She looks unsurprised, giving him one last pat to his cheek before walking off, “The handsome ones usually do.”
Hermione 😇
Hermione: are you awake?
Draco: Yes, Hermione. Are you OK?
Hermione: are you working tomorrow?
Draco: No… What’s wrong, Hermione?
Hermione: i’m sorry to ask this of you, but can you bring me my blanket?
He’s up and out of bed before he even responds, throwing on an old university sweater and slipping on some thick, white athletic socks. He pads into his living room and gathers her blanket from where it’s folded on the back of his couch and slips it into a tote bag that she’d left at his place once: white with tiny embroidered daisies.
Draco: Yes, of course. Do you need anything else?
He eyes the sweater he’s left hanging on the back of the chair and grabs that too, folding it and sticking it under the blanket. It’s wishful thinking that she’ll want his clothes, but he’s hopeful. It’s hard not to be.
Hermione: no thanks, just the blanket please
He’s pulling on a knit cap and stuffing his feet into his sneakers without untying them — he never does that, knows how bad it is for the heel, but he’s in a rush — and makes his way down to the garage, tote bag in hand.
The streets are fairly empty this late at night in the middle of the week and he drives as if on autopilot, the radio playing softly in the background. He’s practically giddy that she texted him, that she needed something from him. It’s just the blanket, not him, but the blanket has meaning.
It’s the first thing he really got for her as a token of comfort, as something she could wrap around herself, that she could sink into, to feel safe and warm. He sighs heavily as he thinks about why she needs the blanket so urgently.
It’s only been two days since she left his flat with tears in her eyes. Only two days but it feels like an eternity. He’s been raking himself over the coals ever since, angrily berating himself when he’s not at work, only his cold, lonely flat to keep him company.
It’s just so like him to ruin another relationship. Two failed marriages that were never quite right, half a dozen casual and semi-serious relationships and then Hermione: the only relationship that’s felt like coming home.
Ruined by his own selfishness, his own stupidity.
It would have been so easy to tell her, “I’ve been married twice, my second marriage was a disaster. I still find it difficult to talk about.” But he’d ignored it instead, just wished it away instead of dealing with it like an adult.
He hopes beyond hope that he hasn’t completely ruined the trust in their relationships, something so important in any relationship but even more so in theirs.
He parks on the street in front of Hermione’s building and takes a deep steadying breath before hopping out of his car and grabbing the tote bag. The elevator is working for once and it takes him hardly any time at all before he’s standing awkwardly in front of her door.
He knocks and waits for a few seconds, mind racing, trying to figure out if he should wait or just leave the blanket. Does she want to see him? He wants to see her, but this isn’t the time to be selfish.
He puts the bag down in front of her door and turns, walking back to the elevator, when he hears the door open behind him and then Hermione’s soft, sweet voice.
“Draco?”
He spins around and winces, apologizing, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you’d want to see me. I was just going to leave the blanket and… head out.”
“No, I’m— I’m glad to see you,” she says, shaking her head as she bends over to pick up the big. “I— I’ve missed you.”
Her curls are wild and messy, like she’s been tossing and turning in bed until they’re tangled and matted. She looks tired and a little sad, arms wrapped around herself, giving herself a hug. He’s seen her do it a few times and has always tucked her into his own chest, but he’s not sure if she wants him to touch her like that.
Nothing had hurt quite a much as when she’d asked him not to touch her. His own fault. He knows that.
Draco swallows heavily and approaches her, “I’ve missed you too, baby.”
“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to— I’ve missed you too, Hermione.”
They stand quietly, awkwardly, facing each other in her hallway. Hermione swings the tote bag lightly in her hand and sighs, “Thank you for bringing the blanket, I just couldn’t fall asleep and I figured the blanket was the next best thing.”
He tilts his head in confusion and asks, “Next best thing to what?”
“To you,” she says plainly, looking up at him from under her lashes. “Maybe… maybe we can meet tomorrow, if you’re not busy. To talk.”
Yes, yes, that’s exactly what he wants. Just a chance to explain himself, to tell her everything, absolutely everything, no matter how painful it is, if that’s what she wants.
“Yes, of course, Hermione. I can come back tomorrow and pick you up, we can talk at my place.”
She shakes her head and winces, “Oh, no, um… can we go someplace else? Maybe a café?”
He agrees easily, willing to give her anything she wants, “Yes. Anywhere you want, just text me when and where and I’ll be there, Hermione.”
She gives him a soft smile, looks down at her bare toes, painted a light pink, before looking back up with a light flush on her cheeks, “I-I want to ask you for a hug but I don’t know if I’ll be able to let go and I just can’t right now. I miss you, so much, but I need answers, Draco.”
“I understand,” he tells her, and he does even though it’s a painful pill to swallow. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. I’m sorry for breaking your trust.”
Hermione nods her head and takes a step back, holding the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow,” Draco agrees, giving her a soft smile.
The door closes but instead of walking back to the elevator, he leans against the wall and tips his head back. He needs this to work out. He doesn’t have another choice.
Chapter 19: Something Precious
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione walks to the café, leaving extra early and taking her time, trying to breathe evenly and focus. The pavement is busy and she walks in the thick of a group of people, her ear buds in and her nostalgia playlist covering the sounds around her, moving with the flow of the crowd.
It had been torture getting out of bed that morning, her pillow soft and plush beneath her cheek, the sheet cool against her skin. At some point during the night she had shoved all of her blankets off the bed, sitting in a heap on the floor, instead wrapping herself up in the throw blanket that Draco had dropped off.
She was confused at first, her nose filled with the scent of the man, her body telling her that the texture of the blanket meant she was at his flat and not her own. But, as her eyes opened and adjusted to the light — no blackout curtains in her flat, not like in his — she quickly realized that she was still at home, on her own.
That Draco had stopped by the night before just because she’d asked for her blanket, that he’d nearly left it at her door, knocked, and hopped into the elevator. Just the usual, typical things that he did, selfless and thinking only of her.
And yet her sneakers scuff the pavement and the wind bites at her cheeks as she walks along the street, looking for the café she agreed to meet at, trying to think of what she wants to say to the man who had seemed so perfect.
She should have known, no one can be that perfect.
Any other morning she’d still be in her bed, barely peeking out from her blankets with her phone in her hand, scrolling through cute videos or making her way through one of her ebooks. But it isn’t any other morning, it’s the morning where she’s supposed to confront her boyfriend about his second ex-wife.
The Wheatus song doesn’t help, she supposes, blaring in her ears about being a teenage dirtbag, riling her up instead of calming her down, but the playlist is one of the only things that makes her feel confident, comfortable, right now.
It feels like she’s marching to fight with a man she only wants to curl around, press her nose into his neck and wrap her legs around his waist. That’s why she insisted on the public meeting place, for fear that her very selfish desires would overtake her need for some ans— bzzz.
Draco 🥰🥵
Draco: I'm here, in the back corner.
Draco: I ordered you an oat milk latte and a croissant. I hope that's OK.
Draco: See you soon ❤️
Hermione doesn’t realize she’s stopped in the middle of the pavement until someone knocks into her, muttering under their breath about what kind of person stops in the middle of the pavement, and she’s knocked back into the present. One of her ear buds pops out, falling to the ground, the music momentarily blaring loudly into the air— ‘cause I’m just a teenage dirtbag baby, yeah I’m just a teenage dirtb—
“Fuck,” she mutters, swiftly bending down to pick up the rogue ear bud and slip it back into her ear, taking a few quick steps to get back into the crowd.
Her eyes are still glued to her phone, though, staring at the small red heart that Draco has sent accompanying his texts. In the months they’ve been seeing each other, texting each other, he’s never once sent her an emoji and if she wasn’t looking at it with her own two eyes, she wouldn’t believe it.
She doesn’t bother answering, the green overhang of the café visible just a hundred metres up ahead. Her fingers clench around her phone, holding it tightly to herself, as her feet lead her to the café and her free hand pulls the door open.
A small bell announces her arrival, accompanied by the sound of the coffee grinder and the milk steamer, the little oven warmer dinging when the pastry is finished. She’s been in this very moment before, months ago with an injured hand and a new contact in her phone, a very adult man waiting for her in the back corner.
There’s even an oat milk latte on the table.
Except this time, they already know each other. They know each other intimately, they’ve fostered a relationship beyond simply boyfriend and girlfriend, they’ve learned each other inside and out.
Or so she thought.
And it’s with that thought that all her frustration and the little bits of anger and sadness flood back, clearing her mind of the hug him and kiss him, stopping her from launching herself at the big, soft man and cuddling into his arms.
She waves — and cringes immediately because who waves? Especially when he’s her literal boyfriend, not just some random person she’s come to meet for a coffee — and takes a few soft steps until she’s standing behind the free chair. He looks nervous, his fingers tangled together in front of him on the table, a half-smile on his lips.
“Hi.”
She swallows the lump in her throat and responds with a similar, stilted, “Hello.”
Clearing her throat, Hermione carefully pulls the chair back and slides into it, tucking her bag behind her back and against the chair. She can’t think of anything to say other than: “So now you use emojis?”
Draco, with his stupidly blond hair, rough beard and thick framing lashes, frowns at her. “I used emojis before.”
“No,” she laughs, shaking her head. “You didn’t. You’ve never used emojis before.”
His fingers squeeze his phone, looking so small in his big palm. For a few seconds she’s taken back to just a few days earlier, to the way she’d needed both hands to hold his larger phone.
“I have an emoji attached to your name,” he says, shifting in his chair, looking uncomfortable.
Hermione lights up and holds out her hand. “Really? Let me see!”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Come on,” she whines, reaching out to pull her oat latte closer, to stir the light top of foam into the coffee. “I want to see.”
Her pout might be taking it too far but it makes Draco sigh, his jaw clenching, just the slightest hint of tension in the line of his shoulders. He puts his phone down on the table and rests his elbow next to it, his chin in the palm of his hand.
“Hermione—“
“Please,” she says, exaggerating her pout. “For me, please Da—“
She cuts herself off, just the first syllable passing through her lips. And it’s beyond awkward, this terrible silence between them that feels insanely thick and sticky, a mess between them, a barrier. This ignored issue that is now so obvious.
Wincing, she looks down at her latte and squirms in her chair. Leave it to her to be so far beyond inappropriate in a moment like this, with so many serious things to discuss. Leave it to her to nearly use that word in such a public setting.
So she quietly tries to apologize. “I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t said that. I can’t believe that I—“
“It’s the angel emoji— beside your name,” he interrupts, clearing his throat and pausing until she looks up at him. “Because that’s what you are, Hermione, you’re like an angel to me.”
Her chin wobbles, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. She can feel the tears building up, burning her eyes the more she tries to blink, to try to stop them from falling. And it’s just like him, to say these sickeningly sweet things, to make her feel like the most special person in the world.
“Hermione—“ he tries to say.
But she shakes her head, cutting him off. The words rush from her lips, all stuck together. “How could you?”
“I… Hermione, I didn’t— I just—”
Draco cuts himself off and shakes his head. He hates it, hates this. He hates the way he’s reduced her to tears again, only a few minutes into their meeting. They haven’t even discussed anything, just some light chit chat, and already he’s hurt her.
His stomach had been flipping all morning, all night, counting down the hours and the minutes and the seconds until he could see her again, until he could explain himself. But now that he’s here, now that they’re staring at each other, now that he can see the light pink polish on her nails and the pretty silver bow ring on her finger, he can’t remember what he wanted to say.
He wishes she had come to his flat or allowed him into hers, that they didn’t have to do this in such a public place, that she didn’t have to twist her features and squeeze her eyes shut so tightly that it obviously pinches.
They’re stuck in this moment and Draco doesn’t know how to get out of it. He doesn’t know how to comfort her, he doesn’t know how to be her Daddy. At the moment, it feels like he never really was.
It’s as though all of the progress they’d made in their relationship has completely vanished. Like the few days they’ve been apart have really been five years and they’re now essentially strangers to each other, strangers who, at one time, were intimate. Who knew every freckle, every laugh, the exact sound of a rumbling tummy or that when her feet are cold she wants to tuck them up underneath his backside.
He feels entirely out of his depth, like none of those things ever happened, and not at all like the 40-year-old man that he’s supposed to be.
But then Hermione sniffles across from him, looking down into her latte, and—
He knows that one. He knows the sound of that sniffle: short, soft, wet and soon to be accompanied by tears if he doesn’t do something. So he reaches forward and places his hand on hers, just barely squeezing, letting her know that he’s there, that he’s not going anywhere.
It’s electric, feeling her skin against his. The slight shudder that runs across her shoulders is unmistakeable as he rubs his thumb over her knuckles, over the little scar near her thumb thanks to a burn from a temperamental kettle. He doesn’t need anything back, he just needs her to know that no matter what, through the entirety of this, his first thought and his last thought is always her.
He may not have shown it the best, he may not have put his, proverbial, best foot forward, but it’s always been true. And though this moment has felt like a hole he’ll never be able to pull himself out of, she surprises him and turns her hand over.
Her fingers fit through his perfectly, squeezing once, as if to assure him that she’s there, too. That she’s not going anywhere, that they have an issue and will no doubt continue to have issues, but this— their relationship, means something. And neither of them are willing to let it go.
“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he says to start. “I made… such a big mistake not telling you about this but please believe me when I tell you it wasn’t malicious. I wasn’t trying to hurt you and I wasn’t purposely keeping this a secret. It’s just something that I have difficulty talking about.”
He shakes his head and drags his fingers through his hair, musing it more than it already is. Hermione frowns across from him but keeps her eyes down, looking at their clasped hands.
“I know that sounds like an excuse. I know it does, but it’s the truth. I mean,” he sighs and scrubs his hands over his eyes, “I’m already divorced. You already knew that I was divorced. So it’s not… it’s not that I’ve been divorced twice, that’s not why I didn’t tell you. It was just— it was a bad split.”
Hermione shifts in her seat. “Can you just… start at the beginning? Just tell me— tell me the basics, please.”
So he does, nodding his head and pulling his hand back to wrap around his own coffee, just black, no fancy milk, after a last brush of his thumb to her knuckles.
“A few years ago, I married a woman named Pansy. We were married for six months before we separated and we divorced another six months after that. It was quick, it was a huge mistake, and it’s a part of my life that I don’t like to think about.”
He gets it out quickly, each word perfectly practiced over the last few days, not sharing anything other than the facts. None of the emotions, none of the issues they faced, just the cold, hard facts.
Hermione looks less than pleased, lips pressed tightly together as she stares at him. “So that’s it? You kept it a secret because you don’t like to think about it?”
It’s oversimplified, but it’s accurate. They dated for a short time, they were married a little longer and then she dragged him through a messy divorce. The break was clean after that and he hasn’t spoken to her since their final divorce proceeding, no spousal maintenance, no need to keep in touch.
Just memories he tries to push away and avoid thinking about.
“Things were bad,” he tries to explain. “We realized too late that we were incompatible… it’s complicated, Hermione. But it’s all done, it has been for a few years now. I haven’t spoken to her since and I don’t intend to.”
She frowns. “You’re not going to see her then? With Tori?”
“I don’t think so,” he says, shaking his head.
He doesn’t. He hasn’t even thought about the content of Astoria’s text, just the fact that his ex-wife has overstepped again. He’ll never understand the friendship she has with Pansy, and he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t give her the right to force this.
Draco has made his feelings clear to his friends that he doesn’t want to speak about Pansy nor does he want to see her. He doesn’t even want to think about her if he can help it.
“You’re not going to see your ex-wife?” She asks, incredulous.
He watches as she brings her mug up to take a long sip of her oat latte, letting her eyes close as she savours the taste. Reaching across the table, he pulls the still-warm croissant out of the little paper envelope and lays it out for her to eat.
And then he winces when he realizes he’s probably overstepped, still unsure about where they stand. “Sorry, I— No, Hermione, no I don’t think I’m going to see her. I told you, I haven’t seen her since our divorce and I have no desire to.”
She’s quiet, staring down at the croissant, before she looks back up at him shyly. “Can you split it for me? Please?”
Draco happily digs his thumbs into the pastry, tearing it down the middle and arranging it back on the paper. She gives him a happy noise, the one she makes when she’s about to eat something yummy, usually accompanied by a— ah, there, a little wiggle.
“Thank you,” she says softly, picking up a piece to chew on. Only once she’s finished does she speak again. “I guess I still don’t understand why you couldn’t tell me. I can see that it upsets you and that you don’t really want to talk about it but… you could have just told me exactly this. I would have accepted it.”
And that’s the big question, isn’t it? He doesn’t really know, other than that he hated to think about it. Just another mistake he’d made, another failed marriage, another failed relationship with someone who didn’t appropriately understand him, whose wants and desires in life did not match up with his own.
At a certain point, it’s embarrassing. At a certain point, he sounds like an imbecile.
“I-I don’t know, Hermione. I know that’s not the answer you want to hear, but I truly don’t know. I was thinking only of myself and I am so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. You have to know that I would never hurt you, not on purpose.”
She chews carefully and takes another long sip of her latte. Draco has barely touched his own coffee but as she slowly nods her head, as though coming to terms with his words and understanding what he’s trying to say, he finally takes a sip.
“I know you wouldn’t,” she says. “That’s why it hurt so much though. I mean, this is… this is more than a regular relationship. I’ve trusted you with things that I have never told another soul, that I had never even admitted to myself, and to have you hide things from me, when we share something so… so—“
“—precious,” he finishes for her. “What we share together is something precious and invaluable.”
Hermione rolls her lips together and nods her head, “To have you hide things from me when we share something so precious is painful, Draco. To think that I trusted you with things about myself that even I didn’t know about, but you couldn’t do the same.”
It’s in there, in these words, that Draco finds the ache in his chest coming back. All to save himself a few uncomfortable minutes, he kept the truth of the situation from Hermione.
“I just can’t help but wonder what else you’re not telling me,” she says, after a few more seconds. “Not to mention, I still have questions about your marriage, about this woman you clearly loved enough to marry.”
“Nothing, Hermione. I’m not hiding anything, I swear.” he says. “I know you have questions, but it’s complicated—“
Her mug hits the table a little bit harder than it should and she huffs. “Stop saying it’s complicated. I get it. I just… I don’t understand why you can’t tell me.”
He shakes his head and scrubs his palm over his face. “It’s not something I like to talk about.”
Hermione scoffs, “Do you think I liked hearing that you’ve been divorced twice?”
“Then why do you want to know so badly?”
The flat of his palm collides with the table and he huffs, closing his eyes tightly. He doesn’t lose his temper often, he doesn’t, he can’t in his occupation, but even the thought of Pansy is enough to make him become irate.
Her bottom lip quivers and she pushes back from the table. “Don’t get mad at me, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The ache grows, spreading from his chest down to his stomach, making it flip and flop, up to his brain, making his head hurt.
“I’m not— I know you didn’t, Hermione. I’m sorry. I just— I don’t know what you want from me. I told you it was a nasty divorce, do you really need to hear all the dirty details?”
“I’m not asking for the dirty details, I just don’t understand why it all has to be such a secret,” she tells him, her voice a harsh whisper. “I just want you to explain it to me!”
The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, before he can think of something else to say. He just wants this conversation to be over, he just wants to take his girlfriend home and dress her in her pajamas, to wrap her up on the couch in her blanket, to hold her close to his chest.
To take her into his bed.
He just wants things to go back to how they were and he feels trapped, so he lets the words come out.
“I wanted kids and she didn’t, alright? She— she lied, she told me… she told me exactly what I wanted to hear and then as soon as we were married, it all changed. Alright? Is that enough?”
His chest is heavy but his shoulders feel suspiciously lighter. Closing his eyes, he clenches his hands and rests his elbows on the table, letting his forehead slump down onto his fists. Fractured memories of their fights come back to him, filling his head.
The horrible words they said to each other, the accusations they threw at each other. His anger getting the best of him on more than one occasion. And if Hermione knows about that, if she knows that he can behave like that, that he can let his anger get the best of him, that he can shout and yell and throw his fist into the wall, why would she stay with him?
He can’t tell her that. He can’t let her find out.
Shaking his head, he stands up, prepared to leave, when her hand closes around his wrist and stops him. He doesn’t look at her, just stands and lets his lungs fill with air. Her fingers squeeze tight, tighter, until he finally looks down at her.
“Thank you for telling me,” she says quietly, looking up at him. “You just have to know how it looks from my point of view, Draco. Two very short marriages followed by two divorces, one ex-wife that you’re still friends with and another that you can’t even think about. You have to know that I would question… well, that I would wonder…”
She lets the unspoken words disappear into the air between them and Draco picks up on them without needing to hear them. How much of it was his fault? What’s wrong with him? What did he do to cause two divorces, so many years apart?
“About my role in it.”
She shrugs and tugs him closer to the table, “Please sit down, I don’t want you to leave. I’m just trying to be honest with you.”
Honest: what he wasn’t. But she’s not throwing it in his face, she’s just doing what she thinks is right. And it is right. In this entire scenario, she’s been the grownup and he’s been the child. She’s been the responsible one and he’s been the mess.
So he sits back down, folding his arms over his chest and she speaks again. “You don’t have to tell me anything else. I just needed to know… I needed to know if there was something I’d been overlooking. But children— that’s a big difference so I-I get it. I get it, Draco.”
The silence between them is back to that thick, sticky air. It feels like something they have to wade through, that weighs heavy on their clothes and their hair. They feel kilometres apart even though they’re next to each other.
And then—
“Does that mean that you agree?” He asks quietly, fingers playing with his coffee mug.
“Agree with what?”
He sucks on his teeth and runs his hand over his beard, scratching lightly. “With me, about kids.”
And it’s far too early. She’s way too young. This is not a conversation they need to be having right now, especially not in public. For all his insistence on taking things slow, on waiting, they’ve jumped to a conversation that has no reason to surface yet.
But Draco watches her carefully, sees the way she nibbles on her bottom lip and toys with an errant curl by her chin before she slowly nods her head and gives him a very simple, curt, “Yes.”
He leaves it at that, her simple answer more than enough, more than he deserves in this scenario. This isn’t about them, it’s about him and his mistake and his deception and he knows that.
“Does that mean you still want to be with me?” He asks, trying not to look at her with too much hope.
He hopes, of course, he can’t help it, but—
“Of course I do, Draco. Of course I still want to be with you,” she tells him, voice strong. “I just wanted an explanation, that’s all. But these past few days I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you and then last night I needed a piece of you so badly that I had to call you. I still want to be with you, Draco.”
“Come back to my flat?”
The mug clinks as she places it back on the table and the chair scratches against the floor as she stands, bag hung over her arm. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Maybe it’s because things still feel so frail between them, so unsure, that when Draco unlocks the door to his flat, Hermione is on him so quickly, jumping up and just hoping that he catches her. He does, of course, wrapping his arms around her waist before trailing his hands down to cup her backside.
Their lips find each other in the next half a second, barely a breath between them, and Hermione’s fingers find his hair. It’s still long, like it was those days before when he surprised her in his own bed. When he had climbed in and told her that he needed her.
She likes it at this length, curling at the back of his neck and falling over his forehead. His beard scratches her cheeks and chin, rough against her skin but she rubs harder. She needs to feel it against her, needs to know that he’s there, that they’re together.
“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles between kisses. “God, baby, I’m so fucking sorry.”
She swallows his apologies, capturing his lips and tickling his tongue with her own. It’s alright, she tells him in the kiss. I know you’re sorry, she expresses with every tug of her fingers in his hair.
“I thought I’d— I thought I’d never get to hold you again, never get to feel you against me,” he breathes, still trying to talk and Hermione just wants him to kiss her. “I thought I’d have to give you up—“
“Stop talking, Daddy,” she whines, pressing her chest and her belly and her core against his abdomen. “Please stop talking.”
He groans into her mouth and walks them into his flat, tossing his keys on the table as she drops her bag in the hall. She thinks, hopes, he’s walking towards his bedroom, that in the next few seconds she’ll feel his soft bed beneath her back.
She’s distracted by his tongue tracing over her teeth and the way his hands grip her bum, doesn’t even notice when he does lay her back on his bed until he pulls away just long enough to tug her sweater up and over her head.
She’s bare-chested, didn’t bother to wear a bra underneath her top, and Draco groans in appreciation, his mouth moving down her jaw to her throat, kissing a line all the way to the swell of her breast before letting his tongue circle his nipple. He doesn’t play with her or tease this time.
“Can’t fuck you,” he says against her nipple, lips wrapping around the hard nub and sucking, tongue flicking. “Mouth or fingers, baby?”
She shakes her head dramatically, whining, “No, Daddy. Your cock, please.”
She’s had it before, she thinks, she knows, and she wants it again.
His teeth are sharp against her sensitive skin, a reprimanding bite. “Don’t have the patience. Mouth or fingers, baby, pick one.”
Hermione feels like she deserves more than that. “Both. I want both, Daddy, please.”
He grips her waist firmly as he moves down the bed, pulling her leggings and her knickers down together, leaving them tangled around her feet, her socks still covering her toes. He was right, though, he’s beyond impatient, spreading her thighs anyway and pressing lewd, open-mouthed kisses against her cunt.
Her head flies back, eyes rolling, as she watches him pull back for a fraction of a second to spread her folds with his thumb and finger spit against her, rubbing it against her with his fingers.
“Oh fuck,” she whines, fingers finding his hair again as he presses his index finger inside of her. “Oh my god, Daddy.”
He fucks her with short, hard jabs, but only a few before he’s working his middle finger in beside the other. Draco doesn’t take his time, just curls his fingers and repeatedly bumps them against that fleshy spot inside of her that he swears exists but she’s never been able to feel with her own fingers.
He flattens his tongue and attacks her clit, makes her squirm underneath his hands and try to move away from the stimulation. But he’s relentless.
“C’mon, baby, you can do it for me,” he mumbles against her. “You’re gonna come for Daddy, aren’t you? Need you to come all over my fingers like the good little girl that you are.”
And—
Her vision whites as her eyes squeeze shut, her belly flexing as her hips buck. It’s almost painful, the way he’s pressing his fingers into her and she doesn’t think she’s ever been so wet in her life. When she opens her eyes again, her chest heaving, she swears she can feel drops of something on the insides of her thighs.
And there definitely is, she can see it, when Draco pulls his fingers from inside of her and wipes them on her belly, leaving wet streaks of her come. She shivers, her legs twitching as her orgasm continues to run through her and Draco rubs a calming palm down her side.
“Oh, good girl. That was a good one, hm? Keeping going baby, let Daddy see.”
His thumb find her clit, lightly flicking over it, prolonging the contractions in her cunt and the shivers up her spine. With his free hand, he digs his hand into his joggers and pushes them down just enough to pull his cock out.
Kneeling over her, her strips his fist along himself, quick and fast and hard, watching her teeth chatter and the way she squirms underneath him.
It must be because of how close this all seemed to ending, to changing, that he groans barely a minute later, hot stripes of come landing on her belly, over the drying streaks of her own come. He finally stops flicking her clit with his thumb when she whines — “Too much, Daddy.” — and just remains kneeling over her, catching his breath.
“I’m not letting you leave again,” he says, eyes wild. “We’re not doing this again.”
She huffs a laugh and lets her finger drop to her belly, running it through the thick come that’s slowly drying. “Don’t hide things, then. I don’t want to leave.”
“I won’t,” he swears. “I won’t, Hermione. It’s all yours, everything, anything you want to know.”
His fingers joins hers, but he’s not playing, he’s not just dragging his come over her skin. He rubs it into her until there’s a tacky layer covering her belly. Only then does he move off of her hips and lay down beside her, soft cock curled against his belly.
Only then does she remember that her leggings are still tangled around her feet, but she still doesn’t move to take them off.
“Nap?” He asks, holding his arm out for her.
She rolls into his chest and cuddles against him, nodding her head. “A nap sounds good.”
She’s nearly asleep, she thinks, eyes closed and limbs feeling loose, when she feels him press his lips to her forehead and whisper into her hair, “I’m sorry, baby.”
“Later,” she whispers, not wanting to disturb the moment.
Chapter 20: Tell Daddy
Notes:
As always, my stories are never a guide to any type of play, whether it be BDSM, DD/lg, or other kink. There is a very, very brief conversation when play has already started about safe words. Please negotiate in the way that makes you the most comfortable.
That being said, everything in this chapter between Draco and Hermione is very much safe, sane and consensual.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s like they were never upset with each other. It’s like nothing ever happened, like she didn’t wake up that day, sated and happy, only to find those texts. And it’s not because she no longer cares or has forgotten. She is entirely aware of the situation, feels it tingling in the back of her mind when she opens her eyes the next morning and sees him first thing.
His ruffled, obnoxiously blond hair, those sleepy, silver eyes, pointed nose and sharp cheekbones, wrinkled pillow lines on one side of his face. She looks at him and she’s happy to be back in his arms, but she knows, deep down, that they have more talking to do.
She has more questions to ask him, needs more reassurances about his previous relationships. She needs him to know that she cannot sit by if there's a chance he goes back to his ex-wife. She thinks, from their conversation, that the relationship is long dead and buried, twice, even three-times, over, but… they were married. They were husband and wife, just as Draco and Astoria were.
For the moment, she has enough answers. She heard the way his voice trembled and the way his eyes clouded over, as though warring with himself over what to say or how to explain. She saw it and she heard it from his own lips, but seeing and hearing are different from feeling.
For the moment, though, she’s content. She’s content to leave their conversation and accept his explanations because no matter how hard she had tried to push him away, to ignore him, in their time apart, there’s something about him that draws her in.
There’s something about lying in his arms, about curling around his body and feeling the way he presses his nose into her hair, smelling the shampoo from her curls. Something about the way his fingers press into her back, clutching her, like he’s afraid she’ll run away. The way he presses his big, muscular thigh between her own and the way his breath blows warm against her neck and the small soft little curls of hair that line his chest and down, down, down his belly—
It’s right where she wants to be, there, in his arms. So despite the talking they should do and the conversation they ought to have, she snuggles in closer and breathes in his familiar scent. She doesn’t ruin the moment because she knows that this is something that they both want and there will be time to talk later.
“Hi,” Draco says quietly, voice still rough from sleep.
She mimics him with her own, “Hi.”
Hermione nuzzles her nose into his chest, feels the soft brush of the hairs on her cheek, and presses her lips to his pec. She lets her eyes and her hands explore him, all the while he watches, carefully. He tracks her fingers as they trail over muscle and fat, where he’s a bit soft in the middle, over the line of his pants.
He has a man’s body. Someone who works long hours and does his best to take care of himself, comfortable to rest her head on, strong enough to make her feel safe, to warm her up, to carry her if she asks. No rippling abdominal muscles but she doesn’t need that, doesn’t even want that.
On second thought, she decides, he has a Daddy’s body.
“Having fun?” He asks, clearing his throat and tucking his arm behind his head.
It makes his bicep bulge attractively, stealing her attention from his eyes, and he clicks his tongue softly until she meets his gaze again. She whispers, “Just looking.”
He hums. “Mmm, I think you’re doing more than just looking.”
He traps her wandering fingers and pulls her hand up to his mouth to pressa a soft kiss to her fingertip. She giggles girlishly, yelping when he nips at the skin.
“Am I not allowed to touch you?” She asks.
“‘Course you are, baby,” he tells her, a yawn slipping through his lips. “You can touch me anytime you want.”
“You didn’t let me last night.”
Draco holds his free arm out until she shimmies back against him, her cheek against his pec and her leg thrown over his waist. She’s completely bare and hopes her little wiggle, the one that uses the line of his hip to put more pressure against her core, goes unnoticed.
His laugh is short. “You think just because you took me once that you can do it again? With no prep?”
Hermione shrugs her shoulders and sighs against his skin. Her thighs twitch. “You were prepping me.”
“That wasn’t prep, baby. And you don’t strike me as much of a masochist,” he says, his free hand sliding down her back to cup her backside, fingers pinching her arse.
He looks at her flatly, as if to say, ‘I told you so,’ when she yelps and whines, squirming against him. But it ends up having the opposite effect, her squirming easily turning to a small grind of her pelvis, the line of his hip just perfect to mash against her clit, hidden in her folds.
Draco smiles at the motion, and likely at the wet heat he can feel coming from between her thighs. “Oh. Maybe you do like it.”
But she blushes and buries her face in his chest, keeping her red and warming cheeks hidden from his eyes. “Stopppp.”
“Does my baby want to play?” He asks, fingers tangling in her curls. “Hm? Do you want Daddy to play with you?”
Hermione blushes at the question, her hips squirming again, gently pressing until there’s a little pulse of pleasure shooting up her spine. She nods her head and Draco gives her a smacking kiss to the top of her head.
“With words, baby. Tell me, tell Daddy what you want.”
His words make her tummy flip and her mouth go dry. She wants to answer, she wants to be good for him, but she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to respond to this. She does want to play, she wants her Daddy to play with her, but to say it out loud…
She shakes her head, lips pressed tight together.
He tuts and lets his big palm rest against her lower back until he’s pressing her even closer to the line of his hip, until her core is pressed tightly to him, lips splitting and juices soaking the fabric of his pants. Her eyes close at the feeling as he rhythmically presses her against himself.
Until he stops. Until he pulls his hand away from her completely.
Her eyes fly open and she frowns, brows turning down. She whines, “Don’t stop.”
“I don’t know, baby…” he trails off. “It doesn’t sound like you want to play.”
“No, I— I want…I want to—” She huffs and presses the heels of her palms against her eyes. Hiding from him, not wanting to see his silver eyes peering down into her brown ones. “I can’t say it, Daddy.”
He hums before his fingers are wrapping around her wrists, pulling her hands away from her face. “Sure you can, baby. If you want it badly enough, you’ll say it.”
With her continued silence he lets out a low sigh, as if he’s troubled by her, as if she’s misbehaving on purpose — which she’s not, she’s not, she’s just shy — and shuffles out from underneath her. She pouts at him and shoots her arms out, fingers grasping at the air where he’d been, cozy and warm and pressed to her.
“If you don’t want to play with Daddy then you can’t play at all,” he tells her calmly, his fingertips fitting underneath the elastic of his pants, adjusting. “So you come find Daddy when you’re ready. Alright?”
“But—“
Draco shakes his head and reaches out to rub his thumb along the crease of her cunt. She’s so wet that it slips through her lips, the rough little ridges of his thumb catching on her oversensitive clit.
“No, baby. No buts. Maybe when that feeling in your pussy gets to be too much, you’ll come find me.”
He pulls his hand away and leans down to press a kiss to her forehead before moving towards the door, the muscles in his thighs and shapely arse jumping with each step. She pushes herself up onto her elbows, mouth open, completely aghast.
How had the morning turned into this? She’d been innocently rolling her hips against him just minutes before, hoping that he’d reach down and slip his fingers inside of her, press and tickle that spot inside of her she’s been unable to reach. But he’s walking away from her, his hand running through his hair and pushing it back from his forehead, nearly to the closed bedroom door when—
“Wait!”
He turns and looks at her with his eyebrow raised.
“I-I-I want to play, Daddy,” she forces out, swallowing big gulps of air.
A smile bleeds onto his face as he takes two big steps and crawls up his bed, bracketing her underneath his body. He presses a sweet kiss to her lips, hand cupping her cheek.
“There’s my baby,” he whispers. “I knew she was there somewhere. You just needed some encouragement, hm?”
She nods with wide eyes and parted lips, a little embarrassed at having to say the words. But Draco— Daddy always seems to know just how much to needle her, just how much she needs him to push her.
Because the embarrassment doesn’t make her feel bad, it doesn’t make the feeling between her legs go away, it doesn’t stop her thighs from twitching or her chest from heaving, it doesn’t clear her head from the desire she so clearly feels. If anything, it magnifies everything. It makes everything feel better.
He knows. She knows he knows, from the little smirk that plays on his lips and the way he lets his thumb rub whisper-soft over her hardened nipple. He’s always cataloguing the way her body reacts to him, to his voice and his actions and his touches, and she appreciates the way she doesn’t even need to think, not when he’s there, not when he knows her body just as well, if not more, than she does.
“Listen for a second,” he demands, then, one hand coming up to grasp her chin. “This is real playing, okay?”
She hums and nods her head, “Like a scene?”
“Exactly,” he says, thumb stroking her chin. “Do you want to play like that?”
Oh yes she does, and she tells him as much. This is what she’s been waiting for. They’ve fooled around and she’s coloured, they’ve dabbled in everything but never flourished in something like this, never dedicated time to playing.
“Red to stop, yellow to pause. Understand?” He asks, still looking into her eyes. “Tell me you understand.”
“Red to stop,” she repeats. “Yellow to pause. Traffic lights?”
He smiles and presses a soft kiss to her lips, “Exactly. And green means…”
“Go.”
Draco rewards her with another kiss, “Good girl. So if I ask you for your colour right now, you’re going to tell me…”
“Green!” She says excitedly, aching for them to play. “Very green, Daddy.”
He smiles at her and pulls back again, letting his fingers graze her chest again. “Do you want to take Daddy, baby? Hm? Only if you want, though, so you better tell me.”
And she does, more than anything. It’s been hard to think of anything else in the days since, even in their time apart, when she questioned everything she knew about him. What they had shared was special and she wanted, wants, to feel it again.
“I-I want it, Daddy,” she tells him, ending on a gasp as he two fingers sink inside of her.
He moves them, massaging her walls and that spot inside of her, working her open and encouraging her wetness to slip from her cunt. She rests her head back on the pillow underneath her head and closes her eyes, lets herself fall into the feelings and the pleasure she feels.
Not enough to come, not yet. Not enough to feel herself getting close to the edge, certainly not enough to tip over it, but enough that she feels her body reacting. Draws her fingers down her chest to lightly pinch her nipples between her fingers, then a little harder when his touch becomes firmer.
“Good girl,” he says in a low voice. “Good girl, baby. Just like that, pinch those nipples for me, make yourself feel good. I only have—“ he pauses and pulls his fingers from her, holding them up and showing her the way they’re covered in her own arousal “—two fingers in, baby. You know you need more. You need one more.”
She feels the tip of his ring finger nudge her, trying to squeeze in next to the other two but she’s so wound up, so tight, can’t relax her muscles enough.
“See, baby? See? So tight for Daddy. Push for me,” he tells her, waiting until she pushes with her pelvic muscles.
His ring finger slips inside her and she whines with the stretch. He was right. Of course he was right. Just because she took him the once, just because she’d stretched around him only a few days ago, didn’t mean she could just do it again immediately.
So she wiggles on his fingers, squirms her hips, jerks her pelvis until his fingers are moving inside of her smoothly, pressing against her walls, and she pants, “You were right, Daddy, ‘m too tight.”
“That’s OK, baby,” he says, focussed. “That’s what Daddy’s are for, hm?”
She nods dumbly, her chin moving up and down on it own. “Yes, Daddy.”
His eyes are glued to the way her cunt swallows his fingers. Yes, it had been a bit of a struggle to press three of his fingers into her, but she’d done it once again, like he knew she would. Like he knew she could.
Pussies are pliant. He may be a man, but he knows that much about them. He knows that she’ll stretch to take him, like she did before, but the knowledge makes him grow his harder in his pants. He slips his palm down to readjust himself, to squeeze his erection just enough.
He lets his thumb brush gently against the hard nub of her clit, just peaking out from beneath its hood, and feels the way she clenches down on his fingers. She’s moving like she’s trying to force his fingers into the places she wants, to rub her g-spot more firmly, to fuck her harder.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he pulls his fingers free and pushes his pants down his legs, kicking them off from where they’re stuck around his ankles. He uses his slick fingers to fist his cock and looks up at Hermione, her eyes glued to him, to the motion of his hand.
“I know, baby. I know you want it. I’m going to give it to you, see?” He asks, moving between her thighs, letting his knees nudge her apart. “You tell me if it hurts, Hermione.”
She whines, “I will, I will, Daddy. Please, I want to feel you— I want to feel you deep.”
Laughs a little bit at that. He’d like nothing more than to flip her over onto her hands and knees, to fit his hand against her trim waist and watch her arse ripple against his hips. He would love to hear the sound, the quick pat, pat, pat of skin slapping skin.
But not yet.
Instead, he moves her legs up, fitting his palms to the back of her thighs until her knees her press up to her chest and bent, her feet, her pink-painted toes, pressing to his shoulders. He squeezes her thighs. “Hands under your knees, baby. Hold your legs like this and I promise you’ll feel me nice and deep, alright?”
Draco pulls back and nods when she fits her hands under her knees, grasping them together to hold her legs up. He grins when he sees how swollen she is, especially in this position, the lips of her cunt pink and puffy and squeezed between her thighs, her perfect little clit just barely peeking out.
He tickles it with the tip of his finger and watches all the muscles jump in her thighs.
“Sensitive little girl,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to her ankle. “It’s gonna be tight, baby. You can do it for me, though, can’t you?”
Her eyes are glazed and there’s a dopey smile on her face, lips red and swollen from the way her teeth have found purchase. She nods her head slowly, “I can do it, Daddy. I can do it— I-I can do it.”
So he spreads her lips apart just a little bit with his thumb, able to see how pink and wet she is inside. He grasps himself in hand and settles his cock against her, pressing inside bit by bit. He looks up just in time see her brows furrow, a wince gracing her lips, and starts to pull out.
“No!”
She reaches out with one hand to grasp his shoulder and hold him as close as she can. “Keep going, Daddy, please keep going.”
Draco shakes his head, “You’re supposed to tell me if it hurts, Hermione. I can see your face, baby, I can see the way you’re wincing.”
“No, I— I-I don’t, Daddy. It doesn’t— it… it does but I—“
He stops, eyebrow raised, questioning. Because he knows that it probably does hurt, he knows that it has to be pinching, that he’s stretching her muscles in a way that take some getting used to. But the way she’s holding him close, pulling him closer, even, makes him think…
“Does it hurt, Hermione?” He asks plainly. “Tell me.”
Her teeth sink into her lip again and she slowly nods her head, but he also sees the faraway look in her eyes. He frowns and his hips jerk when she squeezes her thighs together, just slightly more than the head of his cock inside of her.
“Yes but— but I… it feels…”
He nods then, understanding. “You like it, baby?”
There’s the dopey smile again and the slow nod of her head. “Y-yes, Daddy. I like it.”
He’d thought about it before, with the way she was pinching her nipples. He’d noticed that her fingers had gone white with the strength of the pinch. Not to mention, his pinch to her arse had elicited a similar reaction, her pelvis grinding into his hip.
“Maybe you are my little masochist,” he coos then, pressing gently inside her again. “Just a little then, alright? Just a little bit of hurt.”
With her nod, and with the knowledge that she’s armed with her safe words, he presses in the rest of the way. He does not enjoy inflicting lots of pain. He’s not that kind of person, he’s not that kind of Dominant, it’s not what he looks for in a relationship.
He doesn’t need to inflict pain to punish or inflict pain to feel pleasure, but the little wince she gives as he stretches her, as her muscles make room for his cock, gives him a small little burst of something in his belly. This, this level of being uncomfortable, he can do. Especially if it makes her groan like she does, head flipping back and curls spread out against his pillow.
It’s like a pinch, he knows, unused muscles being forced out of the way.
“Colour?” He asks, anxious to know, just as he presses the root of his cock against her cunt. “Tell me, baby.”
Her emphatic, “green, Daddy,” is a comfort and he takes it as permission to move. He’s flush against her, his chest pressing into the backs of her thighs until her knees are hanging over his shoulders. He knows he’s deep inside of her, as deep as he can get with her on her back, when her breath is torn from her lungs and she gives a big gasp.
“Oh,” she breathes, eyes squeezing shut. “There, Daddy. There! I can— I-I can feel you sooooo deep.”
He takes her word for it, but knows that with each thrust of his hips he’s hitting something, likely her cervix. He does his best not to hit it too hard, not to bruise her, and tries to angle his hips so he’s hitting her g-spot instead.
He knows when he gets it, when he hears her wail.
She’s so small underneath, especially with her knees pressed into her chest, and he enjoys the feeling of hovering over her like this, of being in her space, of keeping her small underneath him. His hips knock into her thighs and the little whimpers that come from her lips go straight to his cock.
“Fuck, baby. You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. “So tight, so sweet for me. Taking everything that Daddy gives you, hm? Like a good girl.”
Hermione nods desperately in agreement, her fingers still tight around her legs and pressed against his chest. “For you, Daddy. For you.”
The way she reacts to him is a dream. The way she tosses her head back and flexes her muscles, the contractions that ripple through her cunt and squeeze him so tight it’s almost painful. He makes to reach his hand down and flick his fingers over her clit but can hardly fit it between their bodies.
In the end, it turns out she doesn’t even need it.
Her orgasm comes as a surprise to them both, rocking through her body and he’s so taken aback by it. He holds himself back as much as he can, knowing that they still haven’t talked about it, but wanting her to feel—
“Come inside,” she begs through her moans. “Come inside me, Daddy, please.”
And that’s it. That’s it. He comes inside her, fucking up inside of her cunt as she comes around him, feeling her squeeze around his cock. He floods her, coming more than he has in a long time. When he pulls out, he takes a few seconds to watch, with her legs still held up to her chest, as his come drips out.
Her pajamas are soft against her skin and the extra throw blanket is soft and warm over her shoulders, but she can’t stop squirming. Draco’s arms are tight around around her middle, holding her in place on his lap as they sit on a barstool at his kitchen island.
The lights are dim and there’s soft music playing in the background but she can’t really make out the words or the melody. It’s just a nice noise in the background, something to fill the silence that she knows would be there otherwise.
There’s a colouring book in front of her on the island and a blue crayon in her fingers. It’s like she’s coming to the scene after the fact, like she’s just waking up from a long dream, just recognizing Draco’s tapping fingers against her belly and his warm knee underneath her backside.
Like she’s just realizing she’s colouring a tree blue instead of green and that the house is pink. The birds are all red and the little squirrel is purple. As her eyes focus even more, her water cup is sitting just to the side with a pink silicone straw and when Draco lifts it to her lips, she realizes that it’s not water in there at all but apple juice.
“It’s pretty, baby,” he says quietly behind her.
Her back rumbles with the sound of his voice, passing through from his chest. He pets his hand over her curls and presses his lips to the side of her head before lifting up her drink again. This time she shakes her head softly and puts up her hands. She doesn’t want the juice. She wants water.
“Water,” she croaks, eyes widening at the sound of her voice. “Please.”
Draco clicks his tongue behind her, “I’ll get you some water in a second. Can you finish your juice for me?” He shakes the cup. “There’s just a little bit left.”
Hermione shakes her head again, “No. Water, please.”
But he doesn’t relent, just holds the cup up to her mouth and moves the straw so it’s resting on her lips. Tickles her ribs a little bit with his finger tips and leans in close to her ear, “Two sips, baby. I promise. Just two sips and I’ll get you some water. Can you do that for me?”
She really does not want to, she really, really doesn’t. But…but if she does then she’ll get her water. So she opens her mouth and closes her lips around the straw, taking in a big, strong suck of sugary juice.
The pride in his voice — “Good girl, Hermione. What a good girl you’re being” — makes her take another deep suck of the juice until the last drops rattle in her cup. She lets go and smiles when he hugs her close to his chest and presses a smacking kiss to the side of her head.
“Water, please?” She asks again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, letting the blue crayon fall to the island.
She’s yelps when he picks her up and stands, turning her to place her on the kitchen island. Her colouring book is underneath her and he presses his lips to her forehead. “Ten seconds, alright? I’m just going to go over to the fridge. Count for me.”
So she does, twisting and turning to watch him as he moves around the island and goes to the fridge. “One, two, three…”
He pours water from the fridge into another cup and covers it with a lid, just as she gets to, “four, five, six.”
By, “seven, eight,” he’s back around the island and handing her the water. She takes it and takes a long sip, her shoulders relaxing as it soothes her throat. She holds one arm open until Draco’s tugs her into his arms again, her legs wrapping around his waist.
He walks them over to his couch and sits down, hugging her close to his chest, her head underneath his chin while she drinks. It’s nice, being held like this, feeling comfortable, but she shifts again in his lap at the slight itch she feels on her thighs. Something sticky and drying.
“We’ll get you cleaned up soon, baby,” Draco tells her quietly. “We’ll take a bath. How does that sound?”
Hermione nods and answers with a quiet, simple, “Good.”
Her mouth works over the straw and they sit there quietly, his big palm rubbing down her back and playing with the ends of her hair. When she’s finally had enough water, Draco takes the cup from her and places it on the table.
She feels…surprisingly calm. She feels good, happy, sitting there with him. Sated, a warm feeling in her belly that makes her snuggle further into Draco, into her Daddy. And as she sits there, it slowly comes back to her.
In bed, on her back with her knees pressed to her chest. She feels the the twinge in her legs and her arms, the delightful pinch in her core and the way her chest feels lighter. Everything feels good.
“Waking up a bit?” He asks then, fingers slowing on her back.
Hermione nods her head.
“That’s why I needed you to drink the juice, you know. Just for a bit of sugar,” he tells her. “I didn’t expect you to fall so hard, baby, but you did.”
“Fall?” She asks, moving back to raise her eyebrows up at him.
He hums and nods. “Into that warm little place. You know the one? Where everything is soft. I could see it when we were playing, the way your eyes softened, the way you got a little…”
She knows it and she knows how she felt before. She felt… “dumb.”
He frowns and shakes his head, “No, baby. Not dumb. Just…submissive.”
Submissive. That’s her, she thinks. When she smiles at the word she notices he nods his head, a matching smile on his face.
“Yes, baby. That’s you.”
She leans her face back into his chest and lets out a low sigh. She feels so at home there, resting against his chest, so much so that she never wants to leave. She wants to hide here, to stay here forever, to never have to face anything difficult again. Draco seems to agree, his palm rubbing soothingly along her back once more.
"Later, baby. I promise," he says. "Just sit with me for a while."
So she does.
Chapter 21: New Rules
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The chill in the air is beyond frigid. It’s that bone-chilling type of cold that seeps in through his layers of clothes and settles inside his body, freezing more than just the tips of his ears or the point of his aquiline nose, burrowing underneath his thick sweater and coat, beneath his denims and the thick socks he wears underneath his Chelsea boots.
By the time Draco pushes open the door to the trendy wine bar, chosen because of its proximity to both his and her place, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel warmth again. He snags a table, already thinking about filling his bath with steaming water, maybe even nipping a bath bomb for himself— not that he would ever admit it.
He unwinds his green scarf and shrugs out of his coat, hanging both on the hook next to the hightop table, and rubs his hands back and forth, blowing between them to warm them up. As he pulls out his phone from his pocket, it vibrates in his hand.
Astoria: I grabbed an Uber, it’s too bloody cold to be walking.
Astoria: Be there in a minute.
Draco rolls his eyes and flags down a bartender, ordering a glass of a smooth Cabernet Sauvignon, one of his favourites, and a glass of non-alcoholic Rosé. More and more restaurants and bars seem to carry the stuff, catering to more than just the average drinker, and he’d suggested the place for this reason exactly.
He knows it’s getting to Astoria, being invited to parties and out to dinners where bottles of wine are being opened and champagne is popped, none of which she can indulge in with the new rounded bump of her abdomen. It’s her curse for getting pregnant later in life, when most of her friends have already had their children and imbibe regularly with their friend-group.
“I do not understand why the scientists or whoever the fuck haven’t been able to create, like, a dome or something to put over the city and control the weather!” She stomps past him and flops into her chair, bits of dark hair stuck to red-painted lips, messy from the wind outside, her clutch slammed down on the small table.
Draco raises an eyebrow at her and snickers. “Ah yes, the scientists— or whoever the fuck. Them. Right, of course.”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” she says, playfully glaring. “I’m being serious. Does it really need to be this cold out? Can’t they do something? Can’t they…”
“Cover the city in a dome?” He finishes, flashing a smile to the bartender who brings their drinks over. “I don’t think it works like that, Tori.”
Her manicured fingers wrap around the stem of the wineglass and she shoots him a confused look. “Aren’t you a doctor? Should you really be ordering wine for a pregnant woman?”
He watches as she shrugs out of her coat, leaving it over the back of her chair, and fixes the form-fitting dress she wears, hugging her middle. Astoria grabs the wine glass again and holds it up.
“I mean…one glass won’t hurt, but you’re right, I do have more sense than that,” he mumbles. “It’s non-alcoholic. Tastes pretty similar though, according to Hermione.”
He’d brought his girlfriend to the wine bar just a few days earlier, a little date before their early night in, tucked into blankets and lounging on pillows, Hermione scrolling through the Disney+ app — a new purchase for him — to decide on what to watch.
Astoria reaches out and taps the side of her glass against his and they both take a first sip. She licks her lips and savours the taste on her tongue, finally nodding her head and agreeing that it’s decent for a non-alcoholic wine— an oxymoron, she tells him, shrugging her shoulder but taking another sip despite her faux-annoyance.
They lapse into a small awkward silence, the reason for their little meetup hanging between them, thick and sticky. He knows what he wants to say and he’s sure she has plenty of her own to say, but he doesn’t really know where to start. The situation is compounded by the fact that Astoria is his ex-wife and the issue is about his current girlfriend and his other ex-wife.
It’s an extremely tangled web, one that leads to and from different women in his life, even his mother is there somewhere, he’s sure. His father waits in the wings, not tangling, exactly — Malfoy’s don’t tangle, Draco, he can hear in his father’s pompous drawl — but still there, a noticeable presence.
“So,” she says, breaking the silence, placing the wine glass down with a small clink. “Have at it, I know you’re pissed at me.”
Draco frowns. “I’m not pissed at you.”
“You are. Theo told me you are.”
“Theo doesn’t have any critical thinking skills,” Draco corrects, waving his hand and taking another sip of wine. “I’m not pissed at you, I’m not, Tori. I just…you can’t do that. You can’t meddle in my relationship.”
She interrupts. “I wouldn’t call it meddling.”
“Well I would and it’s my relationship. Look, I get that in some weird way you were trying to help me, but I don’t need your help. I have no right to tell you who you can and can’t talk to, and I never would, but you can’t interfere in my shit if you keep talking to her,” he says, trying to stop himself from rambling, urging his words to make sense.
Her manicured nails tap against the bottom swell of her wine glass, brows furrowed and lips pursed in a frown. She disagrees with him, he knows, she genuinely believes that she’s helping him, that he needs the help regardless of what he says.
Draco gives her a lot of slack, he always has. Despite being married and divorced within a year, they were never on bad terms with each other. They stayed friends, seeing each other socially over the years and becoming even better friends as the years went by. Hell, he introduced her to Theo, indirectly gave her the start of the rest of her life.
She shakes her head and he already knows what she’s going to say before she finishes. “I just think that—“
“Astoria, from the bottom of my heart, I do not care,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how broken you think I am or how much you think I need to talk to—“ he swallows heavily and forces the name from his lips “—Pansy. It’s my life, she’s my ex-wife, and I’ll decide when and if I ever speak to her again.”
“I care about you!” She says suddenly, loudly, sitting up straighter in her seat. “For whatever stupid reason, Draco, I care about you and I know, despite all of your very loud and emphatic protestations, that you are not fine with all of this. You can hardly work yourself up to saying her name! That’s not normal!”
He swallows down his frustration. “Then it’s my shit to work through. Not yours.”
Astoria shakes her head and hardens her eyes. “It’s not just your shit, Draco. It involves that poor girl, too. You know the one? The one who looks at you like you strung the stars in the sky, who hangs on to every single word that you say, who is giving you exactly what you’ve always wanted. You know, the one you couldn’t even be honest and truthful with in return.”
It’s a safe bet that any mention of Hermione will get his blood boiling, and it does. He grits his teeth but keeps himself from curling his long fingers into fists. He doesn’t want to get aggressive, he doesn’t want to use his size or the loud boom of his voice, doesn’t want to intimidate her with his actions, with things about himself that he has a hard time controlling.
Draco takes in a deep breath and does his best to let the burning anger dissipate, to let his shoulders lower from their tense position beside his ears. It’s just a conversation, he just wants to talk.
“It was wrong. I know that. I have apologized to Hermione and I’ve explained the situation to her as best as I could,” he says calmly, rationally. “But it still doesn’t give you the right to overstep like that. You’re not my wife anymore, Tori. You’re not my anything! You know, better than anyone else, how I feel and for you to continue to push me and push me and push me to speak to her…”
He shakes his head. That’s that part that hurts.
“Whose side are you on, Astoria?”
Her face falls: perfectly arches eyebrows folding flat, pursed lips pressing into a thin line, eyes blinking, lashes fluttering, jaw working. He watches as she lets go of the wine glass and reaches her hand out to grasp his. She doesn’t give him a choice in the matter, just slips her smaller hand into his and squeezes tightly, almost too tightly.
“The fact that you even need to ask me that…” she trails off and shakes her head. “I’m on your side, you fucking arsehole. I always am, I always have been. And I may not be your wife any longer, but I’m your friend and I’m not going to let you throw away a relationship that makes you this happy for unresolved issues that you won’t confront.”
Draco squeezes her hand back and leans in a little closer, keeping his voice low and level. “If you’re on my side then please, please, just stay out of it. This wasn’t just a divorce because we didn’t feel like being married anymore, not like us, Tori. This was…the worst time of my life.”
“Explain it to me,” she says quietly, interrupting. “You say I know more than anyone and I know next to nothing. Not from you, not from Pansy, not from your mother— and believe me, I’ve tried. Explain it to me.”
He sighs loudly and goes for almost exactly what he told Hermione: she changed her mind about having kids, she led him on for months, through an expensive wedding and an even more expensive married life, only to decide that she didn’t want the one thing that was his dealbreaker.
It’s not even that he needs kids, he just needs the possibility of kids. He needs to know that it could happen, that there’s an openness to it, that both parties would like children and would welcome them, should it happen.
It’s the truth. The heart of it is all there, the reason for the checked box next to unreasonable behaviour on their divorce documents. Draco argued that she lied, that she married him based on a lie, that her intentions were anything but honest, they were fraudulent.
She argued…well, she argued many things, things that still twist in his brain and cloud his thoughts.
He can see the way Astoria rubs her palm against her rounded belly and knows that she’s thinking, wondering, if they had stayed married for just a little bit longer, perhaps they would have had a child all those years ago. It wasn’t like they didn’t want to, it wasn’t like they didn’t try, as neutral as they felt towards each other.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
“So she lied about wanting to have kids?” She asks, eyes searching his, searching for that extra little nugget of information. “I’ll be honest, Draco, I thought it was the lifestyle. I know you said that she was…amenable to it, but it wasn’t something she’d explored before you. I guess I wouldn’t have blamed her for coming to the realization that it was too much, but to lie about something so…so big…”
Draco doesn’t say anything. Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because she’s close to all the dirty details and he doesn’t want to talk about it. A half truth is better than no truth and it’s way better than the full truth.
“I’m sorry, Draco,” she apologizes, releasing a big sigh and sitting back in her chair. Her manicured thumb is still brushing over the little hairs on his knuckles. “I just want what’s best for you, you have to know that. You’ve been so great with Theo and I and I know you’ll be great with the baby, I just— I want this for you, too. And I see it with Hermione! I know you can have it with her and I didn’t want you to ruin it.”
“So you wanted to ruin it for me,” he says jokingly, with a wink.
“No,” she says, rolling her eyes and pulling her hand back to wrap around her wine glass. “If you were honest from the start…”
“Did you ever think that I would have told her in my own time?” He asks pointedly. “Astoria, it was the worst possible way it could have happened, in the most traumatic way. We didn’t talk for days and it was the morning after we—” he cuts himself off and gestures with his hand “—you know.”
She sips her wine and winces at his words. “Well I didn’t know she’d read your texts so you can’t blame me for that.”
The wine bar seems to be getting much more crowded with more people having to stand between tables, all trying to reach the bar to get a drink. He’d like nothing more than to get out of here, go back to his flat, slip into his bath and FaceTime his girl.
Actually, he’d like nothing more than to call a car for Hermione and meet her at his flat, but the last week of classes before the holidays means that’s not going to happen.
He rubs his hand over his forehead, “Can you just agree not to meddle? Please? Just stay out of all the stuff between her and I. Alright?”
It takes her a few seconds of strained silence, her thumb rubbing over the stem of her glass, before she relents. “Fine, I’ll stay out of the stuff between you and Pansy. You can say her name, you know. She’s not the devil.”
Draco slips his credit card from his wallet and flips his hand up, gesturing to the bartender for the cheque. “Yeah, well, she certainly acted like it.”
“Oh stop, you’re being a child.”
Draco hums a little bit but eventually nods his head. “Let’s just not mention her at all.”
She huffs, as though annoyed, and swallows the last mouthful of her wine. Her eyes widen a little bit before she gives him an evil little smile. “Say her name and I won’t mention her again.”
He rolls his eyes just as the bartender walks over. “Now you’re being a child.”
The afternoon after her last class, before the start of their two-week exam period, Hermione and Ginny agree to start their holiday shopping early this year, instead of the day before Christmas like the year prior. They stash their books and computers at Hermione’s flat, eager to be rid of their classes, before heading to the High Street closest to campus.
Hermione is on a mission to find the perfect gift for Draco, but has no idea where to start. What do you get the man who has literally everything? She’s seen his skin care brands, the candles in his home, knows where he shops for simple throws and the expensive little gadgets that fill his kitchen. He’s a grown man with a grownup job with — she assumes — a lot of money, free will and no one to stop him.
He grew up wealthy, she knows that, in a giant estate in Wiltshire, something meant to be owned and looked after by the National Trust, she’s sure. He was undoubtedly spoiled as a child and a teenager, probably got his first car the day he got his license, a fancy thing to drive through rural roads.
She was spoiled, too. But not like that. Her family was happily upper middle class, never wanting for anything or feeling need. There were limits though, limits she doesn’t think existed for her boyfriend. She doubts they exist now, either.
So a week before, she’d implemented a moratorium on new purchases. It’s something her family has always done, put a stop to buying yourself something in the month or so before the holidays with explicit instruction to let someone know if there’s something you want. Draco had merely smiled at her and nodded, agreeing to put a halt on purchases with a placating, “Sure, baby. But I don’t need anything.”
“A wallet?” Ginny asks, pulling her scarf closer around her neck. “I feel like that’s a safe gift.”
Hermione scoffs. “I don’t want a safe gift. Besides, I know the kind of wallet he has and I could never afford to buy anything similar.”
“But it’s the thought that counts. You could make him a wallet and he’d love it. I can just see him,” Ginny says, stopping in the middle of the pavement to look over at her. “Carrying it around proudly and showing everyone who looks twice.”
“I’m not a kid,” Hermione grumbles, tugging her along the pavement again.
Ginny snorts. “Not a kid, no, but he is your D—“
“Oh piss off, Gin.”
They’re walking aimlessly, not sure where to start or what shop will have something appropriate. She has some money, enough that she’s lucky enough to not have to work while she’s in school, her parents helping to pay for her expenses. But she’s careful, buying practically and only when she really needs something, splurging rarely when she has enough that it won’t hurt her.
It’s still hard, though. She’s only been dating Draco for a few months and while she feels like she knows him, the process of looking for a gift has made her question that. Does she know him? At all?
Even a week or so ago, she would have contacted Astoria for some ideas about what he might like for the holidays, but she doesn’t yet feel comfortable having that conversation, or any conversation really, with her. It’s not the women’s fault, of course, she doesn’t blame her for anything, but she feels awkward around her, the situation being what it is.
“What are you getting for Harry?” Hermione asks, stopping to look inside one of the shop windows.
Ginny grins cheekily. “Just a bunch of little stuff. You know how he is, I could give him a handful of chewing-gum and he’d be happy.”
He would. Her oldest friend is the easiest person to buy for and happy with anything and everything. He’d had a difficult childhood, living with his aunt and uncle who were happier to spend money on their own son instead of him. Gifts and presents have always been something he’s never taken for granted, too awestruck by the sheer fact that someone would spend their hard-earned money on him.
“Something techy, maybe?” Hermione asks, point to a window. “Or football related?”
Ginny hums and pops up on her toes to get a closer look through the window. “You know, that’s actually a good idea for Draco. What club does he support?”
Hermione frowns and pauses before shrugging her shoulder. “I’ve no idea. I don’t think he watches it.”
“They all watch it,” her friend says, wandering down the pavement. “Doesn’t he have a kit anywhere?”
“Not that I’ve seen,” Hermione mumbles, trying to think back to his closet and dresser, mentally going through his shirts.
His flat isn’t impersonal, exactly, but it’s filled with things like art and decorative mirrors, things that adults use to decorate their flats, as opposed to the boys her age. There’s no football roster posters taking up an entire wall or dart boards hanging precariously.
His decorations are thoughtful and expensive, things that look nice and feed into the feeling of the flat. Once again, she’s starting to feel like maybe she doesn’t know him at all.
“Maybe an experience of some sort,” Hermione says, following Ginny into a clothing shop. “Something we can do together or somewhere we can go. A weekend away could be nice.”
Ginny snorts. “A weekend trip? Where are you going to take him? On a camping trip?”
She has a point. There’s no way she can afford anything particularly nice, not something that he’s probably used to or would enjoy. But maybe they could spend the day in the city or go pub-hopping.
She has the thought of spending an afternoon at a National Trust house and picnicking on the grounds before remembering that he could just go home if he really wants to do that.
“Have you asked him?”
Hermione sighs. “Yes, I have, and he told me that he doesn’t need or want anything and not to spend any money on him.”
Ginny rolls her eyes, tugging on the sleeve of a tie-dye men’s long-sleeve tee. “Gods, men are annoying. Do you think Harry would wear this?”
In all honesty, she thinks it’s ugly but knows that Harry would wear it anyway, just because someone bought it for him. “Yeah, he’d wear it. I don’t know how much he’d like it…”
“But he’d wear it,” Ginny finishes, nodding her head and wandering and letting the sleeve flutter down. “Just buy some lingerie and surprise him with it. Maybe like a sexy Mrs. Clause? Oh, or a sexy elf?”
That’s a definite no and she adamantly shakes her head as they step out of the shop, heading back down the pavement. It’s not that she doesn’t like lingerie, she does — and starts thinking about the few pieces she already owns, tucked in the back of her pajama drawer — but sex as a gift has always seemed…wrong.
Almost like a cop out, like she isn’t really trying. It’s easy to give sex as a gift, to wear something flattering and give away her body for an hour. Maybe for an anniversary or a special evening, but not for something like Christmas.
“It doesn’t feel like enough,” she tells her friend, truthfully.
Ginny shrugs her shoulders. “Anal?”
She can’t hold in the choked sound she makes at the suggestion and laughs, shoving her shoulder into her friend’s side. “And that’s too much!”
They spend almost all of a rare free-Saturday cuddled up on the couch, doing their best to complete a crossword together. Hermione’s not very good; crosswords have never been her strong suit, particularly the ones that make reference to things much older than her.
Draco tends to get those ones, the ones that reference things from his childhood or his teenage years, words that just make sense in his brain in a way that sound like nonsense to her. He’s smart, so much intelligence hiding in that peroxide blond head of his— all natural, he always reminds her.
They come in last (3 letters) ends up being X, Y, Z, and it should be obvious but it’s not at all. She finds it downright frustrating, her brow furrowing and her lips pursing in annoyance. But Draco presses a soft kiss to her temple and praises her for her very neat writing, filling the right letters into the right boxes.
The brush of his pinky against her lips and his low chuckle when she frowns at his very obvious appeasing attitude makes her smile though, pressing her lips against the pad of his finger in a soft kiss. It’s nice, very domestic.
“Alright, what’s the next one?” He asks, free hand — the one not pressed to her side — tousling his hair.
She hums and lets her eyes trail down the still-empty boxes. “Nurse, for example. Five letters.”
He insists that she give it a go, his fingers slipping underneath the hem of her t-shirt to trail along the skin of her waist. Her brain is completely jumbled, no words coming to mind at all. She can’t, not with the feeling of his skin against hers or the way his chest is pressed flush to her back.
She throws out words that she knows won’t work.
“Doctor,” she tries. “No, wait, that’s six letters.”
He hums.
Hermione sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as she pretends to think. “Surgeon?”
He shakes his head with a raised eyebrow, “That’s seven letters, now I know you’re not trying.”
And she’s not, not really. Mostly because she doesn’t feel like focussing that much, like digging into her brain and forcing herself out of the baby-ish state she’s sat in. The one that gets all the praise for doing simple things like writing letters in the right boxes or snuggling in just right to his side.
“I tried, Daddy,” she insists, looking up at him. He’s looking down at her at the same time. “You do it. Please.”
He sighs, but it’s not a put-upon sigh, more like an indulgent sigh. He takes the pencil from her fingers and quickly scribbles letters into the boxes, his writing not as pretty as hers.
She moves his hand out of the way to read the word. “Sip on?”
“Yes,” he says softly, pressing the pencil back into her hand. “It isn't a nurse, like the profession. It’s to nurse, like to breastfeed.”
She pauses. “Oh.”
His chuckle is rough and deep against her back, rattling her bones. “Yes, baby, oh. You just didn’t want to use that pretty little head of yours, did you?”
Hermione shakes her head, a small smile pulling at her lips. “It’s too hard for little old me.”
She’s playing dumb and that’s always something she said she’d never do. She used to look on in judgement when one of her friends would pretend not to know the answer to a question or put on a ditzy act just for the sake of attention.
But here she is, doing it. In a different way, though, in a safe way. She doesn’t have someone taking advantage of her or relying on her to always be this mindless, she has Draco — her Daddy — who takes all of her moods and actions as they come. Who reads through her essays for class with a proud smile on his face and a correction or two at his fingertips, who dresses her in her pajamas and holds her straw to her lips when she’s thirsty and can’t possibly hold it herself.
He likes all of her.
And it’s this— the way that she’s acting, like she couldn’t possibly have a single thought of her own, that causes a change. There’s a new gleam in his eye that she’s never noticed before, one that makes him look like a predator.
Like there’s a new toy to play with and the toy is her.
“It is too hard for you, isn’t it?” He asks, voice quiet and level, sending a shiver up her spine. “That’s alright, baby. That’s what Daddy’s for, hm? To make everything easier. To make it better.”
Hermione nods slowly, eyes wide as she stares into his face. His jaw is twitching, the nerves jumping, from the way he’s clenching it and she can see the thoughts running wildly through his head.
“Yeah,” he says softly, following the movement of her head. “You need Daddy.”
She repeats it, her brain falling to mush. “I need Daddy.”
He swallows and she can see a second of hesitation, like he wants to check in with her, to make sure that they’re on a path that she wants, that she’s consenting to go down. She does it for him.
“I want this,” she whispers, leaning her face up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Please, Draco. I want this.”
“Do you know what you’re asking for?” He asks, fingers twitching against her side. “Do you know what you’re really asking for, baby?”
She does. She knows and she nods her head, eager, but the soft, slight smile he gives her tells her that her nod is not enough. It annoys her, making her huff a little bit, not wanting to talk so much about things that make her brain hurt.
She just wants him to take over, for him to do it all for her, to make the decisions and let her just stop. Let her brain stop and her thoughts and her worries.
“Tell me what you’re asking for.”
His palm cups her cheek and she leans into his hand, closing her eyes. “I want this.”
He chuckles. “You have this, I’m giving it to you. Aren’t I, baby?”
Hermione nods slowly and then shakes her head because yes she has it already but it’s not right. She licks her lips and looks up into his eyes, silver and startlingly light. “More.”
“More,” he repeats, frowning. “More from me? More often?”
She presses her lips to his palm and nods again, feeling the way he brushes against the soft skin of her cheek. “Yes. More.”
Draco smiles then and it’s a little scary, all teeth and thin lips, the skin of his cheeks stretched over the sharp bones of his face. It’s wanting and needful, possessive and happy in a way that makes her shy away from his palm.
She’s not scared, exactly, it’s just different. He always seems like he’s holding himself back, like there’s more to him that she hasn’t seen yet, or ever will. But this is open and whole and fulsome. This is the smile of someone who is getting everything he wants, has ever wanted.
“Good, baby,” he praises, leaning down to press his lips against hers. It’s a hard kiss, taking over her mouth in a way she wasn’t expecting, but she kisses back, gasping when he snakes his tongue past her lips. “I can see it, you know? I can see the way you want it now.”
Hermione frowns and squirms, moving until she’s over on her belly, laying partially across him with her chin pressing into his sternum. He’s a good mix of soft and hard beneath her, a big presence.
“I wanted it before,” she says quietly, eyes wide. “I did, promise.”
Draco coos at her, fingers brushing the sides of her face, pushing her errant curls and flyaways back behind her ears. “I know you did, baby. But it’s different now. You crave it now. It’s something you need, right, baby?”
It is. He seems to get it so perfectly, to be able to read her thoughts as they pass by, the second she thinks them. Giggles then, thinking of him as magical, her magical Daddy.
He grins at the sound of her giggles and the tips of his fingers dig down into her sides, sliding over her ribs in a way that makes her squeal, pulling her knees up underneath her in a way that makes him grunt, one of her bony knees connecting with his flank, awfully close to somewhere more sensitive.
“Ah, ah, ah! Watch your knees,” he cautions, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her up, holding her close, the cold tip of her nose pressed into the warm skin of his neck. “So, more?”
She nods, agreeing. “More, please.”
“You know more means more rules, hm?” He asks, knuckles dragging along her back, lower, lower, until his big palm is cupping the swell of her backside. “Bedtime, for one. Orgasms, for another.”
Hermione pushes up and looks at him curiously. “Orgasms? What does that mean?”
His grin is sickeningly sweet, excited in a way she doesn’t really understand, not yet. “They’re mine, baby. All of them, so no more sneaking these cute little fingers down your knickers.”
He takes his fingers in his hand and presses his lip to the pad of each one, nipping at her index finger in a way that makes her blush. It’s the one that does most of the work and he seems to know that.
“All of them?” She asks, her voice quiet, little.
“Oh yes, baby,” he says, tapping her nose. “All of them.”
“So I have to ask?”
Draco taps her left ankle and pulls her foot up to rest in the cradle of his thighs, fingers pulling the laces of her pink Dr. Martens tight, looping them around his fingers and into a pretty bow at the top.
“Yes, baby. If you want something, you have to ask.” He smirks a little bit at the question, again, and nods his head with a little sigh.
He peeks up at her and hides his grin at the way her brows are furrowed. “What if I just want to, like, touch a little or— or run my fingers over, you know, over myself. I have to ask for that, too?”
Humming, as though he’s considering — which he’s not — he puts her foot back on the ground and pulls up her right one. “Anytime those little fingers or a toy touch something that’s mine, you need to ask.”
Hermione lets a little groan slip but he knows it’s not serious, just whining. He finishes tying her other boot quickly, putting it down and standing up, his hands pressing down on his legs as his knees creak a little bit. Tugging her scarf a little tighter around her neck, he makes sure she has her mittens on before grabbing his own leather gloves, stuffing them into his pocket and ushering her out of his flat.
Her voice is quiet when she asks, “If I ask will you say yes?”
The elevator opens as soon as he calls for it, and he lays his arm against the door as Hermione steps inside. “To touch yourself? Yes. To have an orgasm? No. I won’t always say yes.”
She leans back against him and grumbles. “Well that hardly sounds fair.”
It’s not, he wants to tell her, but it’s still his rule and she’ll still follow it. She’ll follow it because she wants to, because she wants to give him that little say over some small aspect of her life. She’ll whine and complain every single time he says no, but he’ll still get a text or a small, little voice begging through the phone the next time she wants to slip her fingers beneath her knickers.
It’s funny the way submission works, the way submissives will do things even when it frustrates them. But doing it, giving that choice away to someone who wants those decisions, who relishes in the decision-making process, makes it all better in the end.
So he tells her: “It’s not, baby. It’s not fair even a little bit. But you’ll do it anyway, won’t you? For Daddy?”
She tilts her head back, pressing against the lower part of his shoulder, near his chest, and puckers her lips for a kiss. He gives it to her, soft, lips sticky and sweet with the coconut flavour of her lip balm. “I’ll do it.”
It’s cold outside, now into December, and he holds Hermione close to him as they walk down the street. He shakes his head repeatedly every single time she asks where they’re going. It’s a surprise, he tells her, grinning when she pouts.
She holds tight to his hand, her pink mittens against his black leather gloves, and follows him as he turns corners and leads them into Covent Gardens. She points at a few of the holiday windows that they pass as well as the Christmas lights and giant bubbles strung around buildings.
Ever since he spoke to Astoria, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about her words: that she sees this, happiness, with Hermione for him. He sees it too, feels it. He knows that Hermione is different, that being with her makes him feel a way that he never has before.
She warms his belly and his chest pulls the corners of his lips into smiles so wide he feels like his face will split, carefully wiggles a small piece of the puzzle into his heart, making him feel more whole than he ever has.
“Are we looking at Christmas lights?” She asks, her face lit up blue and red from the glow of the lights. “Is that the surprise? Can we take a picture?”
He hums and tugs her along from where’s she’s stopped, the big Christmas tree surrounded by crowds of people, all trying to take a special picture. They’ll get closer and hopefully be able to ask some nice people to take a photo for them. He knows just the spot he wants to put it on his mantle.
There are giant lit-up mistletoe chandeliers hung above them, giant mirrorball and garlands, thousands of strings of lights making the dark sky seem brighter. He takes a second just to look at the awe and wonder in her face, to enjoy her reaction. He’ll do anything, everything, to see her smile like this.
“We will, baby. I promise. But first…” he trails off and looks down at his watch, flashing 18:59 on his wrist. He holds her close to him, her back to his front, arms wrapped around her and resting on her belly. Leaning down, he whispers in her ear, “Look up.”
He’s timed it perfectly, the first few flakes of snow falling down from the sky and landing just on the tip of her nose. It’s not real, of course, but part of the hourly snow around the tree. She gasps though, her eyes wide and staring as she watches the fake white flakes fall.
It’s quite magical, now that he thinks about it, the way the crowd has seemed to quiet, everyone staring in wonder at the snow, at the glow from the lights. It’s special and he presses his lips to her temple, squeezing her tight in a hug from behind.
“You are magical,” she whispers, looking up at him.
He smiles but shakes his head. “Not magical, just…on time.”
She shrugs her shoulders, pulling her phone out from her front pocket. “You’re magical to me, Daddy. Can we take a picture?”
He agrees, happily, and takes her phone into his hand, holding it out until they’re both visible on the screen. She smiles so brightly, so happy, white teeth visible and cheeks squished, pressing her curls back into his chest and up underneath his chin.
His own smile surprises him on the screen. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy.
Notes:
ETA: check out the deleted scene that takes place directly after this chapter, here.
Christmas in July! So much still to come, finally getting to a place where all of my original ideas and excitement will lie. I hope you're all excited 🥰A little personal note to thank you all for your unending patience. I went on vacation and came back with COVID so I'm moving a little bit slower than I would like to.
Find me on Twitter and Tumblr.
Enjoy xx
Chapter 22: Unconditionally and Irrevocably
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Her childhood home during the holidays hasn’t changed much over the years.
The same red and green lights lining the roof, the wreath on the door and the snowman-patterned welcome mat. When she opens the car door and steps out, her Dad moving around the car to get her bag, it just feels right, like she’s stepping back in time.
The inside of her house is exactly as she remembers it; holiday candles everywhere, those same little glass figures spelling out the word Noel, old ratty stockings hung from the fireplace and what can only be described as a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, with more branches visible than needles. She snorts softly at how it looks but hides it from her dad who gives her a bright grin.
“See?” He asks. “Just like when you were a kid.”
The boxes of decorations sit in bins just off to the side and she nods her head, eyes already catching on some of the familiar bobbles. “It’s a little…bare, don’t you think?”
Her father stares at her for a few long seconds before laughing. “Like I said, just like when you were a kid.”
She kicks her boots off and lines them up against the entryway wall before walking further into her house, down the tight hallway that leads to the kitchen. There’s dozens of pictures of her at all stages of her life on the walls; as a baby in her father’s arms, as a toddler with her Nana and Papa, first day of school, her 13 th birthday, her first concert, her graduation.
It’s all her.
When she steps into the kitchen, she knows there’s something baking in the oven, a sweet smell floating through the downstairs of the home. Peeking inside, her mother is pouring what looks like banana bread into loaf tins, a red ruffled apron over her blouse and trousers.
It’s like stepping into a memory; if she didn’t know any better, she could still be seven-years-old and wandering about the house, sneaking into the kitchen to nab a ginger cookie or one of the syrupy candied cherries.
She does just that, stepping inside quietly and eyeing the chopped fruit meant for the fruitcake. There are bowls of both red and green cherries and she reaches to take one only to have her hand whacked with a silicone spatula.
“Hermione Jean, you are the same sneaky little girl and I always have my eye on you!”
She turns around and instantly steps into her mother for a hug, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and burying her face in her neck. She smells the same: warm, comforting, home.
“Happy Christmas, Mum,” she tells her softly, giving her a final squeeze before stepping back. “I missed you.”
Before her mum can say anything, Hermione dips her fingers into the cherry bowl and pops one of the sticky red ones into her mouth. It bursts on her tongue, eliciting another flash of a childhood memory that makes her smile.
“If you eat them all there won’t be any left for the cake,” her mum says, slipping on a silicone oven mitt. “And you and I both know that the best part of a fruitcake are the cherries.”
Her nose wrinkles at the thought of fruitcake and she begrudgingly agrees. It’s her father’s favourite and the only reason her mum goes through the trouble at all.
“Do you need any help?” She asks, tucking her hands into the pockets of her denims.
“No, dear. Why don’t you go up to your room and get settled?” Her mother proposes, flipping a loaf pan upside down to let a banana loaf cool on a wire rack. “You and your Dad can decorate the tree.”
Hermione’s phone buzzes in her back pocket and she happily agrees, bounding up the stairs and down the hall to her childhood bedroom. It’s still the same as she left it, pink walls and a white-ruffled bedskirt to cover the space left beneath her bedframe. It’s quite girly with fairy lights strung up on the walls and and a few fake succulents on the bookcase.
Her phone buzzes again and, after shutting the door, she flops back on her bed to read it.
Draco 🥰🥵
Draco: Did you get home OK?
Draco: I miss you already, baby.
Draco: Next time I invite my parents to stay with me, please remind me that it is a mistake.
She laughs at the messages, thumbs hovering over the keyboard to type before she navigates to his contact card and decides to call him instead. It only rings twice before he answers.
“Did you tell your parents?” He asks, out of breath. “Please tell them soon because I cannot stay here a second longer with these two— these two lunatics.”
Hermione laughs and clicks her tongue. “That’s hardly a nice thing to say about your parents, Draco. I’m sure everything is just fine.”
He lets out a loud sarcastic laugh and she hears the sound of a cupboard closing. “Hermione, baby, you are the smartest, most intelligent little girl but…I have to tell you that you’re unconditionally and irrevocably wrong about that.”
“I think you got the Twilight quote wrong…” she mutters, rolling her eyes at his antics.
And she doesn’t mean it like that. She’s not expecting an admission of anything from him, certainly not phrased as it is in a YA novel she read as a tween. She doesn’t even think he knows what the real quote is, uncertain even that he’s ever seen the movies or heard of the books.
She hears the sound of ice hitting glass before he clears his throat. “The what quote?”
“Twilight, it’s like vampires and— never mind, it’s not important.”
She can still hear the clinking of glass and the opening and closing of cupboards on his end while he laughs. “Is this something I should be reading or watching?”
“Uh, no. Definitely not,” she says, laughing. “I don’t think it’s your thing.”
His answer is quick and sure, so sincere that it makes her chest ache. “But I would do it for you.”
And it’s stupid. It’s a stupid book that she doesn’t even like! It means nothing to her, but his words somehow mean everything. She’s looking too far into it, she’s sure, but how can she not?
She doesn’t know how to respond so she doesn’t, instead curling up on her side and pulling the stuffed teddy bear that sits on her pillow, against the headboard, close to her chest. She hugs it close and listens as he changes the subject after a minute of silence.
“My father walked in the door and before I could even say hello, he ordered himself a stiff drink, like this is a bar,” he explains. “And then my mother walked in and scolded me for not having any decorations before explaining that my father was extra irritable on the drive.”
Hermione winces.
“I never thought I’d be so happy to have to work on Christmas,” he mutters. “How are your parents?”
It’s hard sometimes to talk about the relationship she has with her parents while she knows the kind of relationship he has with his own. They love him, she thinks, but whether it’s a symptom of their lifestyle or just the type of people they are, they seem to be preoccupied with things other than the health and happiness of their son
Their very successful son, their son who has done everything in his power to make his parents proud. Intelligent, attractive, sweet— a warm heart hidden beneath a sometimes-cold exterior. An accomplished son, and yet…
“They’re good, they were happy to see me. The house looks exactly like it did when I was younger, even down to the tree which is practically bare,” she laughs softly, letting out a sigh. “I’m sorry it’s hard with your parents but…maybe next year we can do things differently.”
He clears his throat. “Well, next year my plan is to spend Christmas with you, baby.”
It’s cliché to say that she melts, that her chest tightens and her belly aches and her toes curl hearing his words. But she does, burying her face into her stuffed teddy bear, the same teddy bear she’s cuddled since she was a child.
With a peek at her closed door, she swallows heavily. “I miss you, Daddy.”
“I miss you too, baby,” he says softly. “I’m gonna let you go though, alright? I suppose I have to go play waiter for my father and I’m sure you have things to do with your parents.”
Hermione sighs heavily but agrees. “My dad and I are going to decorate the tree once I go back down.”
“Take a picture for me, I’d love to see it,” he says. And then, without thinking: “Give your parents my best.”
She pauses and he laughs a little bit. “You know what I mean. When you tell them…if you tell them, give them my best.”
Breathing out shakily, she squeezes her eyes shut tight and steadies herself. When. If. To have a boyfriend is one thing, but to have a boyfriend who is a few years, at best, younger than her parents is quite another.
It’s just easier not to think about their possible reactions. Instead, Hermione imagines after; Draco and her father playing dominos after a family dinner, hosting her parents for the holidays at Draco’s flat, not having to hide this perfect 43-year-old man in her pocket like a dirty secret.
“I’m going to tell them,” she finally says, both to him and to herself. “Are you?”
His pause goes on a little bit too long, makes her heart beat a little bit too fast, but eventually he agrees. “I am. I just want to find the right time. It’s— it’s not you, baby. If they met you without me, they would love you.”
Hermione scoffs and laughs a little bit, not understanding. “Without you? Why would I meet them without you?”
There’s another clink of glass on his end of the phone. “You are the sweetest thing, baby. There’s no way they wouldn’t like you but you’ve decided to date me. So— so they’ll be cautious, because I’ve been divorced twice and they see any relationship I have as…”
He trails off but Hermione knows what he means to say.
Doomed to fail.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says firmly and Hermione buries her face into her teddy bear again. “I don’t care what they say or what they think. Alright? I just need you to know that it’s about me, not you. Whatever happens.”
They hang up only a minute later and Hermione lays flat on her back in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how her life changed so drastically.
Hermione was lonely growing up as an only child. Not only did she not have any siblings to play with, she never made friends easily. With her nose stuck in a book, she favoured reading on the sofa with her father or spending a sweltering summer afternoon exploring the local library.
She was, admittedly, the annoying girl in class who had her arm darting up every time a question was asked, the answer sitting just on the tip of her tongue. She can see now why she wasn’t the most popular person with her classmates but, still, she had never been anything but kind to them.
She knows now, in her last year of university, that being smart and having friends are not mutually exclusive. In fact, she’s found more friends because of her intelligence, people with similar interests and who put the same amount of care into their work.
But, it does mean that she spent most of her free time with her parents so it isn’t strange for her to come back home for the holidays with no plans to meet up with any old friends. Instead, she’s quite happy to decorate the tree with her father and pull out a board game or two. She helps her mother finish supper and takes it upon herself to pour three glasses of port while they lounge in the sitting room after.
In truth, she likes this, to have traditions like this. Especially when she thinks of Draco who has purposely chosen to work just to get out of going home for the holidays. He usually does, he’d told her, giving those with families the opportunity to spend the day with their loved ones. Of course, his parents had instead decided to stay with him, instead, this year.
So, it only feels right that Hermione tells her parents over a glass of port on Christmas Eve, her back warm against the fire and the light jingle of Christmas music coming through the speakers of the telly. She just sort of blurts it out, her mouth moving faster than her brain, the silence in the sitting room begging to be filled.
“So, I have a boyfriend.”
Her mother’s neck snaps around to look at her, her eyes wide and lips lifting in a grin. She claps one hand against her glass and bounces in her spot on the couch, jostling her father.
“How exciting! What’s his name? Is he in your classes? What does he look like?”
She clears her throat and wets her lips. “His name is Draco. He’s blond and very sweet, blue eyes, quite tall…”
Her mum puts her glass down and scoots to the edge of her seat, hands clasped excitedly. “What’s he studying?”
Hermione lets her eyes slide over to her father. He’s looking at her curiously but keeping his questions to himself, a slight frown painting his mouth. She wishes she hadn’t just blurted it out, that maybe she’d told her mum as she hugged her goodbye, stepping onto the train with a wave, no opportunity for additional questions.
“Well, he’s…he’s in medicine.”
“Oh!” Her mother exclaims. “A medical student, how wonderful.”
She winces. It’s on the tip of her tongue. She just needs to say it.
“Not— not exactly, Mum. He’s a doctor.”
Her father’s frown deepens and her mother’s smile falters though she can tell she’s doing her best to keep it bright and cheery. Hermione shifts on the carpet and takes a large gulp of her port, grimacing at the too-large mouthful that sticks to her throat.
“A doctor?” Her mother asks, fingers squeezing around her glass. “Well— how did he get that title so quickly?”
Hermione laughs. It’s loud in the quiet of the room but she can’t help it because it’s so like her Mum to believe the best, to believe that she’s dating some child prodigy instead of some man at least a a decade older than her. At least.
With a big sigh, she shakes her head and puts down her glass on the floor beside her. “Well, honestly Mum, I don’t know how long it took for him to become a doctor but he has the title because he’s a bit older than me.”
A bit is putting it mildly.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket and it takes everything in her not to laugh again. She laughs when she’s uncomfortable, when she doesn’t know what to say, and now about how fortuitous it is that Draco would text her when she’s right in the middle of trying to explain their relationship to her parents.
“Oh.”
There’s an uncomfortable pinch to her mother’s face and she watches as she nudges her father in the side with her elbow.
He clears his throat. “How…how did you meet, then?”
The honesty comes easy here. It’s not something that needs to be hidden, just a first-meeting that evolved into more. Some days, Hermione thinks she was fated to be at that club, just at that moment, to cut open her hand and grab the attention of the older man who was just looking for someone to care for.
She kind of likes having a story like that, something that required them both to be at the right place at the right time. Not a boy she’s known since she was five or a man introduced to her by her parents.
“And he’s nice?” Her mum asks, hope colouring her face. “He treats you well?”
“He does. He’s very sweet, Mum. You’d really like him, I think.”
Thinks, sometimes, that they might be friends if he wasn’t dating her, that they could run in the same circles and see each other professionally if they lived closer. But, she tries not to think about that often, likes the way things have turned out.
Her mother seems mollified by that. Her parents trust her, they always have, meaning they trust her judgement. If she says that Draco is sweet, that he’s kind and he’s warm and he only wants the best for her, then they’ll believe it. She’s given them no reason to think otherwise.
But—
“So, how old, exactly, is he?”
She wishes that his age wasn’t such an important part of this conversation because as much as they trust her, they don’t yet trust him. Of course, they don’t know him, so why would they?
Her parents are understanding people, they do their best not to judge a book by its cover, but it’s different when it comes to her. She’s their daughter, not just a random person on the street, not just a story on the news. This is personal for them.
“Look—“
Her mother guffaws. “That is not a good way to start, Hermione.”
She closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She has to say it, there’s no other way. She can’t prepare them for the information or soothe the blow in any way. Even if they’d met him first, the knowledge of his age would still sting.
So she just decides to say it.
“He’s 43.”
The emergency department on Christmas Day is busier than a shopping centre in the days leading up to the holidays. His first thought that morning when he arrives for his shift is that there must have been some kind of disaster or major accident that he didn’t hear about on the news.
He quickly changes into his scrubs, a very large iced coffee — yes, even in the winter — clutched in his palm as he makes his way over to the nurses station. It’s a bit of an odd sight, some of the nurses and administrators decked out in Santa hats and elf ears, some with light-up earrings and others with festive stickers and pins on their scrubs.
“It’s going to be one of those days,” Joanne mutters, catching his eyes as he walks over. “We’ve already had two strokes this morning.”
After dealing with his parents the night before, essentially waiting on them hand and foot, he thinks he understands why so many patients are admitted around the holidays for heart problems. Spending too much time with family is reason enough. He surreptitiously presses two fingers to his own pulse, just to check.
“No great disaster? No dozen-car accident?” He asks, picking up a tablet from the desk.
“Nope!” Joanne says cheerfully. “Just Christmas!”
He begrudgingly accepts the festive pin from the smiling charge nurse and attaches it to his hospital ID lanyard. Throughout the morning, he does his best to smile as he approaches the dozens of patients he sees.
It’s a day for every type of injury under the sun: lacerations, burns, strokes, heart attacks, allergic reactions, falls. What’s worse is most of them are just eager to get home to continue enjoying their holiday. It makes his job that much harder, dealing with impatient people who aren’t very interested in what he has to say.
So he stitches skin and injects epinephrine and sets fractured wrists and ankles. He bandages head wounds and calls for cardio consults on a continuous influx of patients experiencing heart attacks, strokes, palpitations and more. By the time he’s able to sneak away for lunch, he finds himself hiding in a stairwell just to have some peace and quiet.
Lord knows he won’t get it at home.
He’s about to pull out his phone and text Hermione when the door bangs open and in walks Blaise, a Santa hat perched precariously on the top of his head and a look of pure exhaustion covering his features. Draco pats the step next to him and moves over to give him some room.
“I always forget how busy it is on Christmas,” Blaise mutters, rubbing his palms over his face. “I’ve never known so many people to fall, all these middle-aged men insisting they get up on their rooftops to hang lights.”
Draco snorts and jabs his shoulder into his friend. “We’re middle-aged men, mate.”
Blaise’s pause and subsequent groan is comical because yes, technically they’re middle-aged now. He doesn’t feel like it, of course, but he’s old. He’s not a sprightly 20-year-old anymore, not even a spry 30-year-old. He’s in his 40s and soon he’ll be in his 50s and he won’t lie and say he’s totally and completely fine with it.
He’s not. So he tries not to think about it.
“Please don’t remind me,” his friend mutters, burying his face in his hands. “At least you have a girlfriend. At least you’ve been married.”
Draco rolls his eyes; as if that’s an accomplishment. Any old chump can get married, he’s proven that twice now. He tells Blaise as much and nudges him with his elbow. “It’s better to wait for the right person. I rushed it and look where it got me.”
“Dating a 20-year old, oh poor you,” he teases. “Speaking of, how’s Mummy and Daddy? Did you tell them?”
He shakes his head. Not yet. Not for lack of trying, but not yet.
It’s just hard to find a good time, between all of their complaining and bothering and little stories about people he doesn’t even know. Part of him doesn’t even want to tell them, not really. He’d rather just keep Hermione to himself, where she’s safe and warm and his, where no one can hurt her.
His parents haven’t been known to be the kindest people to his ex’s. God knows they’d outwardly disliked Astoria through their entire marriage. Any girlfriends he’d had afterwards had suffered the same fate; not good enough, his mother would say, nose turned up.
Pansy had been different for some reason. Maybe that’s why he moved so fast with her, maybe that’s why he’d decided to go for it. His mother had fawned over his ex-wife and his father had given him a single nod of approval. They were happy with his choice.
“Did she tell her parents?” Blaise asks, pulling his phone from his pocket and flicking through his alerts. “Wait— aren’t you the same age as her Dad?”
His friend grunts as Draco lands a purposeful elbow into his kidney. “No, arsehole, I’m not. And yes, she did.”
He pulls up his own phone, flicking through his texts with his girlfriend.
Hermione 😇
Draco: Happy Christmas, baby ❤️
Draco: I hope Santa is good to you.
Hermione: happy christmas daddy!!! 💗💗💗😘😘🎅🏻🎅🏻🎅🏻🎅🏻🎅🏻🎅🏻
Hermione: i can’t wait to see you and give you your present
Hermione: i hope work isn’t too busy 😌😌😌
Hermione: my dad is asking if you like football
Hermione: i said yes even tho i’m pretty sure you don’t
Hermione: you can pretend right
“Apparently I like football now,” Draco mutters, rubbing his hand over his face, scratching along his beard. “I think I might have a kit back home from when I was eight.”
“Her dad a big fan?” Blaise asks, slipping his phone back into his pocket and leaning back on his palms. “I’m afraid I’m useless there but Theo might be able to help.”
It’s just so pretentious trying to explain that no, my parents didn’t put me in football as a kid, but I played squash and golf at the club my dad was a member of.
Draco: I will try very hard to pretend. Who does he cheer for?
Hermione: tottenham
He shows his phone to Blaise and raises his eyebrow. “Do you know anything about Tottenham?”
“Nope.”
Draco groans and lets his face fall forward into his palm. “Fuck.”
Draco: I will do some research.
Hermione: do you like fruitcake??
Hermione: mum wants to know
Draco: Yes…
Hermione: weirdo
Draco: You don’t like it?
Hermione: no lol
Hermione: mum’s going to send some home with me for you
He doesn’t like fruitcake. He never has.
“Seems like it must have gone well,” Blaise says, gesturing to his phone. “They don’t seem too upset.”
Draco shrugs his shoulders because he’s not really sure. Hermione had called him the night before, just before she went to sleep, to tell him how it had gone. They were surprised and worried, she’d said, but it was mostly because of his age. They were impressed with his profession, happy with the way he treats her, but concerned about the age difference.
It’s not exactly surprising. He’d been expecting a reaction like that, after all.
He knows it’s all up to him now, to convince her parents that he’s a good person, that he’s not preying on their daughter or taking advantage of her. He had half a mind to tell them about his divorces and impress upon them that he’d never dated anyone so much younger than himself before.
But, on second thought, that seemed like a bad move.
“I think they’re happy that she’s happy,” Draco says, fiddling with his lanyard. “So they’re trying their best to accept me as the cause of that. But I doubt I would be their first choice for that. Her dad’s only five years older than me.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Blaise tells him quietly. “You’re a catch, mate, and that girl loves you.”
His chest tightens and he digs his fingernails into his thigh. God, he hopes so.
It was embarrassing the way he’d spent the night before in his bed, trying to remember the words he had used, before typing out: Twilight irrevocably quote.
“You think so?” He asks, looking over at his friend.
His phone vibrates again just as his pager buzzes against his waist and he checks it before Blaise replies, unable to stop the grin from gracing his lips.
Hermione: dad said he’s excited about having a fourth so we can even out the teams for cards
Hermione: be on my team?
Draco: Always.
Chapter 23: Make Nice
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The buzzing off his phone against the wood of his night table wakes him from a dead sleep. For a second, he’s not sure where he is, doesn’t remember falling asleep. His blackout curtains are closed and the numbers on his alarm clock are fuzzy.
Draco grasps for his phone, arm flopping over the edge of his bed and knocking his reading glasses to the floor in the process. There’s only five contacts who can get through his Do Not Disturb and two of them are currently in his flat. He can’t see his phone screen properly, eyes squinting and blurry, except for a faint H.
“Hermione?” He answers, pressing his phone to his ear and yawning. “Baby? What’s goin’on?”
There’s a lot of noise in the background, people talking and loud banging, a bell of some sort ringing. It makes him nervous and he sits up in bed, back leaning against his headboard.
“Hi, I’m sorry! Were you sleeping? Did I wake you?” She sounds chipper and wide-awake, her voice coming through his phone loudly.
He frowns. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing’s wrong. I promise,” she says quickly. “Are you at home?”
A sharp, loud grating noise comes from beyond his bedroom — the coffee grinder, he thinks — and he knows both of his parents are already up and about. He pulls his phone down from his ear to quickly check the time before pressing it back.
“I’m at home,” he confirms. “I was sleeping. What are you doing up?”
Her nervous little giggle comes through the phone. “Well— surprise! I’m on my way back early. Can you pick me up from the station in about an hour? It’s alright if you can’t; I can grab a car.”
Draco scratches his bare chest and slowly nods his head, lips twisting down into a frown. “Of course, baby, I’ll come get you. Did something happen with your parents?”
Had they changed their minds? Were they no longer going to accept their relationship? Perhaps it was simply too much for them, knowing that their daughter is with a man so close in age to them.
“No, no, everything was great. Honestly, my mum encouraged it. I miss you and I think she could see it,” Hermione says frankly. “Did you— you know, tell your parents?”
He sucks on his tongue and squeezes his eyes shut just as he hears a clatter from out in his flat. He…meant to. Many times. Repeatedly. Every single day that his parents have been intruding in his space. But telling them means no longer being able to keep Hermione to himself.
More importantly, telling them means confronting his parents about things he simply doesn’t want to talk about. He knows his mother continues to hold out hope for his reconciliation with his ex-wife, no matter how ridiculous that notion is or how adamant he’s been that it will never, ever happen.
Hermione is innocent in this. She has nothing to do with his past choices and relationships, nothing to do with his parents’ gripes with him. He tried to tell her that and make it clear to her that no matter what, he would choose her every single time. It wouldn’t be the first time he didn’t speak to his parents and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“I, uh—“ he doesn’t want to lie to her, no matter how small the lie would be, “I’m going to tell them now. They’re just getting the coffee ready.”
She’s quiet on the other end of the phone, just the sounds of the train and the other people sitting around her. He sinks his incisor into his lip and shakes his head at himself— he’s a coward. He’s a middle-aged man who still can’t muster up the courage to tell his parents something important.
“I can just grab a car,” she finally says, quietly. “Sorry, I— just let me know when they’re gone.”
“No,” he says firmly. “No, I’m telling them and I’ll be there to pick you up. We can all grab breakfast together and they’ll be on their best behaviour.”
She sighs loudly. “Draco…”
He pushes out of bed and stands, stretching his arms up and twisting until there’s a satisfying crack in his back. He pads over the plush rug to his sweatpants and soft t-shirt, pulling them on with the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder.
“Trust me,” he says. “Please. I’ve missed you and I can’t wait to get you in my arms again. Alright?I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Promise?” She asks, voice small and soft.
Draco flexes his fingers into fists. “I promise, Hermione. Text me when you’re close.”
He stands in his room after they’ve hung up, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes until he sees white behind his lids. He’s kind of glad it’s happening this way, that there’s a deadline. He was like this in school, too, not starting his papers or his homework until he was pressing up against the deadline.
There’s nothing like a little pressure to force you to do something you should have already done.
As he opens the door to his room and sets out down the hallway, he can hear his parents bickering, as they’re wont to do, and he steels himself for an argument and a headache.
His relationship with his parents has always been prickly. For centuries down his family line there has always been a single son to shoulder the entirety of the responsibility and the weight that comes with the name Malfoy. As a kid, he often thought that one of his ancestors had to have made some sort of deal with the devil to allow for this.
His family was the sort of posh that was meant for centuries earlier, not the modern times they live in now. He’d had a governess for God’s sake— there had been expectations thrust upon him from the moment he was born and a single toe out of the very carefully drawn lines was inexcusable. He’d been schooled before the other children, made to put away foolish things like, God forbid, footballs and games.
It’s clear why he got married so young, he thinks, desperate to get away from his overbearing parents and family expectations. He wished, often, as a teen to change his name and start over new, to be able to exist without that knowing smile as others spied the white-blond of his hair or the distinctive silver of his eyes.
“Ah, Lucius’ son,” was a common enough sentiment tossed his way that he grew to hate the way he looked.
His parents just didn’t understand why it bothered him, he was so desperate to disappear, to be a nobody, and he’s aware enough to know that he sounds like a schoolboy when he says it, but it’s true. He had centuries of Malfoy’s to live up to and it was an exceedingly impossible task, not to mention one that he did not want. He still doesn’t!
So yes, it’s strange, at his age, that he can’t find it in himself to stand up to his parents— but is it really?
As he steps into his kitchen, his father leaning heavily on his cane with a creasing frown on his face and his mother admonishing him for something, he thinks: no, it’s not strange at all. That’s why, instead of interrupting them and getting them to sit down or trying to deescalate whatever situation is happening between the two of them, he stands there with his hands by his sides and a bubble in his chest and decides to just say it.
“My girlfriend is coming back early from her parents’ place.”
His parents are still lost in their own argument, neither showing any signs that they’ve heard him. He feels better after saying the words aloud though and wonders if this counts as telling them. Technically—
“Honestly Lucius, I’ve had just about enough of this. I am beyond tired of you moaning and groaning about your knee.” Her voice is shrill and Draco winces when she drops her mouth and begins to mimic his father. “‘Oh, Cissa— my knee is so swollen! Cissa— get me the pillow, I can’t possibly leave my knee bent like this.’ If you’re not careful, I’m going leave so I won’t ever have to hear your caterwauling again!”
They must not realize that he’s standing there watching him, because his father immediately pouts and grovels, hobbling behind his mother. “Cissa, where would I be without you? You don’t mean that, my darling.”
“I do mean it!” She says loudly, back to her shrieking. “You have no idea, Lucius Malfoy, how much I mean it!”
Draco clears his throat and rubs his palm against his beard. It’s not often that he sees his parents fighting, even like this, clearly playfully and not at all serious. But neither are listening to him or paying him any mind, so he continues his one-sided conversation.
“So, I’ll need you two to dress and meet us for breakfast in less than an hour. I have to go pick up Hermione shortly,” he says, waiting for one of them to turn around.
His mother catches his eye and frowns, turning to face him. “What did you say, dear?”
It’s easier to say it the second time.
“My girlfriend is coming back early from her parents’ place,” he repeats, holding up a hand when his mother’s mouth drops open followed by a loud inhale. “I need you both to dress and meet us for breakfast. I’m going to pick her up soon.”
“You’re dating?” His father asks, cane gripped tightly in his hand. “Please, Draco, let’s not do this again.”
He frowns. “Do what again, precisely?”
His father shuffles over to the bar stools and takes a seat, leaning against the island, but before he can say anything, his mother interrupts and moves closer to him. “This. You’re not getting married again, are you?”
“No, mother, I’m not getting married,” he says, exasperated. He mumbles under his breath, “Not yet, at least.”
Lucius’ voice is sharp when he cuts in, questioning his mumbles. “What was that?”
Draco leans against the wall with his arms crossed defensively over his chest. Nothing makes him feel more like a child than his parents interrogating him in his own kitchen. He feels like he’s done something wrong, like he’s made a wrong choice somewhere and now has to answer for it.
But he’s not a child and for the first time in a long time he feels like he’s a making a choice based on his happiness, based on what he wants— not just to get away from his parents, not to live up to the family name, not just to make choices he feels like he’s expected to make. But to love and be loved by someone who gives him more than he deserves.
“Her name is Hermione. She’s intelligent and beautiful, she has a big heart and makes me feel like a teenager again. She’s younger than me, by quite a bit— I’m not trying to pull the wool over your eyes here; she’s younger than me and it’s noticeable,” he explains calmly. “You’ll both be on your best behaviour because if you’re not, then this,” he says, circling his finger around his flat, “will be the last time we see each other.”
“Oh come now, Draco—“
“No,” he says sternly, interrupting his father. He stands up straight and stares at both of his parents. “She’s going to be in my life, no matter what you have to say. So you may as well make nice with her.”
His parents are quiet; his father’s eyebrows look like they’re permanently stuck on his forehead and he’s slowly shaking his head. It doesn’t bother him, he’s been a disappointment to his father for most of his life.
When he looks at his mother she’s frowning and pursing her lips. He makes a mental note to question his father on how often his mother is seeing her plastic surgeon, not seeing a single line or crease on her face. He rubs his thumb against the crease he can feel around his own eyes.
“It’s the same girl, isn’t it?” She asks, blue eyes meeting his. “The one you said you were seeing at the market.”
Draco nods and looks down at his watch. “Yes, it’s her. We’ve been seeing each other since the summer. I need to change, she’s almost at the train station. I’ll text you the address of the breakfast place.”
His father grumbles and accepts the cup of coffee his mother has been working on since he entered the kitchen. “As if we have a choice.”
“Well, you can always leave,” he quips before turning around and walking back down the hall to his bedroom.
Gods, he can’t wait to see Hermione.
“Don’t be nervous,” Draco says, squeezing her hand as he parks the car.
She looks at him with furrowed brows and shakes her head. “I’m not nervous, Draco. I think you’re nervous, so you, don’t be nervous.”
He scoffs and shakes his head but— he is. He’s beyond anxious and he feels like a little boy, anticipating the worst from his too-strict parents. It was always easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission with them; he’d deferred his university acceptance for a year without telling them until it was too late, gotten engaged without telling them until they’d begun planning the wedding, filed for divorce (twice) without telling them until he absolutely had to.
He’s a grown man in his 40’s and he shouldn’t be afraid of his parents’ reactions to his choices anymore, but he is. After leaving his flat, he felt on top of the world for the way he’d commanded the conversation. He meant every word of it. But after seeing his girlfriend with her overstuffed bags and wild curls, he started to worry again.
She doesn’t deserve any of his parents’ wrath. She doesn’t deserve to be scrutinized by two people who can’t seem to accept anything different in their son’s life. He knows they’re going to judge her, he knows they’ll be able to see, clear as day, exactly how much younger she is.
So when he squeezes Hermione’s hand they both know it’s not too settle her nerves, but to settle his.
He sees his father’s car in the lot and mentally steels himself before they head in. Turning to Hermione, he presses his forehead to hers and closes his eyes, breathing her in. She wears a powdery-floral scent that always tickles his nose and has invaded his pillows and his duvet cover. He’s man enough to admit that he avoided changing his sheets while she was away, just so he could keep her close.
“We don’t have to do this,” Hermione whispers, her lips brushing softly against his. “You can just take me home and we can forget about this. I see how hard you’re trying, that’s enough for me.”
Draco shakes his head and cups her jaw with his palm, pulling her closer for a kiss. Her lips are sticky with a fruity-flavoured lip gloss and when they pull apart, she wipes her thumb over his lips to rid him of the gloss.
“No, baby, we’re going to do this,” he says. “They’ll be on their best behaviour. I promise.”
Her voice sing-songs as they get out of the car and he comes around to close her door, when she says, “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“But I do anyway,” he says, humming.
He holds her close as they walk inside of the restaurant, immediately seeing his parents sitting beside each other in a secluded back corner. It’s mostly open-concept with very few dividing walls between tables. It’s also loud, which is primarily why he picked this place, despite it not being very busy.
It’s just after Christmas, after all, and most people are still spending their mornings at home with their families. Maybe one day he’ll be able to do that, to have a lie in with his girlfriend and a late brunch in their pajamas, but not yet.
Squeezing her hip, he smiles down at her as they come to a stop in front of the table, and gestures towards her with his free hand. “Mum, Dad— this is my girlfriend, Hermione.”
His father goes to stand — because despite his clear feelings on the matter, he’s still a consummate gentleman — until his mother presses him down with her jewelled hand and urges him to sit. She stands instead and extends her hand.
Hermione grasps it and they share a stiff handshake while his mother flashes them both a slim smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Hermione.”
“You as well, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione says politely before moving around the table to clasp his father’s hand.
“I would stand, dear, but it seems I have been ordered to sit,” Lucius mutters, gesturing to Narcissa who scoffs.
“If you would just go see the doctor then you’d be able to stand,” Draco says plainly, shooting him a look that his mother mirrors.
Lucius sighs. “I have your mother to nag me, Draco, I don’t need you to do it too.”
He pulls out the chair across from his mother for Hermione and waits until she’s seated to sit down himself. It’s…awkward. Plain and simple. His parents wear their discomfort on their faces, eyeing their clasped hands with frowns and narrowed eyes.
Disappointment.
He recognizes it immediately and thinks it might be the first emotion his parents ever directed at him. It’s one thing for them to look at him with disappointment, but he bristles when they eye Hermione the same way. She doesn’t deserve it. Any of it.
“So,” his mother says, fiddling with her cutlery. “I wish I could say that I have heard a lot about you, but I haven’t.”
Draco clears his throat, ready to jump in, but Hermione speaks first and squeezes his hand tightly. “Oh, that’s alright! I’m happy to tell you anything you’d like to know.”
His mother’s smile is forced, beyond fake, he can tell, and when he glances at Hermione, he knows that she can tell too. His parents have never been very good at hiding their emotions. They’ve never really had a reason to, always able to simply pay the problem away or ignore it entirely with no consequences.
“How old are you, dear?”
His father has never been one to beat around the bush and he proves it yet again. They both stare at Hermione expectantly and Draco holds his breath. He knows that this will be the biggest issue. He knows that her age will anger his parents, above and beyond anything else that she shares with them.
“I’m 21,” she says plainly, proudly, and leans into his shoulder. “I’ll be graduating from university this year and working towards my Graduate studies.”
“Oh,” his mother says, lips pursed unhappily. “I— well…that’s quite the difference.”
It’s the money. The money is always the problem.
He knows what they’re thinking, that Hermione is only after their family’s money and will do everything in her power to get even a little piece of it. As if Pansy hadn’t already done that, as if she hadn’t already walked away with more of his money — his money, not his family’s money — than he ever wanted to give her.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” Draco says, answering for her. “We’re not blind, Mum. We know there’s an age difference between us but…” He pauses and looks at her, smiling at the blush covering her cheeks. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
His parents continue to ask Hermione questions — “What are you studying?” and “Where are you from, dear?” followed by “What do you hope to be when you grow older?” which has him clenching his hand into a fist — and Draco keeps an ear on the conversation to ensure that they’re being as polite as they can be while also ordering breakfast for himself and Hermione.
He desperately wants to power through this breakfast meeting and take his girlfriend home, cuddle her in her bed for a little while before heading home to be, at the very least, questioned by his parents. His father, at least, seems to be at least a little bit charmed by Hermione, acknowledging that he’s listening when she speaks. His mother, on the other hand…well, Draco is just happy that she hasn’t left.
“Have the two of you had time to exchange gifts?” Narcissa asks, sitting back as their meals are placed down on the table.
Draco shakes his head. “Not yet, Hermione’s been up at her parents’ house in Cambridge.” He turns to Hermione and nudges her with his shoulder. “Your gift is back at my flat, safe and sound underneath the tree.”
She turns to him with raised eyebrows, licking a little bit of egg off her lip. “You have a tree? Since when, Mr. Bah-Humbug?”
His grumble of, “I’m not Mr. Bah-Humbug,” is cut off by his mother letting out a small laugh as her fork clinks down against her plate.
“That is exactly what I said when I walked into his flat and saw absolutely no holiday spirit,” Narcissa says, looking at him pointedly. “That was the first thing I did— get him a small tree to decorate.”
Hermione grins at that before placing her cutlery down on her plate and twisting to reach into her small purse hanging off the back of the chair. When she turns back around, she holds out a red envelope covered in cartoon snowflakes with a pink blush on her cheeks.
“I actually brought your gift with me,” she says shyly. “I’ve been really excited to give it to you and I just can’t wait any longer.”
She pushes the envelope at him again and he wipes his hands on his napkin before taking it. He glances at her from the corner of his eye, curious as to what his gift could be. He’d told her, more than a month earlier on more than one occasion, that he really didn’t need anything from her, that just her presence in his life was more than enough.
And yet— he holds her gift in his hand. Carefully, he slips his thumb underneath the seal and tears it open. There’s a card inside, decorated with a jolly Father Christmas and his reindeer and when he opens it, he’s helpless but to smile as he sees the green bubble letters that fill the blank space.
Daddy, it reads and he grins— Gods, how he wishes he could hear it from her mouth at this moment. The word written in her playful letters will have to do for the moment.
I looked high and low for the right gift to give you and only when I stopped looking did the most perfect gift fall right into my lap.
Don’t worry, Blaise took care of the coverage at work.
All my ___*
Hermione
*I don’t want the first time I say it to be on paper— but just know that I do.
He opens the folded piece of paper that was tucked into the envelope and is genuinely surprised when he sees a confirmation email for an overnight stay at a holiday village over New Years Eve. He furrows his brows and frowns because— he knows how expensive a trip like that is.
“Hermione...this is—“
“Totally taken care of by your best friend and his wife,” she says, interrupting and laying her hand on his upper arm, just covering his bicep. “And the rest is on me.”
Draco shakes his head but Hermione stops him again, leaning against his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his shirt. Her grin is infectious and he can’t help but grin back, his cheeks hurting. He’s almost forgotten that his parents are there, until his mother pipes up.
“Astoria? You know Astoria?” She asks, looking pointedly at Hermione.
Hermione hums. “I do. Draco took me to Astoria and Theo’s wedding and we’ve become friendly since,” she explains quickly before turning back to him. “Astoria called me and empathized with my predicament of buying you a gift. She told me that they were already getting a cabin and that there’s plenty of room and we should join them.”
He knows that she’s taken aback when he leans down, his palm coming up to grip the back of her neck, and seals their lips together in a kiss that he probably shouldn’t be sharing with her in front of his parents. But he doesn’t care, not even a little bit, because time away with his girlfriend is the best gift she could have ever given him.
And funding that time away with his girlfriend, is the best gift that his ex-wife and his best friend could have ever given them.
“Thank you, baby,” he whispers softly against her lips, kissing her again. “This is the best gift anyone has ever given me.”
She pulls away from him with a nervous laugh, her eyes darting to look at his parents who look…slightly horrified, but Draco leans in a presses his lips to her forehead without any regard for them. He doesn’t care what they think, he doesn’t care how they’ll feel when they leave and he doesn’t care what they’ll have to say to him later.
When he looks back at them, he notices that his mother’s frown has settled deeper onto her lips but his father…his father gives him a small nod— an approving nod with the barest hint of a smile, before tucking back into his breakfast.
And that’s enough for him. It will take more to win over his mother, he knows that, but that slight nod from his father tells him that there’s something he likes about Hermione, and he’ll take something over nothing.
Besides— Hermione loves him. She as good as told him.
Chapter 24: Winter Wonderland Pt. 1
Chapter Text
Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever been on a car ride so enchanting before; as they get closer and closer to the holiday grounds, she’s struck by the dense forests that line the side of the road and the festive decorations they see along the way. There’s no snow, but there might as well be.
A winter wonderland, the pamphlet boasts, little cabins decorated with wreaths and twinkling lights. Maybe it’s the excitement of finally getting there that makes the car ride so enjoyable.
Or maybe it’s her Daddy sitting right beside her, dressed in a thick green sweater and dark jeans, a faint smile on his lips and knit cap covering his hair. His beard is trimmed but still longer than it usually is, the extended time off from work feeding into his lax grooming schedule.
A part of her likes it better when he’s not so put together, when he doesn’t look so perfect.
His palm is a warm weight on her upper thigh through the material of her leggings, his other hand glued to the steering wheel as he drives them through towns and villages, a car length behind their friends. She loves his car, loves the way the leather feels beneath her, the smell of his cologne permeating the interior. It’s like sitting inside a warm hug from her favourite person.
“If we were to take this exit, we’d be at my parent’s house,” he says softly, glancing at her from the side before turning back to the road. “Not that I would— I think I’ve had enough of them for a while.”
Hermione hums, turning in the passenger seat so her knees are pointed at him. “So we’re almost there, then?”
He pats her leg with his palm. “Almost there.”
“And you’ve never been here before?” She asks, again, finding it hard to believe that he’s never been to this resort— because that’s what it is, glorified camping in a luxurious cabin with award-winning restaurants and a beautiful spa.
A soft tick, tick, tick sounds as he taps the indicator with his index finger, following the black SUV that Theo’s driving in front, veering off the road and onto an exit. He shakes his head.
“Never been, baby,” he says. “I never needed to. Growing up on an estate is quite a bit like living in a resort.”
She frowns and turns to look out the window, thinking. “Did you have a pool?”
“To what— ruin the appeal of a stately country house? No, baby, no pool.”
“A walking trail?”
Draco snorts. “At least a dozen, there’s only 800 acres of free space.”
“A chef?”
He actually laughs at that, turning to face her as they wait at a stop light. “Sweetheart, does my mother really look like the type to cook?”
Well no, she supposes, Narcissa does not look like she spends much time in the kitchen.
He continues. “She bakes the odd thing here and there but I don’t remember her ever cooking a meal, no matter the occasion.”
Draco squeezes her thigh again, his thumb rubbing soft circles against her leggings, as they lapse into silence and he turns the music back up a bit. He’s a car-ride singer— starting softly at first, just humming along to familiar tunes. But before long, depending on the song, she can hear the words in the proper melody coming from his lips.
She doesn’t have a very good voice, so she’s been told, hardly able to keep tempo or stay in tune. It doesn’t stop her from enjoying herself though, and she sings along with him when she knows the song well-enough.
It surprises her that he sings like this. It feels oddly intimate, like something only someone close would know about him. She frowns, a thought popping into her head.
“Do you sing at work?”
His chuckle is soft and he looks at her strangely. “Do I sing? Why would I sing?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugs, her fingers toying with the neck of her sweater. “I think some surgeons play music in the operating room, don’t they?”
“Some, I suppose,” he mumbles. “But no, I don’t sing while I’m operating. Why? Should I start?”
He sings louder then, belting out lyrics to a song she doesn’t even know — something older she thinks, something with guitar and drums and a gritty voice she doesn’t recognize but he knows in a way that means he’s heard this song hundreds of times before.
She thinks of him as a teenager with floppy blond hair, music turned up loud in his dorm room, singing along in the same way he is now. She thinks about what he was like when he was younger, when he was her age, a lot. Not because she wishes for anything different but out of curiosity.
Would they have gotten along? Would he have liked her even then? Would she have even liked him? She kept her distance from boys her own age, too many immature boys pretending to be men, pretending to be grownups.
She doesn’t have to worry about that with him because her Daddy is nothing if not a grownup.
That brings a smile back to her lips.
Slowly, her fingers move from the neck of her sweater to tangle in the delicate silver chain around her neck, toying with the Tiffany-blue enamel heart that makes up the head of a silver key. Her Christmas present— handed over in a small Tiffany-blue bag, the box wrapped in a too-perfect white-ribbon bow that she didn’t want to unravel.
And inside, after he’d insisted she open it again and again and again, this perfect little piece of jewelry that rests against the hollow of her throat.
“A key?” She’d asked.
He’d hummed, taking the box from her hands to carefully lift the chain out and set it against her neck. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful. But it’s…it’s too much, Draco—“
But he’d already done up the clasp at the back, his thumb rubbing against the tender spot along her throat. What followed was a soft press of his lips to the nape of her neck and then to the hinge of her jaw.
“It’s perfect on you,” he said, arms wrapping around her waist from behind, holding her tight to his chest. “Exactly how I imagined it.”
In truth, it made her feel special. No one, other than her parents, had gotten her jewellry before— especially not such pretty, meaningful jewellry. It felt good against her skin, like it belonged there, and she couldn’t stop playing with it.
Was it a reminder, perhaps? Maybe. Like a comforting weight— like his hand on her thigh, but all the time, or his chest against her back, but always there, or his fingers pressing into that pulsing spot between her legs…
She nods to herself and swallows heavily; yes, it’s like having a piece of him with her.
“There’s the sign.”
Hermione whips her head around to stare out Draco’s window, just catching the edge of the sign for the grounds. In front, the fences are decorated with garlands and laurels, strings of lights intertwined and glistening from some of the trees. It's still early in the morning but she likes that the decorations are still lit.
She wiggles in her seat, excited to finally get inside and see what their cabin looks like. Draco softly laughs beside her, his hand squeezing her thigh tightly as they come to a stop behind Theo and Astoria.
“Are you excited, baby?” He asks, grasping her hand to bring it up to his lips, pressing soft kisses over her knuckles.
It tickles, the sensation of his soft lips and rough beard against her skin. “I’ve never been to a place like this before. I want to do everything but I know we can’t.”
Everything; swimming in the indoor tropical paradise building, bowling in the activity den, a partner massage at the spa, dinner at the award-winning restaurant, hikes through the festive forest, gingerbread house decorating, breakfast with Father Christmas, wreath making, pottery painting, the holiday carriage ride…
She’d seen more than a dozen activities she wanted to take part in.
“We’ll come back,” Draco tells her, hand on the wheel again as he parks near the welcome lodge, next to Theo and Astoria. “Anytime you want.”
Hermione pouts, pushing her bottom lip out in a way that makes his eyes flick down to her mouth. “Promise?”
He puts the car in park and grasps her cheek in his palm, pulling her close to kiss her. It’s soft and sweet, as though making a promise to her with his lips, assuring her of his intentions.
“I promise,” he says, pulling back to look at her. There’s another kiss pressed to her nose before he’s unbuckling her seatbelt and then his own. “C’mon, Theo and I will go check-in but you should stretch your legs. Tori’s already wandering around.”
She looks out the windshield to see his ex-wife walking away from the cars, twisting and kneading her lower back as she goes. Her belly is distended more now that she’s beyond a few months along, not that there’s a difference looking at her from the back. She’s slight, small-boned Draco had once said, so she’s not surprised by the ache she clearly feels.
She pushes open the car door, sticking her tongue out at Draco’s “Hey!” as she beats him to it. He likes to open doors for her, to stand on the street-side of the pavement, to hold her hand tightly, especially when they’re crossing the street. She likes it, too, but sometimes she can do it herself.
“Back in the car,” he says playfully, blocking her way out. “C’mon, baby.”
“No!” She laughs, giggling when his fingers start to wiggle, getting closer and closer to her belly. She twists away from him, trying to get around him, but his arms are longer and it’s easy for him to grab her. She squeals, “Daddy!!”
And slaps a hand over her mouth.
Hermione’s eyes are wide, glancing around the parking lot, grateful that it’s only the four of them there. Still, she’s never called him that so loudly in front of anyone. Theo is mostly ignoring them, his phone out and thumbs tapping away, but she catches the sly smirk on Astoria’s face and internally groans.
“Oops,” she mumbles, turning and burying her face into Draco’s pec. “I didn’t mean to say that so loud…”
He pets over her hair with his palm and hugs her tight to his chest. “It’s alright, baby. We’re all friends.”
“Yeah, but—”
Astoria interjects. “Don’t worry, honey. Theo slips all the time.”
“I do not,” he says quickly, glaring at his wife. He looks at the two of them. “I don’t.”
She can feel her eyebrows rising high and the shake of laughter from Draco’s chest before he lifts his hands as though in defence. “Didn’t say anything, mate.”
Theo huffs. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m going inside to check-in. Are you coming or not?”
Draco presses a kiss to the top of her head before pulling away and following Theo into a big building with the words WELCOME LODGE on the front. Hermione shuts the car door and walks over to Astoria, chewing on her bottom lip.
If she’s perfectly honest, the brunette intimidates her and not because of the most obvious reason. She doesn’t care that she’s Draco’s ex-wife or that they, presumably, had sex at one time or another, but her attitude verges so close to Draco’s Daddy attitude, if a little bit harsher, that she can’t help but make herself small in her presence.
Almost like being sent to the Headmistress’ office, like she’s done something naughty and Astoria is there to dole out the consequences. She would never tell her that, of course— although she doesn’t think she’d be offended. More than likely she’d be flattered.
“So…” Hermione trails off, pressing her lips together. “What does Theo call you when he slips up?”
Astoria all but confirmed it herself that her relationship with Theo is similar enough to her relationship with Draco, that there’s a reason Draco and Astoria couldn’t stay married. But her curiosity is still there; is Astoria the Daddy?
“Oh honey,” Astoria says with a small laugh, fingers tapping against her belly. “You are so cute, you know that? So cute, in fact, that I’m not sure you want to know what Theo calls me.”
“What does Theo call Astoria?”
She asks Draco the second they’re alone in their room inside the expansive cabin. It’s bigger than she imagined it to be, even though she’d read all the information that Astoria had sent over. She thought the cabin would just include the two rooms and that would be it, so she’s more than a little surprised to find a nicely-sized kitchen, sitting room and an outdoor patio.
There’s even a small Christmas tree set up in the sitting room plus a bunch of pre-selected snacks and drinks in the fridge. It’s more than she ever imagined.
“What do you mean?” He asks, unzipping her duffle bag and putting her clothes into the drawers.
Hermione clears her throat. “Like…like when they’re alone. Y’know, are they like us? Is she…”
Draco smirks. “No, baby, she’s not Daddy. But she— well, she certainly cracks the whip in that relationship.”
“Like a real whip?”
He shrugs his shoulders and places her bag down on the floor. “That I don’t know, and I don’t really want to know. To answer your question, I’m not sure what Theo calls her. Why don’t you ask Tori?”
“I already did,” she mumbles, flopping down on the bed.
Draco hums and moves on to his own bag, pulling something out and quickly sticking it behind his back. “Oh, I see. Curious little girl— Tori wouldn’t tell you so you asked Daddy?”
She eyes him carefully. “Maybe. What’s behind your back?”
“What did Tori say?” He asks, stepping closer until he’s standing in front of her, one hand still hidden, arm bent at the elbow.
It feels like a game, like if she answers him then she’ll get whatever’s behind his back. Another gift? Something pretty? Something soft? But…there’s something in her that refuses to cooperate. So she crosses her arms over her chest and stares up at him.
“What’s behind your back?”
His grin widens, his white teeth gleaming in the light coming in through the windows. “There she is,” he says softly. “Daddy will give it to you if you tell me what Tori said.”
Hermione presses her index finger to her chin, humming like she’s thinking hard about his offer. He has longer arms than her and longer legs, but she’s smaller and quicker. In a split-second decision she bolts off the bed and around him, trying her best to reach out and take whatever he’s hiding.
But somehow he’s ready for her. He’s always ready for her. He turns quickly, his back now to the bed, and shakes his head softly, tutting under his breath. “Where’d my good girl go? The one who was so excited to be here? Hm?”
“I am excited,” she tells him, pushing her hip out. “But I want that.”
“Want what?” He asks, faux-frowning.
She huffs and points. “That.”
“Oh, this,” he says. “It’s only for the good girl who’s supposed to be here with me. Have you seen her?”
It’s like there’s a little devil on her left shoulder and a little angel on her right one. The angel is begging, pleading, for her to do as she’s told, to answer his question and accept her gift. But the devil’s voice is just a little bit louder, a little more enticing and she can’t help but listen to it.
“The gift first and then I’ll answer.”
He laughs. “Trying to make a deal? I don’t think so, baby. I guess I’ll just have to take this back then, since you don’t really want it.”
Hermione pouts, tempted to stomp her foot— she might tap her toes. “I do want it!”
Before she knows it, he’s tossing whatever he’s been holding onto the bed and wrapping his arms around her waist, tugging her close before picking her up and cuddling her into his chest. Her legs automatically wrap around his waist and her arms snake around his neck, her chin on his shoulder.
He pats her back a little bit and presses a kiss to her temple. “I think someone needs a nap.”
“Nooo,” she whines, shaking her head, mashing her nose into his neck.
Gods, how does he do this to her? How does she fall into this headspace so easily around him? How does she lean into him, curl up against him, trust him to lead her in a way she’s never trusted any man before?
Because she was playing — she was, she thinks — but maybe…maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’s actually grumpy, maybe she’s tired, and maybe he sees through all of her dramatics to the root of the problem. Maybe he’s giving her the solution.
“What if Daddy lays with you?” He asks, turning and walking towards the bed. “Hm? Will you nap for me?”
“But there’s so much to do,” she whines, huffing against his neck.
She nearly squeals when he flops onto the bed, laying on his back with her cuddled on top of him. His arms are strong around her waist and his chest is warm and comfortable; it’s her favourite place to be.
Draco’s fingers comb through her curls, a little wild and unstyled. “We still have the whole day, plus three more days. Just a short nap. For me, please?”
Hermione begrudgingly agrees, snuggling further into his t-shirt, the material soft against her cheek. They’re both quiet for a few minutes, his breath slow and steady underneath her. His chest moves with every breath and it’s like being rocked to sleep.
Her eyes close eventually, lulled to sleep by Draco’s hand rubbing along her back, and she knows she must sleep but she doesn’t know for how long— all she knows is she wakes up confused and disheveled, a crease on her cheek and a little spot of drool on Draco’s t-shirt.
Draco’s awake when she looks up at him, a soft smile on his lips as he takes her in. She knows what she must look like, knows her curls must have snuck past his lips at some point as she slept (it wouldn’t be the first time). But there he is, looking down at her like she’s something special, someone to be cherished.
“Hey sleepy,” he says quietly, his thumb rubbing over the line imprinted on her cheek. “Feel better?”
And despite her earlier protestations that she didn’t need a nap nor did she want one, she does feel better. She was excited the night before, not falling asleep until the early hours of the morning in favour of giggling and peppering Draco with whatever questions popped into her head.
He’d tried to get her to sleep, but it hadn’t been until he’d put some soft music on from her bath playlist and sat her up to sip some water that she’d finally been able to close her eyes.
“I do,” she mumbles, voice gritty with sleep. She narrowly avoids hitting Draco in the cheek when she stretches, her back twinging from the way she slept all curled up.
Patting her hip, he reaches across the bed to grab something. “Do you want your gift now?”
“But I didn’t tell you what Tori said,” she says, nuzzling her nose against his t-shirt.
“It wasn’t something super serious, baby,” he says, cupping her cheek. “Usually you like little games like that, but when you pushed back I knew you needed some quiet time. I wanted you to nap and it didn’t matter whether it was with me or with him.”
At the word him, she feels something soft brush her cheek. She turns just enough to see a new stuffy; it’s a grey baby elephant with big floppy ears and a squishy trunk. Her eyes widen and she can’t help the soft gasp she lets out, pushing herself up to sit over Draco’s lap.
She immediately reaches out to pull the new stuffy into her arms, holding it close to her chest.
“Was I grumpy?” She asks, looking over the elephant’s fluffy head.
Draco presses himself up into a sitting position, his back against the headboard, all the while keeping her steady in his lap. “Not grumpy, just a little tired, baby. You didn’t sleep much last night.”
“I was too excited,” she mumbles, checking over the stuffy. “Does he have a name?”
“Nope, he’s yours to name.”
It feels different being here with him, not being in London at his flat. And for good reason; it’s their first trip together, the first time they’ve decided to go away and spend their holidays with one another. It’s special and she wants to make sure that it remains a good first memory for them.
So she sits back on him and considers the fluffy grey elephant in her hands. It has a little smile and big black beads for eyes, fluffy fur and a soft filling that could even be comfortable for her to sleep on.
“Maybe Willy,” she says, considering. “For Wiltshire, ‘cause it’s our first trip together. I dunno— is that stupid?”
He dives head first at her, making loud kissing noises against her neck and wiggling his fingers against her belly until she’s laughing and squealing. Willy gets tucked between them and she tugs lightly on his hair until he stops.
“You are so cute, baby,” he says, resting his forehead against hers. “It’s not stupid, it’s perfect.”
Hermione laughs. “Funny— that’s what Tori said.”
“Oh? She did?”
She nods again, resting her cheek in the crook of his neck, sighing softly and twisting her fingers around the key dangling from her necklace. “When I asked what Theo calls her, she said I’m too cute to know.”
He laughs loudly, throwing his head back, and Hermione watches the way the muscles and tendons in his neck move, the way his eyes close tight and the little lines deepen. He looks so unabashedly happy and she giggles along with him because she caused that. She’s the reason for his happiness.
How could that not make her happy in return?
He’s still smiling, grinning a wide, bright smile, when he cups her cheek and looks her dead in the eyes and says, “Gods, I love you.”
And then she can’t breathe because it feels like there’s a giant weight on her chest, her heart feels like it’s beating too fast, too hard, too intensely for her lungs to work properly. Time stops, her thoughts stop, the soft buzz from the overhead light stops.
Because—
“I wanted to say it first,” she whines, pouting and throwing her arms around his neck.
She presses her lips to his firmly, her tongue slipping out to press between his, to push into his mouth in a way that’s more forceful than she’s ever done before. But she needs him to know that she’s not just responding to him, she’s not just answering or telling him what he wants to hear.
She loves him in a way she didn’t think possible, not because she didn’t think she’d ever be in love, but because she never anticipated someone like Draco coming into her life. Someone who loves and cares so deeply, unconditionally.
“I love you,” she whispers, pulling back from their kiss, brushing her nose against his. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says. “You practically said it first, anyway. My brave little girl.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I didn’t want it to just be in the card but I wanted you know that I do, even if I didn’t write it.”
“Well now you can say it anytime you want and I can too,” he tells her, fingers squeezing her hips.
Hermione shimmies off of his lap and rolls over onto the bed, stretching for real this time, moaning softly at the feeling in her calves and shoulders. She rolls onto her side and looks up at him.
“What if I say it too much?”
“Impossible,” he says, frowning. “There will never be a second of the day that I don’t want to hear those three words coming from your lips.”
She’s weirdly self-conscious about it for no reason at all. She’s never had a boyfriend this serious before, she’s never told anyone other than her parents and her best friend that she loves them, she’s never had anyone ask her for space or push her away. It’s not like she has a reason to worry about being too much.
From everything she knows about Draco, and she thinks she knows a lot, he likes when she’s too much, when she’s clingy and she needs him. He seems to thrive when she can’t let go of his hand or needs to squish herself against him, when she texts him a hundred times a day about her most mundane thoughts.
“Do you want me to show you?”
Hermione frowns as she looks at him, confused. “What do you mean show me?”
Draco pushes himself up and off the bed, walking around to his yet-unpacked bag after her little tantrum derailed him. He digs around inside for a few seconds, mumbling a quiet and gruff, “There it is,” when he finds what he’s looking for.
He comes back over to her, sitting on the side of the bed, still hiding whatever is in his hand. “Close your eyes and give me your palm.”
She narrows her eyes. “Is it something gross?”
“No, baby,” he says lightly. “It’s not gross, I promise.”
Giving him a final look, she closes her eyes and sticks out her hand, palm facing up. He holds it in his hand, carefully brushing her palm with his thumb before there’s something smooth tickling the surface and then— bzzzz.
She jumps at the feeling and her eyes fly open, blinking repeatedly as the baby-pink silicone wand in his hand comes into focus, the bulbous head buzzing against the sensitive skin of her palm.
“It’s yours,” he says, pressing one of the buttons on the side and increasing the strength of the buzz. “But— it’s only for me to use on you. If it’s in your hand, it’s off. Do you understand?”
Hermione nods her head, a banging pulse between her thighs. “I understand, Daddy. But how…”
She trails off and Draco smiles at her. “I’ll explain later.”
It buzzes stronger then, but only for a second before he’s clicking it off and placing it down on the side of the bed. “Theo and Astoria are gone, they left when you were napping, and they’ll be gone for a few hours. Do you want to play or do you want to wait?”
It feels like too much pressure, a decision to big for her to make on her own. She wants to play, of course, she wants to feel what the buzzing silicone toy feels like presses elsewhere. But she also wants to explore the grounds and enjoy their little trip as much as possible.
It’s an impossible choice, so she lets him make it.
“Can you choose, Daddy?”
He grins at her and stands up from the bed, leaning down to lift her into his arms. “Of course. That’s what Daddy’s for, hm?”
She’s surprised when he sets her down in the shower, warm water already spraying from the handheld instead of the rain head attached to the ceiling. She knows it’s so her curls don’t get soaked because it’s an impossible task to dry them quickly and his care for her hair makes her belly bubble with warmth.
Draco gets in, too, after undressing himself, sliding in behind her with a loofa and the pink frosted animal cracker body wash he keeps for her at his flat.
“I thought we were playing,” she says, turning around to face him.
Water drips down from his hair and into his eyes until he pushes it back with his hand. “We are.”
She watches as he lathers the loofa and drags it over her shoulders and down her arms, first. The smell of it is sickly sweet but some part of her brain loves it. Her eyes close as he washes her, scrubbing under her arms and over her chest, not paying any particular body parts more attention than required.
It’s a bit odd, she thinks, because she showered the night before with this exact body wash and the very same loofa. It’s not like she’s been exerting herself all morning and desperately needs a wash, but she let her Daddy make the decision so she stays quiet and relaxes as the warm water beats down on her.
He’s gentle between her legs, only using water, before turning her around to wash her back. It’s easy to relax into him, to lean her back against his chest even as her lips twitch when she feels his hard length pressing against her. She wonders how people have sex in the shower without contorting their bodies, but realizes that not everyone has the height difference that they do.
“There you go,” he says sometime after, hands still running over her skin. “So soft for me.”
And she knows, as he turns the water off and ducks out of the shower to grab a big towel for her, that he’s not talking about her skin, but her. Because she does feel soft and small and fuzzy and warm. She feels taken care of and happy, desiring only to be pressed against her Daddy’s warm chest.
He wraps the towel around her and rubs her arms, bringing the corner of the towel up to catch the droplets that fall from the curls around her forehead and at the back of her neck, casualties of the shower head.
“Up you go.”
Draco lifts her, tucking her under his chin and helping her legs wrap around his waist. He’s still naked and dripping as they step out of the shower but his focus seems to be only on her, on keeping her warm and drying her as best he can.
He sets her down on the counter in the bathroom, smaller than the sparkly quartz one in his flat but big enough that she can sit next to the sink, and her towel falls down into her lap. Her arms itch to cross over her bare chest, nipples pebbling in the cool air outside of the shower, but he’s tapping her biceps before she can.
“Arms up, baby.”
Hermione obliges, squeezing her warm, damp thighs together, and giggles when he pulls the purple pajama top over her head, a few wet curls sticking to her forehead and the back of her neck underneath the collar of the shirt.
He knows, though, reaching around to free her hair once he’s straightened the shirt on her torso until it rests against the tops of her thighs. It’s baggy on her frame, not constricting or constraining her movements, and she tries to read the words printed on the front, twisting her head.
“What’s it say?” She asks, tugging on the hem.
Draco traces the words as he speaks them. “It says Daddy’s girl, with a heart.”
“I like it,” she says shyly, not bother to hold back her smile.
Pursing her lips, she searches for his, asking for a kiss. He meets her without pause, lips pressing to hers once, twice, three times before pulling back and reaching over to grab her tooth brush and toothpaste.
He’s careful as he wets the electric toothbrush before squirting the minty paste on the bristles. His free hand comes up to grasp her chin and she lets out a nervous giggle.
“Wait— what are you doing?”
His light-coloured brow pops up and he looks at her expectantly, tapping her bottom lip with his thumb. “Brushing your teeth. Open for me.”
She frowns. He’s never done this before and it feels…like something she should be able to do herself. She thought he was just getting her brush ready to hand over, so she could brush her own teeth. It’s messy business—- she always gets toothpaste dripping down her chin and flying out of her mouth.
“I can—“
Draco tuts softly and shakes his head, his thumb pressing between her open lips so she can’t close them again. “Let me take care of you.”
So she does. She lets her lips part enough that he can slip her toothbrush in, thumb pressing the little button until it buzzes to life. It takes him a second to tilt her chin up so he can see what he’s doing, drawing the brush lightly against her back molars, on the sides and behind.
There’s a small smile gracing his lips as he does it, his fingers tilting her chin side to side until he grins, showing his teeth. “Smile wide for me, baby.”
She smiles unselfconsciously, letting him brush her front teeth, and ignores the flying toothpaste and the messy way it drips down her chin because her Daddy is smiling so wide, so big, it must hurt his cheeks.
“Good girl, baby, listening so well to Daddy.”
And she is, she knows, because she feels the warmth bubbling in her belly and that red flush creeping across her chest, underneath her pajama top.
When he finishes brushing her teeth, urging her to spit into the sink, he quickly brushes his own, still standing naked in the bathroom. Hermione kicks her legs out and watches him, following a droplet of water as it trails down between his pecs and over his belly, getting caught in the hairs that lead down to his groin.
She licks her lips as she studies him. Long and thick and only really half hard, bobbing between his legs, fighting hard to point up against his belly. He’s so unselfconscious around her, not even batting an eye when she can’t help the question that slips from he lips.
“Daddy?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, baby?”
“Doesn’t he get annoying like that?” She looks pointedly at his groin.
Draco spits into the sink and turns the tap off. “Sometimes, but not really.”
She hums. “He doesn’t get in the way?”
He turns around and she stares at his bum as he walks back into their room for a few seconds. He returns with something white in his hands and approaches her again.
“Never,” he says, shaking his head and placing the white fabric down next to her. He tugs her down from the counter. “Well, maybe if you’re not with me— lift your leg, baby.”
She does, resting her hands on his shoulders when he kneels down with the white fabric— plain white-cotton knickers with a little pink bow on the front. She lifts one leg and then the other, standing still as he pulls them up her thighs and over her bum.
It’s unclear why he’s dressing her when he just said that they’re going to play but she goes along with him because he’s Daddy and Daddy knows what he wants to do. There’s clearly a plan here that she’s not privy to, not yet at least.
“Daddy?”
He hums, pulling a pair of pants up his legs. “Hm?”
Hermione twists her fingers together shyly. “I love you.”
“I love you too, baby,” he replies, smiling and wrapping her in his arms. He presses a kiss to her temple and sighs against her hair. “You’re going to be good at this game.”
Chapter 25: Winter Wonderland Pt. 2
Chapter Text
The game is simple, at least at first.
She’s soft and a little fuzzy but not in a way that impedes her judgement or her ability to comprehend the instructions. In fact, she likes playing games when she feels like this; she likes being able to focus on one thing at a time and, most of all, she likes the praise that comes with her success.
Draco lies her down on her side and cuddles her from behind, his arms wrapped around her waist and a thick thigh slotted between her own. It’s nice feeling so small, like he could cover her completely, could hide her with his body from the rest of the world. They stay like that, just talking, his fingers running up and down her arms and over the curve of her hip.
“Do you think it’ll snow?” She asks, cheek resting on the cool side of the pillow.
“It might. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
She nods enthusiastically. “We could make snow angels!”
And then:
“If you were a butterfly, Daddy, what colour would you be?”
He hums and thinks for quite a while. “Blue,” he says finally. “Dark blue.”
“Boooringgg,” she exaggerates, sounding out the ‘o’ and the ‘g’. “I’d be pink.”
Followed by:
“You wouldn’t love me if I was an ant?”
He splutters behind her, thumb pressing into her hip. “An ant? I mean— I’ll always love you but, baby—”
“I could be an ant!”
But then his fingers move (after appeasing her, of course: “You’d be a very pretty ant, baby. Of course I would love you.”), skirting along her hip bone, tracing along her pubic bone. It makes her squirm, rocking her hips and inadvertently rubbing herself against his thigh. The knickers are a bit annoying, a barrier between their skin, but she must have them on for a reason.
Her movement is cut short when he grips her hip with his big hand, stopping her. “Tell me.”
Hermione pauses. Tell him? Tell him what? She could tell him any number of things; the sky is blue and the grass is green and snow is white and sand is brown and—
She wants a puppy one day, one that’s cute and small and could fit into her bag, but she also wants a big one that will cuddle with her in bed on nights when he’s at work.
She kind of wants to get up and grab bunny, her favourite stuffy before he gave her Willy, but she doesn’t want to leave the bed. Draco is warm against her and big and makes her feel so, so safe, in a way she doesn’t think she’s ever felt before, and, of course, she l—
“Love you, Daddy,” she mumbles in the middle of the mess that is her thoughts.
He loosens his grip and her hips roll again, free, his lips pressing to the nape of her neck underneath a few loose curls that he brushes to the side. “I love you too, baby. You see how that works?”
And no she doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter because her hips are rolling— slow and smooth, puffy lips dragging against the hard muscle of his thigh, still trapped in the white cotton of the knickers he slipped over her bum. It’s hard to think like this. It’s hard to consider anything other than what she’s feeling, and what she’s feeling is good.
Draco helps her, his palms gripping her hips and moving her at a steady pace, his nose pressing into her throat and chest warm against her back. He’s murmuring all the while, quiet praise and little noises of encouragement, words that make her hips jerk in his palms.
That’s a good girl. Who taught you how to do that? Hm?
Just little girl instinct. Is that it, baby? Your body knows what to do.
Rub that little baby pussy against Daddy’s thigh, it’s alright.
There’s still enough of her there to flush at his words— at her actions. Her cheeks burn hot at the wanton way she’s using his muscled thigh, at the quiet puffs of air she breathes with every down stroke, pressing herself firmly against him .
Draco’s hands tighten their grip and he stops her again, holding her steady against him. He gives the skin on her shoulder a sharp pinch between his teeth when she keeps trying to move, fighting his grip.
And then again: “Tell me.”
Tell him…tell him that she just wants to move. Tell him that she wants to decorate cupcakes after or maybe a gingerbread house, that she wants him to read her a bedtime story tonight and wake her up with kisses in the morning. Tell him that it feels like they’re a real couple because they’re here together, not just playing pretend at home.
Tell him that she needs to move. Tell him that she’s been thinking of getting a tattoo but she’s scared and wants him to go with her, that she wants him to make a playlist for her so she can learn all the music he likes—
“I…I— I don’t know.”
He tuts, breath tickling her neck. “Poor baby.”
She tries to move again but his hands are like iron and her squirming is useless. A whine of frustration bubbles from her lips and she pouts. “Daddy— please, Daddy.”
“Tell me,” he says again, thumbs brushing her skin. “Tell me and you can move.”
Tell him—
“Need help,” she mumbles, turning her face to the side, trying to nuzzle her nose into his arm. “Help, Daddy.”
Her hips almost ache under his grip but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t really mind, so long as he lets her go back to rubbing against him. He started this…he let her have a taste, and now he’s trying to take it away?
Her Daddy isn’t that mean, is he?
“I love you.”
The words spill from her lips before she’s had a chance to even think about them, almost like a reflex, but the second they’re out — “Love you, Daddy.” — her hips are rolling again, damp knickers against warm skin.
“That’s all you had to say,” he tells her softly, lips tickling her ear. “You see, baby? You know how worried you were? I want you to tell me, I want to hear it. It makes both of us feel good, doesn’t it?”
Hermione nods her head rapidly. “Yes, Daddy— yes.”
And she understands now. She gets the game— those words are the key to her rocking hips and his wandering fingers, to the dampness of her knickers and the pulse that beats low in her belly. She can do that, she can tell him that she loves him until she’s blue in the face and the little bubble of pleasure grows so big in her belly that it pops.
“For both of us to keep feeling good, then you’ll say it. Alright?”
Hermione nods her head and rolls her hips, mumbling, “Love you. Love you so much, Daddy.”
There’s movement behind her but she ignores it, focussing on the steady drag against his thigh and the tightening of her calves. Her eyes close as she does so but the words are on the tip of her tongue for when he asks.
The words tumble out, though, one by one when something smooth and blunt presses against her covered lips and a light vibration runs through her. She lets out a breathy moan, something low and gasping that comes from her chest instead of her throat, and presses her hips into the feeling.
It’s the toy from before, she thinks, and opens her eyes just to make sure. It is; the pink silicone wand that looks laughably small in his big palm. Hers, he’d said, but only to be used by his hand.
Without realizing it, her hands move from where they’re curled in front of her chest to grip his arm, slowly crawling down to his wrist, to press his hand— to press the wand against her more firmly. It’s incredibly frustrating, the feeling of the light vibrations that don’t quite reach her clit, just buzzing against her puffy lips, making her squirm with want.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he mumbles, peeling her fingers off of his wrist while keeping the wand steady. “Why don’t you grab Willy, hm?“ She can feel him gesture with his chin to the stuffed elephant that sits just next to her on the bed. “Hug him, baby. Hold him close.”
Hermione reaches out to grab him, his grey fur soft and long enough that she can run her fingers through it. With her arms wrapped around him, his black-bead eyes cool against the warm skin of her neck, Draco presses a kiss to her temple and traces the toy in his hand over the seam of her lips, buzzing through the cotton.
“Don’t let go of him, alright?”
She nuzzles into her stuffy’s soft body. “Won’t, Daddy. Promise.”
His quiet good girl is almost lost to her, the wand moving away just as he pulls away, his chest no longer pressing against her back. She whines in complaint but he just rolls her onto her back, her legs parted and her stuffy held tight to her chest.
She knows one thing through all of it, through the haziness in her mind— she wants her knickers off. She wants to feel the buzzing of the wand mashing directly against her clit, the ridges and calluses on his fingertips pressing against her.
Keeping one hand on her stuffy, she flops the other one down near her hips and digs her thumb into the elastic band, trying to shimmy them down. “Off, Daddy— please, off!”
He, surprisingly, relents. The toy clicks off and he curls his fingers into her knickers to pull them down over her thighs, knees, ankles and feet, tossing them into the corner. It’s as if she’s lost all sense of modesty, spreading her knees wide for her Daddy and rocking up, searching for something— some kind of pressure or vibration or texture against the hard little nub of her clit.
She gets it in the form of his thumb tapping once, twice against the jumping bud— “Look at that. Are you aching, baby?”
She doesn’t answer because the toy clicks on again, his thumb and index finger spreading apart her puffy pussy lips just enough to press the buzzing head to the sensitive crest above her clit, just along the little hood, pulled back flat. It sends a jolt running through her body, up her legs and to her clenching belly.
“Tell me.”
And she does — “I love you, Daddy” — because it’s easy now, she knows exactly what he wants and how to keep the vibrating toy against her. It’s like positive reinforcement, he tells her with a low grumble, his chest vibrating with the sound of his voice just like the toy does.
“As long as you tell me when I ask you to, you can come as much as you want, alright, baby?” He asks, crawling closer and spreading his knees to keep her legs splayed around him. “You just hold onto Willy because as soon as you let go, I stop.”
“Yeahhh— yes, Daddy. Yes, Daddy!”
Her words turn to squeals when the silicone head finally rubs directly over her clit in small circles, constantly moving over her. It’s so different than how she plays with herself when she uses the small blue vibrator in her bedside table at home. She’s usually in a hurry, jamming the toy up in intensity and holding it directly against her clit, squeezing her internal muscles to force a slightly unsatisfying but desperately-needed orgasm out of herself.
Draco takes his time. He plays with her first; he touches her everywhere, even her arms and decidedly non-erogenous zones like her nose or her calves, and he never rushes the intensity of anything. Of course he doesn’t— he only made her wait months to feel his cock inside of her.
No, he starts with a soft buzz that makes her shiver and only when he sees her hips pressing against the toy for more does he click the toy up, the buzzing a little faster, a little sharper. It makes her release a loud breath that comes from her diaphragm.
“Look at you. Feels good, hm? Hm, baby? I know— I know it does, Daddy knows how to make you feel good, doesn’t he?”
And maybe it’s rhetorical, maybe it’s not, but she replies as enthusiastically as she can.
Groans of yes, Daddy!! and ohhh-uhh! — along with other noises that would embarrass her if she was thinking about them — come from her lips. She’s always been self-conscious of the way she sounds, of the uninhibited way she lets go when there’s pleasure threading through her body. But the sounds she makes always seem to egg him on.
“There you go, good girl, Hermione. Good girl, baby— just like that. Tell me.”
She chants a string of “—love you love you love you love you—” that quickly turns into a high-pitched whine as he clicks the toy again up in intensity again.
It’s what she wants; her chest heaves underneath her pajama top and the fingers of his free hand curl around her upper thigh, keeping her legs open, keeping them still. The more intense, the more she’ll begin to move— almost like she wants to get away from the sharp jolts of pleasure currently zapping through her body.
He keeps the wide head of the wand continuously moving in circles, rubbing over her clit but never settling for too long, not letting her clench her muscles or force an orgasm out of herself. Instead, she rolls her hips into the sensation, not desperate but searching. If she had it her way she’d never play with herself again, always going to her Daddy for help.
Actually, the thought surges, that’s not such a bad idea.
Another click and the intensity is verging on too much. He keeps the wand a little steadier, lightly rubbing along the edges of her clit until she can feel that familiar pressure growing inside her pelvis and her belly.
“Wanna come,” she whines. “Wanna— wanna come, p-please, Daddy!
He hums appreciatively, happy, she thinks, and presses the wand hard against her clit. “Oh good girl, baby— remembering Daddy’s rules like that. You wanna come when Daddy says?”
Nothing sounds better in that moment, so with her arms wrapped tightly around her new stuffy, she nods her head, panting and forcing her hips up against the vibrating wand. He doesn’t move it then, just lets her rock her hips and get closer and closer to her orgasm.
“Okay, baby, Daddy’s gonna count to 10, alright? And when Daddy gets to 10, I want you to come for me. Can you do that?” He asks, patient and with her, like there isn’t room for a single thought inside her tiny little brain.
(There isn’t.)
One, two— her lips fall open and her thighs tense, her belly clenching with the effort it takes to climb higher without falling over.
Three, four— her pelvis hitches and presses up, up, up until the wand couldn’t be pressed any harder against her clit.
Five, six— her teeth sink into her lower lip, body trembling with the effort it takes not to come in that moment, because that’s part of this, to get there but to get there on time.
Seven, eight— her arms squeeze around her stuffy and a messy groan full of mumbled words and whining noise leaves her mouth.
Nine. An inhaled gasp.
Ten— a harsh breath is torn from her throat as her body finally gives in with those three letters she was waiting to hear. Her orgasm jolts through her, leaving her thighs shaking and her fingernails digging into the new stuffy, but Draco doesn’t pull the wand away from her core.
“Fuuu— oh. Oh! Daddy—“
Her hips are moving on their own now, trying to move away from the insistent buzzing of the wand but she doesn’t let go of her stuffy. Instead, Draco’s fingers tighten their grip on her thigh as he holds her down, forcing the wand against her sensitive clit and her contracting cunt.
“Tell me.”
It’s harder to get the words out this time, not because she doesn’t but because her brain feels like a scrambled mess. But she manages; wetting her lips and crying out, throwing her back as he rubs the vibrator firmly against her, still.
“I-I-I-I-I….oh. I-I— love you!”
Hermione squeals as he clicks the intensity up again and draws small circles over her clit, leaning down to press a contradictory soft kiss to her thigh. “Again, baby. You can do better than that.”
And she does: “Love you, Daddy— love youuu.”
He starts counting again without her having to ask. In the back of her mind somewhere she acknowledges the thought that just him counting makes her muscles contract and her belly tighten, preparing to come when he gets to that special three-letter number again. It’s like he’s training her— is it possible to come on command?
She doesn’t think so, and yet, when he counts — five, six, seven — her muscles contract and her breath leaves her chest and her belly sinks, concave, and her toes curl and her calves cramp and her mind whites out and—
“Ten— come, baby.”
And somehow she does. It’s tinged with a little bit of pain, this one, her flesh oversensitive and twitching, overstimulated thanks to the strong vibrations of the new pink wand.
It’s funny, then, that she begs him to stop but doesn’t let go of the stuffy. She may be twirling in the waves of something pressing her under deeper, keeping her mind down far enough that she feels like there is no end and no beginning to her own body, but she remembers enough to know that Willy is her way to stop the onslaught of vibrations and stimulation to her poor, puffy pussy.
“No more, Daddy—“ she pleads, hips twisting under his grip. “No more, stooooop”
But she holds on to the stuffy, hugs it tighter to her chest and and buries her mouth in its fur, mouth open and panting until the synthetic hairs are wet from the condensation of her breaths.
“Let go of Willy or tell me.”
It’s torturous; this post-orgasm stimulation and the contractions flowing through her cunt seem never-ending, the emptiness inside of her feeling like a jagged hole ripped deep because something is missing. But still, she doesn’t let go.
“Come on, baby— Hermione.” He says firmly when she doesn’t respond to him or let go of the stuffy, just murmuring unintelligible.
She can feel the way his fingers grip her tighter and he nearly pulls the wand away from her pulsating flesh when she finally lets out a sharp whine and jumbled words that appease him enough to continue.
“love’ou”
He doesn’t wait. “Six, seven, eight—“ He doesn’t even start counting from one but it proves, once again, that her body can’t help itself, that his control of her orgasms runs deep: “Nine, ten.”
Another orgasm runs through her, more painful than the rest and finally enough for her fingers to loosen on her stuffy until she’s pushing the grey elephant away from her body; she’s overheated and panting and her mind is absolutely racing with jumbled thoughts that make even less sense when he clicks off the vibrating wand and pulls it away from her core.
She almost misses it. Almost.
He’s moving around her but her eyes must be closed because she can’t see anything, just an endless sea of black. Her ears are ringing but she catches the sound of the ruffling duvet and the feels soft bounce of the bed underneath her when he moves to lay beside her.
“No no no no no—“
Her body is protesting as much as her mind when he manhandles her, turning her around until her face is pressed into his chest. “You’re alright,” he says softly. “I’ve got you, baby. Daddy’s here— are you cold?”
She realizes then that she’s shivering— or maybe shaking. “Nuh-uh”
But Hermione presses closer to him until she’s practically inside of him, melting into his side and snuggling into his warm skin. The fabric of his pants irritates the raw skin between her thighs, though, and she reaches down to let it be known— “Off, Daddy.”
With his long fingers combing through her hair and the warmth from his body, the intimacy of his naked skin against hers, she breathes deeply and lets her mind shutter, only his soft words of praise penetrating through the thick haze.
“My perfect girl. Daddy’s so proud of you, you know that? You make me so happy— I love you, Hermione. I love you so incredibly much.”
Draco can see the change in her immediately, an hour or so later when she blinks open her eyes and asks for some water with a croaky voice and dry lips. He reaches across to the bedside table and picks up the pink bottle he’d made sure to pack— a sippy cup in everything but name.
Gently, he sits her up against his chest and holds the water in front of her, aiming the straw at her lips. It’s quiet while she pulls in long sips of water, wetting her throat and her lips, letting out harsh breaths through her nose. Her hands are wrapped around his wrists, holding him instead of holding the bottle and it makes his heart beat hard in his chest.
The thump feels beyond what he’s ever felt, like something is finally sinking into place.
“Slow down,” he says softly, pulling the straw from her mouth, petting her curls back from her forehead when she whines. He shushes her. “You can have it back, just take a few breaths for me or you’re going to choke.”
Hermione listens, obedient, but her fingers don’t lessen their grip around his wrists until he brings the straw back up to her lips.
She fell hard.
Harder than he thought she would, harder than he thought was possible for her. Of course, he’d also never played that hard with her before. He’d never brought one of her stuffy’s into bed with them, sexually, never demanded of her when she was in the throws of pleasure, never counted down her orgasms before.
They were all things that they had talked about in deep, serious conversations involving both of their limits and desires, the things they desperately wanted to try and include in their lives, both sexually and not. She had been eager for things to become more…involved when they played, for him to introduce more into their playtime.
Orgasm control had been at the top of that list, for them both. He had sort of warmed her up to the idea already, asking her not to touch herself without asking him first. In the whirlwind end of the year, between exams and going home to spend time with her parents, it hadn’t come up yet but he knew it was a timing issue and not disobedience on her part.
Besides, he’d let his own fingers slip down into her knickers whenever she stayed the night with him, pressing a flurry of kisses to her cheeks when she’d ask him plaintively, nervously, whether she could come. She knew the rule— she proved that just an hour ago.
It hadn’t been planned, either, but when she’d nervously wondered whether she would say it too much, he knew he wanted to reinforce just how much he longed to hear her say those words— I love you. And Gods did she say it, in almost ever single way possible. It was as selfish a demand as it was to build up her confidence, a slithering comfort sneaking into his chest every time she would answer him.
But, still, he knows he’d thrown her off the proverbial deep end with it all.
With her stuffy wrapped in her arms and her Daddy’s girl pajama shirt, the way she rocked her hips against the pink vibrating wand in his hand— he hadn’t come but it had been close. He knows, even now, that he could strip his fist against his cock for less than a minute and spill, hot over his hand. But this was about her, so he ignored his own urges.
He was right there with her, though, through it all. He was ready to catch her, to pull her from the depths at a single sign that something was wrong. He almost had; when her words had become too confused and he wasn’t sure if she remembered what she needed to do to stop the onslaught of the vibrating wand. She had though, a strangled “love’ou” coming from her lips, her arms impossibly tight around the new stuffy.
Draco shakes his head of his thoughts when her hands push his away. He pulls the bottle down and away from her lips as she turns her face to nuzzle into his shoulder, listening carefully as she mumbles into his skin.
“Can we do a gingerbread house?”
A smile pulls at his lips and he nods his head, gently pressing a kiss to her temple and patting her lightly on her thighs. “Of course we can. We have to get dressed though. Can you do that?”
Her brows narrow and her lips twist, as though really thinking about it, before she agrees. “Will you help me, Daddy?”
His breath almost hurts, filling his chest when she turns to look at him. Her eyes aren’t glazed over anymore but there’s something small there, like she’s choosing to remain just below the surface and let him, her Daddy, handle all of the world’s problems. It’s a show of trust, he can see, a desire to let him take over beyond their usual playtime.
When he finally exhales, his breath shaky, he squeezes her tightly to his chest and and presses kisses of love into her skin.
She’s malleable, pliant, as he dresses her in something cozy; thick navy blue leggings paired with a heather-grey sweater that she doesn’t need to wear a bra underneath, giggles escaping from her lips when he tickles her bare belly. Her cheeks are pink, like she’s wearing rouge, but he knows it’s just the warmth flowing through her. Her lips are bitten red.
“Don’t pull,” she warns, handing him a crinkled hair elastic and the brush she prefers, trusting him to style her hair. It’s the first time she’s done so, preferring to just do it herself.
Draco is as gentle as possible, carefully gathering her curls into a bunch, not trusting himself to use the brush for fear of tugging on her hair and her scalp. But Hermione seems happy with the style, half-up on the top of her head, and puckers her lips, waiting for a kiss.
It’s good— it’s all good, this feeling, the way things are.
He worries, then, just for a few seconds, that something might change when they leave their room and head into the big open sitting room, Theo and Astoria sitting cuddled on the couch. He worries that the little twinkle in her eyes will fade and she’ll go back to her usual self— he loves her, all parts of her, but this is new and he wants it to last just a little bit longer.
But Hermione smiles shyly and waves, stepping forward on unsure socked-toes until she’s standing in front of their friends. The smile Astoria is giving her is one that Draco is grateful for; it’s open and welcoming, her eyes soft as she looks at his little girl.
She turns to him, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifting in question, and he nods. She’s not down but she’s not up, either.
“Hi Tori, hi Theo,” Hermione says, her voice soft and sweet, her fingers tangled nervously. “Was the spa nice?”
He can see Theo nodding, his palm covering his wife’s belly, but he lets Astoria speak, deferring. Draco comes up behind his girlfriend and plants his hand on her hip, winking at his ex-wife and the sparkly smile that’s taking over her lips.
“It was perfect, honey,” Astoria says. “You should ask Draco to take you— they do couples massages.”
Hermione leans back into his chest and pulls his arm over her shoulder, holding it close. She tips her head back to look up at him, her lip caught between her teeth. “Can we go tomorrow, please?”
Daddy doesn’t pass her lips but he hears it anyway, in the way she looks at him, blinking slowly, in the way she holds his arm to her chest, in the way she nibbles on her bottom lip. How could he ever say no?
“Of course we can,” he says, lips pressing to her forehead.
With the first test passed — sort of, they are his friends and in on their type of relationship — he’s more confident when they leave the cabin and head off on the short walk down the forested path, over to the Activity Den. She holds his hand tightly, her scarf wrapped warmly around her neck and chin, boots making dull thudding sounds as they walk. He slows his pace to match hers and she swings their hands as they go.
There are other people as they walk, families with small children and couples on a romantic getaway. He smiles and nods at them all, proud of Hermione when she does the same. He sees her hesitate when a small family walk toward them with a dog— a big fluffy thing with more hair than body mass.
“Can I—?” She asks, trailing off, eyes darting to him in question.
And it’s—fuck. It makes his belly bubble and his heart stutter to hear her ask him, to watch her defer to him. He gets ahold of himself and gestures with his chin. “Ask first.”
She’s polite in her question — “Can I pet your dog, please?” — and they spend a few short minutes there in the middle of the path. He can see the questioning looks that the couple send him, wondering what he is to Hermione, but their young son answers all of Hermione’s questions, giving her a high five when she stands back up.
As they get back to their walk, she turns to him, a frown on her lips. “Was that…weird, do you think?”
“Was what weird? Petting the dog?” His brows twist. “Not at all, baby.”
Her frown stays, though, and he bumps her shoulder with his arm until she continues. “I think they— I think they thought you were my, you know, my dad.”
Draco snorts and wraps his arm around her shoulders, tugging her close into side as they wander up to the Activity Den. “I don’t think so, baby. But even if they did— so what?”
She scoffs. “So what? I mean…I don’t want people to think you’re my dad. I want them to think that we’re dating.”
He knows a foolproof way to do so and he stops her just as they reach the doors to the building, tugging her around until she’s leaning against his chest. He cups her cheek in his palm and nudges her nose with his own, his lips finding hers in a soft, tender kiss.
“There,” he mutters, his forehead pressed against hers. “I’m not your Dad anymore, I couldn’t possibly be.”
Her smiles presses against his mouth but she sighs, loudly. “But those people didn’t see.”
Tugging her close again, he pulls open the door to the building and ushers her inside, walking down the hall. “Well, next time you see them, you tell me. Alright, baby?”
“For another kiss?” She asking, her fingers tangling with his again.
Draco agrees. “For another kiss. Now, let's go build a gingerbread house.”
Chapter 26: Winter Wonderland Pt. 3
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Did Astoria know?” She asks, licking her fingers, wrinkling her nose at the taste. “That I was…you know.”
Her hands are stained red and blue and green from the royal icing they’re using to glue the gingerbread house walls together. It tastes…not very good, too sweet and too thin and it dries too fast. She spends many minutes peeling the icing from the pads of her fingers, like she used to do back in school with glue. Draco watches her with a fond expression all the while, his own fingers suspiciously clean.
He looks up at her from the two walls he’s holding together, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, waiting for the icing to dry between them. “Yes, she knew.”
Hermione hums. “Was I that obvious?”
Carefully, he pulls his fingers away from the walls of gingerbread, still poised in front of him in case it starts to wobble, but after a few seconds he rests them back on the table, the walls thankfully holding together. It’s harder than she thought to build a gingerbread house, probably because she doesn’t think she’s ever actually built one.
They’d had little kits at home when she was younger but she’d always just eaten all of the little sugar-dusted candies and left the hard, bitter gingerbread for her father. It sounded more fun than it really was and more than once she’d pouted in frustration until Draco had taken over for her; gluing together the walls, arranging the candies in a pretty pattern, mixing the royal icing for her.
“She just…” he trails off and gives her a soft smile, reaching across the table to pat her messy hand. “She just knows what to look for, hm? It’s not a bad thing, but if you’re not comfortable being around her when you’re—“ he lowers his voice “— like that, then you don’t have to. We can save our playtime for later in the day, or times we know we won’t have to do anything or be around anyone.”
She shrugs her shoulders, slipping a broken piece of a candy cane between her lips, the peppermint sharp and cool against her tongue. It doesn’t bother her, exactly, it just feels…
“It’s just kinda intimate, isn’t it?” She asks, looking up at him carefully. “It’s something that I’m comfortable sharing with you— and I know no one else probably knows, but…”
There’s a scrunched line between his brows but he nods his head, agreeing with her. His eyes look bright, almost iridescent with the lighting in this room, partially natural light from the skylights. They’re more silver than grey, she knows, an odd colour to begin with. Pretty though, eyes that she sees when she shuts her own, eyes that appear darker, stormy, when he’s leaning over her.
His tongue darts out to draw along his lower lip before he speaks.
“It is between us— but you’re here, aren’t you? The only difference being these people don’t know what to look for,” he says, and she supposes he’s right. “I would never include Tori or Theo in our actual playtime, that’s a limit for me— but if it makes you uncomfortable, playing around them — even in the tertiary sense — can be a limit for you.”
She still feels the same amount of fuzzy, the same amount of floaty, the same urge to slip into her Daddy’s lap and wait for him to clean her hands of the sticky mess. She still feels different, like she wants to curl up and let him make any and every decision required of her— just like before, when they stepped into the sitting room with Astoria and Theo.
It’s the same but different, though, with them. Astoria had looked at her, her eyes flickering over her shoulder to look at Draco — for confirmation? for recognition? for approval? — and then her face had softened, lips unpursing, cheeks plump, eyes free from lines. It was as though the older woman was looking through her, seeing something that she only wanted her Daddy to see.
Through no fault of her own, of course. She was beginning to understand that Draco and Tori’s similarity was uncanny.
“Can I think about it?” She asks, stirring the icing in the bowl.
His frown is back, this time reaching his lips, and he grabs a hold of her wrist to stop her from playing with the icing. It surprises her; he doesn’t usually get her attention like that, with touch, with such a firm grip, fingers unrelenting. She looks up at him, curious.
“It’s always your decision, Hermione. I always want you to take the time to think about things, whether it’s something that makes you uncomfortable or not. It’s your space, so it’s your decision,” he says firmly, squeezing her wrist. “We play by your rules, baby.”
It’s an odd way of putting it but…she knows it’s true. He’d been very serious with her when he explained that he might be the one in control, he might be the one making the decisions, he might be the one that she leans on, but she has all the power in this relationship. Everything stops if she says no— just like everything moves forward if she says yes.
She sits up a little bit straighter, curling her fingers until she’s gripping his index and middle fingers in her palm. She likes thinking about it like that— that it’s her space; this fuzzy, floaty, soft space that she finds herself in. It’s her space because it lives in her mind and she only welcomes those who she wants to be there.
Like her Daddy.
“Okay, I— I know. I just forgot,” she mumbles. Not like…forgot forgot, just forgot about it in her wavy little brain, no room for serious thoughts.
“Do you want to talk to Tori about it?” He asks, dribbling royal icing along another wall before holding it against the two that are still, miraculously, standing.
She blanches and chews uncertainly on her bottom lip. “Oh. No— no I don’t think so.”
“Shy?” He asks, looking up at her, fingers still pressing against the seams of the gingerbread walls.
“Yeah,” she whispers, squirming a bit in her seat. “I don’t know…I just don’t want to, not right now.”
This time, when Draco carefully pulls his fingers back from the dark brown cookies being held together by faux-glue, she sees the crash before it happens. The wall he’s just added wobbles, the royal icing slowly sliding apart, sticky white strings stretching between the cookies, before the wall falls down to the table. It only takes another second for the other two walls to twist in on themselves, landing in a heap.
Hermione covers her mouth with her hands to try to hide her smile and the very small laugh that’s threatening to bubble from her throat, especially when she sees the frown on Draco’s face and the look of absolute exasperation. He settles his wrists down against the table, crumbs and small bits of sticky white icing on the tips of his fingers, and sighs.
“This is impossible, baby,” he grumbles, shaking his head to move his fluffy hair, freshly washed without any product, out of his eyes. “You don’t want to eat it, right? Do you think they have real glue anywhere?”
She sucks her thumb into her mouth, teeth scraping the sticky icing that’s still leftover, before wiping it on a napkin and standing up from her chair. Draco watches her the whole time, eyeing her carefully as she rounds the table and squeezes herself between his chair and the table. His knee presses into her thighs and she takes the opportunity to flop down in his lap.
His arms immediately band around her, keeping her steady as she balances on his knee and he pulls her back into his chest. She feels safer like this, protected from anything that might come their way, and feels herself relax in his arms.
It’s been a weird experience to be out in public while she’s very much not her usual self. She feels softer, smaller, more needy than usual. It’s one thing to hold his hand and play by his rules, to text him when she leaves her flat or stick close to him on the pavement when they go for a walk. She makes that choice consciously, to give him that control.
But this, still being down, being under, makes everything feel like second nature. She takes her Daddy’s hand because…why wouldn’t she? She climbs on his lap because…well, that’s her spot. She checks with him before running off because…he’s her Daddy. It’s so easy and, yet, strange.
It’s difficult not to feel like everyone knows, like everyone is staring at them, judging them.
“Hermione?”
She blinks, clearing her eyes, and leans her head back to look up at him. “Hm?”
“Feeling alright?” He’s rubbing his hands over the sleeves of her shirt, over her shoulders and arms, and she relaxes into his warmth.
Settling further on his lap, she leans toward the table and tries to pick through the mess that is their collapsed gingerbread house. “I’m fine.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds, hands just rubbing against her arms and down the length of her back, and she thinks he’s going to push for more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, his chin pressed into her shoulder, and presses a small kiss to the back of her head.
“I think you need my help,” she finally says, pulling the bowl of royal icing closer.
After all, her fingers are smaller, better at holding the small corners and edges of the gingerbread cookies. She doesn’t mind getting a little messy, either, while he seems to wipe his hands on the wet cloth at every opportunity.
Plus, she has experience. Not a lot, but some, in the gingerbread-house-building world.
But then he breathes out a sigh, nuzzling his nose into the back of her neck, her hair, fingers gripping her waist tightly and says, softly, “I think you’re right, baby.”
With a shiver blazing up her spine, she has the strange feeling that he doesn’t just mean in that moment.
Draco has been to his fair share of New Years Eve parties over the years. As a teen at school, sneaking liquor into their dorms; as a university student, all piling into a ratty pub; as a married man, celebrating at his family’s country club; as a divorced man, wallowing in his condo; and every year after, taking a shift in the emergency room, even during his second marriage.
His friends are always curious as to why he enjoys taking shifts on the big holidays like Christmas and New Years, but he’s always thought that it’s those days in particular where people who come into the ER need to see a friendly and dedicated face. His expertise and his bedside manner are never more important than on holidays meant to be spent with loved ones.
It’s been close to 10 years since he hasn’t worked a shift at the hospital on New Years Eve and his skin feels itchy, a buzzing in his veins, like he should be somewhere else. It’s not that he’s worried about it, necessarily. He knows it’s in good hands, Blaise taking the shift for him with a smile and a teasing, you owe me.
It’s not that. It’s just…New Years Eve is for people who are happy, who have someone to share things with, and up until this past year, he hasn’t. It’s hard, sometimes, to reconcile that Draco with this one. He’s the same person, of course, deep down but for the first time in a long time, he’s happy to be away from work— to not have to bury his head in something just to be able to forget.
As it turns out, the resort throws a big party for the adults in one of the restaurants and he loses Hermione for half a day when Tori steals her away to be pampered at the spa. He doesn’t mind, she deserves it, but he does ask surreptitiously if she’s comfortable being alone with her after the events of the previous day.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Hermione asks, confusion colouring her face as she grabs a big scarf to wrap around her neck.
Draco slips his palm over her cheek and rubs absently at the dip beneath her bottom lip. “Just with everything yesterday. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh. Well— no, I’m fine. Is she going to bring it up?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, she might. Do you want me to speak to her?” Astoria’s filter is wanting, to say the least. Even more-so when she’s with someone she considers a friend.
She chews on the inside of her lip and he taps the spot with his thumb until she stops, a sheepish look coming to her face. “Sorry— no, I can do it if she says something.”
“My brave girl,” he says softly, tipping her chin up so he can press a soft kiss to her lips, and another before she can pull away.
Hermione smiles, the same soft embarrassed flush coming to her cheeks when he praises her. “Sometimes— except with spiders.
He agrees, pulling her in for a tight hug, his arms wrapped around her shoulders to hold her against his chest. “Except with spiders. Daddy will take care of those.”
The day passes as one would expect being inside of a wilderness resort. Draco and Theo spend some time in the racquet ball courts and exploring the gym areas. They consider going for a swim but find it full of screaming children and families— Draco takes a lot of pleasure in nudging Theo with a blazing grin, pointing out what his very-near future will consist of.
It’s easy for them to end up in the American-themed bar and grill instead, sitting down with a pint and some lunch as they wait for their partners to finish up at the spa. It’s not a total bore, though, his phone buzzing every once in a while with Hermione’s running commentary of their experience.
Hermione 😇
Hermione: so
Hermione: i think i want to be tori when i grow up
Draco: I think I might have an issue with that. I like you quite a bit as you are.
Hermione: did she bully you into marrying her
Hermione: is that what happened???
Draco: Very funny. What did she do?
He taps Theo’s leg with his shoe and turns his phone so he can see the texts. Theo groans and shakes his head. “Bloody woman. She’s become even more…”
“Her?” Draco tosses out.
“Bossy since she’s been pregnant.”
He winces and glances down at his phone as Hermione texts him back.
Hermione: she gets shit done
Hermione: in a nice way 🙃
Draco: "Nice." Sure...
“And how have you been dealing with that?” Draco asks his friend, fingers tapping against the table.
Theo glares. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
The restaurant is fairly empty, only a few other tables besides theirs and no children that he can see. Draco and Theo have been friends for longer than he’s even known Astoria, and one might think it would be awkward to be able to assume things about their sex life but they have an understanding between them.
Draco tends not to poke into their situation and Theo doesn’t offer anything up, and vice versa.
But, they’re a few pints deep and Hermione’s question is still ringing in his brain. A little poking can’t hurt.
“By the way, what names have you decided on?” He asks, a teasing smile on his lip. “Dada? Mama? Surely not Mu—“
Theo bangs his pint glass down onto the table, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth to clear up the bits of foam. “Oh that’s rich coming from you, Daddy— wait a second, how did you even know? Did Astoria tell you? I told her not to say anything.”
Draco snickers and shakes his head, tossing a chip into his mouth. “Nah, mate. You just did.”
Hermione: ok maybe scary is a better word
Hermione: is this what your marriage was like
Hermione: trying to out-daddy each other
Hermione: cause i get it now
Draco: Something like that...yes. Are you having a nice time, at least?
“Just wait until you have kids,” Theo says, taking a big bite of his burger. He chews fast and swallows hard before he speaks again. “You’ll never hear your actual name again.”
Draco shrugs and tries to brush the comment off. He generally prefers not to think about kids, or about the possibility of kids, anymore. He’s in his 40s already, old by many standards, including his own, and while he knows Hermione is willing to consider children, they haven’t had any discussions beyond that.
After his second divorce, he constantly questioned whether he’d made a mistake in being so upset, in starting the long and painful process of a divorce that brought out the worst in both of them. But late at night, when he was in his cups, he always came back to the dream he’d had as a young man— to have a family.
He thinks that his typical version of a family may have changed, though. When he thinks of Hermione as part of his family, he doesn’t think of what they might be lacking, but rather how they fill each others lives.
Maybe his desire for children with Pansy said more about their compatibility and what he thought he was missing— he was always thinking of what they didn’t have and how to become closer, how to feel like a real family, because they never did on their own.
Hermione makes him feel more complete than he ever has before and he sees that more clearly than ever.
“Sorry,” Theo says, after it’s been quiet for a few minutes. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”
Draco shakes his head and waves his hand. “No, you’re right— maybe I’ll change my name at work, too.”
His best friend snorts. “Dr. Daddy, that’ll go over well.”
Hermione: yes daddy 🥰
Draco: Good. Are you almost finished?
Hermione: just finishing up my toes
Hermione: do you miss me??
Draco: I always miss you. I think I need one of your hugs.
Hermione: a billion hugs coming right up 🤗🤗
Draco winds through the crowd until he reaches the bar, snagging two glasses of bubbly champagne in one hand and two mushroom tartlets in the other. When he turns around, he sighs audibly at having to fight his way through the crowd again, this time while balancing food and drink, but smiles when he catches sight of Hermione.
It’s hard not to notice her; she’s the brightest, shiniest, sparkliest person in the room.
The dark green sequins of her dress reflect the light and his eyes follow the curves his fingers know so well. When she’d slipped out of their room that evening with a sheepish smile, her hands smoothing the dress down over her hips, he’d made a show of sinking his teeth into his knuckle, but the sentiment wasn’t exaggerated.
She looks beautiful — she always does — but a part of him, the selfish part, is so sure that she’s chosen this emerald sequinned dress not because of the holidays, but because she knows it’s his favourite colour. He lets the thought sink deep inside his chest and warm his belly.
As he walks, his eyes trail down her body from the big, loose curls she’d tamed her hair into, over the slope of her shoulders and hint of cleavage, the dip of her waist and high slit at her thigh, all the way down to those same fucking sparkly shoes that she had worn the night they met.
Those shoes do something indescribable to him, just the hint of sparkle at her dainty feet and he’s taken back to that very first moment all over again, her hand in his as he cleaned it of blood and wrapped it in a bandage. Sometimes he thinks he should build a shelf for the shoes in his flat to display them for all to see, like something out of history with importance where others will pay just to get a glimpse of them.
She’s speaking to Astoria and Theo, lips painted a bright fuchsia and stretched wide as she laughs at something that’s said. Gods, he never feels more in love with her than when he’s watching her from afar, when she’s unaware and unapologetically being herself. When he can see the way her brow jumps in interest and her fingers fidget over the small clutch she holds, how her teeth always find the edge of her lip to worry.
Draco watches as Astoria nudges her until she turns to look at him, a faint pink flooding her cheeks at the weight of his eyes on her. There’s only a dozen or so steps between them but she waves shyly then looks across the room to the left. Draco follows her gaze to the sign for the toilets and raises his own brows curiously when she glances at him once before making her way over to the alcove.
It only takes a second to set down the no-longer-wanted tartlets and to take a long sip of champagne from one of the glasses before he straightens the cuffs of his button-up and heads off to the side of the room. The toilets are gender neutral, each one its own room with a door instead of a long line of stalls, and he catches the flash of honey-brown curls slipping inside the one furthest down the hallway.
“Finally,” he hears her mutter as he steps inside, the lights on and shining artificially bright.
She pushes the door closed and flicks the lock, her arms quickly winding around his neck and fingers curling into his hair. With a gentle tug, she pulls his face down until their lips meet in a clash of tongue and teeth.
A low chuckle slides from his throat as his hands find her waist, gripping her tight in his palms and pulling her close to his body. He indulges her, he has no choice but to, and lets her lead the kiss in a way she typically doesn’t.
Her lips are fervent in their movement, her tongue running aggressively against the seam of his lips until he parts them. She takes over his mouth in a way that surprises him and he can taste the desperateness of her desire.
“What’s all this about?” He asks in between kisses. He barely has a second to take a breath. “Hm?”
Perhaps it’s the result of the champagne she’s been plied with all day, giving her loose lips and a slippery tongue, but she doesn’t shy away from his question like he would expect. He thinks he knows what this is all about and on any other day he’d have to needle her and poke until she finally, beyond embarrassed, would tell him.
“I’m really horny,” she whines, her lips pink and swollen, her words spoken into his mouth.
Draco cups her cheek and presses his thumb into the hinge of her jaw until she pulls back from his lips on her own. When he looks down at her, there’s a faint blush on her cheeks blooming through her makeup and he bumps the tip of his nose against hers.
“I offered before…” Draco trails off, his palm creeping up her waist to draw his thumb underneath the swell of her breast through her dress. “But you didn’t want to.”
He had; slipping into the toilet where she was applying her makeup, fingers wiggling under her towel until she shooed him away so she could finish getting ready. He had pressed a soft kiss to the back of her neck and left her with a squeeze to her arse.
“I knowww,” she pouts, seconds away from stomping her foot. “But— we could, y’know, here…”
He buries his face into her neck, smothered by her sweet-smelling curls, and groans softly at her words. It takes all of his strength not to turn her around and bend her over the sink without another word.
“I think you’ve just had a bit to drink tonight, baby,” he says into her shoulder, pulling back to look into her face.
Hermione rolls her eyes and brings her palm up to pat his cheek. “I’m not drunk, Draco. I’m just really, really, horny and it’s your job to fix it.”
Draco laughs and digs his fingers into her side. “Oh it’s my job, is it? Little brat.”
She twists away from his tickling fingers and presses up onto her toes to meet his lips in another consuming kiss. He grips the side of her face in his palm and takes over the kiss, pulling her lower half closer to his body.
She tastes sweet, his little girl, like champagne and something creamy, and he knows he’ll lose all sense of control if they continue. He pulls back again, pressing her up against the hard edge of the sink.
"It's a big stretch," Draco says, thumb rubbing over the line of her hip bone through the sequins of her dress.
Hermione shakes her head, pout deepening on her lips. "No, no, no, no— just look, Daddy. Check, please."
"Check for what?" He asks, tipping her chin up. "Hm?"
She mumbles under her breath, hardly louder than a whisper, but he thinks he hears her. Still, he needs her to say it louder— if she wants to act like a big girl, then he'll treat her like one.
"What was that?" He asks. "I couldn't hear you, baby."
She sighs loudly and nibbles on her bottom lip. "I'm dripping, Daddy."
Stepping back, he spins her around and presses down on her back until she’s bent over the sink, her fingers gripping the sides tightly, knuckles white. He’s rough when he slides his hands underneath the hem of her dress to ruck it up over her hips only to see—
“Fuck— where on earth are your knickers?”
Her sweet giggle tells him all he needs to know— that this has been her plan all along tonight. And who is he to deny her desires?
“I didn’t want any lines, Daddy,” she says softly, wiggling her bum at him. “It’s better this way.”
It is better this way, he wants to say, but doesn’t. He pinches the skin of her bum instead, grinning at the way she squeals and tries to move away from his hands. When she looks up into the mirror, her curls falling over her forehead, he raises his brow.
“Colour?”
She smirks. “As green as my dress.”
As her Daddy, he takes a lot of pleasure in watching the cheeky little smirk slide from her lips as he presses two fingers inside of her. She’s warm and wet and tight around his fingers and he feels the little squeeze of her muscles as she squirms around the intrusion.
She was right, she is dripping.
It’s getting louder out in the restaurant and he slips his thumb down to rub messy circles around her clit, her slick now coating his fingers. In truth, he thinks she can take him just fine— maybe a little bit of pressure, a small pinch, but she’s used to his size now. Still, it does something to him, and to her, to think of their size difference.
The way the top of her head barely comes up to his pecs, the way her hand looks in his palm, the way her cunt stretches around him.
“We’re going to miss the countdown,” he says, looking down at his wristwatch. There’s only a few minutes to midnight.
Hermione whimpers as he moves his fingers quicker inside of her, rubbing with a firm pressure against the spongey tissue inside. “Don’t care,” she whines, pressing her hips back. “Please, Daddy. I want you.”
And, really, when he thinks about it, is there a better way to ring in the new year than buried inside of his girlfriend? No— he doesn’t think so.
With a quick flick of his fingers, he lowers the zip on his trousers and pops the button, letting them fall to his knees. He hardly has the patience to roll his pants down, just enough that his cock bobs free, bumping against the curve of Hermione’s arse.
She pushes up on her toes, the heel of those sparkly shoes clacking against the tile floor, when she feels the velvety skin of his cock on her skin. When he looks up in the mirror, his cock in his grip, she’s staring at him with wide, watery eyes.
“Please, Daddy— don’t tease. Not tonight.”
He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, down by his knee, but he ignores it knowing it’s probably Theo or Astoria wondering where they are. He hopes his non-answer will be answer enough for them. They’re busy.
With one hand gripping her hip and the other holding himself steady, he rubs the head of his cock against her before pushing inside, doing his best not to tease like she asked. He watches as her teeth sink into her lip and the muscles in her back tense at the stretch of him inside of her, all the while small, soft whines of please bubble from her lips.
“Down more,” he mumbles, fingers pressing into her back as he stops pushing, not quite all the way inside of her. “C’mon, baby, open up for me.”
It’s just the position that’s stopping him and as she bends herself down further, her chest pressed to the sink and her chin hovering above the faucet, he feels himself slide the rest of the way in. He groans at the feeling at the same moment she moans, deep and breathy.
“Good girl,” he says, rubbing patterns into the skin of her back. “Just like that— you gonna let me fuck you?”
Draco tangles his fingers in her curls and tugs just until her chin comes further away from the faucet. It’s for safety as much as he likes the feeling of her hair in his grip.
She nods into the stretch. “Please— wanna come.”
As the noise level rises in the restaurant, he fucks Hermione in earnest. This isn’t one of those scenarios where he takes his time to take her apart and put her back together again. No, they’re both chasing a slightly tipsy orgasm in a public toilet and he does everything he can to get her there.
His free thumb slips underneath them, his hand slightly crushed by the sharp line of the sink, to rub firm circles into her clit. He keeps his thrusts steady and hard, repetitive in a way that he knows is important. Too much, and she’ll be overwhelmed; too little and she’ll never reach her peak.
Doing all he can with his body, he talks to get her the last little bit that she needs.
“You’re gonna be full of Daddy’s come, aren’t you?” He asks rhetorically. “It’ll slide down those bare thighs, no knickers to hold it in. Didn’t think about that, did you?”
Hermione’s breath hitches at his words, only a breathy, “shit,” slipping from her lips between the whimpers and moans.
“That’s right baby— shit,” he says, becoming more and more breathless himself. “Everyone’s going to see it and know.”
“No, no—“ she shakes her head.
He tugs on her hair. “Colour?” He demands.
She whines, loud and long, before it turns into the word, “Greeeeeeen.”
His knee hits the front of the sink and he curses but doesn’t stop. His legs are aching from the awkward position, slightly strained in a semi-squat despite the added inches her heels give her.
“That’s what I thought. Baby wants to be messy— you don’t have to pretend.”
His words combined with his cramping thumb and aching hips, fucking into her the way he knows that she wants, have her panting and squirming, squeezing her muscles around his cock. He has no intention of making her beg, though, not tonight.
“You come when you want,” he says, bending down low over her back. “Come, baby.”
It only takes a few hard thrusts and his weight against her back, his forehead pressed into her shoulder, for her to wail as she comes. Internally, he thanks whoever is looking out for them that the noise in the restaurant is at it’s highest, blaring through the door to the toilet.
He’s helpless not to come, too, as her muscles work and squeeze around him. With a final thrust of his hips against her backside, he drops down to his elbows, caging her in. He knows in only a matter of seconds, his come will drip around his softening cock, down her thighs.
“D’we miss it?” She mumbles, panting heavily from under the curtain of her curls.
Draco drags in breath and, using all of his strength, pulls his arm up to look at his wristwatch.
“No, baby. We just caught it,” he says, reaching around to grab her chin and turn her face towards. “Happy New Year, my love.”
She smiles and breathes into his kiss, hardly more than a peck. “Happy New Year, Daddy.”
Chapter 27: The Unexpected
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Her key turns smoothly in the lock and Hermione presses the door open with her hip, dragging her duffle bag inside the flat as well as her backpack, filled with her new coursework, two new textbooks and her computer. She feels weighed down and exhausted after her first day of the new semester, eager to drop all of her things and crawl into Draco’s perfectly-made bed.
Instead, as she closes the door and flicks the lights on, her eyes catch on a brightly-coloured gift bag sitting on the island. She stops and drops her bags, landing with a thump on the hardwood floor.
Hermione steps forward, peering at the gift bag and flushing as she reads the words on the front. Just as she reaches for it, her phone buzzes in her pocket and she answers it without looking. She already knows who it is.
“Hi, baby.”
“You left me a present,” she sighs happily.
She drags her fingers over the paper gift bag, a soft blue with polka dots and pink tissue paper sticking out the top. It’s small with her name written on the tag in Draco’s familiar spiky scrawl.
His chuckle is warm in her ear. “First day of school is a big deal.”
She snorts— “It’s not really my first day, it’s just a new semester. You really didn’t have to do this.”
He really didn’t, but she can’t deny the way it makes her heart beat a little bit faster or how the corners of her lips pull so tightly into a smile that she can’t seem to shake. He isn’t even in the room with her, completely out of reach, and he’s making her belly fizzle with warmth.
“Well, it’s the first one I’ve been here for,” he says in a low, curling voice. “It’s just something small.”
“Can I open it?” She asks.
She pops up on her toes to peer into the bag, but the tissue paper is abundant and covering whatever’s inside. He’s right, though, it has to be something small. The gift bag isn’t very big, hardly big enough to conceal her wallet.
“Of course you can, baby.”
Putting her phone on speaker, she lays it on the island and plucks the tissue paper from the bag, tossing it out of the way. She reaches into the gift bag with searching fingers until she feels something both rough and soft and in a curious shape.
When she pulls it out, she sees that it’s a small, blue felt heart. Squeezing softly, it feels like it’s stuffed with something, maybe cotton, and no bigger than the palm of her hand. It’s blue and puffy, like a tiny pillow, and she releases a small sigh as she cradles it in her hand.
“It’s a heart?”
It comes out more like a question than a statement and when she peeks back down at her phone, she sees that Draco is attempting to FaceTime her in the middle of their call.
Hermione accepts the call and leans her face over her phone, eyebrows launching up into her hairline when her scrubs-clad boyfriend comes into view. He looks tired and scruffy, his beard a bit messy from no-doubt scratching his fingers through it and his hair is pushed over to one side.
He smiles when he sees her, as though it’s a reflex, like just the sight of her causes a simultaneous quirk of his lips and brightening of his tired eyes. She flushes in response, her own natural reaction to seeing him, and gasps happily when he holds up his hand.
There, between his pinched thumb and forefinger, is an identical pink, felt heart.
“I’ve had it in my pocket all morning,” he says, eyes flickering. “And I plan to keep it in my pocket when I’m at work, just like you can keep that one—“ he gestures toward her “—in your backpack when you’re at school.”
Her mouth opens and closes, mind whirling as she tries to find something to say.
“You’re such a romantic,” she settles on saying, looking down at the heart.
It’s simple and a little wonky; it looks homemade but she doubts he himself made it.
“You bring it out in me, baby.” He grins and shrugs his shoulders. “How was your first day?”
Hermione picks up her phone, the blue heart still in her hand, and walks over to the couch, curling into the corner. Her blanket is draped over the back and she tugs it over her legs, tucking herself in all the while trying to keep her phone’s camera aimed somewhere near her face.
“It was good. The first class always makes me feel a bit anxious. I know why they go through everything but it always feels so overwhelming to be handed an entire semester’s worth of work all at once. All these dates and expectations and tests and exams and papers and…”
Draco hums and raises a takeaway coffee cup, throat bobbing as he swallows.
“I know, baby. It’s a lot of work— but maybe we can make a calendar together and keep track of everything so it doesn’t feel so overwhelming. I’ll help you.”
That would be helpful, she thinks, chewing on her bottom lip in thought. She usually has to go through the first week of classes on her own, doing her best to deal with the anxiety that seems to flood her system in anticipation of another 12 weeks of classes.
She takes an English-heavy workload, at times reading three or four books from vastly different time periods. Sometimes non-fiction, sometimes fiction, some of them modern and some post-modern, some meant for children and others for adults. At some point, inevitably, there’s a test for each class in the span of a week and a four papers due over the course of a few days.
It’s stressful, but maybe it’ll be different if she has someone else there to help her— someone to care for her wellbeing and her work.
At least it’s her last semester, her graduation approaching in the summer as long as she passes her last four classes. Even then, though, she’s already applied to grad school for the fall, just waiting to hear back on the status of her applications. It’s not that she’s not ready to work, she just…doesn’t know, yet, what she wants to do.
“That’d be nice,” she says. “If you don’t mind, I think it would really help.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” He smiles teasingly. “This is exactly the kind of stuff I want to do for you, baby. Anything to make your life easier— and hopefully knowing you have my heart with you, while you’re in your classes, those become a little bit easier, too.”
They haven’t spoken at length about her anxiety or her tendency to push herself in her classes, to accept nothing less than perfect when it comes to her grades. Of course, he knows she’d all but disappeared during her exam period and stayed up later and later and later as she studied and pushed through essays, but she’d never said anything explicitly and neither had he.
Hermione realizes then that he’s more observant than she gives him credit for. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise though— he is a doctor. One whined complaint about a headache or an upset tummy and he’s attempting to diagnose and treat her as though she’s in his accident and emergency department.
Maybe for someone else it would seem smothering, but she likes having him worry over her.
Just a little bit.
“If I have your heart, does that mean that you have mine?” She asks softly, twirling the felt-heart around her fingers.
“Mm,” he hums. “You gave it to me when you told me you love me, just like I gave you mine.”
“I do love you,” she confirms easily.
She does, beyond what she ever thought possible.
“I love you, too,” he returns, that familiar stretched smile on his lips. Draco changes the subject then, his one hand disappearing as he, no doubt, gets a page. “I think I need to go, baby.”
She presses her fingers to her lips and blows him a kiss. “Alright— you’ll be home later?
Draco nods his head, checking his pager. “I will. I’ll pick up dinner. You be good for me, okay? If you’re hungry before I get home there are snacks in the fridge and some of that popcorn you like in the cupboard.”
“Yes— you know me so well, Daddy,” she says, standing up from her little cocoon to skip over to the cupboard. “I hope the rest of your shift is easy.”
“Me too, baby. Love you.”
“Love you.”
She hears an alarm go off just as he stands up, his phone unbalanced and pointing just below his face. Her eyes are glued to the way his scrubs pull tight along his chest and she smiles just as he ends the call.
The popcorn is the white cheddar kind, the one with the dust that coats her fingers until there’s a thick layer. She likes to let the layer of cheese dust build on the pads of her fingers until she’s finished snacking, going in for a satisfying scrap with her bottom teeth. Draco always eyes her with a slightly-disgusted-but-trying-not-to-show-it look on his face, one that tells her if she was anyone else to him, he’d say something.
But he never does. He watches as she sucks the cheese dust from her fingers, sucking on the skin until it’s wet and sticky from her saliva and the residue of the food. Somehow, somewhere, he’ll grab a napkin and carefully wipe her fingers with it until they’re clean again.
She knows that deep down he hates the white-cheddar coated popcorn, but her hand closes around the bag despite his personal feelings— it’s there, sitting in his, in Hermione’s opinion, pathetic snack cupboard, all for her.
Hermione squeezes the little blue heart in her hand.
The door to the flat opens just after her usual supper time and she twists from her spot on the couch, stretched across the cushions with her head atop a mountain of pillows and her blanket wrapped around her body. She can just make out the top of Draco’s blond head, bobbing in through the entryway, and hears the crinkle of a takeaway bag in his hands.
His footsteps are heavy, tired sounding, dragging his feet after a long 12-hour shift in his runners. She’d been stunned to see his watch’s pedometer count upwards of 20,000 steps in a single day.
Most of the lights are off in the flat and the only real light comes from the glare of the television, lighting the sitting room in hues of blue and red and purple as the picture changes. She’d unsuccessfully flipped through sitcoms before steeling herself to navigate his intimidating Smart TV to get to Disney+. From there, the choice was easy.
Yzma’s nasally voice reverberates through the speakers as Draco’s footsteps move into the kitchen, the takeaway bag landing on the island before there’s the dull clink of keys. Normally he greets her, but he must think that she’s sleeping— evidenced by the careful way he pulls down a glass from the shelf and quietly fills it with water.
“What?! A llama?! He’s supposed to be dead!”
Hermione’s giggle is loud enough that she sees him turn to look at her out of the corner of her eye. His eyebrows are raised and he peeks at the television, trying to figure out what she’s watching.
Suddenly, he’s moved out of her periphery, no longer in sight, and drapes a big, pale palm in front of her face as he leans over the back of the couch, blocking The Emperor’s New Groove from view. She whines, almost like a squeal, as he does it.
“Daddy, no! I’m watching that.”
She grips his wrist with both of her hands and tries to tug it out of the way, but he persists, leaning his head down until he’s pressing many, many kisses to the crown of her head. He means it to be obnoxious, she’s sure, but she’s needy and clingy on a good day and luxuriates in his attention.
“Oh, were you watching that?” He asks, his voice low and teasing. “I’m sorry, baby, you were so quiet I thought you were sleeping.”
She scoffs playfully and rolls her eyes. “I laughed!”
But he doesn’t respond, his hand moving over to her shoulder and through her thick curls until his thumb and forefinger find the fleshy bit of her earlobe. He doesn’t hurt her— he doesn’t pull or pinch with his nails, just a little squeeze in reprimand.
It’s deserved— he has been very open about how much he hates eye rolling.
“Hey,” he mutters, fingers crawling through her curls. “What do you say?”
It comes out as a mumble, but she is easily chastened. “Sorry.”
With warm, nimble fingers, he rests his hand on her throat, under her jaw, and tips her head back with his thumb pressed to the jut of her chin, until she’s looking up at him. He looks as tired as he did over FaceTime— eyes ringed in a tired purple, beard mused and lips slightly downturned. Not exactly in a frown, but not smiling either.
His cheeks are pink from the cold weather and she reaches up to cup his icy skin with her warm palm. Draco leans forward until his nose brushes her chin and his lips glide against hers.
Draco likes the first kiss — the welcome home kiss or the I missed you kiss or the I love you kiss — to be focused. He likes it to be more than just a peck, but not so much that their lips part and their tongues meet. Soft and settled, meaningful, passion tickling her insides, warmth curling in her belly— focused.
Kind of like the way he doesn’t want phones in bed or face-up on the table when they go out to eat, or how he wants her hand curled in his when they venture outside for a walk. There is plenty of time for phones and distractions later, like when they’re relaxing on the couch in the evenings or enjoying a quiet cup of coffee in the morning.
He’s not unreasonable, just eager for shared, uninterrupted time together.
She gets it, though it had been a little scary at first. It almost felt like an overstep on his part— who was he to dictate when she could use her phone? Or what kind of kiss she had to give him?
But left to her own thoughts, able to think about what he was asking of her, she’d realized that it was, in a roundabout way, exactly what she wanted. Who didn’t want their significant other to put down their phone and lave them with attention? Who didn’t want a meaningful kiss? The rules went both ways, for her and for him.
“Have you been good?” He asks, slowly pulling back and letting her chin tip back down.
“Always.”
He hums, fingers scratching the crown of her head. “Did you have any of your snack?”
“Uhuh.”
Draco leans down and presses one last kiss to her head before stepping over to the kitchen island where their takeaway sits. The paper bag is noisy as he opens it, tugging open the drawer with his silverware and closing it with a soft nudge of his hip.
She’s missed a good few minutes of the movie but is easily sucked back in, squirming until she’s sitting upright and leaning into the corner of the couch.
“You’re going to disappear in there,” he mutters, hands full as he puts their dinner down on the coffee table. “One day I’m going to come home and I’ll be lucky if I see one of your little toes poking out between the cushions.”
He plucks at her big toe teasingly to punctuate his statement and she yelps— he knows she’s unbearably ticklish. They wiggle in reflex until she tucks them underneath herself, hidden from his fingers.
“What’s for dinner?” She asks, peering at the coffee table.
“Salads— I got you the crunchy one you like,” he says, bending over to pull the lids off the containers. “The crunchy tortilla one, right? Shit— is it that one? I should have called—“
Hermione frees a foot from where it’s folded underneath her and reaches out to poke him in the butt with her toes. “Relax, Daddy. You got the right one, you always do.”
His shoulders settle and he nods, a small smile coming to his face. But instead of handing her the container, he approaches with a wet cloth and gestures to her hands. She so badly wants to roll her eyes, but somehow finds the will to hold it in.
A squeezed earlobe leads very quickly to a disappointed sigh and a question she’s not currently keen to hear: do you need a reminder? The reminder is usually in the form of a lecture — they haven’t ventured into anything more physical, not yet — but always leaves her with a guilty belly.
“C’mon, I know your fingers are all cheesy.”
She huffs but lets him wipe her fingers with the cloth. “They’re not. I cleaned them.”
“You licked them,” he corrects. “Not the same thing.”
Her teeth nibble on her bottom lip as he presses his own lips to her knuckles and tosses the cloth onto the kitchen island. Draco hands her the salad container, already tossed in the chipotle dressing she likes, and a fork before taking a seat beside her.
It takes less than a minute for him to scoop her up onto his lap, his own salad forgotten at his side, as he curls his arm around her waist. His voice is soft and a little rumbly in her ear as he holds her close, the flat of his palm pressed against her belly.
“I missed you today,” he says, nuzzling her jawline with his nose. “Can I…?”
She knows immediately what he’s asking and happily passes him her fork, keeping ahold of the container. With a practiced hand, he stabs the torn lettuce, corn, tomatoes and black beans, a tortilla chip settling on the prongs, too, and lifts it to her mouth.
“Open,” he mutters. He hums happily when she does, uttering, “Good girl.”
“Stressful day?” She asks, after swallowing.
It’s not that he needs to have a stressful day to feed her, or that something must be bothering him, but he tends to be more touchy, wanting to hold her, to cuddle, to settle her in his lap and be needed when his days are long and tiring. As though it’s as much a balm to his worries as it is to her own.
Hermione feels him shift behind her, her back leaning against the hard length of the chest. She feels safe there, held by him, balancing in his lap. His arm is like a secure band around her waist.
“Just long. I kept thinking about you, about how your day was going and what your classes were like,” he says, more salad prodding at her lips. She accepts it with a happy noise. “This is a comfort for me, too, you know?”
She’s still chewing when she turns a little bit to raise her eyebrows in question.
“I told you, baby. I like taking care of you— so coming home, feeding you dinner, brushing your hair, giving you a bath, tucking you into bed…it makes everything feel worth it. Every shitty part of my job, every worried thought, it all goes away when I have you in my arms. When you need me.”
“I always need you,” she tells him shyly. “I just don’t want to be too—“
“You’re not,” he tells her and she can feel the shake of his head. “You’re never too much.”
They continue like this, with him alternating bites for her and bites for himself, sometimes chasing her lips with a folded napkin when the dressing splatters around her mouth. The movie plays on, Kronk and the squirrel squeaking in private, Yzma forced to the outskirts so she doesn’t overhear their conversation.
Draco chuckles softly at her as she mouths some of the words, accepting bites of her salad until she feels full and shakes her head at the next forkful. He eats it instead and puts the lids back on the salad containers, leaning forward to place them on the coffee table.
His palm feels warm and comforting, rubbing her belly in small, soft circles. It almost feels like she falls into a daze— the rubbing and the full belly and the bright colours from the television. Her eyes blink slowly and she settles further into his arms, into his chest, until suddenly— she blinks and the movie is over.
With a soft sigh, Draco adjusts her in his arms so he’s cradling her like a baby. She’s sideways over his lap, one arm tucked underneath her knees and the other cradling her head against his chest. She nuzzle into him, into the warmth of his sweater and the softness of his abdomen.
“Did you have homework?” He asks, thumb caressing her cheek.
Hermione shakes her head. “Mm, no. S’just the first day— just lots of talking.”
She settles, melting further into his arms, when he rocks her a little bit. Even a few months ago she’d have shied away from something like this— from being treated like a baby. But it feels good now, it feels right, like she was always meant to be there in his arms.
She’s no longer interested in fighting against what feel like natural instincts, not when she has someone more than willing to indulge her.
“I was thinking, after our call, that maybe we can make a homework board and stick it next to the fridge,” he says, quietly, almost shyly, like he’s nervous. “We could get some stickers and maybe some little rewards.”
“A treasure chest,” she mumbles against his chest, fingers curling into his sweater. “Like at the dentist.”
Draco laughs, the sound vibrating against her cheek and startling her, but she calms when he pats her bum. “The dentist? Something you need to tell me?”
Hermione giggles. “No, Daddy— you know at the dentist how they have treasure chests? For kids? You know, ‘cause dentists can be scary. When they’re finished the kids get to pick a prize; just little things, like toys and stickers and-and-and just, like, little stuff.”
She has a very clear image of the treasure chest that her parents keep at their own dental practice. It’s brown and aged like a real chest with stickers decorating the outside. Inside, she knows it’s filled with little plastic necklaces and army men, plastic toy animals and yo-yo’s.
Just little things to bribe kids with— an easy way to avoid being bitten, her father had said once.
“Hair bobbles,” Draco suggests. “Maybe nail polish or that hand cream you like— the shea one. Legos?”
A smile widens her lips. “I haven’t played with Lego in…a long time. That would be fun, Daddy— we could do it together.”
He pats her bum again, smiling down at her before he presses a soft kiss to her lips. Hermione tugs on his sweater, trying to stop him from pulling back, but he carefully pulls her fingers free from the knit.
“I’ll get a treasure chest then and at the end of every week you can pick something special,” he says, chest rumbling happily. “Does that sound like something that would help?”
“Can we still do the board with the stickers, too?”
His smile is warm and indulgent. “Of course we can, baby. Anything you want.”
With one arm holding her close to his chest, his palm cradling her neck so her head rests against his shoulder, he pulls back the duvet cover until there’s enough space that he can slide her into his bed. She settles easily, a deep sleeper, and immediately cuddles into her pillow and the stuffed elephant he’d given her over New Years.
Carefully, with soft fingers, he tugs her joggers down her hips, pulling them from her ankles, but leaves her sweater on. He knows how much she hates sleeping with joggers or sweats on, with anything trapping her legs. Pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, he pulls the covers up to her chin.
“Daddy?” She mumbles, nose scrunching.
He shush her, feathering his thumb over her cheek. “Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be in soon.”
“Promise?”
Dragging his finger through her hair, he agrees. “Promise.”
He knows she’ll be warm enough but he double checks the temperature in his bedroom anyway before softly closing the door and heading back out into the rest of his flat. She’d fallen asleep fairly quickly as he rocked her, the events of the day finally catching up to her until her chest was rising and falling in a smooth, steady rhythm, little puffs of breath hitting his chest from her nose.
His day was long, not necessarily busy, but felt longer than his usual 12 hours. He’s more than ready to crawl into bed beside her, but first he cleans his coffee table of their dinner leftovers, making room for them in the fridge. It takes less than a minute to tidy up and satisfy his desire for a neat living space— folding her blanket, fixing the pillows, reaching down the back of the couch until he finds the socks she’d pulled off at some point.
It doesn’t make him angry, though, or annoy him. He likes seeing his flat lived in, likes seeing her belongings laying about. He straightens her shoes by the front door and puts her backpack up on the small bench by the front door.
She’s messy in an endearing way.
The espresso machine is his last stop, ensuring it’s ready for the morning. He doesn’t have work until later in the evening but he intends to be up early to get Hermione ready and drive her over to campus for her classes. He knows that an iced espresso with her favourite oat milk will make her smile.
That’s kind of his job, he thinks, to make her smile. To make her happy.
Turning off the lights, Draco grabs his phone from the coffee table and frowns when he sees there’s a text notification. He hadn’t felt his watch tap his wrist but when he looks down, there’s a notification there too.
Unknown: Hi
Unknown: Draco?
He frowns and pauses, waiting to see if they text again. When they don’t, he taps his fingers against the screen, thumb hovering before he sends it.
Draco: Who is this?
Unknown: I know you don't want to talk to me but I need to talk to you.
Unknown: It's Pansy
Notes:
Thanks for sticking with me through this bit of a lull. I never promise updates, but I am hopeful (and planning) to update this more consistently going forward, until we reach the end.
I'd like to thank each and every one of you for all of your support over the year. Please know how much I appreciate you 💗
I hope you all have a very Happy New Year!!
Chapter 28: The Peculiar Day Pt. 1
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The weather is, suddenly, nice. Peculiar, even, for the end of January.
The sun is blazing, the sidewalks are dry, there isn’t a single cloud in the sky, either— no rain, no snow, no wind. The pavement reflects the midweek surprise, bustling with people as they head out to enjoy the sudden moment of near-warmth.
Too warm to wear a winter coat, too cool to wear a spring jacket, but the sun warming her skin and her trainers in no danger of trudging through puddles of slush is more than Hermione could ever ask for. It’s incredible what a bright, sunny day can do for the mind-numbing monotony of grey, cloud-covered London.
A brief glance at the weather app on her phone, shining with the sun and boasting a toasty 14 degrees celsius, while she crunched on the granola topping her oat-base yoghurt was enough to inspire a squeal and to plead with her boyfriend for a walk together. Draco had readily agreed, skipping his usual morning run in favour of curling around her backside and palming the swell of her breast as he slumbered until a very respectable 9 a.m.
In fact, she’d woken with a start, confused at the weight that lay across her waist. She very rarely, if ever, woke to find Draco still sleeping. Most mornings he woke her after his run with a few soft kisses to her forehead and the promise of an iced coffee, ice clanking in the reusable tumbler she favoured and coffee already brewing.
But it’s a self-imposed lazy Friday— the only day Hermione doesn’t have class and Draco doesn’t have work that week. That means sleeping in late, sort of, taking a steaming hot shower together and settling in for a light breakfast on the couch instead of a rushed one at the kitchen island. Her desire for a walk is unplanned, but welcome, she thinks.
“I’m just going to buy you a pair of trainers to keep at my flat,” he says as they walk hand-in-hand down the pavement. He’d playfully huffed as she scurried back and forth between the entryway and his bedroom nearly a half-a-dozen times, digging around in her over-extended overnight bag for her shoes and then her bum-bag, sprinting back for her chapstick and — oh! — her orange Tic Tacs.
She looks at him quizzically. “You’re going to buy me a second pair of trainers for the rare walk we take?”
“They don’t have to be the same,” he says with a shrug. “Just to keep in the closet, one less thing to remember to pack and lug around the city all the time. It’s not as though you only ever bring one pair of shoes when you stay, anyway.”
“I never know what we’re going to do— I just want to be prepared,” she says defensively. They stand at the corner waiting for the light to change and Hermione looks down at her only pair of trainers— white with grey embellishments. “I can just leave them with you. Problem solved.”
He sighs, fingers tightening their grip over hers as the light changes and they move over the crosswalk. “Or, you could just let me buy you another pair. What if you need them?”
“I won’t.”
Another sigh. “You might— actually, never mind, baby.”
She glances up at him and can’t stop the whine that slips through her lips. “No, Draco. Come on, you can’t just do it anyway.”
“Hey.” He shoots her a soft look. “Don’t whine. I’m not doing anything, I’m just…letting it go.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “No, you’re not. I know you better than that. Once I leave you’re going to go out and buy a new pair and then all of a sudden the next time I need my trainers for something you’ll just pull some miraculously out of your front closet.”
She clears her throat and attempts to deepen her voice to mimic him. “Oh! Would you look at that; some pretty trainers just for you. No, baby, I don’t even remember going out to buy them that time you told me not to. They must have just appeared!”
It’s a testament to his mood that he snorts in laughter and doesn’t admonish her, instead letting go of her hand for half-a-second to pinch her hip in lighthearted retaliation. Hermione yelps playfully but doesn’t move away from him, instead seeking out his hand with her own, eager for the comforting grip again.
He grins and brushes the top of her head with his cheek before gesturing with his chin at the bag slung across her chest.
“I am, admittedly, not entirely up-to-date with all of the…” he trails off and shrugs his shoulder, “…current fashion trends but I thought that a bum-bag was pretty self-explanatory.”
Hermione tugs on the black strap laying across her chest. “Take a look around, Daddy. Everyone wears it like this.”
With just a single glance around them, there are at least three others with the small bags strapped to their chests and she looks at Draco pointedly. He shakes his head with a fond smile on his face, letting go of her hand to wrap his arm around her back, hand laying against her shoulder.
She leans into the cradle of his arm and reaches up with her other hand to grip his index finger, holding onto him as they continue down the path.
“Well, I trust you. I suppose it is cute like this,” he surmises. “Can’t imagine there’s much room in there, though.”
There isn’t. Really only space for her chapstick, her card-holder, her keys and the little plastic container of orange-flavoured mints. Her phone is tucked into the slim pocket of her leggings but she’d probably be able to slip it inside her bag if she absolutely had to.
Hermione shrugs her shoulders in answer and pats the little bag reverently. “It has enough room for all of my must-haves.” She tugs the zipper and looks up at him. “Mint?”
He nods his head and just barely opens his mouth, enough that his tongue pokes out, and she shakes out two mints to slip into his mouth before pressing another mint into her own. If left to her own devices, she’d finish an entire package during a single day.
They continue to walk along the path that leads into a small park, weaving around families and couples and dog walkers. The sun is high and and she feels a small drip of sweat bead at her hairline and gather in her armpits. The t-shirt she wears under her sweater is sweat wicking, thankfully, but she knows by the time they go back to Draco’s flat she’ll have a thin layer of sweat covering her arms and back.
It’s not like they’re overexerting themselves, or walking all that fast, but it almost feels like those frigid days when she bundles up in her heaviest clothes only to walk into the mall or a café that’s blasting the heat. She goes from shivering to sweating in only a few seconds, adding and removing layers as she moves from climate to climate.
“Wanna sit?” Draco asks, pointing to a bench underneath a few bare trees, their leaves having fallen down and blown away with the wind. “We can have our snack.”
He’d insisted on packing cut up strawberries and honeydew melon along with the black pepper biscuits and sliced havarti she likes— not quite a picnic but close enough. The small tote bag she’d given him — decorated with a simple line drawing of the Lorax — hangs from his other shoulder.
Even if he weren’t her Daddy it strikes her, as they walk over to the bench, that he has a number of parental sensibilities. His pockets are always lined with clean tissues, his car loaded with water bottles and he’s always, always, carrying a snack. Not for himself— but for her. Sometimes it’s just a little packet of fruit gummies or crackers, once in a while it’s a granola bar or a clementine that he always offers to peel.
With his New Balance runners and tracksuit bottoms, bag of snacks slung over his shoulder, he looks, well, like a very hot dad.
“Hold on, love.” He stops her from sitting on the bench, running his knuckles over the painted wood, only nodding when they come away dry and clean. No doubt he has a towel in the bag, just in case. “Alright, go on.”
The bench is cool against her backside even through the layer of her leggings and she twists her fingers in the sleeves of her sweater— just a plain heather-grey one that boasts the name of her university. Draco had attempted to wrestle her into one of his own but the difference in their height always makes his shirts hang down nearly to her knees.
Normally she doesn’t mind, but she’d slipped into her arse-shaping leggings, the ones that lift and firm the curve of her hips and roundness of her backside, in the hopes that she’d catch his eyes. Wearing his sweater would remove that possibility.
“Hungry?” He asks, mistaking her quiet contemplation for patiently waiting for the snack to appear.
Hermione smiles. “Well, you did bring my favourite snacks…”
Maybe it’s just watching him as he pulls out the towel she knew was tucked in the bag and the small containers of fruit and cheese and crackers, or maybe it’s the way he flashes small little indulgent grins at her or, more likely, it’s the way he takes a cracker and tops it with cheese, holding it up to her lips until she takes a bite. It’s the thumb that swipes against the corner of her lip, ridding her of a cracker crumb. It’s the small tap she gets to the point of her nose with his index finger.
It’s all of those things, really, that makes her say, through a mouthful of food that sticks to her teeth and her gums, “You’ll be a really good dad.”
He will. As…strange as it might be, to correlate the kinds of things he does for her as what he would do for his kids, she knows they’re the signs of what will make him a good father. Kind and sweet with an abundance of patience she’s grateful for every single day and an understanding about him that makes it easy to open up about all of her worries and fears. Gentle, with cuts and scrapes, like he demonstrated on the night they met, beyond protective and eager to keep his loved ones safe and happy and comfortable.
Always ready to teach and explain, doesn’t anger easily, watches Disney and Pixar and other cartoons, watches tween movies for which he has no frame of reference, oohs and ahhs over her colouring and eats the too-sweet cookies she knows he doesn’t really like.
And, yes, at the moment she is the one who benefits from these characteristics but, in her mind’s eye, and when she falls into dream-filled sleep, she knows, emphatically, that he will be a good dad.
For as sure as she is, Draco falters. A tic jumps in his cheek— teeth clenched. He doesn’t frown but the slight upwards tilt of his lips lowers slightly, enough that she notices it. She swallows the cheese and cracker heavily, gulping.
His eyebrows lift and he pastes on a see-through smile. “Are you saying I’m not a good Daddy?”
“No, of course not. You’re the best Daddy a girl could ask for,” she reassures him, clasping her hand over the top of his. “I just meant, like, a real dad. You’ll be a good one.”
He hums and reaches back into the bag, pulling out a juice box— apple, her favourite. They’re quiet as she watches him tug the straw free from the plastic wrap and pierce the circle of foil on the top of the box.
“Maybe,” he says softly, handing her the juice. “Being a good Daddy is enough, though.”
“Oh.” She’s a little bit taken aback. Pulling in a long suck of juice, wetting her dry throat, she digs a little deeper. “I thought— just, you know, we talked about how you want kids.”
Well, they didn’t really talk about it— he simply stated that he, at one time, wanted kids and then asked her if she would agree with that statement. She did. She still does.
Her boyfriend, for as direct as he usually is about his desires, about the things he wants them to do together, does not enjoy talking about himself. She knows this— has realized this over countless times that he’s turned the conversation back to the topic of her or, at the very least, them.
She expects him to give her a soft, unsure smile and say something like— a little mini you would be cute or kids and little girls both need the same things. She expected a little joke or a quip or—
Not him digging his hand into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and unlocking his phone, appearing to tap and scroll aimlessly. She doesn’t anticipate that he’ll simply ignore what she said, so she turns, lifting her leg to rest more fully on the bench, and stares at him in disbelief.
“Draco, I don’t— I basically just told you that I think about us having kids and that I think you’ll be a great dad and you’re…ignoring me.”
His eyes flash as he looks up at her, incisor sunken into his bottom lip, and he shakes his head adamantly. “I’m not ignoring you, Hermione.”
She scoffs in disbelief.
“I’m not— baby, I’m not. Look…I wanted to tell you something but I wanted to do it in person. I was going to wait until we were back home, but…”
She shakes off the unbearably normal way he says home, like she lives with him or something, and reaches out to cautiously take his phone in her hands. He has the big one, the plus or whatever it’s called, and it feels out of place and precariously balanced in her palms.
It’s open to a text conversation, just a row of seemingly random numbers where the contact name should be. The font is nearly twice the size of the font on her own phone, but she knows Draco hates to squint to read— his reading glasses almost always forgotten on his bedside table. She braves one last glance up at him, frowning at the look in his eyes.
It’s not fear, but it’s anxiety.
Unknown: Hi
Unknown: Draco?
Draco: Who is this?
Unknown: I know you don't want to talk to me but I need to talk to you.
Unknown: It's Pansy
She reads over the texts probably a dozen times. Maybe two dozen. There’s only five so it’s not like it takes her long, but when she finally looks up and out, not looking at Draco, but out at the bare trees and groups of people still wandering along the pathway, she can still see the words in her mind. She could probably recite them, too, if asked.
Looking back down she sees the date on the texts is only from a few days ago— her first day of school, the only other day they’ve been together this week. There’s no response other than Draco’s initial question of: Who is this? There’s no contact card, no attempt from Draco’s second ex-wife, Pansy, to reach out again.
Hermione frowns. She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to feel. She’s not angry but she’s also not happy. She’s not upset, she’s not hurt or devastated, she doesn’t feel betrayed or necessarily surprised. He hasn’t hidden anything or downplayed it, he’s simply handed over his phone.
She feels no strong emotion other than…uncertainty.
She’s uncertain, unsure, of the situation she’s found herself in.
Is this another piece of the puzzle to her boyfriend’s second marriage?
Will he finally agree to open about about the relationship?
But then she stills, her uncertainty giving way to a bubble of anxiety that’s slowing expanding in her belly. Pansy must want something and that something seems to be Draco. Why else would she text him? How can she compete with his ex-wife? Someone who he’s already loved and built a relationship— no, a marriage with.
Maybe that’s why he shied away from her comment— maybe he called Pansy after the texts, maybe they’ve already spoken to each other and are preparing to…to…to run away together. Maybe he’s breaking up with her right now and she’s talking about a future that no longer exists.
Maybe—
Hermione carefully places his timed-out phone on the bench beside her and stands.
“Baby?”
She takes a step forward and then another, and another, until she’s standing on the grass. It’s still a little bit crunchy, yellow and brown instead of the vibrant green that comes with the spring and summer.
Her phone is still in her pocket and her bag strapped to her chest, so she walks. She ignores the path and walks across the grass, heading back to where the street is. She walks to gain a clear mind, to calm her anxiety from bubbling up into her throat, to stop the tears of self-reproach
She walks not to get away from him, just to calm her thoughts. To take some time to herself, to think without pressure and consider without influence. While she hopes that he won’t follow, she knows him better than that and it only takes a few seconds of her quiet reprieve for a hand to wrap around her upper arm and stop her from taking another step.
“Baby— where are you going?” He asks in a voice soft and fearful.
Hermione frowns and closes her eyes, staring down at her white trainers. A deep breath in, shoulders raising, chest filling, and out before she manages to turn around. Draco stands there, eyes coloured in concern, and just behind him she sees the tote bag and towel, all of the plastic containers, still sitting on the bench.
“You left the food.”
His brows furrow. “Where are you going?”
“Someone’s going to take the food,” she gestures with her hand, before turning around to keep walking. “I just want to walk by myself.”
His hand wraps around her arm again. “Let me walk with you.”
She tugs her arm from his grasp again, taking a step back and running her hand over her face. She just wants a few minutes alone— she just wants the opportunity to clear her head and make sense of her thoughts.
“I want to be by myself,” she tells him forcefully.
“Hermione.”
His voice is stern but she’s not backing down now. She sighs and turns around, shoes crunching over the grass as she walks back to the path. “I don’t need you to walk with me. I’m an adult.”
Draco falls into step beside her. “We have rules,” he says sharply. “I understand you’re mad—“
“I’m not mad,” she says, interrupting.
“We have rules when we’re outside,” he reiterates, ignoring her interjection. “I need you to hold my hand.”
She snorts a laugh and does her best to ignore him, but he doesn’t leave her side. She keeps thinking about the food he’s left behind, about the tote bag with the little line drawing that she’d gotten for him. She keeps thinking about the five texts, the words she’s memorized, the way he’d simply handed his phone over.
Draco’s heavy footsteps keep her from contemplating her thoughts too much and it makes her fists clench. She can’t think with him there— not to be angry, not to be mad, just for the sake of thinking. Just to let her thoughts unjumble and the anxious bubble to pop.
“This is not a game,” he says, low and even. “You know better; hold my hand.”
Hermione scoffs and whips around to face him, looking at him incredulously. It’s not like him to attempt to strong-arm her. “You can’t expect me to hold your hand right now, Draco. I just need some space.”
She almost regrets that, using his name instead of the moniker she’s gotten increasingly used to using in nearly every situation, but something delights her about the glint in his eyes and the way he rolls his neck, trying to relax the tense muscles.
She just wants him to go away. Just for a few minutes. If only she could just say it—
“We’ll talk when we’re back home,” he says quietly. “Until then, I need you to stand beside me and hold my hand like the good little girl I know you can be.”
It makes her chest ache in annoyance, the way he calls her a little girl in a moment she doesn’t feel it’s warranted. She doesn’t want to be reminded of their dynamic, she just wants to be Hermione to his Draco. But...hadn't they talked about this before? Hadn't they discussed that this aspect of their relationship was more than simply a dynamic? Their relationship is built into this dynamic, just like this dynamic is built into their relationship.
She is Hermione as much as she's baby, he's Draco as much as he's Daddy; they're one in the same. She does her best to tamp down on that frustration because, even with her messy mind, she knows it's unwarranted.
Hermione takes the opportunity to glance at him and frowns at the lines of tension in his jaw. What did he think was going to happen when he showed her the texts? Has he learned nothing about her? Does he not understand that sometimes she just needs a few minutes to think?
Maybe he’s afraid that she’s leaving, she thinks to herself. Maybe he’s doing his best to hold on to her so tightly so she doesn’t disappear.
“I’m not fucking holding your hand, Draco.”
That does it. He’s stepping up close to her in a split second, stopping her from walking further. His expression is serious and he pinches her chin with his thumb and forefinger until he’s looking into her eyes.
“Really, Hermione?” He questions, his eyes hard. “I’m going to let you try again.”
Hermione swallows but holds his eyes, not one to back down, not even from him.
“I don’t want to hold your hand right now,” she says softly, glancing around her to make sure there’s no one around them. “I just need a few minutes to myself.”
“Better,” he says and nods once, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “Now listen to me: I understand that you want time to yourself, but we’re outside and I have been very clear about the rules. Once we’re back home, you can have time to yourself but until then, I need you to stay with me.”
“I am an adult, you know that, don’t you?” She asks, hands on her hips, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip. “I walk around on my own, without you, all the time. I even go to school on my own.”
“That’s not what this is about and you know that.” Draco eyes her carefully and mutters underneath his breath, “little girls who are frustrated with their Daddy still have to hold Daddy’s hand until they’re safe and back home.”
His hand drops from her cheek and he takes a step back, holding his big palm out for her to take. A part of her wishes he would just force her. It’s worse for her to have to do it willingly.
They stand there in an uncomfortable silence and Hermione resolves not to do anything.
He scrubs his hand over his face. “How do you think I would feel if something were to happen to you? Hm? How do you think I would react if I just let you wander away, angry, upset or even just distracted and something happened to you?” He takes a step forward again and clasps one of her hands in both of his, pressing it against his chest. “Let me walk you back home and you can have some time to yourself— I’d prefer it if we could talk but I understand that you need some time.”
She didn’t think about it like that. She didn’t think that this rule — this handholding outside rule — was anything other than a desire for control, for the type of control that’s only relevant within the bounds of their particular kind of relationship. She didn’t think it was a big deal.
But it is. The rule is there for her safety, for their peace of mind, for reasons that extend beyond anything kink-related. She does want time to herself, but slowly nods her head and relents, letting their clasped hands slide down his chest, tangled between them.
“I didn’t think about that,” she mumbles. “And I’m not…I’m not mad. I just need a few minutes to think about what you showed me. I know we need to talk and I want to talk, but first I just need—“
“Time,” he says, nodding. “I know. I just need you to understand that those texts are the extent of it, alright? I’ve been waiting to talk about it with you.”
She nods her head and peers around him, the bag and food containers still sitting abandoned on the bench. With a small dip of her head, she gestures toward it and glances up at Draco.
“Can you just sit over there and I can sit here? Just for a few minutes— I don’t want to leave. I wasn’t going to leave, I just wanted to clear my head and-and— I’m not mad, Draco,” she tells him again, sighing. “I just have all this anxiety in my chest and I need to breathe before we talk about it. I want to know— I want you to tell me.”
It’s easy to step forward and fall face first into his chest. His arms automatically wrap around back, holding her close and tight to him. It’s odd, probably, to be doing this in the middle of a park, surrounded by dozens of other people, but she doesn’t care in that moment.
With a peck of her lips to his chest, she pulls back and looks up at her boyfriend. He looks slightly calmer, less tension in his face, and his arms are relaxed around her.
“Just stay where I can see you— please, baby.”
Draco leans down to press his lips to hers softly, just enough that she closes her eyes for a second. When he pulls back, a small pat to her lower back, she squeezes him one last time and watches as he walks back over to the bench.
And then she paces.
Notes:
ETA: Chapter 29 will be posted June 29. See you all then.
ETA: Hi. I have made the decision to put this story on hiatus for personal reasons. I do not have a timeline but have every intention of finishing it— this story means so much to me, almost too much, and that's why I need to step back from it. Thanks so much for reading, I continue to see your lovely comments and they always make me smile. See you all for the next update, whenever that may be.
To avoid this chapter being twice the length of a normal chapter, I have split it into two. Thanks again to everyone for reading 😊
Chapter 29: The Peculiar Day Pt. 2
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Her footsteps crunch through the grass as she walks back over to the bench where Draco sits. His legs are spread wide with his elbows resting on his knees, his face cradled in his palms. She’s experienced so many emotions in the last hour but now, looking at him, she almost feels sorry for him.
Not in a way that means she’s not going to question him and finally get to the bottom of his ex-wife, but in a way that makes her feel a little sick. He’s sort of pathetic— this man in his 40s with a grown-up job and grown-up flat, yet stuck with parents who only ever seem to express their disappointment and displeasure and a never-ending parade of ex-wives still trying to make decisions for him.
It’s…odd, to see him like that, someone who she’s come to know as always strong and immoveable.
“Are you going to talk to her?” She asks, staring down at him.
Hermione moves to sit on the bench next to Draco, fingers clasped in her lap, and peers at him out of the corner of her eye when he looks up at her. He looks miserable, like he just wants to go to bed and not wake up for a few days. She understands that feeling and is more than happy to crawl into bed with him for a few days but only after she gets some answers.
She breathes a sigh— she’s not mad or angry, she’s not even upset, not really. She’s just tired. If she’s being completely honest, she’s never met a person with so much drama in their life before, and not the type of drama that usually follows the people she knows— there’s no cheating on exams or dating your best friend’s one-time fuck buddy.
No, divorce is grown-up drama.
She’s still at an age where marriage seems unthinkable— most of the time it’s as though she’s too young to even consider it and when any of her friends announce their engagements, she winces before offering her congratulations. Already? So young? At her age?
But Draco has lived two lives to her one, double her lifespan, and he comes with baggage. She thought she knew that, thought she understood, but it’s more complicated than she realized. But…really— how was she supposed to know how much baggage when she didn’t even know about his second marriage until well after she’d developed serious feelings for him?
She can only remain grateful that he doesn’t have kids in the picture. She shudders— her? A stepmother? At her age?
Wrinkling her nose, she aims a false-glare at him and interrupts before he can answer her question. “Wait— you don’t have any secret kids, right?”
“No.” He smiles at her, albeit kind of sadly, and shakes his head. “No, Hermione, no secret kids.”
Draco looks down at his fingers, picking at his nails in a way she’s never seen him do before. He’s anxious, she thinks, about her reaction, sure, but also about the situation.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he says after a few more silent seconds. “I can tell you that I don’t want to speak to her or see her. I don’t even want to think about her, if I’m being honest. But—” he pauses, frowning “—I just want to be done with her and…clearly the way I left it, isn’t working. If it’s not her, then it’s Astoria, if it’s not Astoria, then it’s my parents.”
Draco brushes his hand through his hair, fluffy and flopping over his forehead in a way that’s so uncharacteristic of him. Sometimes she thinks that anyone who’s ever met him at the hospital, who’s ever had him as a doctor, would never recognize him on the street. Not in his joggers with his unstyled hair and frowny face.
She follows his hand— short, clean nails scratching at the skin over his brow, palm rubbing down his cheek and over his jaw. His beard is thick, fuller than normal, but she kind of likes it. Makes him look more human.
“I don’t need closure. I don’t need to discuss anything with her. I don’t need answers about our relationship. If I had it my way I would sweep you off your feet and load us onto a plane where we could fly somewhere so far away, no one would be able to contact us,” he says, letting out a breath. “You have no clue how tempting it is, how much I just don’t want to be here.” He turns and looks at her, eyes soft and slightly widened. “I just want to be with you and I know how difficult I’m making that. You have no idea—” he shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut “—how frustrated I am with myself.”
Hermione reaches over and grasps his hand in hers, squeezing it in her palm. She wants to reassure him that she’s still here. When she looks down at their tangled fingers, her breath lodges in her chest at the sheer difference in size— still, after all this time. But he squeezes her hand back and brings it up to press a kiss to her knuckles.
His lips are soft— slightly wet, warm.
“Will you tell me?” She asks, then. She rubs her lips together and glances up at the sky. “I know it’s hard…I know it still hurts.”
“I’m not hurt—”
She scoffs, frowning. “Don’t lie— not to me. I’m not going to judge you. In fact—” she sucks in a wispy breath “—I think it would bother me more if you were completely unbothered by this whole thing when I know you refuse to talk about it. There has to be a reason, Draco.”
He keeps her hand grasped in his, but places it in his lap. Tapping her knuckles with his thumb, he shifts on the bench until he’s resting against the back, chin tilted up as he looks out at the park. It would be so easy to tell him to forget it, that it’s fine, she doesn’t need to know, but the more things happen, the more she realizes that she does need to know.
For her own peace of mind, for their relationship to go any further than it has. She needs to know what demons lurk in his past and once she does, she needs to be able to come to terms with it all.
“It feels like you’re trying to Daddy me,” Draco murmurs. He side-eyes her. “Not sure how much I like that.”
Hermione shrugs, eyes wide and a barely-there smirk on her lips. She nudges him with her shoulder. “I learned from the best, now— tell me. Please.”
He’s visibly nervous: knee shaking, jaw clenched, fingers of his free hand picking at a loose thread on the hem of his sweater. But she’s nothing if not patient, probably more patient than he even knows.
It’s a beautiful day and she’s perfectly content to wait him out. She can people watch or stare at all the cute little doggies as they pant past them. She can tip back against the bench and close her eyes, enjoy the breeze and the sound of chatter around her, but she doesn’t need to.
“I told you the basics,” Draco says slowly. “She told me she wanted kids, she changed her mind after we were married and it…it pissed me off, Hermione. It felt like she’d just used me to get to my money and my name and my lifestyle.
“Look, I was so incredibly angry. She kept brushing it off until I confronted her about it and she told me once and for all that under no circumstances did she want to have children. None. That she wouldn’t consider it further— and that’s fine. I’m a fucking doctor; I understand, to the best of my ability, that childbearing is hard and not something I would force on anyone.” He shakes his head, chest heaving with a big exhale. “But she lied and I was in my late 30s and running out of time. I didn’t have the balls to push for a more solid answer before we were engaged. I thought we were compatible and I wasn’t willing to throw it away. I figured we’d work it out.”
Hermione chews lightly on her bottom lip. “So you divorced?”
He laughs a little bit and she frowns. “First, we fought— a lot. I’m…not proud of my behaviour, Hermione.” He turns to look at her, lips downturned. “It was more than just verbal, though we yelled and screamed at each other enough to warrant a call or two to the police. But— I never raised my hands to her. Never, Hermione. Alright?”
She nods, a little bit scared by the serious expression on his face— by the words he’s saying. She can’t imagine him being violent, can’t imagine him ever hitting anything or anyone, but she’s seen small flashes of his temper. Only for half a second before he realizes the volume and strength of his voice, but she’s seen it.
It didn’t scare her, he didn't scare her, but maybe he should have.
“I trashed the flat, more than once,” he admits. “I was out of control with my anger—” he shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut and jaw working “—and I wouldn’t let anyone help because I didn’t want anyone to know. We didn’t tell anyone that we were fighting. As far as I was concerned I wasn’t going to tell anyone about the split until it was settled.”
“I can’t even imagine you being that angry,” Hermione says softly, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “It just seems so different from you— from how I know you.”
“Good. I don’t want you to imagine it, Hermione, because you’ll never see me like that.” He squeezes her hand and tips her chin with his thumb and forefinger until she’s looking into his eyes. “Never, Hermione. I swear it. I knew the way I behaved was wrong and after the divorce was finalized I went to speak to someone about it.” Draco chucks her under her chin with an uncomfortable smile. “I don’t think you’ll be surprised to learn that I have control issues, but I even went to an anger management programme.”
She wanted to know all of this, she tells herself, stilling her knee from shaking anxiously. She did, she does, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s hard to hear— hard to listen to. Did she jump into this too fast? Perhaps her powers of perception aren’t what she thought them to be.
Never, not once, did she think he had an anger problem. And she believes him when he tells her that she’ll never see him that way— she believes that he means it, but intention doesn’t always equal to action. What if she angers him like Pansy did? What if he loses his temper with her?
“Are you frightened?” His voice is whisper quiet.
But she’s not. It’s not fear that feels, she’s not scared or afraid of him. Still, even now, she trusts him with her whole heart and maybe that’s stupid, maybe she’s embodying every stereotype about her age and gender, but she can only act on what she truly feels.
She feels like she should be cautious— aware of him and his behaviour. Everyone gets angry, everyone yells and screams and says things that they don’t mean, but getting physical is something else.
“No,” Hermione says, shaking her head. “Just wary, I think.”
Draco nods curtly and scrubs his hand over his face. Despite the heaviness of the conversation, some of the tension in his shoulders seems to have dissipated.
“We can talk more about it after, I promise, Hermione. Any questions you have…I’m an open book,” he explains, pulling his hand away and clasping his fingers together. “But that’s not all of it and you wanted the whole story. At the end of the day, Pansy served me before I could serve her.”
“On what grounds?” She asks, surprised. She’d thought if anyone would file for the divorce it would be him.
His shoulders tense and he grits his next words through clenched teeth: “Unreasonable behaviour.”
“Because of your anger?”
He snorts and it’s so un-Draco-like that she’s sort of shocked. “No— I wish, Hermione. No, she cited our dynamic. She said I’d forced her into it, that my…preferences were depraved, or— sickening, I think she said.”
Hermione swallows the uncomfortable lump in her throat. “You were…like us?”
You were her Daddy? She doesn’t ask.
“Mmm,” he mumbles. “I didn’t pressure her, Hermione. I swear—”
“I know,” she tells him, turning to face him and patting his knee with her free hand. If she knows anything about this man — and she questioning it, she truly is — she knows that he would never force anyone into anything. “I know you wouldn’t. I believe you, Draco.” She exhales a shaky breath. “It’s just weird to think about.”
He turns to look at her and frowns. “Oh, baby…it was— different. It was never right, not like you and me. There was always something off, something wrong, I just tried so, incredibly hard to force myself to ignore it.”
Draco pulls her hand up to his mouth again, pressing half-a-dozen soft kisses to her knuckles while shooting her a remorseful look, complete with wide eyes and a quivering jaw. It’s unreasonable how much his emotions impact her, how much she wants to end this conversation, go back to his flat and snuggle with him on the couch.
She leans her head onto his shoulder and presses a kiss to the exposed skin of his neck. It’s as much comfort as she’s willing to give him at the moment, as much as she’s willing to accept, too.
He shifts on the bench. “I ended up telling my parents and they were so upset you’d think the divorce was happening to them. They had no problem telling me how much of a disappointment I was. How much I continued to disappoint them, how this was going to affect them,” he spits. “How embarrassing it was for them, to have a perfect son with a perfect life planned out who kept making the same mistakes.”
Hermione grips his muscled thigh while her blood boils. "You're not a disappointment, Draco. You're not—"
"Shh," he whispers, nose pressing against her temple. "I know, baby. It doesn’t matter now.” Draco shrugs. “I was angry and I wanted to defend myself. I was angry with her, and then I was angry with my parents, for their reaction. But most of all, I was angry with myself for believing her in the first place, for putting myself in that situation again. Not that I blame Astoria for what happened; you know she’s one of my best friends now, but…it was— it is embarrassing. Two short marriages followed by two divorces. Two women walking around with my last name.”
His fingers trace a familiar path through his already-disheveled hair. “My parents wanted me to settle, to end it quietly.” He shrugs his shoulders. “So I took her to court and made it as loud and difficult as possible.”
It surprises her. Draco always seems so level-headed, so conscientious and careful with his decisions and his behaviour. For almost everything, he waits until he’s absolutely certain. He doesn’t buy anything on a whim, can’t go to a restaurant without studying the menu first, would hardly touch her without explicit consent when they first started seeing each other.
To hear that he was wildly out of control at one time is hard to reconcile with the man she knows.
“I can’t imagine that went well,” she says.
“It did not. You see— I’d talked to my attorneys and they had me thinking I had a pretty good shot of proving to the court that she’d defrauded me into marriage. I was clearly deluded but it’s hard to tell when you’re so focused on one thing: I wanted to hurt her, the way she hurt me, and I was prepared to do that in any way I could. I swore to myself I’d drag out all of her dirty laundry, even if mine came with it.” He groans, seemingly embarrassed. “At least I had enough foresight to tell my parents and Astoria and Theo not to come. I didn’t want them to know how bad it had gotten, I didn’t want them to see my behaviour.
“For some reason I just wasn’t prepared for her to do the same thing. She dragged it all out— every terrible, disgusting part of myself that I’d ever been ashamed of.” He stops then to look at her, eyes scrunched. “She told the court about our dynamic but in such a way that, out of context, made me seem…horrid. The clothes I’d asked her to wear, our text messages, the things I called her— all of it, for everyone to see and hear.”
Hermione winces. If it was anything like their dynamic, she can only imagine what was presented to the court. If anyone looked through their text messages she doesn’t think they’d be horrified, but concerned, certainly, and if anyone saw the clothes he’d bought her, the matching pyjamas and sweet, cotton knickers— if she told anyone about the way he speaks to her, the way he controls aspects of her life…
She knows exactly what it must of have looked like.
“I— I’m sorry, Draco—”
“No,” he says firmly. “No, don’t be sorry for me. You’re forgetting that I was prepared to do all of the same things to her and I’d been tempted— so fucking tempted, Hermione. I was ready to tell them all how she’d played with my feelings and agreed to marry me under false pretences, for my name, for my money, for…whatever it was that she was looking for.”
The sun peeks out from behind the clouds and she squints from the glare, moving her hand to shield her eyes. He almost looks like he’s glowing, sitting in front of her.
“But you didn’t,” Hermione says plainly. “Right?”
“No,” Draco sighs. “No, I didn’t. I came back with an offer, what she was owed in the divorce plus a lump sum.” He scratches his fingernails over his forehead. “I just wanted to end it, I just wanted it to be over and I guess she did too because she accepted it and…that was it. I didn’t talk to her again, I didn’t tell my parents or my friends anything that had happened other than that we’d decided to split up.
“Maybe it seems like I was protecting her but…I was just trying to protect myself.” His eyes shutter, a dark, closed-off expression taking over his face. “I was so ashamed of myself, of the way I behaved and even the things that I liked sexually—” he gestures between them. “I just didn’t understand how it all went so wrong and even though I went to talk to someone about my anger I avoided talking about our actual marriage, or the reasons we’d divorced.”
Hermione sucks in an uncertain breath, a bit shaky. Her chest aches with what she’s just learned about her boyfriend, about the reasons he’s kept this ex-wife a secret from her. But it doesn’t feel malicious, she doesn’t think he was trying to cover it up or keep it from her.
It just feels like he was never ready to talk about it, that what happened had a profound impact on him as a person— on his personality and his interests, his love-life and his friendships. No wonder he was so cautious when they first started dating, no wonder he eased her into this dynamic and ensured they had such a frank conversation about his interests before he’d actually done anything.
No wonder he waited so long for them to have sex.
But there’s still a few things she doesn’t understand, and the biggest one is his friendship with Astoria and her friendship with Pansy. It doesn’t make any sense to her because, as much as she understands wanting to keep some of the messier details of their divorce to himself, how could he sit there and just let his ex-wives continue to be friends?
Wasn’t that hurtful? In fact, she thinks, it must have been hurtful.
“So…Astoria and Pansy are still friends?” Hermione asks carefully, not entirely sure how to bring it up.
“Of a sort.” He shrugs. “They were friends back then. Pansy’s not so different from how Astoria and I were raised, or Theo. It was an easy friendship to form and easier-still because we all spent time with each other often. But I never told Astoria all of what happened so I couldn’t really get mad at her for continuing to be friends with Pansy.”
Hermione scoffs. “Sure you could! I mean, to be honest, Draco, I can’t imagine Ginny continuing to be friends with one of my exes unless it was like— her brother. Regardless of whether she knew what happened between us, just being exes would be enough.” She frowns and peers at him, trying to dissect his expression. “Don’t you think?
She gets it, he has that whole pathetic masculine ego-thing. He refuses to let on that anything is wrong, refuses to ask his friends to support him, maybe even feels like the the pain and hurt are punishment and he deserves it, though she’s never known him to have such tendencies. But at the end of the day, Astoria should have known better.
Shouldn’t she?
Draco doesn’t respond, just shrugs his shoulders and leans back against the bench again. He looks tired, drained, from their conversation and she doesn’t blame him. She feels the same and she wasn’t even the one opening up about something traumatic in her life.
“You should tell her,” she urges, reaching out to find his hand again. “She’d want to know, Draco. And for that matter, you should tell your parents, too. Frankly— gods, I can’t believe I’m going to say this — you should talk to Pansy.”
His head whips around to face her, eyes wide and disbelieving. He shakes his head, hand reaching out for hers and pulls it to his chest. “No, no, Hermione. I don’t want to talk to her, I don’t need to. There’s nothing that can be gained from entertaining her except for more trouble.”
“But what if you do? What if you do need to speak with her, to see her? You say you’re not hurt—”
“—I’m not—”
“—but you are! And it’s alright, you’re allowed to be. What if…what if seeing her in a different situation, years moved on, is enough to let this go? To…to—”
Forgive himself, maybe? For what, she’s not sure. But the more he speaks, the more he comes across like a wounded animal, even if he doesn’t see it. Even if no one else in his life sees it— not Theo, not Astoria and certainly not his parents.
It’s not that he’s necessarily cold, but the warmth he shows her is not something she’s seen much with any others, except maybe Astoria. He’s always polite and correct in his mannerisms, holds himself to a higher standard than almost anyone else she knows. It’s a facade, one she’s lucky enough to see through most of the time, but one that’s certainly been there long enough for it not to feel noticeable to him anymore.
“It won’t hurt my feelings,” Hermione promises, leaning closer to him. “I promise, Draco. If it’s what you need then I’ll support you.”
She watches as he chews on his bottom lip in contemplation before looking up at her, silver eyes wide, jaw tense, teeth sinking into the soft skin of his lip. “The only thing I need is to know if I’ve ruined this— if…if I still have you, as mine.”
Her heart crackles at his words, the sound of his voice, and she exhales heavily. A frown forms on her lips and her eyes burn with unshed tears. Damn him for making her feel so much, so strongly, in response to his own emotions.
“Of course you still have me, Draco,” she says softly, pressing herself closer to his body, thighs touching. “You haven’t ruined anything. I told you, I just wanted to know the truth so things like this can stop turning into such a big ordeal.”
His eyes close tightly before he leans forward and tucks her face into his neck, her nose pressed to the cave of his collarbone. She inhales his musky scent, a little sweaty from their walk, but ultimately rests her forehead against him and relaxes. He seems to relax, too, his arms wrapping around her shoulders. If they were at home— at his flat, he’d have already pulled her into his lap.
He presses a soft kiss to her temple and squeezes her shoulders before letting go. It’s only then she notices that he must have packed up their snacks while she was pacing a few feet away, the tote bag sitting on the ground near his feet. She taps it with the toe of her shoe and looks up at him, brows raised and eyes wide.
“Do you have any fruit left?” She asks, hopeful.
He leans down to tug the container out of the bag, nodding quickly. “Of course, baby— here.”
The lid pops off the container and he holds it out to her, waiting patiently for her to reach in and pluck out a strawberry or a piece of melon. She swings her legs a little bit instead and tilts her head.
“Will you feed me?” Hermione asks. “Please, Daddy?”
Something finally seems to crack in his face— like the cold, serious veneer has crumbled away and in its place is the same man, her Daddy, that she’s come to know. His eyes brighten and the tension bleeds from his jaw and shoulders. He cracks a small smile and plucks a strawberry with long, lithe fingers, holding it up to her lips.
Hermione bites into it and hums happily, wiggling on the bench, completely aware of the smile on his face and hopeful look in his eyes.
But she’s not quite done yet.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Not right now, not here. I just want to enjoy the rest of the nice weather, but when we go back, I…I might have some more questions,” she mumbles after she finishes chewing. “Just, please: no more secrets. I don’t care what it is— “
“—I know, Hermione,” he says softly, sucking the strawberry juice from his thumb. “I won’t, I promise.”
She sighs, leaning to the side and resting her head on his shoulder. “I hate promises.”
Funnily enough, she finds promises to be too easily broken, no matter who makes them. But Draco presses his lips softly against her hairline and nudges her own with a piece of melon and the pad of his thumb.
“I know you do, baby. I know.”
Notes:
oh boy. thanks for sticking it out, i hope the conversation is even a little bit satisfying. all mistakes are my own.
control issues and anger problems, who'd have thought? enjoy xx
Chapter 30: A Little Lesson
Chapter Text
As far as Hermione’s concerned, she’s been a pretty open and accepting partner— more so, she thinks, than others in her position might be. Clearly she has some natural inclination for their dynamic or it wouldn’t work in the first place, but even when it comes to the personal issues they’ve had to deal with in the short time they’ve been together— she thinks she’s proven herself as a dependable and empathetic partner. If not happily and enthusiastically, she’s taken every new twist and turn in stride.
Not to toot her own horn, but…being confronted with frustrating and emotional situations and not losing her shit every time isn’t exactly a trait her age group is known for. She’s been measured and methodical…mostly.
The truth is, now that she’s experienced it, she wants this dynamic more than anything. She wants the cuddles and the soft, careful words, the gentle touches and concern for her wellbeing just as much as she craves the rules and instructions and expectation that she give away control over certain aspects of her life. It may have scared her at first but not in a way that made her dread seeing her boyfriend or interacting with him, not in a way that had her heart racing uncomfortably in her chest. Instead, it was a prickle of nerves in her belly that made her toes clench and her belly swoop, flip-flopping every time the attractive older Doctor held her hand.
She’s not a relationship expert by any means— expert isn’t exactly the word she’d use to describe the way she went on a handful of dates with Ginny’s older brother before they settled for overnight hookups every once in a while. But, her relationship with Draco feels bigger, more serious, than the ones her friends are in. It’s with a whole adult man, for starters; an adult man with a flat and a grownup job and two divorces.
It’s hard because it’s not like she was actively looking for a serious relationship, let alone this type of dynamic. Their chance meeting was truly a turning point in her life, one she can’t ever see herself regretting. There’s this lingering romantic notion in her head that maybe, possibly, she’ll finally by the one to make Draco happy— that his past relationships were just a way to pass the time before he came across her in a crowded club, blood dripping from her palm.
But the larger, more cynical part of her brain recognizes that Draco is her first real boyfriend ever and the likelihood of him being her forever is…well, she knows she should probably be more prepared to accept the fact that he might not be. Regardless, the dynamic is there to stay— something she doesn’t think she’d have been able to say before.
Did she consider herself kinky? Maybe, although, no more than others around her. Her reclusiveness as a teenager and subsequent interest in the nuanced cliques of Tumblr and Twitter introduced her to a myriad of kinks, not to mention…well, she is an English major. Reading — reading everything — comes with the territory.
The fact of the matter is, the age play dynamic that she now finds herself in wasn’t something even on her radar before she met Draco. Her relationship considerations were more along the lines of please don’t be a creep and do you own more than one fork? As long as the inevitable sink full of dishes or dirty socks tucked into worn couches were cleaned sometimes, she figured that’s all she could really ask for.
Draco changed that for her, showed her that her expectations of men were far too low and her expectations for herself were just sad. There’s something to say for being a little bit selfish when it comes to what makes you happy, when it comes to what you want in your future.
Draco was, and continues to be, unexpected in every single way. But he introduced her to something that she now feels is integral to her own sense of self. She doesn’t just want someone to take care of her like this, she needs it. And she knows that Draco needs it, too. He needs her to be needy— he’s said it before in her more vulnerable, unsure moment.
So yes, when it comes down to it, she’s pretty sure she’s been a good partner— at least by her own standards. She’s been open and accepting of not only a lifestyle that her partner is fond of, but willing to explore it for herself. She’s not only accepted rules and limitations on her person, but found comfort in them.
That is…until he brings up punishments.
“There hasn’t really been a reason to,” he says, holding one of her clean socks while he searches for the match in the laundry basket. “Until now, I mean.”
Hermione swings her head around to stare at him wide-eyed. “What? But I don’t want to be punished.”
His eyebrow quirks. “Well no one wants to be punished, but sometimes you need to be.” He shrugs a shoulder, plucking the matching sock from the basket and folding them together. “You’re a good girl, but even good girls act naughty sometimes.”
She pouts, bottom lip pushed out for not even a second before he’s reaching out and giving her ear a reprimanding pinch— he hates that, just like he hates when she rolls her eyes. With wide eyes she tucks her lip back in and tilts her head to the side apologetically. “But I haven’t done anything naughty.”
“No?” Draco asks, that familiar considering expression on his face. “I think maybe you’re misremembering. Go on, have a little think on it.”
He quietly continues to fold the clothes in the basket, a mix of his and hers— soft pink knickers mixed with tight black boxer briefs, a satin nightie tangled with navy trousers. He’s methodical in it, folding everything carefully. Creasing folds when it calls for it but ensuring everything is the same size.
Hermione refuses to admit out loud that most of the time she leaves her laundry in the basket, unfolded, reaching in like it’s a mystery grab-bag and pulling out whatever’s clean.
A little think is unnecessary because deep down she knows what he’s talking about and until now, she’s been perfectly happy to ignore it— like she thought he was doing. She’d waited in the days after their shitshow of a chat for any sort of aftermath, any comment on the way she’d flagrantly flouted the rules that have been in place for months of their relationship, but he never said anything.
All fine with her, of course, it’s not like she wants to draw attention to any of it.
But it’s no use pretending that she doesn’t know what she did wrong; she has a feeling it’ll be worse if she does.
“At the park,” she says softly, fingers interlocking on her lap. She’s sat up during her think, back straight against the couch and feet pressed into the rug. “Right?”
“Mm,” he hums, thick fingers untwisting her clean knickers and smoothing the gusset over his thigh. It makes her squirm. “The park— we have rules, baby, and they’re there for a reason. I know you know that. You understand that, right?”
He looks up at her then, eyes curious. Like maybe it’s all clear in his mind but he’s worried it’s not in hers. It is though, he was very clear from the start that the rule of holding his hand is there for her safety. This dynamic between them isn’t just sexual, it’s not just when they feel like it, it’s always. She knows that.
“I understand. I let go of your hand and tried to walk away from you— not that it’s an excuse, I just wasn’t thinking of the rules at the time,” she explains, thumb repeatedly brushing over the knuckle of her opposite index finger, soothing. “But we agreed— I agreed.”
Draco reaches out and takes her hand, taking over the soothing rub. “I know it was a difficult conversation and that blame rests on me— believe me, baby, I feel it. But that’s why I think it’s important to reinforce the rules. This is an all-the-time thing, you and I, hm? Even when we argue, even when we disagree.”
“I was frustrated,” she says. “In the moment it just felt like those things weren’t important…” she trails off with the realization that this is exactly why he wants to address her behaviour. Hermione looks up at him, eyes prickling with the onset of tears, nose wrinkled. “But it’s always important. I…I kind of forgot that.”
“That’s alright. Emotions can get the best of us, that’s why I was so adamant about you continuing to hold my hand and stay with me. I wasn’t trying to ignore the feelings you were having, Hermione, I just wanted you to have them in the context of our dynamic.”
He was willing to walk her back to his flat, to let her go through her feelings and emotions on her own but in a safe place, not out in the park, pacing and emotional where anything could happen. She could trip and hurt herself or wander too far away to find her way back to him.
Yes, she’s an adult, she has her phone and she isn’t completely hopeless in navigating the streets of London, but…she’s willingly given him that control over her life. In his eyes, she’s his responsibility, regardless of whether she’s upset with him.
All it takes is one tear rolling down her cheek for Draco to scoop her up into his lap, laundry all but forgotten on the coffee table. He holds her close, thighs straddling his hips, and clutches the back of her neck, pressing her face into the crook of his shoulder. She sniffles pathetically, fingers squeezing into the soft material of his t-shirt.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispers, mouth dry and sticky. She presses her lips to the exposed skin of his throat. “I’m sorry for getting so upset.”
Draco clicks his tongue and sighs. “It’s not because you have a feeling about something, alright? I will never punish you for your feelings or your thoughts or your opinions.” He rubs his big palm up and down the length of her spine and she shudders when his fingers trace over the bumps of her vertebrae. “But—”
Suddenly his voice is stern, fingers still against her back other than a single, dull tap of his thumb. Hermione pulls back until she can look up into his eyes. He’s already looking down at her, lips pursed and nerve jumping in his cheek.
“I will punish you for your tone, if it’s rude or disrespectful, or if you flout already agreed-upon rules.” His brow raises. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Her jaw clenches to stop her lip from wobbling, to halt the growing threat of tears pooling in her eyes. Her thoughts immediately go to their afternoon at the park, to the way she’d pulled her hand from his grasp.
Throat dry and aching, she swallows uncertainly. “Yes, I understand, but…was I rude?”
He shakes his head from side to side, the universal way of saying kind of. “I personally don’t enjoy being sworn at, especially by my little girl.” He taps her back again. “Would you like it if Daddy swore at you?”
Hermione winces. Now that he mentions it, she does remember swearing at him in the midst of her anger.
“No.” She shakes her head, doing her best not to pout at him. “I wouldn’t like that. I’m sorry, Daddy, it just came out.”
“I know, baby. When we’re angry we can say things that we don’t mean. I know that— it doesn’t mean you’re bad, just a little naughty.” He must see the look on he face, the hopeful one that maybe, just maybe, he won’t punish her for it if she’s already sorry. “Naughty girls still need to be punished so they don’t forget, though.”
Her right hand has slowly migrated away from clutching his shirt and to, instead, hanging limply by her side. But at the reminder of a punishment, she presses it to her backside, covering her bum.
To her, punishment — especially in their dynamic — is synonymous with being spanked. It’s not that she’s scared of being spanked— she likes a little tap here and there, especially when she’s up on her hands and knees with Draco driving into her from behind, but she is scared of pain.
It’s supposed to hurt, punishments aren’t meant to be enjoyable, she knows that, but for the first time in their relationship, the anxious feeling in her belly isn’t making it flip-flop, isn’t pulsing between her thighs. It’s fear-driven, making sweat pool along her spine and her jaw clench, painfully.
Draco sees it all, must see the expression change on he face, because he brings his palms up to cup her cheeks so he can look into her eyes. Her pulse is racing, heartbeat thumping heavily in her chest, and he drags his thumbs over her cheekbones.
“Hey— oh, baby. What’s going on? Hm? Tell me, tell Daddy.”
But she can’t, because he wants to punish her which means he’ll spank her and she really, really can’t take it but she also doesn’t want to let him down. She agreed to the rules, she agreed to the notion that breaking the rules would result in punishments— she’d simply resolved herself to never breaking the rules.
It couldn’t be that hard, she figured, to simply be good all the time.
But now that she knows she hasn’t been good, she starts to cry. Tears trail down her cheeks and a sob lodges itself in her throat, chest heaving in a startling hiccough.
His left arm scoops around her back, brushing against her hand that’s still covering her backside and he frowns. He grasps her wrists in his fingers and pulls it forward to rest against his chest, eyes widening in understanding.
“Oh, sweetheart. Do you think I’m going to spank you?” He asks, brows creased in concern. Her answering sob is enough to make him tug her close to his chest, rocking her side-to-side. “No, no, shh, baby,” he coos. “Not a spanking— no spanking, baby. Punishments aren’t just chosen by me— we agree on them together, so if a spanking is too much for you, or if you’re scared, there won’t be any. Alright?”
It doesn’t completely calm her down because it feels too good to be true, but the sobs and shudders wracking her chest and shoulders ease until only a few tears dribble down her chin. She cuddles into his chest, wiping her snotty nose on his soft t-shirt, when it hits her how strange the situation is.
She’s finding comfort in the man who says he’s going to punish her.
“I don’t want to be hurt,” she whispers into his chest. “I know…I know punishments are supposed to hurt, but I don’t think I can take it.”
He stiffens beneath her, just slightly, but enough that she can feel it. His palm tickles underneath her shirt, crawling up her spine to thumb the notches of her vertebrae before he speaks, voice quiet but stern in her ear.
“I don’t know where you got that idea, but that’s absolutely not true,” he says, a tone of finality in his voice. “A punishment is only supposed to reinforce a lesson, baby— that does not mean it has to hurt.” He shuffles her, tilting her chin up until she looks at him. “Baby, I would never hurt you. I have no interest in causing you pain, especially if you don’t want it.”
Her brows crease in a frown and she tilts her head. “But…but there’s nothing else—”
Draco tuts softly. “Baby— Hermione. Please believe me when I say there are other ways to punish you that don’t involve physically hurting you. But regardless, and I want to make sure we’re absolutely clear on this, I would never punish you without agreeing on what punishments are acceptable first.”
Hermione’s mind feels a little bit muddled but she cautiously sits back on his thighs, her body relaxing as she wipes away the trails of tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. She’s still suspicious, nothing coming to mind that could possibly replace a spanking.
She’d been spanked a few times as a child, always a single hard spank against her bum aside from a stray smack that had landed on the back of her thigh— the last time her mother had done it. She wasn’t a bad child by any means, but she still got into things she wasn’t supposed to.
After that, they hadn’t so much as washed her mouth out, settling for a grounding when she was out past curfew. But Draco definitely can’t ground her…can he?
“Still don’t believe me?” He asks, frown on his lips. “Maybe it’ll help if we talk through it first. Can I tell you why I think punishments can be a good thing?”
She gives him a single nod, fingers tangled in his t-shirt, pulling and twisting the material. She’s like him; she likes to have all the information before doing something, doesn’t love the idea of surprises.
“When I give you a rule to follow, I expect you to follow it to the best of your ability because I know you try your best, right?” He asks, waiting for her to shyly nod. “But, if there were no consequences for breaking a rule, you might continue to break that rule. It might not even be a conscious decision. Does that make sense?”
She half shrugs but nods her head. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Good,” he says, pressing his lips together. “It’s alright to break the rules, Hermione. I don’t expect you to be perfect, even though I know you’ve been trying to be. You will make mistakes, I know this, you will break rules whether accidentally or on purpose, I also know this. So, a punishment to me is a correction, not a deterrent. It’s a gentle reminder of my expectations.”
Hermione has never heard anyone describe a punishment as gentle before. It strikes her as odd but so like Draco— always a slightly different interpretation of things, always another way of looking at a picture.
If a punishment is as he says — more of a reminder instead of something meant to hurt her — then perhaps it won’t be so bad. He says he won’t spank her, not if she doesn’t agree to it, so it can’t be all that bad, right?
“So you’re not mad at me?” She asks, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. “Because I misbehaved?”
Draco leans forward, tucking his forehead against hers, and rubs their noses together until she lets loose a small giggle. “No, baby. I’m not mad at you— besides, I would never punish you out of anger. Never.” He chucks he under the chin. “Do you feel less scared now?”
She nods, face still pressed against his, and presses a soft, quick kiss to his lips.
Draco sighs into the kiss, grasping her cheek and holding her close when she tries to pull back. He didn’t think discussing punishments would affect her so much, didn’t realize that she had such an aversion to spankings, in particular.
He’s not a sadist. He gets no enjoyment from inflicting pain. Sure, he’s indulged some of his partners with playful spankings and grabbed fistfuls of hair to tug and pull on, but nothing beyond that. It’s just not his thing. He’d rather torture his partners with pleasure, rather have them begging for orgasms— or begging for them to stop.
But he’s always been capable of administering a punishment spanking. They’re usually quick and hardly make use of his full strength, just enough to get the message across: namely, don’t do that again.
His Hermione is too soft and sweet, though, all gooey on the inside. She needs a gentle touch, gentle hands and gentler lips, plus cuddles at any time of the day. She’s a sensitive little thing with the prettiest pout to her lips and wide, warm brown eyes that grow watery when she feels too strongly. Is it possible for a little thing like her to be too sweet?
No. He doesn’t think so.
Pulling back, he swipes his thumb over her cheekbone, wiping with the last of the sticky tear marks underneath her eyes, and presses a single kiss to the tip of her nose. She blushes so prettily, cheeks flushing a bight pink at the attention. So sweet. So lovely.
“Alright,” she steadies herself, blowing out a slow breath. “What other punishments are there?”
Brave, too, he reminds himself. She’s yet to back down from a discussion with him, or an argument.
He’s glad she doesn’t have a window into his mind, though, because spankings are probably the least of her worries. He has plenty of ideas floating around in his head, predicaments that the darkest, twisted part of his mind imagines in his dreams. Nothing bad, nothing degrading, nothing that should make her cry, but things that might make someone else squirm.
“Well, the punishment fits the crime— for lack of a better word,” he says, a small quirk to lips. “But there are lots of things we can do. You could write lines or I could take away the television, you could spend some time in the corner. Maybe no talking for a little bit.” Draco shrugs his shoulders, as though he doesn’t have a preference.
But he does. It’s the corner time. It’s always the corner time.
“Those are for kids!” He eyes widen. “I— I’m an adult.”
He tickles his fingers along her sides, smiling when she wiggles over his lap and tries to grab his hands, to stop him. She settles for gripping his index fingers and holding them tight.
“Sometimes, you’re an adult, hm?” He asks, rhetorically. “But sometimes— most of the time, you’re my baby. Aren’t you, Hermione?” Without waiting for her to respond, he continues. “Don’t worry, I have more adult punishments for you, too.”
Her fingers twitch around his and he knows she wants to raise them to her mouth, to chew on her nails. Hermione wets her lips and swallows, shifting on his lap. “What…um, what kind of punishments would those be?”
“Well,” he starts, pulling his fingers from her grip to wrap his hands around her waist, “I could take away your knickers.” He pulls her closer, until her centre is pressed against his groin. “Or I could stop you from touching yourself.”
Leaning forward, he drags his teeth against her neck, smiling when she rocks forward against him. “Or, I could play with your cute little pussy, rubbing that little clit of yours, until you beg me to come—” her breath hitches, pulse racing beneath his lips “—before pulling my hand away, because you won’t be allowed to.”
Her palm smacks into his chest, pushing, and he lets out a soft “oof,” as she whines. “But— but that’s not fair.”
“It’s a punishment, baby,” he says, tugging her close again. “What kind of punishment would it be if I just let you come?”
She pouts, that plump bottom lip pushed out in a way that makes him want to bite it, and he reaches under her hair quickly to pinch her earlobe. “Ouch, Daddy! Sorry, I’m sorry.”
Draco soothes her with a kiss, just a soft peck, then rubs her back. “Do those sound like things you can handle? I’d like to get your punishment over with.”
“What?” She stiffens under his hands. “You want to do it now?”
He hums. “This thing happens with little girls sometimes where they stew over what they’ve done wrong until their tummies are sore with guilt— you wouldn’t want to feel guilty would you? Punishments are like a clean slate.”
He watches as she bites her lip with her incisor, nose twitching in thought. If he wasn’t so concerned about how she’d react to the topic of their conversation that day in the park, he would have brought up punishments as soon as they’d gotten back to his flat. Instead, he let it rest for a few days, just to see if there would be any fallout.
But, she’d taken it better than he anticipated, all his worrying for nothing, and now that a few days have passed he knows it has to be done.
He doesn’t tell her that while she may have a sore tummy full of guilt, he has an overworked mind and clenched jaw— he just wants her to know what she did wrong and what he expects of her in the future so he can stop worrying all the time.
“Maybe you’re right,” she whispers, sagging in his lap. She reaches up to twist the key that hangs from her necklace. “I’m okay with the punishments you said, although some of them don’t seem so bad,” she murmurs under her breath.
“Oh? Which ones, baby?”
He’ll probably use those first, just so she can see that it is a worthy punishment.
“I don’t know,” Hermione mumbles, shrugging. “Like corner time— I’m just going to go stand in the corner? That doesn’t seem so bad.”
It takes everything in him not to smile at her words. Instead, he tries to nod along sympathetically, but inside he’s imagining exactly what she’ll look like, her nose pressed to the corner with her back arched and cute bum pressed out into the room.
Draco clears his throat. “Well why don’t we try that one first, then, and if you don’t like it or it doesn’t feel like a punishment, we won’t do it again. Hm?”
She nods her head from side to side and her body is suspiciously free of tension. She really doesn’t think this will be a punishment, that much is obvious from her body language. But he has ways of making it into one.
Maybe it’s just a side of himself that he’s never really shown her before— not that’s he’s being underhanded, he’s been open with her through the whole process, but his mind is capable of thinking beyond cuddling his good girl.
What she also doesn’t realize is that punishments like this, the ones for little girls, are usually a good way of sending them soaring into little space. She hasn’t spent a ton of time in that space and only once deep enough that she truly did seem to give herself over to him completely.
But like he said, he’s not punishing her to inflict pain or hurt her, but to reinforce his rules and expectations.
“I’ll always tell you every part of the punishment before we start because it’s important to me that we both agree to it, alright, baby?” He asks, waiting for her agree. He thumbs her lip when she simply nods. “With your words, baby. Please.”
Still tugging on her necklace, twisting it in her fingers, she leans forward until their noses are touching. “I understand, Daddy.”
His heart thumps a little more heavily in his chest as he decides on exactly how this punishment will play out. He’s actually letting her off easier than he thought he would for what she’s done. The fact that she swore at him isn’t his main concern— she was angry and he understands that it happens. It’s more the issue of her letting go of his hands despite his protestations.
And he protested. At least five times before she seemed to understand that he wasn’t attempting to stop her from having feelings, just trying to keep her safe.
“In a few minutes I’m going to walk you over to that corner,” he says, nodding his head over behind the television. “We’re going to have a little cuddle and you’re going to tell me what you did wrong, and then I’m going to pull down your leggings and your knickers.” He speaks slowly and calmly but catches the way he eyes widen and she stiffens in his lap. “And then that little nose is going to rest in the corner and you’re going to push your bare bum out for 10 minutes. Okay?”
Draco rubs his palm up and down the length of her back in comfort. He knows she wasn’t expecting that part, wasn’t expecting to be anything other than completely dressed and staring into a corner. He’s not keen to humiliate her, but a little bit of a stress position and the reminder that her backside is bare is a good way for her to consider what she’s done.
And to do her best not to do it again.
“You can say no,” he reminds her, when she still hasn’t spoken. “I’ll find something different if you’re truly uncomfortable.”
It takes a few silent seconds before he sees her throat bob with a swallow and her fingers move to clench his t-shirt in her small fists again. Her cheeks are burning red, likely from embarrassment. “Okay, Daddy.”
His cock twitches in his joggers, he won’t deny it.
With a soft tap to her hip, he nudges her from his lap until she’s standing, shoulders hunched in a little bit. The room is quiet, they didn’t have the television on before, and he rests his palm against the middle of her back as they walk to the corner he’d pointed out.
It’s a wider corner, not at a 90 degree angle thanks to the odd placements of walls in his flat, but should give her a little more room to press her nose to the crease. He truly doesn’t want her to be in pain, only the slightest bit uncomfortable simply as a reminder.
But she walks like she’s walking to her death, like in the corner will be her execution. Her entire back is stiff and her hands shake, though she does her best to hide it by clasping them together, twisting and pulling on her fingers.
Draco treads carefully. His girl is smart and he’s certain she recognizes the strange push and pull of finding comfort in the person who’s doling out the punishment. All he can do is remind her that she’s not bad and he’s certainly not angry, just eager to wipe the slate clean and ensure they’re left standing on the same page.
“Can I give you a hug?” He asks, just as they reach the corner of his flat.
Her eyebrows crease in thought and he doesn’t push it— the offer is there if she wants it. Regardless, after, he’ll cuddle the shit out of her. But for right now he understands that it can be difficult to reconcile.
“Okay,” she whispers, surprising him as she turns around and throws herself into him.
He wraps his arms around her and holds her body tight to his own, cupping the back of her head and pressing her cheek against his chest. They sway, rocking side to side, fingers trailing over her curls as he whispers quiet comfort.
Eventually, when her cheek lifts off his chest and she seems to suck in a sharp breath, steadying herself, he unwraps her from his arms and instead takes her hands in his. Bending his knees so they’re closer to eye level, he tries to offer her a smile but doesn’t receive one back.
“Tell me why you’re being punished.”
Her chest fills with air, fingers squeezing against his own, but she manages to speak without too much delay. “I swore at you, that day at the park. And…and I let go of your hand and walked away even though I knew the rule.” Hermione ducks her head, nose wrinkling in that way it does when she’s trying to hold back tears. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m really, really sorry.”
Draco doesn’t tell her not to cry, he just leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead before standing back up, straight, and twisting her to face the wall. Hands on her hips, he squeezes and presses his chest to her back, letting her feel him, hoping she understands that he’s here— that he’s doing this for her.
“You’re alright, baby. Just relax, okay? Your only job is to reflect— you let Daddy take care of the rest.”
She nods once, stiffly, and he decides it’s better to just get it over with. He slips his fingers beneath the elastic band of her leggings and knickers, pushing them down her legs until they’re wrapped around her knees. Her t-shirt is cropped, hitting the middle of her belly, leaving her bare backside completely exposed.
He doesn’t run his fingers over the smooth, supple skin, no matter how much he wants to.
With his palm on her mid-back, he pushes her forward until all it would take is her bending her knees slightly and pressing forward for her nose to be in the corner. She’s trembling a little under his palm and he gives he one last soothing rub before pulling away.
“Hermione?” He asks. “Are you alright? Do you need a break?”
“No,” she says quietly, shaking her head once. “I’m fine.”
It’s a precarious road to walk— after all is said and done, she could be angry with him for putting her in this situation, but he has to believe that she needs this as much as he does.
“Feet apart, then,” he instructs, stepping back and watching. “Bend your knees a little bit— yes, there you go.” He reaches around her to tap a spot in the crease of the wall. “Nose right here, hands behind your back— just cross your wrists. There. Good girl.”
He gives her one last brush of his fingers over the top of her head. “Stay just like that for 10 minutes. You can cry if you need to, or you can be silent. I’ll come and get you when it’s over.”
Turning around, he walks back over to the couch and sits, quickly setting a 10-minute timer on his phone. He doesn’t stare at her, but he does keep an eye on her, noticing the way her shoulders shudder and hearing a soft sniffling noise. He wasn’t sure if she’d cry, but it doesn’t seem to be full-on tears.
He lets his gaze drift down to her bottom, just once— maybe twice, and does his best not to get carried away with thoughts of what he’d like to do to her.
As the minutes pass, he flicks through the news on his phone, looking up every once in a while to make sure she’s still alright. Her legs aren’t shaking even though he knows the position must be at least a little bit uncomfortable. Her wrists are still crossed at her back but she’s gripping her hands tightly, squeezing.
It’s extremely quiet, so it’s clear when he stands, his floors creaking just enough under his weight as he moves into the kitchen. The open-plan of his flat allows him to continue to see her as opens up the cupboard above his sink and reaches for her pink water bottle. But— his eyes catch on the smaller plastic cup sitting next to it, something he’d gotten her months ago but hasn’t yet broached.
He makes the choice. In his experience, a punishment like this can push a little further into little space, into the soft, agreeable place where she wants to be babied— where she needs it. He fills the sippy cup, decorated with little pink bows, with cold water, knowing she’ll likely want some after, and fits the lid on top.
It’s practically the same thing as the water bottle she favours but he doesn’t put any ice inside. There’s no straw to suck through, just a thin slit on the lid. She’ll have to tip the cup for any water to come through and he doesn’t want to draw her attention to it more than necessary. He especially doesn’t want her to refuse it.
As the minutes pass, her only real movement comes when she shuffles her feet once, her legs likely feeling stiff from the position. When he looks down at his phone, he sees she only has 30 seconds left. She’s taken it well, not moving her nose from the wall or sobbing, like he worried she might.
When his phone vibrates against his leg, he stands and walks over to her, carefully placing a palm on her back. “Alright, baby. You can stand up now, can you do that?”
She does, slowly, pulling back from the wall and straightening her legs and back. She doesn’t turn, though, and he wraps an arm around her waist, twisting her until he can see her face. Her eyes are a bit wet and watery, but no tears have fallen in the time she’s been standing in the corner. Her cheeks are pink though, flushed and a bit warm to the touch when he grazes them with his knuckles.
“Can I pull my pants up?” She asks quietly, not reacting to him otherwise.
Draco curls his fingers into a fist, short nails biting into his palm. “Let me, baby. And then we can go sit down together, hm? I have some water for you.”
Hermione is quiet as he leans down to pull her leggings and knickers up and over her bare bum, before taking her hand in his and leading her back to the couch. He’s unsure of whether she’ll want to sit by herself, but as soon as he lowers himself to the cushions she curls up in his lap, nose pressed to his throat.
Without hesitation, he curls his arms around her and hugs her close to his body. It makes him smile when she doesn’t stiffen, not even a little bit. Hermione breathes him, nuzzling her nose as deep as she can into his skin.
“Can I have some water, please?”
Her voice sounds small— shy, almost. Holding her tight, he leans forward and picks up the plastic sippy cup, deciding not to even mention it before handing it to her. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the way she stares at it, considering, before tucking the plastic tip into her mouth and tipping her head back against his shoulder.
Draco relaxes— completely, fully relaxes, maybe for the first time in a long time. With his girl on his lap, her body jelly-like and soft, her throat working as she sucks in water from her cup. She drinks like she hasn’t had a sip of water in days and slowly, very slowly, her eyes close. Not from sleep, just from…contentment, he thinks.
“Feeling alright?” He asks, patting her lower back, almost her bum. “Can you use your words for me?”
She nods, her eyes opening but the sippy cup still in her mouth. He dislodges it, tugging it out enough that she frowns but stops herself from pouting. “Yes, Daddy. Sorry for breaking the rules.”
It’s sincere. Soft and quiet but she looks into his eyes when she says it.
He leans down and presses his lips to her temple, squeezing her and letting her pop the sippy cup back between her lips. “I forgive you, baby. I want you to try not to do it again, alright?”
“I won’t,” she mumbles around the plastic. “Swear, Daddy, I’ll try really hard not to.”
Hugging her tight, he breathes in the floral scent of her hair, closing his eyes. She takes to it all so well, the way he’s always wanted— the way he’s dreamed of for years. Accepts him as he is and shows him who she is, deep down inside. This sweet little girl who’s always so willing to try new things, to sink deeper into this dynamic with him.
He knows.
Well, he’s pretty sure he’s known for a while.
But he knows, now.
He knows that she’s it for him.
Notes:
Thanks for your patience.
Chapter 31: Tentacula
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione’s flat was once the only place she felt she could be her truest self.
Decorated in grey and light pink, with a soft, cozy white carpet and two overstuffed bookshelves on either side of the telly, she’d chosen her decor meticulously until her flat screamed Hermione. She was lucky enough to live on her own without a roommate, though she’d spent the first three years of her degree living with Ginny and having to deal with a space that sort of felt like hers, but also not at all.
Ginny is messy and sporty and doesn’t care a lick about the colour of the throw blanket or whether there are socks tucked into the side of the couch. The two are essentially opposites but hit it off on their very first day of classes, both taking an Intro to Non-Fiction class required in both of their programs.
When her friend brought up the prospect of moving in with her boyfriend, Hermione had agreed— not happily but not unhappily. She liked living with her friend and certainly took advantage of the fact that Ginny paid for a Netflix account and was always willing to share a spliff, but at 21 she was ready to have her own space.
The flat is small but perfectly sized for little-old-her, a single bedroom and a living space alongside a tiny kitchen is all she really needs. Typically when she steps in through the door, tired from a day of classes or stumbling from too many drinks at the pub, she’s instantly able to breathe out a sigh of relief and crash on her too-comfortable couch, flipping on the telly. There’s no one to bother her, no one to get annoyed with her and nothing to worry about.
It’s a wonder, then, that the next time she steps foot inside, her overnight (or, overnight-and-overnight-and-one-more-night) bag pulling on her shoulder, she gets the distinct feeling that…something has changed. She looks around curiously, dropping the heavy bag to the floor, but there doesn’t seem to be a single thing out of place. Her artwork is all still there, her books teetering on shelves set to burst, the throw blanket is folded and hanging off the back of the couch— even the water glass she’d guzzled to swallow her birth control pill before she’d left last still sits on the counter.
Everything is exactly where she left it and yet, it doesn’t feel right.
Hermione shifts on her feet, toeing off her sneakers and tucking them against the wall near the door. She stands there, hands on her hips and frown growing on her face, before attempting to shake herself out of it. Moving further into her flat, she drags her bag over to the small kitchen and opens the washer/dryer, quickly sorting her clothes and starting a load of laundry.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket while she’s bent over and she tugs it out, looking at the screen.
gin 🥂
Ginny: home yet????
Hermione: just walked in
They’ve planned to have a girl’s night and Hermione offered to host. Girl’s nights are never really girl’s nights at Ginny’s because Harry is usually there, lurking around somewhere and offering his two cents when they’re least wanted.
Closing the door to the washer, she pulls open her fridge and grimaces at how empty it is. There are a few cans of Diet Coke, a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and three bottles of cheap white-blend wine. Suddenly, her index finger coming up to tap on her bottom lip, she can’t remember the last time she went grocery shopping.
Actually, that’s not strictly true: she’d gone to the high-end grocer across the street from Draco’s flat just this week, her bored but extremely patient boyfriend dutifully pushing the cart and paying for the haul of snacks and breakfast and lunch items. They typically eat out for dinner, whether it’s takeaway or at a restaurant.
So, she’d been grocery shopping, just not for herself. Except, she’d gotten those nuts and dried fruit and cheese packages she likes, and that strawberry granola to go with her oat yoghurt, oh— the little containers of edible cookie dough, too. All things she would normally buy on her own, just nothing to fill her own fridge…
She’ll have to go tomorrow, she thinks, mentally putting together a list— except, she’s already planned to be back to Draco’s tomorrow to stay for the weekend. Monday then, she decides, frowning when she realizes that his day off is Wednesday and she’ll inevitably be back there again, probably until the weekend is over.
With a glare at her overnight bag, always being pushed to the limit, she decides that instead of grocery shopping, she’ll need a new bag to adequately fit her things.
Shrugging, she also decides they’ll simply have to order some takeaway to go along with their wine. Ginny won’t mind, surely, especially not if she’s paying for it. Grabbing her phone from the counter, Hermione navigates to her favourite food delivery app and notes the £150 Draco added to her account just before she’d hopped into the rideshare he’d ordered her.
It gives her pause, but only for a second.
He likes paying for things— he told her so.
Glancing quickly at the time, she estimates that Ginny will be by in a few minutes. She’d likely been waiting by her door with her shoes on and her purse over her shoulder, ready to go as soon as she gave the word. She dashes into her bedroom to change out of her leggings and into a simple pair of black bike shorts, keeping on the Oxford University sweater that she’d nicked from Draco ages ago now. It’s warm and baggy on her, long enough that it nearly covers her shorts and hides her fingers.
The knock on the door, loud and annoyingly patterned, tells her that it’s Ginny and she skips out to open it, waving her friend inside. She’s got no makeup on either and her hair looks greasier than usual, like it’s been a week since her last wash. Hermione has no room to talk, her own hair has been up in a topknot since last night, likely tangled and due for a serious wash and deep conditioning hair mask.
“God, you’ve really let that thing go, haven’t you?” Ginny says instead of greeting her.
Hermione pauses, frowning. “Let what go?”
Her red-haired friend gestures with her chin to the corner behind her but when Hermione turns, she doesn’t see anything. There’s her couch, neat and clean, and the little shelf with a few cute collectibles sitting on it, until— there: out of the way of direct sunlight, sits her very rough looking spider plant.
She gasps, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, and hurries forward. Her spider plant! She’d forgotten all about it.
“Shit,” she breathes, scooching between the couch and the wall to gently touch the curling leaves. “Oh, you poor thing. I’m a terrible plant parent!”
“Just take it with you,” Ginny says, flopping down on her couch and taking a drag from her vape.
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Since when are you smoking those things? And— take it where?”
She huffs and shuffles back out into the room, taking one of the bottles of wine out of her fridge. Grabbing two stemless wine glasses from her cupboard, she makes her way to the couch to sit next to Ginny.
“Since Harry threw a fit over the smell of my cigs,” she says. Then, with her face pinched and thumb and index fingers making circles over her eyes, she mimics him: “Bloody hell, Gin! Even my kit smells like your stupid cigarettes!”
With a gentle snort, Hermione carefully pours them each a glass of wine. It’s not the worst impression of Harry.
“He’s getting worse, always whinging about it, so here’s the compromise. Here— try it, it’s menthol.” Ginny holds up the small rectangular vape and hands it to her as she takes the proffered glass of wine. “Anyway, back to your plant— take it with you to Draco’s.”
She wrinkles her nose at the vape but takes a drag just for the sake of it, breathing in the cool minty vapour and hit of nicotine that instantly makes her chest loosen. It doesn’t give her the same thrill as a cigarette between her fingers but it does the job, she supposes.
Plopping it back in Ginny’s lap, she takes a sip of her wine. “I’m not going to bring an entire plant back and forth to Draco’s flat. She just needs some TLC and she’ll perk up.” Hermione waves her hand. “Forget about the plant, what’s new?”
“Well…I was hoping you’d ask.” Ginny turns so both of her socked-feet are up on the couch. “I’ve been offered a summer position with a football club as a sports therapist!”
Hermione grins and excitedly pulls her best friend into a hug, being careful of their glasses. “Oh, Ginny! I’m so happy for you! It’s exactly what you wanted— is it a big club?”
Her friend snorts, pulling back from her hug. “Definitely not, but it’s something. It’s good, I can work my way up and before you know it I’ll be working with…” she trails off, giggling. “One of the bigger ones. I don’t know, I’m sure Harry will have an opinion.”
Despite her degree in exercise sciences and chosen career path as a sports therapist, Ginny is as clueless about football as she is. Harry, on the other hand, is usually watching a match on the telly and plays casually with his friends.
“Funny that,” Hermione mutters, smiling around her glass. “Harry always seems to have an opinion about something or other.”
Ginny rolls her eyes. “Don’t I know it. Have you heard back yet?”
“No,” she says, willing her voice not to shake. Just the thought of it made her tense and anxious. “Not yet, but there’s still lots of time. I don’t know…I’m starting to think that I just don’t know what I want to do with my life so going back to school is the safest bet.”
There’s only two months or so left before exams which will mark the end of their undergraduate schooling and the knowledge has had a strange sort of tension living in her shoulders. She’d applied for two graduate programs in literature but had yet to hear back from either and was starting to get antsy about her next steps.
She doesn’t really have any plans other than heading back to school and if it doesn’t work out the way she hopes it will, she isn’t entirely sure what kind of job she’s qualified to do. Her parents had let her know she could come work in their dental office in an administrative position, but that would mean moving back home and away from the hustle and bustle of London.
Most importantly, it would mean moving away from Draco.
They’ve barely talked about her plans post-graduation, her own choice, other than when she told him she planned to apply for graduate programs. He’d taken her out for a celebratory dinner after she’d completed the applications, knowing how much anxiety she felt about the process. But he’d never once tried to influence her plans or convince her in one direction or another.
It’s both a good and bad thing. Good, because she appreciates how he’s respecting the boundaries she’d set early on about making her own decisions about her schooling. Bad, because for once she wishes he would ignore everything about said boundaries in the first place and just make the decision for her.
“Have you talked to your boyfriend about it?” Ginny asks, reaching forward to top up their wine glasses. “God knows, Harry was up my arse about getting a job so we wouldn’t have to move from our flat. As if the tosser has gotten a job himself!”
“Typical Harry,” she snickers. She drags her newly painted nails over the soft texture of her couch and shrugs. “I told him that I applied and we went out for dinner to celebrate. He didn’t say much about it though.”
Ginny squints at her. “In a good way?”
“Not in a bad way,” she says, shrugging. “He’s not uninterested— I don’t feel as though he doesn’t care. I just think…he doesn’t want to come on too strong about it.”
It’s a little laughable because when has Draco not come on a little too strong. Their entire relationship has been a result of his gentle pressure, pushing her just beyond the bounds of her comfort zone, but never too far or too forcefully as to scare her.
Her schooling just doesn’t seem like something she can wash her hands of, not like when he asks what kind of snack she wants or if she’d like to wear the pink knickers or the purple ones. Those questions can always be answered by a simple, you choose, Daddy, in the instance that she doesn’t feel like making a choice.
The same can’t really be said for what she should do after she graduates, though she wishes it could.
“I don’t know if you know this,” Ginny laughs, “but you’re also very much in control, like, all the time.”
Hermione scoffs. “What? I am not.”
Her friend’s bark of laughter startles her and she frowns, brows furrowing. Is she really that controlling? She can’t possibly be, not with Draco, at least. Draco has all the control in their relationship, he makes the decisions and she’s happy with that. She wants it that way.
As for other aspects of her life, well…that’s neither here nor there.
“Hermione— come on, love. It’s fine, it’s not a bad thing. I’m sure he just doesn’t think you want his help, that’s all. Just talk to him.” Ginny pats her thigh and squeezes. “And while you’re at it, start moving your things over.”
She splutters, a half-choke half-cough coming from her chest. The acidity of the wine stings her nose and makes her eyes water as she fights for a clear breath. Ginny reaches over and pats her back with her palm, taking the wine glass from her shaking hand.
“What the fuck are you on about?” She asks, patting her chest with her palm. “Move my things over, where? Why? Why would I do that?”
This time, Ginny frowns. Her mouth pinches and her brow furrows, eyes squinting at her as though she’s looking for something secret. “Well…you’re not going to keep your flat, are you?”
Hermione’s eyes widen in disbelief. “And just where would you like me to live? With you and Harry?”
“Controlling and delusional,” Ginny mutters quietly, rubbing her palm over her face. “For God’s sake, Hermione, not with me and Harry, with Draco— your boyfriend, remember?”
It sounds like the most ridiculous thing her friend has ever said— and she’s said plenty of ridiculous things. Move in? With her boyfriend? Except…it’s not really that ridiculous. And he is her boyfriend, he cares about her, so…the next natural step is that they would move in. Right?
Right?
She grabs her wine off the coffee table and takes a big gulp, swallowing down the dry blend like it’s water. Her phone buzzes on the counter and she flings her head back, groaning. There are too many grownup things to think about and she just doesn’t want to. That’s what this night is supposed to be about.
“Alright, well…I don’t know what this,” — Ginny waves her hand in a circle in front of her — “is about, but I hope you have more wine.”
She shoots Ginny a dark look. “Of course I have more wine. What do you think I am— some kind of heathen?”
Her phone rattles again against the surface of the counter again as she moves to the fridge and she reaches out to grab it, holding it until the screen recognizes her face.
Draco 🥰🥵
Draco: Home safe?
Draco: Baby?
Draco: Hermione...
“Shoot,” she whispers, leaning against the cabinets, her thumbs flying over the touchscreen.
“What?” Ginny asks, tugging her socks off and flinging them onto the carpet.
“Don’t throw your dirty socks on the floor,” Hermione hisses, wrinkling her nose. “I forgot to text Draco when I got home. He worries.”
Hermione: i'm home!!!
Hermione: i'm so sorry daddy
Hermione: i texted gin when i walked in and she appeared so fast
Draco: It's alright to forget once in a while. How is girl's night?
Hermione: good!! fun just having a drink
“Is he preparing to knock the door down?” Ginny asks sarcastically, slurping the last dregs of her wine.
Hermione huffs and tucks her phone into the little pocket of her shorts, pulling another bottle from her fridge and twisting the top off. Just a day before she’d watched, transfixed, as the waiter at the restaurant uncorked the bottle of vintage cabernet sauvignon at their table, handing the cork to Draco before pouring him a small tasting glass.
She stares down at the blend, a bright label declaring it crisp and dry, and snorts at the thought of pouring Ginny a tasting glass. Ginny practically swallowed half the bottle in only ten minutes— then again, she thinks, staring at her own empty glass, so did she.
“No, he’s not,” Hermione mutters, shuffling back over to the couch. She pours the wine into Ginny’s glass as she holds it out, steady. “He’s not unreasonable— I told him I’d text and I forgot.”
Her phone buzzes again and she finishes pouring her glass before setting the bottle on the table.
“Anyway,” Ginny drawls, “just tell him your plant is suffering here and I bet you he tells you to bring it to his. And, I mean, once you move in a plant…”
Hermione stares at her blankly, blinking. “What? What happens once I move in a plant?”
Her friend sucks in a deep inhale of her vape and breathes out slowly, shoulders slouching. “You follow.”
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, fingers wrapped around her phone as it buzzes in her palm. She’s not going to beg him to let her move in— maybe it’s old fashioned of her but is it so wrong to wait for him to ask? Otherwise she’ll question herself until the end of time— Did I force him to let me move in? Does he not want me here? Am I too pushy? Am I too controlling?
But the plant…well, that’s not such a bad idea. Draco is careful and caring, he watches out for her and makes sure she’s fed and tucked in, fills her water for her and always walks on the side of the pavement next to the street. After all, she does stay at Draco’s flat most of the time and her plant probably is lonely.
At least this way it will always have company.
Draco: Alright, baby. Don't drink too much, please.
Hermione: course not daddy
Hermione: omg you should see my spider plant
Hermione: i've been a terrible plant mummy
Hermione: the poor thing
“What did you say?” Ginny asks, leaning over to peek at her phone screen.
Hermione pulls her phone in against her chest, feeling it vibrate but not daring to pull it away until Ginny leans back to her spot on the sofa. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Ginny, and it’s not like Ginny doesn’t already know— you know, but she’s not one to flaunt it.
“None of your business,” she tells her, scooting back against the cushion. “Just about my plant.”
Ginny takes another long sip of her wine and rolls her eyes, reaching forward to grab the remote off the table. “Uhuh, whatever you say. Do you have any food or are we going to order?”
Hermione huffs. “We’re going to order, just give me a second, will you?”
Draco: You're not a terrible plant Mummy. Can you do anything for it?
Hermione: yes yes just needs a little care
Hermione: i think she gets lonely
Draco: Bring it with you.
Hermione: to yours?????
Draco: Yes. I'll help you care for it. I'll come get you Wednesday after I finish work, that way you don't have to struggle with it.
Hermione: you're the absolute best!!!!!!! you'll love her
Draco: Her? I didn't realize plants were gendered. My apologies.
As it happens, they’re sort of forced to confront the Pansy situation before he really wants to.
Draco hasn’t answered the text and hasn’t said a word to either Astoria or his parents, just leaving the conversation unanswered and sitting in his text messages. Hermione doesn’t bring it up and neither does he, content to let it slowly dissipate until she’s but a blip in their minds.
As she should be.
But nothing is simple and nothing is easy, no matter how much he wishes it could be, and a phone call from his ex-wife turned best-friend’s new wife reminds him of the annual charity lunch being hosted by his parents…in his childhood home…that he is absolutely, without a doubt, expected to be present and accounted for. It goes without question that Hermione will attend with him— until Astoria mentions that his other ex-wife has been invited, too.
Of course she has, he thinks. Why wouldn’t his mum invite the one person on this planet he never wants to see or speak to again? If he ever did grow the balls big enough to confront her about anything, he knows her advice would be to simply: pretend it doesn’t bother you, dear. When appearances are most important, feelings lose their meaning.
He considers just sending his regrets and pulling out of the lunch. It would certainly be easier than having to confront his parents or speak, again, on this to his girlfriend. Hermione is as understanding as he could ever ask her to be, but there’s only so much he wants to talk about Pansy, about that time in his life. There’s only so much he wants to test Hermione’s patience.
Of which she has a lot of, for him.
“You know your mother will be devastated if you don’t go,” Astoria tells him through the speakers in his car. “She’ll sic your father on you.”
Draco rolls his eyes, thumb tapping the steering wheel. As if, at his age, he’s still afraid of his father— suddenly his head is filled with ice-coloured ices glaring menacingly and that threatening growl erupting from a tight-lipped mouth.
Well, he’s not as afraid of him, not like when he was a teenager.
“Maybe she should have thought about that before inviting my ex-wife,” he grumbles, stopped at a red light. He slides his fingers through his hair, pushing it back off of his forehead. “For fuck’s sake— they’re my parents. It’s my home. I realize she’s still carrying my name around with her but she’s hardly a Malfoy.”
The sigh that comes through his speakers is one of exasperation but he doesn’t care. It’s him who’s put out, not Astoria, not his mother and certainly not his ex-wife. It’s his childhood home, his parents, the charity that he named when he was in primary school.
“Does that mean I shouldn’t be invited either?” She asks. “I mean, I am also your ex-wife, Draco, and I continued to use your last name until this past year. Or have you forgotten that?”
No, he wants to say, you’ve never let me.
He laughs. “I’m frankly fucking surprised that you were invited.” He gasps a little bit, eyes narrowing as the light turns green. “Maybe that’s it— maybe I should take Mumto a geriatric specialist, have her head checked out. What happened to the days where she couldn’t stand you?”
They never got along while they were married. His parents hated the relationship and made it known at just about every opportunity, despite the fact Astoria comes from as similar an upbringing as he could find. In the years since, though, his mother has seemingly softened— particularly once Astoria remarried.
He’d heard her muttering to his father once about how she was officially no longer his problem.
If only she knew that she’s more of a problem in his life now than she ever was before.
“Fuck you,” she delivers sharply, enough of a bite that he knows he’s rankled her just a bit. “Stop being so ridiculous.”
Draco rolls his eyes, mind wandering back to the times when Astoria would cry after a heated and awkward interaction with his parents— oh, how the times have changed. He never thought he’d see the day she defended either of them.
“Besides,” she says, voice crackling in his car. “Your feelings are irrelevant here— you have to come and you know that. I was only calling to talk logistics, not fight about this with you. I can take Hermione shopping so we can buy something suitable, something that won’t horrify your parents—”
“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “No, you won’t.”
Another deep sigh, this one in annoyance. “Draco— I’m not doing this with you. She needs something more formal than what she has—”
“I’m not disagreeing with you,” he says quickly. “I’m simply saying no, I will take her shopping.”
There’s a silence on the other end as he makes a left turn, indicator ticking, getting closer to Hermione’s building. It’s in a nice enough area, close to the university, and he sees a number of students walking down the pavement. He urges the car in front to go a little quicker so he can end this phone call.
When Astoria still doesn’t say anything he pauses, looking down at his console to see if the call has dropped and a miracle has been granted.
“Tori?” He asks. “Still there?”
Another sigh. One he’s more familiar with— the kind that means she’s resolved to whatever he’s said and while she’s not happy about it she no longer wants to argue. Or, in other words, the losing sigh. “Yes. Alright, well…she should wear light pink or lavender— for spring. “
“Fine,” he agrees. “I’ll take her at the weekend. Anything else?”
There’s another bout of silence as he approaches Hermione’s building. “No. Nothing else.” But then— “I have an appointment on Friday. Are you working?”
His eyes scrunch in thought before he nods. “Yes, I’m working days.”
“I wanted to ask you to come but Theo said it would be weird.” Her voice is a little shaky, as though she’s uncertain, and he’s very unused to hearing it. Astoria Nott, before that Astoria Malfoy, and before that née Greengrass, is always certain.
Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Draco taps his indicator, pulling off to the side of the road and putting the car in park. He takes his phone from the console, ready to text Hermione, but sees her vague outline through the front door and places it back down.
“It would be,” he eventually says in agreement. “I don’t want you to feel guilty, Tori. This is for you and Theo to experience.”
“It’s not guilt,” she stresses. “It’s just…I don’t know. Maybe it’s hormones or something.” Draco frowns at that— he doesn’t think it’s hormones. “Forget I mentioned it— maybe we can have lunch?”
His eyes track Hermione as she laughs and waves to someone, back pressed against the door as she pushes it open. Her overnight bag is over her shoulder and she’s got a medium-sized plant in her arms, held close to her chest.
Clicking the seatbelt, he hovers his finger over the controls on the steering wheel. “Sure, lunch. Look— I have to go, I’m picking up Hermione.” He doesn’t wait for her to respond. “Bye, Tori.”
His car beeps as he opens the door and presses the button to flip open his trunk, coming around the car just as Hermione is making her way down the pavement. She’s dressed in a pair of leggings and his old Oxford sweater she was wearing when she left the day before, Birkenstock sandals on her feet over plain white socks.
He wrinkles his nose but doesn’t say anything. He would never be caught wearing socks and sandals.
“Hi, baby,” he mutters, taking her bag from her shoulder. He notes her wet curls, loose and dripping down her back. “Your hair’s wet— you’re going to catch a cold.”
Draco leans down and pecks her lips with a gentle kiss, turning around to open the passenger door and ushering her inside. She rolls her eyes blatantly at him and quickly ducks her head when he reaches out to tug on her ear. Her slight squeal makes him grin.
“Don’t!” She yelps, swinging around to his other side. “I’m sorry! Reflex— it was a reflex.”
His brows raise high on his forehead and he mock tsks at her. “Don’t? Since when, little girl?”
Her pout is pronounced, bottom lip pushed out and full as she presses up on her toes and gestures for him to lean down. When he does, she presses her pouty lips to the golden hairs on his chin, newly trimmed, and nuzzles her nose to his throat.
Heart fluttering, Draco wraps his arm around her back, tugging her as close as he can with the plant still between them.
“Sorry, Daddy,” she whispers, pressing her lips again to the fluttering pulse of his jugular. “Forgive me?”
Breath shakier than he’d like it to be, he nods, pressing his own lips to her forehead, before, quick as a flash, plucking her earlobe softly— softer than he would have done just a minute ago. She whines anyway, taking a step back and hugging her plant close.
“Now you’re forgiven,” he mutters, smiling. “See how that works? Naughty behaviour…consequence…forgiveness.”
He opens the door to the backseat and gestures for her to put the plant inside, smile growing when she leans down, her plump backside sticking out onto the street, and buckles the seatbelt around the pot. He doesn’t know the first thing about plants but as long as it makes her happy, he’s willing to learn.
Her bottom wiggles as she slowly stands back up, pout still visible on her features. “I don’t like the consequence,” she mumbles.
“Who likes consequences?” He asks, carefully closing the door. With his hand on her back, he gently ushers her to the passenger seat and tugs the seatbelt out for her to buckle herself in. Once she’s secure, he leans down to brush their noses together. “All set?”
She nods but shrugs her shoulders. “I might have to do a bit of laundry if I stay until Sunday, but I think I have everything.”
Draco closes the door and rounds the car to set her bag in the trunk, pressing it down before sliding into the driver's seat. He pulls the seatbelt over himself, clicking it into place, before patting her thigh with his palm.
“You can bring more clothes, you know,” he says flippantly, indicating before moving back onto the street. “Things you can just leave at my flat, that way you don’t have to do laundry every couple of days.”
Her thigh tenses beneath his hand and he flicks his eyes over to her as they come to a stop at the light.
“Oh,” she says softly, tugging on her bottom lip with her incisor. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Draco puffs a breath through his nose and furrows his brows in confusion. “Mind? Of course not. Why would I mind?”
“I just thought…I mean, I’m already bringing Tentacula—”
His hand squeezes her thigh tighter. “Tentacula?” He asks with a small laugh. “Who…?”
He looks back at the light to ensure it’s still red, but watches as she sighs and turns her body so she’s facing him, knees pointing in his direction. As though it has a mind of its own, his fingers trail slightly higher, fingertips tucking into the crease.
“My spider plant!” She tells him, as though it should have been obvious.
A quick check in the rearview mirror has him looking at the plant, mostly green with a few slightly-yellowed bits.
“Right,” he mutters, nodding. “Sorry, baby. Of course she would have a name. Tentacula is…” he pauses, lips pressing together in thought, “...nice. She’ll hardly take up any room at all.”
Hermione nods along. “There’s a perfect spot in your sitting room, I think. Sort of adjacent to the window, not directly in front of it— the sun could burn her.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that. You’ll have to show me how to care for her.”
She’s strangely quiet, staring out the window with a small furrow to her brows, as though she’s lost in thought. He squeezes her thigh again as they start moving with the traffic, heading back toward his flat. He knows he’s gotten her attention when she lays her palm on his arm, rubbing her thumb along the tendons on the underside of his wrist.
“You really want to learn?” She asks, small and quiet.
“Of course I do,” he affirms. “She’s important to you— so she’s important to me.”
He sort of wishes they were having this conversation at his flat because he doesn’t think they’re on the same page. Whatever she’s asking is masked by the plant, but he’s not entirely certain what it is. If he could look at her, really look at her, he might be able to get a better read of where her head is at.
But they’re still about 15 minutes from his place, so he keeps his hand on her thigh, letting her know that he’s physically there for her, and hopes that her point will come spilling out when she realizes the thinly veiled questions are just that— thinly veiled.
“Because you’re my Daddy?” She asks, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
It’s like he’s being tested on something but he’s not quite sure what it is. He decides the best course of action is to answer honestly.
“Not just because I’m your Daddy— because I’m your partner. Right?”
She chews on her lip. “Right. So…not because I’m your girlfriend?”
As they come to a stop again, he turns to face her slightly, chucking her under the chin with the hand that was on her thigh. When she looks up at him, there’s a worry in her eyes.
“That’s what I meant by partner. Sometimes I feel I’m a little too old to go ‘round saying I have a girlfriend,” he clarifies. “But you are my girlfriend— my special partner.” He snickers then, scrunching his nose, and is grateful when Hermione giggles. “Alright, well, that sounded odd. Maybe just partner.” He drags his thumb over her bottom lip, before letting his hand fall back to her thigh. “Now, tell me what’s going on— what’s all this about?”
The worry in her expression slides away, a blank looking coming to her eyes instead. Not because there isn’t a problem, but because she’s trying to hide it. He knows her well enough by now to be able to see through the faux-void she presents.
“Nothing, I was just—”
“Hermione.”
She huffs, tensing under his hand.
“Do you think I’m in control all the time?”
He frowns, too focussed on the road to look over at her, but feeling the way her body language has changed. It’s a strange question considering their dynamic, but…he thinks he understands what she’s really asking.
“Do you know why this works so well?” Draco asks instead.
“I asked the question first.”
“And I will answer it, after you answer mine.”
She huffs, fingers tangling together on her lap. “Because you’re hot and I love you?”
Draco chuckles and grasps one of her hands, raising her knuckles to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against them. “And I, you. But besides that— do you know why this works so well?”
“No,” she says. “But I bet you’ll tell me.”
He narrows his eyes, flashing a quick look at her, amused by the surprising level of brat coming through, but warning her not to push him too far.
“This works so well because you’re in control all the time, and you trust me enough to give me that gift.” He squeezes his palm over her hand. “Hermione, you’re a very independent girl. You don’t like a lot of change and — this is not meant as an insult, just an observation — you’re also quite an anxious girl, and I think your anxiety is settled by holding onto control. But, guess how it’s also settled?”
“By giving it to you,” she guesses.
“By giving it to me,” he agrees, setting their clasped hands down on her thigh. “But I think you already know this— you already know that you hold most of the control here, and that you simply let me take control. So what are you really asking me?”
She groans and throws her head back against the seat. “I just…I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to control things or…or that I’m putting arbitrary limits on things.”
“Like what?” He asks, tapping the indicator as he prepares to turn onto his street.
She fidgets, nervous. “Like about…my plant.”
“Your plant,” he deadpans. “What about the plant?”
Hermione turns to look in the backseat, staring at the spider plant— Tentacula with a lot of focus.
“I don’t want to just assume that I can bring things to your place. I know I spend a lot of time there but it’s still your flat and I have my own flat—”
“Hermione,” he says seriously, “I told you to bring the plant.”
She huffs. “But it’s because I mentioned it!”
There’s a silence between them as he looks at her incredulously, surprised by how animated she is. It’s just a fucking plant, he thinks to himself, except…it’s not. Not if he really thinks about it, overthinks like he knows she is.
It’s her plant— a plant that’s been in her flat this whole time, which she spends less and less time in.
“Oh sweetheart,” he laughs. “Baby, no. If I didn’t want the plant at my place, I wouldn’t have told you to bring it— you haven’t subliminally convinced me. You haven’t forced me to invite the plant. And for that matter— I’m putting it out there right now, you can bring anything you want to my place.” He stops at a stop sign and squeezes her thigh tight. “Anything, Hermione.”
She stares down at her lap. “What about school? I told you it was a boundary for me—”
“You did,” he agrees. “And I’ve respected that.”
Her silence tells him more than her words ever could. She’d set that boundary quite early in their relationship, when she was still learning about the dynamic and the kind of control he expected to have over her. He understood; schooling is serious and 100% her choice. He’s been happy to give her his opinion, when asked, but nothing beyond that.
He thinks, based on the way she shifts uncomfortably next to him, that maybe she regrets that boundary.
“Boundaries can move,” he says, speaking about it generally. “Forward or backward. Feelings change, Hermione, I understand that. If you want my input on your schooling, I’m happy to offer it.”
As they pull into the garage under his building, he quickly parks in his spot and shuts the car off, turning to face his girlfriend and really look at her. She looks a little teary and uncertain, so he leans forward and presses their foreheads together.
Their lips meet in a soft, gentle kiss and as they pull away, he kisses the little freckle under her eye.
“Your lease ends in May,” he says. “You might as well start bringing things over.”
Her mouth drops open and, to his surprise, she slaps her hand against his chest and pushes and he laughs loudly, the sound reverberating through the car. He’d been planning to discuss it with her— she spends most of her time with him anyway.
“That is not the way to ask me!” She says, voice high in shock. “You…!” Her head drops forward to his shoulder, body relaxing from its tense position and she groans. “I didn’t want to assume.”
“I know,” he mumbles. “And that wasn’t me asking you— just hinting.” And then, because there’s no time like the present, he says, “By the way, we’ve been invited to my parent’s next weekend for their annual charity lunch— Astoria and Theo will be there.” And then, “Pansy might, too.”
There’s half a second of silence before she shoves against him again, clasping her hand over her face.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Draco.”
Notes:
hahahahaha just typical twenties overthinking.
hope you all enjoy. finally building up to my last few big plot points. will probably be somewhere between 5 and 10 more chapters.
find me elsewhere.
Chapter 32: Royalty
Notes:
A very big thank you to Len, chronophobique for her help with the little bits of French in this chapter!!
Translations in the end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Charts are all updated: motorcycle accident in 12 needs a CT, nine has a transverse fracture of the 5th metatarsal— have an intern discuss options with them. I expect to see results from four, seven and 13 when I’m back.”
Draco steps purposefully down the hall, already tugging on the strings of his scrub pants despite not having reached his office yet. Joanne, his favourite nurse — really, the only nurse willing to deal with his moods and particularness — follows him, runners tapping along the linoleum floor as she attempts to keep up with his pace.
“I’ll be gone an hour,” he says, turning to face the older brunette woman, fingers of his right hand pushing through his hair. “If there’s something urgent, page me.”
“Stop being such a worrywart,” she says, rolling her eyes and pushing at his shoulder. “Go and enjoy your lunch. You know— we’d like to meet your girlfriend one day.”
“I’m not going with my girlfriend,” he tells her, mind already in ten different places as they finally reach his office door. “I’m meeting my ex-wife— she’s pregnant.”
Joanne pauses. “Oh.”
He looks down at his watch, noticing the time. If he doesn’t hurry, he’ll be late, and then he’ll be late getting back. But in the silence, he realizes what he’s said and what Joan likely thinks it means.
“It’s not mine!” He laughs, fingers curving around the door handle. He flashes her a smile. “It’s my best friend’s.”
“Anyway, measuring right on track and everything. Dr. Chambers said everything looks exactly as she wants it to— nothing odd or strange going on. I have to say, I was a bit worried. I’ve just been so tired and I have such a hard time getting comfortable.”
Theo raises his eyebrows at him from across the table. “That’s an understatement.”
“Oh shut up.” Astoria glares at her husband, pressing another forkful of pasta into her mouth. She speaks with her mouth full, something he’s never seen her do before. “You wouldn’t survive even an hour if we switched places. Do you have any idea what it’s like to look down and see this…this…” she trails off, gesturing around her belly, “...this growth every single day? No, you don’t. So I don’t want to hear another word—”
Draco clears his throat and interrupts the incoming diatribe. “Did you find out the sex?”
“No.”
He raises his eyebrow at Theo’s terse answer. Seems like no topic is safe during this lunch.
“No?”
“No,” Astoria repeats, just as tersely. “I want it to be a surprise.”
“Oh,” Draco says, frowning. He’s a planner— he always likes to know what’s coming and how best to prepare. That and he doesn’t think he’d be able to wait, not when there’s an option to know. “Are you sure? It just seems like such a…”
“Hassle?” Theo offers. “Blockade? Bother? Inconvenience?”
Astoria rolls her eyes and flings her hand out, like she’s had it with the conversation. “What’s so important that you need to know the sex of our baby? Hm? Absolutely nothing. It’s not important and I don’t want to know!”
He looks down awkwardly at his plate, using his fork to push around the last bits of his salad. It’s always odd to be around when another couple is fighting, but it’s even weirder when one of the parties is his ex-wife and the other his best friend. He feels the strange urge to insert himself on behalf of both parties— Astoria, be kinder to Theo. Theo, be more patient with Astoria.
The table shakes a little bit as Theo stands, pushing his chair back and fisting the ends of his hair, tugging. He looks completely worn out, darkening circles over his eyes and a surprising amount of facial hair darkening his cheeks and chin. His friend has always been clean shaven. Always.
“I’m going to the loo,” Theo announces, forcefully pushing in his chair.
Draco raises his head and gives his friend a nod, peeking back at Astoria who’s stabbing a piece of chicken with her fork. She doesn’t acknowledge her husband, just sits and stares down at the table. As Theo walks away, Draco catches the pleading look being thrown at him, plainly saying: please help me with her.
He really doesn’t want to. He has his own problems and his own stupidity to contend with. As his relationship with Hermione has gotten more serious, he’s felt increasingly more exasperated with the odd responsibility he feels for a woman he’s been divorced from for 20 years, especially considering she’s now remarried.
“Don’t,” Astoria mutters. “Don’t even.”
“Didn’t say anything.”
She narrows her eyes at him, leaning back in her chair and resting her palms on her belly. “You were going to.”
“I wasn’t,” he huffs, a disbelieving laugh slipping through.
Shaking his head, he looks down at his Apple watch and considers just getting up and leaving. He doesn’t have to deal with this shit from anyone, even Astoria— she’s Theo’s problem now and if he can’t find a way to deal with her, then maybe that’s a problem for the two of them to consider.
He would never say it — he’s not a complete and total fucking knob — but he’s pretty certain that some of Astoria’s attitude is because of her pregnancy. He understands, as best as he can, that it’s an uncomfortable, unrelenting and scary thing to embark on and at her age, though not old by any means that he would consider, she is at an increased risk and clearly carrying that stress.
“Look, I should probably head back to the hospital. I’m glad that everything checked out fine—”
“You were right,” Astoria interrupts softly.
Draco frowns. “Well…yes, most of the time. But— about what? Specifically.”
“You’re such a git.” She sighs and shoots him an annoyed look, brows creased. “I do feel guilty— sometimes.”
He has to make a concerted effort not to drop his head into the cradle of his hands. He knew it. He knew she was feeling guilty about something— some weird culpability about something he’s not even aware of, something she’s probably built up in her own head and convinced herself is also his truth.
“You shouldn’t,” he tells her, shaking his head and clasping his hands. “There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about.”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “But, whatever the reason…Tori, we’ve been divorced for 20 years. The time for guilt is long past— maybe at the beginning, when you took my Grandfather’s crystal decanter—”
Her groan makes his lips twitch upwards. “For the last time, I didn’t take that ridiculous, godawful decanter!”
He knows she didn’t. He’d thrown it out and blamed it on her during the divorce when his parents asked, but her reaction always makes him laugh.
A very uncouth snort spills from him, a smile stretching his mouth. He covers it with his hand, not because he feels bad for laughing, but because he’s recently noticed the deepening groove of his laugh lines. He’s become the slightest bit self-conscious — not that he’d ever admit it — but Hermione’s constantly digging her fingers into the lines with a soft smile on her face and, he supposes, that makes him feel a bit better.
But Astoria laughs too, rolling her eyes at him. She sighs loudly and looks up at the ceiling, chewing on her bottom lip. She shakes her head wistfully. “You know, I thought about it for years. I thought about just asking you and seeing if…if maybe we should have a kid together.”
Draco’s brows crease and his laughter stops. He stares at her incredulously because this is… out of nowhere. They hadn’t exactly been trying to have a child while they were married, but they weren’t not trying either. Still, he’d never once considered approaching her after their divorce.
“When we were both single, before you married Pansy, obviously,” she clarifies, sniffling. “I just always thought that we’d have such a beautiful child together.” His nose twitches; neither of his ex-wives have ever been one to downplay their looks. “Don’t you think? They’d look like a perfect little doll. I don’t know…even back then when we were married and unhappy with each other, I thought you’d be the most incredible father. And then after we divorced, I thought about it constantly. Obviously I waited too long because you remarried and then I thought you and Pansy would have children.”
She presses her fingers against her temples and Draco laughs a little bit at the irony.
“Are you laughing at me?” She questions, eyes wide and teary.
His own eyes widen and he quickly shakes his head. “What? No. No, I was just laughing at the irony of it all.”
“Irony?”
“Yes. Irony.” Draco shrugs his shoulders and huffs— he didn’t intend to bring this up to today. “The kids issue is mostly why we divorced,” he admits. “Mostly.”
Astoria goes silent, staring at him as if in shock. He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze and tries to think of something else to say, of a way to get off this topic. He’d planned to talk about it with her, but…not here, not now.
“But, I thought…”
“So did I,” he says frankly. “But it doesn’t matter. Regardless of all of that, me not being a father isn’t your burden to carry. It wasn’t an expectation or a failure on your part— we weren’t even trying. If I remember correctly we were just…being married and slowly coming to the realization that we weren’t the match we thought we were.”
Astoria shrugs her shoulders but he knows he’s right. They were all of 21 at the time and not concerned in the slightest about ticking biological clocks— he certainly wasn’t concerned about anything but medical school. It’s easy to look back now and wish things had been different, or build it up into something that was never really an option.
Her eyes are watery. “But…we could have a 20-year-old right now. A 20-year-old! A fully grown, fleshed out adult child. I…I could have given that to you.”
His stomach wobbles at the thought and he looks down at his clenched fists.
He’s never really thought of it like that before. Sure, he’s wondered what his life would be like if they’d gotten pregnant while they were married— maybe they never would have divorced, maybe they would have had more than one child, but maybe he’d be miserable. Maybe he’d be searching for a way out, or maybe they’d have divorced later and dragged their children through a difficult situation.
It’s why he knows, deep down and in the logical part of his brain, that it doesn’t do anyone any good to consider what ifs.
When he looks back up at her, she’s wiping her eyes, a trail of tears leaking down her cheeks. He closes his own and sucks in a deep breath, doing his best to compose himself. There’s only so much he can do in the face of a crying woman.
“Astoria— it doesn’t matter and it doesn’t help to think about.” He reaches out and grasps her hand over the table, squeezing it. “In three months you’ll have a newborn. Not an imaginary, what-if child with me, but a real child— yours and Theo’s. Focus on that— focus on the reality of it all or you’re going to blink and miss it.”
“But you should be a father— I don’t even know if I want to be a mother!” Her shoulders shake as she cries, becoming more and more inconsolable. Draco briefly glances around the restaurant, making sure that no one is staring at them, thinking he’s making a heavily pregnant woman cry. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Draco. I’m not like you—”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Tori. You’ve got to stop feeling sorry for me! I’m a grown man and— guess what?”
“What?” She asks, wiping her nose with the side of her hand.
“My girlfriend is only 22-years-old. I have 20 more years than you do to have children.”
His comment does what he intended— she splutters a laugh, mixed with a bit of snot and still-falling tears, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. He also gets a full eye roll, the kind that would make him reach out and pinch Hermione’s earlobe if it was her.
Astoria takes her napkin and blots her cheeks and wipes her nose, sniffling loudly.
“Are you saying you’ve talked about having kids with Hermione?” She asks, face brightening a touch.
“A little,” he shrugs. “But I’m just fine with how things are right now. I’m happy, Tori, because somehow, miraculously, I’ve been given a third chance at this and it finally feels right.” He hopes the tenor of his voice portrays his true feelings. “This is the way I’ve always thought it should feel but was always missing, and how you told me it felt with Theo. Don’t forget, Tori— you’ve been given another chance, too. You married a man who would give you the moon and the stars if you asked, and we both know that he will make an incredible father.
“You’ve got to stop feeling sorry for me, I’m not on the verge of falling to pieces. I promise you,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m happy— deliriously so. Now, show me the ultrasound so I can see my niece or nephew and then get the hell out of here.”
He watches as Tori sucks in a deep breath, pushing it out through her nose, before reaching into her purse sitting on a spare chair. She searches for a few minutes before pulling out a soft white envelope and plucking a line of photographs from inside.
Before she hands it over, she holds it tight to her chest and looks at him with narrowed eyes, still red and a bit swollen from her cry. “Wait— you won’t be able to tell what the sex is, right?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “My experience with reading ultrasounds is limited to injuries.”
Astoria rolls her eyes but hands over the ultrasound and he holds it out, far enough that he can see it without his glasses, which he left on his desk at the hospital. It’s a grainy image, the way an ultrasound usually looks no matter what he’s looking for, but the closer he looks, squinting his aging eyes, a smile slowly grows on his lips.
There, in the first photo, is the shape of a head and the silhouette of a face— a small, button nose and the outline of lips, a fist held up near its chin. There’s three images in total, all of different body parts, little arms and legs, a plump little belly, before his favourite photo— the bottom of a little foot.
He rubs his thumb over the image and looks up at Tori, not ashamed in the slightest to admit there are tears in his eyes. There’s a watery smile on her face, too.
“Look at that,” he breathes, blown away by the emotions he feels. “Tori— Astoria. Look at that.”
Her lip quivers and she nods. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”
Laying the ultrasound photos back down, he rests his elbows on the table and folds his hands, creating a resting spot for the point of his chin. His breath shudders in his chest and he couldn’t bite back the grin taking over his face even if he tried.
It’s proof— more proof of what he already knows. He’s seen Astoria with her bump, he’s felt her belly when the baby kicks, but this, seeing the little thing that’s growing so fast and making their mother all kinds of crazy, is something else entirely.
“Let me be their Uncle, Tori. Stop trying to make me their Dad.”
She stares at him, visibly chewing the inside of her cheek, before finally nodding her head. Her eyes flick down to the table before she nods again. “You’re right. You’re right, Draco.”
“Good,” he mutters, sitting back and patting the table. “No more tears. Try and enjoy this time— with your husband—” he nods his head at the brunette walking back over to the table “—who loves you.”
“I love him, too. So much,” she admits, letting her face fall into her hands. She groans, “Fuck. I’ve been such a cunt.”
Draco snorts, watching Theo as he saunters back to the table, hair pushed back off his forehead like he’s been running his fingers through it. “He’ll forgive you.” He pushes back from the table and stands, quickly checking the time on his watch and patting his pocket for his phone. “I’ve got to run back to the hospital. No more fighting.”
He feels a bit like a referee, like he’s just blown the final whistle during a match— the game ending in a tie.
He slips around the table and leans down, pressing a kiss to his ex-wife’s temple before heading off Theo before he reaches his wife. He tugs his oldest friend into a hug and claps him on the back.
“Thanks mate,” Theo mutters in his ear. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Draco hums. “Yeah, alright. Stop letting her feel sorry for me.”
“She does what she wants,” his friend says at the end of a snort. “You know that as well as I do.”
“You can’t possibly be serious,” Hermione mutters, eyes widening as she steps out of the car and stares up at the iconic 19th century building. “I’ve never even dared to go inside before— don’t they have a dress code?”
The block letters of the name of the largest department store in London — in Europe, for that matter — glows brightly even in the daylight over the terracotta facade and Hermione stares up in complete awe and wonder. The pavement bustles with movement all around them but she feels frozen in place.
Harrods has always been a marvel to her. It’s always screamed a level of wealth that she simply doesn’t possess, with an air of aristocracy that she certainly doesn’t come from. Mostly, she’s always been too nervous to go for fear of being sneered at or shamed, so she’s avoided it like the plague since she moved to London. The whole thing is really rather silly but she’s been unable to shake the feeling that she simply doesn’t belong there.
Luckily, Draco’s palm is warm and comforting against her back and he ushers her over the pavement and to the nearest set of doors before she has the chance to overthink it. She self-consciously flattens her hands over her fearfully plain outfit, nothing like what she imagines regular Harrods shoppers to wear.
No sky-high stilettos or sleek pencil skirts, no designer clothing anywhere on her person or even a hint of something considered fashion-forward— just her usual pair of dark leggings and a purposefully loose, baggy sweater that she thinks is both comfortable and flattering, along with her well-used black bum-bag strapped across her chest.
Truly, it’s hardly appropriate for Harrods of all places.
“No dress code anymore,” her boyfriend mutters, steering her inside. Of course, he’s as unself-conscious as they come in his dark chinos and light blue button-down. “And I’m very serious— everyone will be dressed to the nines, including you.”
She winces at the expectation but doesn’t voice her anxiety. She’s been worrying more and more about the Malfoy’s annual charity lunch despite Draco reassuring her he’ll take care of it. When he said he’d take her shopping, she thought maybe down to the high street to pick up a knee-length dress, something appropriate with sleeves and a muted colour, perhaps.
But Harrods means…well, she’s not entirely certain what it means except that it’ll cost an arm and a leg— two appendages she’d certainly like to keep. She’s not daft, she knows Draco will insist on paying for whatever it is they’re there to buy — and she won’t put up a fight about it because, in truth, she kind of likes it — but she can’t even begin to imagine the cost of a dress, let alone a pair of shoes or a small clutch to match.
Hermione stares open-mouthed as they move through the infamous department store, her eyes catching on every exquisite detail, no matter how small or seemingly unimportant it is. She does her best to take it all in even as Draco moves swiftly and purposefully around both people and retailers, leading them both in a direction he seems familiar with.
“Come along,” he mutters, wrapping his arm behind her lower back and tugging her into his side the more crowded it gets. “We’ve an appointment in three minutes and it’ll take at least five to walk over there.”
“Appointment?” She questions, head turning this way and that as she tries to take it all in. “Can we see the Egypt escalators?”
Draco hums. “Personal shopping appointment, and yes, baby, of course we can— just after.”
She feels like a stubborn horse, digging her heels into the floor and tugging herself back from her boyfriend who continues on for a few steps before realizing that she’s stopped. He frowns and looks at her quizzically.
“Why on earth do we have a personal shopping appointment?”
Staring at her, she gets the feeling that he’s trying his best to read her and determine the right thing to say, but she does her best to stay closed off, at least for the moment. She stands and waits expectantly, not moving forward or backward. Around them, the crowd shuffles along, hardly paying them any attention.
“To pick out a gown for you. Hermione, we talked about this—”
“Wait, wait, wait—” she holds up a hand, shaking her head as her breath quickens and an uncomfortable laugh comes from her throat “—we talked about a dress, not a gown. A gown? What, like…like royalty? Like a ball gown?”
His brows bounce up and down, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. “Well…Princess Anne did attend a year or two ago, but—”
“Nope!” Hermione shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, bordering on crazy-laughter spilling from her lips. “No. No. You can’t be serious— I can’t meet royalty!”
Draco steps forward and cups his palms over her cheeks, tilting her head so she’s staring up at him. He rubs gently over her skin, the pads of his thumbs surprisingly soft and infinitely gentle. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her temple, shushing her quietly.
She didn’t mean to spiral like this— it’s all just so overwhelming.
He looks at her imploringly. “Hermione, breath, baby. It’ll all be fine, I promise— I’m right here with you. I told you the event is formal—”
“Formal, yes— but not royalty,” she hisses.
He sighs, breath brushing against the baby hairs lining her forehead. “There’s no royalty— despite what my parents may want people to think.”
Her eyes widen, her entire body freezing. “What? Are you…are you royalty?”
“No. God, no,” he scoffs, forcing out a harsh breath. “Alright…how do I explain this? My mother will wear white gloves, the kind that stretch up to her elbows, but no one else will. It’s a status thing. The men will all be in tuxes, including me. Last year they raised over 42 million pounds.” He stops, as though he’s finished, before continuing.
“Sweetheart, my family is wealthy. Very wealthy, and my parents look for any excuse to shove their wealth down the throats of anyone they deem lesser or potentially at the same level as them. Theo said I was prick in school but is it really any wonder when you’re constantly being told that not only are you better than everyone else, but you’re wealthier?” He laughs. “I should have explained better, but when I said formal, I meant diamonds-and-gowns-and-spending-a-million-pounds-on-the-charity-my-mother-has-chosen-just-to-be-assured-of-an-invite formal.”
Hermione shakes her head, disbelieving, and lets out a slow breath. She knew they had money, obviously, from his lifestyle and the fact that he grew up on an estate. But an estate could mean any number of things. She’d grown up on the upper end of the middle class herself in a perfectly nice, wonderfully spacious home, but the wealth he’s describing…
It’s unfathomable.
“I knew you grew up on an estate but, to be honest, I just assumed that…well, you were like all those other stuffy old families who can’t give up their ancestral home or whatever, but also can’t afford the upkeep. You know, who end up only being able to live in, like, a corner of their massive house because it’s the only area they can afford to heat and the rest is rotting. The kind who—”
He stops her with a gentle laugh and a kiss to her lips. “A reasonable assumption, Hermione. I know many like that— many of my school friends lived in homes like that, but no. We very much own and run the entire estate, and employ a house full of staff, too. You’ll see it on Saturday.”
Hermione feels a little dizzy with the information and shakes her head as if to get the knowledge straight of what she’ll be walking into in a few days time. Draco must see her reaction because he scoops her into his arms and hugs her tight to his chest, right there in the middle of Harrods as if they’re not blocking the middle of the thoroughfare.
She should be embarrassed for her little freak-out but instead she nuzzles her cheek and the tip of her nose into his warm chest and wraps her arms around his back, closing her eyes and focusing on the rise and fall of his chest. It takes hardly a second for his fingers to find their way into her hair, scratching down the back of her head and her neck in a way that makes her want to fall asleep.
He’s so patient with her.
“So,” she swallows, wetting her lips, “can you just tell me what we’re doing here? Just so I know.” She tilts her head up, chin resting on his sternum. “No more surprises, please.”
Unless she’s in bed and relaxed and naked and wrapped around her boyfriend without a thought or care in the world, surprises do not always bode well for someone with easily-spiked anxiety like her. And while she knew they were going dress shopping, this is clearly, obviously, not just simple dress shopping.
This is…fitting-in shopping. This is finding something that makes her look like she belongs in the Malfoy’s world of wealth and not only does that feel like an impossible feat from where she’s standing in her leggings and her sweater and bum-bag and sneakers, it’s only compounded with the knowledge that both of his ex-wives will be there, impeccably dressed and already familiar with the crowd.
“We’re going to go in and meet with Fleur and she’s going to pull some gowns for you to try on. That’s it— maybe we’ll have a glass of champagne, too.” He trails his fingers down over her hair and she breathes in his scent, all male and slightly musky, like oud, as his voice rumbles through his chest. “Alright, baby? Fleur’s very sweet— she works with Tori, too, and I’ll be there with you the entire time. Can you be a good girl for me?”
Hermione easily agrees when she hears the sweet and sensual tone of his voice— the tone he uses when he has her on her back, naked, with his thumb dipping between her thighs to tease at her core. She can do anything as long as he continues talking to her like that.
“I’ll be good,” she says softly.
It tingles in her brain that she’s verging on using her baby voice, the one that slips out when she’s mindless and looking to lean on him to make all of her decisions. So she pushes back from his chest and sucks in a breath of clean air that isn’t tinged with her boyfriend’s addictive scent. She wants his input, of course, but for this…she wants to make the final decision on what she wears.
It’s clear to her now that this isn’t just a charity lunch, no matter how much Draco has tried to downplay it. No, this is an opportunity to impress his parents and prove to them that she’s there for the right reasons.
Fleur has always reminded him of a little French pixie. Her features are so delicate, as though she was created while following the ideal facial proportions. Her eyes are a deep blue and her hair just as blond as his own, but with a more silver undertone instead of his gold. She’s objectively beautiful and she knows it, he can tell by the way she carries herself and interacts with those around her, as though there isn’t a single reason for her to be self-conscious.
And, likely, there isn’t.
On top of it all, her French is simply lovely— a hallmark of being born and raised in France.
Tori met her in the early days of their marriage when the two women were both making their way in the fashion world and Fleur is still the only person she trusts to help her put together her wardrobe. He readily admits that she does have impeccable taste which is why he chose to bring Hermione. He knows if Astoria had gotten her way, she would have brought her here, too.
His girlfriend and his ex-wife are quite different, not just in personality, but in shape and skin tone, and Fleur’s eye for colours and tailoring is far better than his own, unless it comes to a tuxedo or bespoke suit. Dresses and gowns are far out of his purview.
“Draco,” she greets, rolling the rhotic R in his name. “Vous êtes en retard.”
“C’est de ma faute,” he mumbles, leaning in to kiss her cheeks. “You look wonderful.”
He feels Hermione’s hand on his bicep before she speaks. “C’est pas vrai— c’est de ma faute. Je suis vraiment désolée.”
He looks at her with raised brows, surprised. “You speak French.” Why did he not know this?
“So do you,” she says, nose wrinkling. She clears her throat uncomfortably and says quietly, “My parents and I spent many summers in Nice.” Hermione turns her attention back to Fleur who looks at her with a small smirk on her lips. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Hermione.”
Fleur keeps her arms tucked under her bust and gives her a once-over but must quickly realize that she can’t see her shape under the clothes she’s wearing. Without a single word, she steps forward and tugs on the hem of Hermione’s sweater, dragging it up to her waist to get a look at her figure.
Draco follows her eyeline— over his girlfriend’s slim neck, the handfuls of her breasts that he knows are there but are hidden beneath her sweater, the cinch of her waist and flare of her hips now visible to the room. Fleur twists her and hums appreciatively at the sight of her plump backside.
God, she’s gorgeous.
“Tu es très belle.” Fleur confirms what he already knew to be true. “Astoria was right— you have beautiful curves to play with. Unlike her, she’s very…rectangle— straight.” She runs her hands up and down in a straight line to make her point. “Lovely,” she murmurs, then says directly to him: “Elle est trop jolie pour toi.”
Draco shrugs his shoulders in agreement. He is familiar with the feeling that he is unworthy of her youth and beauty. “You’re right.”
“Oh,” Hermione mumbles, her cheeks flushing. “That’s very kind. Merci.”
Fleur nods and takes a step back, clasping her hands together. “Floor length?”
“Yes,” Draco indicates. “No black or white. No gloves. The rest I'll leave up to her.”
“Bien. Juste une minute.”
Hermione lets out a shaky breath, watching as the tall French woman leaves the room. It’s quite large, with a pedestal in front of three mirrors, a set of two couches, a coffee table and a curtained off area in the back. There’s a bottle of Krug chilling on the table and he pulls it from the ice bucket to pour them each a glass as Hermione flops down on one of the couches.
“So…that was Fleur.”
“That was Fleur,” he agrees. “Astoria has known her for many, many years. She still dresses her.”
“Well, she’s bloody gorgeous,” she laughs, tucking a curl behind her ear and accepting the glass fizzing with champagne that he holds out to her. “Like…just flawless.”
He hums in agreement— she is gorgeous and he’d be a damn fool to try to deny it, but he only has eyes for his girlfriend and he makes sure she knows it. “She is, but she has nothing on you. I can’t wait to see you in the dresses.”
Draco enjoys the way she blushes so prettily for him, her cheeks glowing a bright magenta at the compliment. She taps her fingers idly on her champagne glass, looking up at him.
“It’s not boring for you?” She asks. “I mean…you don’t have to stay. I’ll be alright with Fleur.”
He laughs loudly, startling her. “Are you joking, baby?” Placing his glass down on the coffee table he reaches forward and takes her hands in his. “I can’t wait to see you in these dresses— it’s like you’re putting on a little fashion show for me, hm? You know I love dressing you and this is just amplified. In fact,” he says, pulling her hand up to press a kiss to her knuckles, “I feel like I might enjoy this more than you.”
And he does. When Fleur returns it’s with a long rack of at least 10 different dresses, all different colours and in different styles, but all floor length and very pleasing to the eye. He stands and drags his fingers over the material as Fleur and Hermione talk, immediately tugging on the dark green dress.
It would be perfect— but, maybe a little too on-the-nose.
Still, he’d love nothing more than to see her dressed in his family’s colour, his Grandmother’s diamond and platinum snake choker with the ruby-red eyes around her little throat. Yes…he can see it so clearly…pressing her against the wall of his bedroom…pushing her gown up to her hips…having his way with her in his family’s antique jewels…
“Ah,” Fleur says sharply, slapping his hand away from the dress. “I believe you said it’s her choice.”
Draco puts his hands up and retreats back to the couch. “Of course it is— just looking.”
He sits back and sips on his champagne as Hermione does her own shy perusal of the rack. She keeps her face carefully blank and gives uncertain answers to all of the questions Fleur asks: Do you like the colours? How much cleavage do you want to show? Long sleeve or short sleeve? Do you want it tight or loose?
She seems nervous or, at the very least, uncomfortable, which is confirmed when she says: “I, um, I noticed there aren’t any…prices—”
Draco frowns. He thought it was clear, obvious, that he would be paying for the gown. She’s never shown that she’s uncomfortable with accepting his money or his gifts before, but perhaps he hasn't been paying close enough attention.
“Oh, darling girl,” Fleur says with an amused smile. She grasps his girlfriend’s shoulders and looks her right in the eye. “You have a very wealthy man sitting on the sofa who is going to pay for whatever you pick without question.”
She flushes a deeper red this time. “I-I know. I just…I don’t want it to be too expensive—”
“Sweetheart—”
He’s cut off by Fleur waving her manicured fingers at him. “If he had a price in mind, he would have told me. But, instead, he said— anything she wants.”
Hermione looks to him for confirmation and he nods his head with a gentle smile. “Anything you want, baby. You let me worry about the rest. Alright?”
It’s a little smoother after that. She points out the gowns she likes, a small smile on her lips, and Fleur brings them over to the curtained-off area in the back, hanging them out of his sight. She seems more in her element now, not so shy and uncomfortable but taking the time to look at each dress and tell Fleur what she likes or doesn’t like.
When she’s chosen and shuffled her way over to him to give him a gentle kiss on the lips before being hidden away behind the curtain, his brows crease when he sees that the green dress is still on the rack. Perhaps he can get her to simply try it on…or, maybe he’ll just buy it anyway for his own personal fantasies.
There’s a lot of giggling behind the curtain and he tops his glass of champagne as he waits and waits and waits, until he hears a small thumping noise.
“Everything alright in there?” He asks.
“Uh, yes! Fine—”
Fleur cuts her off. “She is bustier than I thought.” The curtain rustles before it’s pulled open. “Too much cleavage?”
His mouth twitches as he gets a look at his girlfriend in a pale blue strapless dress, her breasts overflowing. His brows rise higher than he thought possible because— well, he’s never seen her looking quite like that before. Her breasts are perfect, of course, but they’re just slightly more than a palmful. The dress makes her look like she’s certainly more well-endowed than she is.
“Err—”
Hermione shakes her head in disbelief. “I…I don’t even know where it’s come from!”
Fleur laughs. “It’s the structure of the dress, made for those of us—” she points to herself “—who haven’t been blessed in that department.” She turns to Hermione, who’s hardly left the curtained off area but is staring down at the seemingly unlimited cleavage she now has. “Back inside— this dress is not for you.”
He taps his finger against his glass in thought. He could buy three dresses— the dress she chooses, the green one and this one. “Perhaps—”
“Non,” Fleur says with finality. She looks at him with knowing eyes. “A bra would be cheaper.”
And she’s…not wrong. His thumbs tap away on his phone as he navigates the La Perla website.
She tries on two more dresses that are pretty, but just don’t seem like her. He stays quiet unless asked for his opinion, truly wanting her to find a dress that she loves. It’ll be a stressful enough day without stuffing her into a dress that makes her feel uncomfortable when he already knows that his mother will endeavour to make them both uncomfortable all on her own.
Of course, she looks gorgeous in them all, but it’s not until she steps out of the curtained off area in a royal purple dress that he shifts on the couch and leans forward, watching her closely as she moves to stand on the pedestal. He takes note of the bright smile on her lips and he knows that this is the one.
“So,” Fleur says, straightening the back of the dress, “what do we think?”
Hermione catches his eye in the mirror and he grins at her, watching as she smoothes her palms over the material that lays close against her thighs. “Draco?”
“You look absolutely beautiful, Hermione. Just…gorgeous. Perfect.”
Despite being form fitting, it’s actually rather conservative. Her shoulders are bare and there’s a v-split between her breasts, but the rest of her, including her arms, are covered by a lovely royal purple. The dress billows slightly around her knees, but otherwise shows off the dip of her waist and flare of her hips, even the thickness of her thighs.
He desperately wants to stand and touch her, to drag his own fingers along the shape of her body.
“I was going to try to get you into the green…” he mutters, eyes unable to stop roving her figure.
Hermione wrinkles her nose, turning to look at him. “Green? How ghastly.”
“It’s not ghastly, it’s one of the Malfoy colours,” he scoffs. “Green and silver.”
She wrinkles her nose again in obvious distaste and twists her hips, flouncing the material around her ankles back and forth. Draco watches as she rubs her fingers over the material and admires the colour— the purple compliments the darker tone of her skin.
“You look radiant— like royalty,” he tells her, a little smirk playing on his lips. If it was his choice, he’d pick this dress, but it’s hers. “Do you like it?”
Hermione’s smile grows and she nods, chin bouncing. “I really do. The colour is amazing and I just feel…I feel good in this dress, like it’s me.” She gestures to Fleur who’s standing just off to the side, a small smile on her own face as she surveys his girlfriend. “Fleur was saying that silver shoes would go well with it. Something strappy?”
Draco stands and moves closer, taking slow steps around her so he can look at her from all angles. “Whatever you want. I have some jewelry for you that will match.”
Not the snake choker, though he will get it wrapped around her throat one day, but he thinks of the small teardrop diamond necklace that has been in his family for decades that will fit nicely in the hollow of her throat. There’s a pair of matching earrings, too. He’ll just have to make sure that his mother has no intention of wearing them herself— unlikely, as she tends to wear the innumerable pieces his father has gifted her over the years.
Fleur catches his eye as he moves to stand behind Hermione, his hands landing on either side of her hips. She raises a brow at him, questioning, and he gestures his chin to the door, mouthing: “Give me 10?”
He clears his throat and this time asks her, out loud,“Do you have shoes in mind? Maybe a bag, too?”
Hermione’s face lights up and she turns slightly to face the French woman. “Oh, a wristlet? Something small.”
Fleur smiles knowingly. “Give me some time to gather a few pieces.”
She closes the door behind her with a small click and Draco knows they’ll be left alone for a little while. He doesn’t particularly care what Fleur thinks he needs the room for, mostly because he’s paying her enough money not to ask questions or give him a hard time. She may gossip with Astoria but that hardly makes a difference to him.
Tightening his grip on Hermione’s hips, he lifts her from the pedestal until she’s down on the ground, level with him. He wraps his arms around her waist, tugging her tight against his chest, and presses his lips to the side of her head, over her curls.
“Are you happy?” He asks her, moving side-to-side with her.
She tilts her head back against his chest and shoulder, enough that he can see the wide grin on her lips. “I am. It’s a little scary but…the dress is beautiful. I feel beautiful, I just hope your parents—”
“Forget about them,” he mumbles, nose nudging her temple. He inhales her scent, palm flat against her belly, the other creeping up to brush along the underside of her breasts. “I don’t care what they think. You’ll be the most beautiful woman there.” He sighs roughly, eyes closing. “I can’t wait to see you there, in my family home.”
Her breath hitches as his thumb brushes up and over her nipple, still covered by the dress. He rocks his hips against her backside, already growing hard in his trousers, even though he has no intention of taking care of himself.
There’s just something about seeing her dress up and parade around in front of him, all the flashes of skin, all the ways the dresses have shown off her figure. He loves looking at her, but more than that he loves touching her— something he’s been holding off on with Fleur in the room. But now that she’s gone, there’s nothing holding him back.
“One day it’ll be mine, you know,” he says, flicking over her nipple, over and over again. He can feel the way her belly tenses beneath his palm and he grins. “The whole estate. And lately…lately I can’t stop thinking of you being the lady of the manor.”
A strangled sound comes from her throat. “What? Draco—”
“No, no. Just listen,” he says, “It just…it makes me feel possessive.”
“You’re already possessive,” she mumbles, arching her chest further into his hand.
Draco hums. “I am. You’ll see, though, on the weekend. I’ll show you.”
He walks them backwards until the couch is just behind his calves. They don’t have a ton of time before Fleur comes back and he intends on making the most of it, here, in this room.
“Bend over,” he says quietly in her ear, turning them so she’s facing the couch. “Hands on the back there.”
She turns back, eyes wide and a little glassy. Her lips are parted, breath coming heavy in her chest as she searches his face. “But…my dress…”
Bending his head down, he presses his lips to hers, their noses brushing, his fingers gripping the side of her face and sliding into her hair. When he pulls back, her eyes are still closed and her tongue flicks out to wet her lips.
“It’ll be sent for dry cleaning once we leave here,” he tells her softly. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl for me— turn around and bend over.” He brushes his nose against hers again. “I’m dying to taste you.”
Even with his old ears he doesn’t have to strain to hear the way a soft, almost strangled, “Yes, Daddy,” slips through her lips, and he knows he’s got her. She turns slowly and he grips her hips again, tugging her dress up above her knees so when she kneels down on the couch cushions it’s not caught beneath her.
She rests her forearms on the back of the couch, turning to look back at him as his fingers trails up her calves and her thighs, pulling the dress up as he goes. Finally, he pulls it up over her backside and groans at the sight that greets him. She’s wearing the tiniest little knickers, ones he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. He slips his index finger under the string at the back and plucks it against her skin.
“Oh, baby. Where on earth did you get these from? Hm?” Draco leans down and presses a kiss against her arse cheek, trailing the tip of his nose upward until he’s reached the small of her back. “Baby wants to be a grownup?”
Hermione giggles at his words. “It’s so there’s no lines under the dress.”
“It’s bold of you to assume you’ll wear any knickers that day,” he says, pulling aside the gusset of her knickers. “God, baby— you have the most beautiful little pussy.”
He wastes no time, letting his knee rest between her spread legs and lowering his lips to her cunt. He laves the length of her seam with his tongue, over the plump lips of her pussy from where her clit is hidden to her entrance. She groans at the feeling, her head falling forward onto her forearms.
Steadying himself with one hand, he uses the other to spread her pussy with his fingers, giving him a clear view of her sensitive pink flesh, her little clit already swollen under his tongue when he licks at it languorously. Her thighs tense and her bum clenches as he licks her, spearing his tongue to give her more pressure against her clit.
“Good girl,” he mutters against her, lips fixing around her clit and sucking. “Feel good, baby?”
She pushes back against his face. “Uhuh.”
Draco slips his thumb inside of her, feeling her wet warmth. He knows very well how her internal muscles work, particularly squeezing around his cock, but he has no intention of fucking her or leaving it there for her to clench around. Instead, he pulls it from inside of her and rubs the pad of his thumb gently against the small pucker between her clenched cheeks.
She yelps, her back tensing, but he’s expecting it and licks harder against her clit until she relaxes again. They haven’t ventured this far before and he has no intention of pressing his finger inside her, but he couldn’t ignore it any longer, not with the way she’s bent over. Besides, it’s not a no for her, just a slow, please.
“I won’t go inside,” he says softly, rubbing over the little hole. “Just relax, baby. Do you want to come for Daddy?”
Hermione pants loudly and nods her head. “Yes, please,” she whines, arching her back. “Please can I come?”
He flicks his tongue against her clit, swollen and hard under his tongue, and continues rubbing his thumb in small circles against her little hole, getting her closer and closer to the edge. Her thighs shake underneath him with the effort it takes to hold herself up and he doesn’t keep her on the edge any longer.
“Yes, baby, come for me. Come for Daddy.”
He’s both surprised and impressed that she muffles her cries into the back of the couch, her muscles clenching and tightening under the continued assault of his tongue. She’s not usually quiet and he doesn’t normally ask her to be, loving the sound of her coming undone under his fingers, tongue and cock.
Finally pulling back, he rests his cheek against her arse, rubbing his palm over her flank as she comes down from her orgasm. His cock is hard in his trousers, pressing against the zipper uncomfortably, but he knows they don’t have enough time.
“Lean against me,” he mutters, standing and circling his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. She’s still breathing heavily, her eyes closed and body trembling “Oh, baby. That was a big one. You did such a good job for me, made Daddy very happy.”
Hermione hums, gingerly turning until she’s resting her cheek against his chest. “I think I made Daddy very hard, too,” she says, huffing a laugh.
Draco smooths his hands down her back, pushing the dress over her bum and down her legs, taking the opportunity to push her body against his erection. He’s just torturing himself at this point, teasing himself with something he can’t have quite yet, but he can’t help it. He can’t keep himself away from her.
As her breath slows, she nuzzles her nose against him. “Was this your plan all along? Soothe me with an orgasm?”
“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You’re just so goddamn gorgeous, baby. I can’t keep my hands off of you— especially dressed in this. We may not make it the whole lunch.”
She pushes away from him and slaps her hand down against his arm. “Funny! There’s no way I’m messing this up next weekend, so you better get it all out of your system now.”
Draco taps his finger against her nose. “I think you better get it out of my system.”
“Your hand is as good as mine.”
She sidesteps him before he can pinch her playfully, smoothing the dress back over her belly and hips and walking over to the pedestal. “Cheeky little girl,” he says, tutting under his breath. “Just wait until we get home.”
Hermione winks at him in the mirror, fixing the top of her dress. “Can’t wait— but first, I still want to see the Egypt escalators.”
A soft knock sounds at the door and he knows Fleur is back. Before he walks over to open it for her — grateful that she did, in fact, knock — he steps forward to press a kiss to the back of Hermione’s bare shoulder.
“Anything you want, baby. Anything at all.”
Notes:
C’est de ma faute. - It's my fault.
C’est pas vrai— c’est de ma faute. Je suis vraiment désolée. - That's not true— it's my fault. I'm very sorry
Tu es très belle. - You are very beautiful
Elle est trop jolie pour toi. - She's too pretty for you.
Bien. Juste une minute. - Good. Just a minute.
thanks so much for reading!! hope you all enjoy xx
there is a deleted scene that takes place between chapter 32 and chapter 33, here.
find me elsewhere.
Chapter 33: Attitude Adjustment
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The car that picks them up — a hired car, not a rideshare but one with a driver who Draco already seems familiar with, glass bottles of water tucked into the seat pockets — is even nicer than Draco’s car. If someone were to ask what Draco drives, she’d say something fancy with its dark leather and the too-big screen on the dashboard— she knows almost nothing about cars. But this one is…something else.
“It’s the model up from mine,” Draco says quietly, fingers fiddling with his cufflinks as he catches her eyeing the interior.
She hums and turns to look at him, eyes drawn to his fingers, roving over his neat, clean nails and the sparse dark golden hair on his hands. She loves looking at his hands and playing with his fingers, but they look extra distinguished today. Maybe it’s the thick platinum watch he wears on his left wrist or the Hermès cufflinks at his wrists, or, maybe it’s the appearance of a thick platinum signet ring that sits on his pinky with a stamped M insignia.
Without really thinking about it, she reaches out to grab his hand, holding it in her lap. Her thumb brushes over the flat circle that sits atop his pinky, feeling the engraved M that sits inside, and she shifts in her seat.
Oh, Gods.
Yes…it’s definitely the ring.
It’s doing something to her— something that makes her core clench emptily and a shiver run the length of her spine. Erring on the side of caution, she places his hand back in his lap and drags her eyes away, all to avoid soaking a spot through her dress because, as he’d made clear the week earlier, she isn’t wearing any knickers.
“It’s nice,” she mutters, hands smoothing the material of her dress.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through the car, and, out the corner of her eye, she can see him looking at her with a stupid smirk on his face. “You like it?”
Hermione lays a dull slap against his chest and huffs. “I like the car.”
“Oh,” he says quietly, fingers covering the growing smile on his face. “I see, I see. Just the car.”
“Yes,” she mutters. “I mean…it’s probably the nicest car I’ve ever been in.”
“Hm.”
She looks at him curiously as he pulls out his phone, fingers swiping and tapping the screen as he scrolls through a car website. He pauses on a picture of the car they’re sitting inside, clicking through to see the details— the steering wheel, the centre console, the stitching of the dark leather seats.
Her fingers rub nervously against the same stitching, back and forth.
Suddenly, he looks up at her with a grin. “You want a blue one, baby?”
She gapes at him. “You— what?” His eyes glint and she rolls her own. “Oh come on, stop joking.”
“I’m not joking,” he laughs, expression delighted. “You have your licence, don’t you? All you need now is a car.”
It’s like her head is going to explode. If someone were to take a picture of her, she wouldn’t be surprised to see steam rising from the crown of her head, out of her ears, out of her nose, even. It’s one thing to buy her groceries or to give her money for a rideshare, even to buy her a fucking gown that, without him, she’d have no reason to wear. She understands his need to take care of her because it matches her desire to be taken care of.
But a car…he’s insane. It’s the only explanation. He’s completely lost it.
The car shakes underneath them as they drive over something rough and bumpy and she looks out the window to see they’re on a gravel road lined with carefully manicured bushes. Her eyes widen when she sees what can barely be described as a Manor, looking more like a fucking castle.
It’s Palladian in style, the entire thing a sandy-beige colour with a portico at the entrance held up by three giant columns. She’s completely aghast at the thing and can’t fathom growing up in a place like this. Sure, she’s visited the old manors and estates owned by the National Trust for picnics and tours, but living here?
She can’t even imagine.
“Oh my god.” She turns to glance at him wide-eyed. “You grew up here?!”
Draco shrugs his shoulders as if it’s not a big deal. “Yes, ignore it. Go back to thinking about the astronomically expensive car I’m going to buy you against your will.”
She narrows her eyes. “Nice try, but there’s no ignoring that.”
There’s a large centre building and two wings on either side with at least a dozen windows across the whole front of the manor. Pressing her face closer to the car window, she looks up at the roof and audibly gasps when she sees the statues on top. It’s like arriving at a museum, not a home.
It’s lunacy.
Her family has always been upper-middle class, wanting for nothing and living in what she always thought was a too-large home for their small family. She is, without a doubt, spoiled by both her parents and beyond privileged, but thinks she is self-aware enough to be able to recognize that her privilege has made her choices in life easier, not to mention her education a possibility. Her parents urged her to pick something she enjoys and she chose English literature— not something teaming with career-paths, but some options, definitely.
Draco’s life is something else entirely. When he first told her he’d grown up on an estate, in a Manor-house no-less, she thought it was maybe something like Great Chalfield, used for Killewarran House in Poldark. Too big, for sure, but still somehow manageable.
This, though…this isn’t manageable. Not for a family of three.
“It’s not a big deal—”
“It’s a huge deal! Draco— are you crazy?”
She’s probably overreacting but for some reason that’s not absolutely clear to her at the moment. The Manor-house looms beside them, towering over them physically and shadowing all of her thoughts. It’s one thing to know your boyfriend is wealthy and another thing entirely to know that he’s richer than God himself.
“Oh my God. Oh God. Why did I not know this? It’s like…it’s like you grew up in Downton Abbey!”
Draco scoffs. “We are substantially wealthier than the Crawley family, not to mention there’s never any doubt as to an heir— Malfoy’s only ever have boys.”
She’s forced to ignore the heirs comment, cramming it away for later.
“You’re one-upping Downton Abbey? You think that’s going to make me feel better?”
Draco groans, his eyes squeezing shut as he leans over to take both of her hands in his. He tugs until she turns to face him, away from the window and massive estate they’re idling in front of. There’s a small frown on his brow, his lip downturned and producing slight wrinkles around his mouth.
Cute wrinkles.
“Stop— Hermione, stop. Listen to me— yes, I grew up here. I grew up incredibly privileged with a very wealthy family and some of that wealth has been passed on to me. I went to Eton—”
“—Eton?!?! Where the Royal Family goes to school?!?” She tips her head back in a slightly hysterical laugh. “Everything is a surprise with you.”
He ignores her outburst, thumb continuing to rub soothingly along her knuckles.
“—and I went to Oxford. I have had everything handed to me on a silver platter since the day I was born. I mean, baby, I wasn’t even expected to work. Degrees are just something to collect for the people in my parent’s circle, but I wanted to do something with my life. I chose to go to medical school, I chose to move to London and buy a flat, instead of languishing here.”
She laughs— okay, sure, she gets the gist of what he’s saying. He could have chosen to be independently wealthy and spend his days at the country club but instead he went to school, worked hard and became a successful doctor. Cool, great. That’s definitely admirable.
She’s lucky to be able to study what makes her happy, but Draco could have chosen not to study anything at all.
He still had a choice to do this, to decide whether he wanted to work or he wanted to languish. The options were endless. Not once in that whole scenario was it ever one or the other, not once did he have to deal with potentially not having the ability to study absolutely whatever he wanted— or not.
“You could quit tomorrow and it wouldn’t matter— and before you say anything, I recognize I am being unbearably hypocritical,” she huffs. “I just…I don’t know. It’s freaking me out, Draco— all this wealth. I’m sorry; I’m not judging you, I’m just…I just…it’s all a lot more than I expected and—”
His hand squeezes hers. “I know, Hermione. You’re completely right; I know it’s a lot and it’s intimidating, I know I haven’t told you everything about how I grew up but I just didn’t want to come across as some spoiled little prick—”
“Oh my god, Draco— it’s far too late to be concerned about that,” Hermione mumbles, letting out a heavy breath. “Look, let’s just pretend I didn’t freak out— if you keep talking and we don’t leave the car in the next five seconds, I’m going to chicken-out and leave because this—” she waves her hand in the direction of the estate “—is so overwhelming to me. I’m sure this lovely gentleman has no problem turning around and taking me home.”
Hermione leans forward and taps the back of the driver’s seat until they meet eyes in the rearview mirror.
“I guess I just want to say that I recognize I am the very definition of privileged white male, alright? I suppose that’s the gist of what I was trying to say. I do recognize it, I swear.”
Hermione nods, cheeks burning. “Well, I guess that’s…good. That you know. I just didn’t know…” she waves her hand at the car window, “about all of that. But it’s fine, I’m fine. We should go in.” She grumbles under her breath, nerves crawling up her spine, “Get this over with.”
Draco’s lip turns up at her words and he pats her dress-covered thigh with his big palm before moving out of the car. She smooths her hands over her dress and takes in a deep breath, trying to ignore the giant estate just outside. The driver makes eye contact with her in the mirror again and she sighs.
“You wouldn’t have taken me back, would you?”
He shrugs and shakes his head. “Afraid not, Miss. Enjoy the party.”
The door opens at her side and her favourite big meaty paw presents itself for her to grab onto and pull herself out of the car. She steps away from it quickly, not wanting to dirty her dress, and brushes over it with her shaking, sweaty palms. Gods, she’s fucking nervous.
Draco scoops her up around the waist, tugging her into his chest, and leans down to press a brief, gentle kiss to her lips and another softer one to the tip of her nose. He smiles down at her, big and wide with all of his teeth showing and just the sight of him so genuinely happy is enough to make her mirror his expression.
She’s nervous, yes, sweaty palms and all, but she knows he’ll be by her side through the whole thing.
“You look beautiful,” he says, silver eyes glinting sincerely. “Beautiful and cold.” Draco frowns, rubbing her bare shoulders and huffing. “Let’s get you inside.”
The steps to the enormous front door are lined with railings on either side and she grips cold stone in one hand while holding Draco’s in the other. He doesn’t knock, depressing the door handle and pushing it open to a surprisingly modern foyer accented by a marble staircase. It’s huge, more room in the foyer than in her entire flat, and there are people milling about including two men in formal dress holding two platters topped with bubbling champagne glasses.
Her first instinct is to grab one, down it, and quickly grab another, but she manages to wait until Draco passes her a glass and takes a small, very lady-like sip. It’s dry and bubbly on her tongue, fizzing against the roof of her mouth.
“So this is it,” Draco says quietly, gesturing to the room. “Perhaps I should have brought you here before, but…well, I won’t let you get lost.”
He walks her into the hallway, toward where the cacophony of voices is coming from compounded with what sounds like light, orchestral music. She holds tight to his forearm, her steps careful and measured, clicking against the marble floors.
“If I get lost in here, I will cry,” she admits in warning. “Don’t lose me.”
“You’re being awfully forward today.”
She hums, licking her lips. “Well, not only am I in the largest house I’ve ever seen in my life and uncomfortable as hell, I’m potentially going to meet your second ex-wife today, Draco. I think I’m allowed to be as forward as I want.”
What she’s not expecting is for her boyfriend to laugh loudly, startling not only her but the other couple wandering down the hallway. Just as suddenly, he’s taking the champagne glass from her hand and leaving it on a table in the hallway, then pulling her back in the opposite direction.
“Wait— what are you doing? Where are we going?”
Tucking his arm around her waist, he pulls her closer to his side, pressed firmly into his warmth. “Don’t you trust me?”
She huffs. “Right now? Not particularly. Do you have a dungeon here? A torture chamber?”
Draco scoffs but shrugs. “Yes. And yes. But they’re obviously not in use.”
“Obviously,” she mimics. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I know.”
Draco’s childhood bedroom is…quite adult. It’s not really a surprise, she thinks, dragging her finger over one of his bookshelves, coming away with not even a speck of dust. It’s clear that his room is still cleaned regularly and she wouldn’t be surprised if his bedding is changed regularly, too.
It’s mostly grey with deep green accents, like his duvet, a leather chair in the corner and the drapes. She finds it a little depressing that there aren’t any posters on the walls but she does see a few childhood toys stacked in places on the bookshelf— a little wooden horse on a copy of Concise Guide to Medicines and Drugs and a wooden soldier acting as a bookend against Great Expectations.
“My God,” she mutters. “Were you not allowed to read children’s books?”
Draco laughs behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning his chin into the dip of her clavicle. His neatly trimmed beard tickles against her neck but she’s careful to keep her face away from his— the amount of contour and bronzer on her skin would definitely leave a mark on his lighter tone.
Already, in the span of time since they left his flat, she’s had to wipe sparkles off his cheek and the soft pink lipstick she wears from his lips.
“They’re from University. I left a lot of my things here— my mother likes it, says it makes my room feel like I’ll always have a reason to come back. Like I haven’t been gone for as long as I have.”
“So what you’re telling me is you did have posters on your walls at one time?” Hermione asks, laying her palm over the back of his hand, pressed flat against her belly. “Because this…is kind of depressing, Draco.”
He snorts. “Posters? Gods, no. Not here, at least. I had some posters on my walls at school but never here. My mother would have lost her head.”
“And your father?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure if he would have noticed. He never really had cause to come into my room, but my mother would have absolutely told him.”
She wrinkles her nose at that. It’s sad. Both of her parents always made sure to tuck her in at night until she was at least 11. Even then, her Dad would always come and have a chat with her at least a few times a week, perching on the side of her bed and listening to her wax on about every new book she’d read.
Even to this day, when she goes home for any length of time, her parents stop by her room to lay a kiss on her forehead.
“Let me guess,” he says, interrupting her train of thought. “You still have posters on your walls at home.”
“Of course I do,” she laughs. “Who doesn’t?”
You, she thinks, turning her face to look at him.
“Were you lonely?”
Draco hums and shrugs one of his shoulders. “Sometimes, but only really when I was young. I was mostly away at school so there wasn’t ever really a chance to be lonely. Sometimes the summers were difficult— my parents were busy, but my mum did her best.”
“Not your dad?”
“He did his best, too. His best was just…different.” He pulls away from her back. “We’re closer now than when I was kid.”
Hermione nods and continues to slowly move around the space. His room is almost as big as her flat, with a large bed in the centre, up on a little platform, between two wooden night stands. There’s another two doors just off to the side and she assumes one is to the toilet and the other to the closet.
“So…what did you bring me up here for?”
He takes a slow step toward her, his hands clasped in front. The small grin on his face feels playful and she raises her brow curiously. He hadn’t seemed as nervous as her, but there was definitely something to his posture and his tone as they entered the house.
Muscle memory, maybe, a recognition of how he’s been raised to act.
Back straight, voice quiet but clear, his RP accent sounding posher than ever. Her own RP helps in that regard and she’d jokingly told him that at least it wouldn’t be so obvious she’s not supposed to be here.
“A little attitude adjustment.”
She blinks. “An attitude adjustment?”
“Mhm,” he hums. “Your nerves are getting the better of you— I thought, maybe my good girl just needs a little reminder from Daddy.”
“A reminder? A reminder of what?” She asks, confused.
In the blink of an eye, he steps right up to her, his palm coming up to gently cup her cheek. The pad of his thumb ghosts the line of her lower lip as he tilts her head up until they’re looking each other in the eyes.
“A reminder to relax and trust that Daddy has you,” he says softly. “I would never leave you somewhere you’re uncomfortable, nor would I bring you somewhere and force you to speak to someone you don’t wish to speak to.”
“But what if—”
He cuts her off with a soft press of his lips to hers. Enough to catch her breath in her throat.
“Let Daddy think about the what ifs, alright? There’s no sense in worrying about something like this. I just want you to try to enjoy yourself. You look absolutely beautiful — stunning, baby — and there’s a whole host of delicious food and excellent champagne downstairs. That’s all you need to think about, alright?”
She finds herself nodding in time with him, mimicking his action. Somehow, he’s made her go boneless. Maybe the way he’s holding her, the way he’s staring deep into her eyes, but she feels a little bit like a puppet that will simply do and say anything he wants.
It’s nicer than the jumble her brain has been in since this morning, every worry and anxiety floating around with nowhere else to go.
“I can do that,” she tells him. “Okay…I’m ready to go down now.”
Draco laughs. “Wait a second— you didn’t think that was the attitude adjustment, did you?”
Hermione frowns, biting into her lip. “Um…yes?”
Suddenly, his arms lock around her waist and he lifts her up, one hand going underneath her bum to press her against his chest. He walks them over to the small raised platform that his bed sits on, carefully setting her down so as to not tear her dress.
She yelps anyway, fingers racing to smooth out any wrinkles, but her hard work is interrupted when Draco slides his hands up her calves, pushing her dress up and over her hips. She’s bare underneath, just silver open-toed shoes on her feet and what she thinks is her own wetness smeared across her inner thighs.
Wasting no time, he grips both of her thighs, pushing them open and up so her knees are up near her chest, exposing her completely to his childhood bedroom. He’s quick with his fingers, spreading her folds so he can roughly brush his thumb against her quickly swelling clit. There’s no gentleness here, only insistence and a sense of rushing that makes her choke on her breath.
“You’re going to come twice,” he says calmly, fingers flicking over her clit and building her up to a faster-than-usual orgasm. “Two times for Daddy so I know you’re a good girl and can do what you’re told.”
“Too much,” she whines, fingers scrunching in the duvet underneath her. “It’s too fast.”
He shakes his head. “No it’s not— you can do it for me, for Daddy. Take a deep breath, baby. Focus on me.”
Closing her eyes, Hermione sucks in a deep breath, slowly letting it out before opening her eyes and focusing on the look on his face. Somehow, she already feels oversensitive and it takes a lot of effort not to kick away from his invading fingers.
She whimpers under her breath, struggling to keep her hips steady and to just let the damn thing happen. It almost feels like there’s a block, like she needs him to slow down so she can get used to the feeling before ramping it up.
Panting, she gently asks him, “Can you go slower just for a minute? Please, Daddy. Just a minute.”
“Sure, baby,” he says softly, slowing his fingers. “Good asking. Better?”
His pace is no longer so frantic, no longer so rough against her sensitive clit, but slower and broader. Draco dips his fingers down to her entrance, making them slippery, before guiding them back to her crest. This time when she takes a deep breath, she’s able to settle into the feeling building between her thighs. It grows slowly, tingling down her legs and up into her belly.
Moaning softly, Draco takes that as his cue to speed up just a touch, enough that it no longer feels like a casual touch but that there’s a direction, an end goal, in the motion. She clenches her core, inadvertently sucking in her belly until the tension grows so taught inside of herself it’s liable to snap at any second.
“Can I come, Daddy?” She asks sweetly, fingers up at her mouth. “Please, Daddy.”
His smile is soft as he nods. “Of course you can. Come for Daddy.”
It’s a strange little orgasm.
It burns fast through her belly but doesn’t make her lose her breath or cause her calf muscles to cramp. It’s not a panting, crying, screaming orgasm but one that starts as soon as it ends. It feels like it opens her up though, calms the thoughts racing in her head enough for her to relax against the bed.
Draco doesn’t stop. He continues rubbing at her clit with the big pad of his thumb, circling the sensitive spot with the short, dull edge of his nail. Humming deep in her throat, Hermione presses into his touch as much as she can, silently urging him for more pressure.
“More?” He asks. “Ask Daddy for more.”
“More, please,” she begs.
He grips the jut of her hip in one big palm, holding her down on the bed while he uses his index and middle fingers to swipe over her wet, sensitive skin. It makes a wet sound in the room that would otherwise make her flush in embarrassment, but it feels too good to fight against.
Her belly clenches again, squeezing her core tight, breath shallow as it approaches that boiling little spot until it’s like a dam breaks. Hermione groans through this one, eyes squeezing shut as the feeling reverberates through her limbs.
“Good girl.” His voice is gravely, like he’s holding something back. “You see what happens when you listen to Daddy?”
She nods, eyes still closed. “Orgasms?”
“Yes,” he laughs. “Orgasms. Rewards.” She can feel the way he leans over her, the tip of his nose pushing into her cheek. “And a quiet, happy brain.”
Laying there, trying to slow her breathing and cool down from the flash of heat she just underwent, it is noticeable that her brain is surprisingly quiet. All those worries, all those concerns about Draco’s unfathomable wealth have just…dissipated. Not completely gone, she can still feel them hovering on the edges, but pushed away for another time in favour of enjoying the day.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she mumbles quietly, blinking her eyes open. “I don’t know how you just…know. You always seem to know exactly what I need.”
Grinning, Draco carefully wraps his palms around her waist and pulls her upright so she’s sitting on the edge of his bed. Her dress is still around her waist, her bare bum and wet thighs pressed to the duvet cover.
“Me, Daddy,” he says, pointing to himself. He turns his index fingers to point at her. “You, baby.”
Hermione rolls her eyes before she can stop herself, yelping when he lightly pinches her ear lobe.
“Ow, Daddy,” she whines, covering her ear with her hand and pouting up at him.
He pulls her up to standing and sighs. “It doesn’t hurt, don’t even try that.”
“Well…no, but it’s annoying,” she mutters.
Draco carefully tugs her dress down over her hips, smoothing it over her thighs until it drapes properly down her legs. She’s a little wobbly on her feet, her legs feeling just the slightest bit weak, so she grabs on to his bicep to steady herself.
“Well, I find eye rolling to be annoying.”
It takes everything in her not to roll her eyes once again, but she manages. Stumbling slightly away from him to look in the floor-length mirror hanging on the wall. Luckily for her, the fabric of her dress doesn’t easily show wrinkles and none of her makeup was smudged.
She looks exactly as she should, just with lighter thoughts and a contentment in her chest that wasn’t there before.
Draco steps up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist again, hugging her to him. She watches in the mirror as he presses a kiss to her temple, his veiny hands molding to her waist. There’s something about watching him touch her, about seeing the way his fingers grip the dip in her waist, the way he reverently trails the fingers of his other hand along her arm, instead of just feeling it.
“Can you take a picture of us?” She asks, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “I know you said there will be photographers but…this one can be just for us.”
The corners of his lips curve up into a smile. “Of course, baby.”
He pulls his phone from his trouser pocket, holding it up and snapping a picture, both of them smiling. Opening the photos app, he enlarges the picture and shows it to her. The first thing she sees is Draco’s perfect grin, pink lips stretched over straight, white teeth, his eyes locked on the mirror.
But Draco uses two fingers to zoom in on her own face and lets out a strangled little noise at what he sees.
“Look at you, baby,” he mutters, pulling her tighter into his body, the hardening length of his cock pressing into her lower back. “You look like you’re drunk.”
“What? I’m not drunk,” she protests, taking the phone from him. “I’m just…”
Her eyes are kind of dopey looking, more like she’s high instead of drunk, and there’s a lazy little smile on her lips. Her fingers are clutching the sleeve of his tux and she’s pressed close to his chest.
“It’s the orgasms,” he clarifies, pinching the screen to zoom out. “You always look like that after, like you’re at the height of happiness and relaxation. You’re right, this picture will be just for us.”
Hermione feels her cheeks flush at his words— Gods, is she really that easy to read? Will everyone downstairs be able to tell that her boyfriend just gave her an attitude adjustment? Draco shakes his head and turns her face to his, capturing her lips with his own.
“No one will notice,” he mutters. “Only me. Now come on, we should go down. I’m sure my parents were told we’d arrived and are looking for us.”
She takes in a deep breath, blowing it out loudly. “You’ll hold my hand?”
He cups her cheeks gently with both palms and presses a soft, closed mouth kiss to her lips. Her eyes fall closed, heading tilting back. She shudders when he rubs his thumb over the ridge of her jaw.
“I won’t let go, Hermione.”
The main floor is bustling with activity, everyone formally dressed and holding a glass of champagne. Draco’s fingers are between hers, holding tightly to her so there’s no chance of her getting lost or being left to fend for herself.
There’s light music playing from down the hall, where she can see large double doors. Draco gestures with his hand to the door and leans down to whisper in her ear.
“That’s the ballroom. Let’s go in and try to find my parents. They’ll take it as an affront if they think we didn’t immediately go to greet them.”
She appreciates being privy to what he’s thinking, where he’s planning on taking her, so she can prepare herself. The last time she saw his parents, the only time she’s seen them, was supremely awkward. His mother didn’t do anything to hide her dislike of their age difference or the fact that she’s still in school.
Part of her gets it. If she was in Narcissa Malfoy’s shoes, she, too, would be suspicious of a younger woman dating her middle-aged son. The difference being that Draco has already been married twice, once to a woman who did take as much of his money as she could. Isn’t that her worst fear already come true?
But Draco has been candid about his parents love for Pansy and their disappointment in the divorce. She’s been doing her best to try to gently push him to open up to them, to explain the issues between them, but he has yet to budge.
Draco’s hand tightens around hers as they step into the ballroom and it’s not hard to see why. His parents are holding court near the back of the room in front of giant windows that look out into the garden.
“Oh ,” she says softly. “You weren’t joking.”
Draco gently snorts. “Not even a little bit.” He puts on a haughty tone, “It’s only the highest of society that are invited.”
Everyone is dressed as if this is an award show. It’s like it’s the Oscars except they’re in a manor in Wiltshire and she’s, by far, the youngest person there. Hell, even Draco is on the young side compared to the other guests. There’s gowns and tuxes galore, even a tiara.
In what she can only imagine is true Malfoy fashion, Draco pushes his way through the crowd and completely skips the receiving line snaking its way along the wall. Hermione tugs on his hand but he looks back at her and shakes his head.
“No one will mind,” he says, uncaring of all the dirty looks they’re getting. “And if they do, oh well.”
Hermione steels herself as they approach his parents. Narcissa is gently holding the hand of the woman in front of her, a pleasant smile on her face, while Lucius stands beside her, leaning precariously on his cane.
It’s Lucius who notices them first, his eyes widening a touch when he recognizes that his son is skipping the line. The look on his face almost makes her laugh for how similar it is to Draco— a lazy smirk on his lips that’s extremely close to a sneer and a glint in his eyes.
“Ah, Draco,” Lucius mutters, taking a step toward them. His gaze drifts to her and he gives her a simple nod. “And Hermione— you look lovely.”
She flushes. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.” She half turns to look out at the rest of the room. “This is…”
“Extremely irritating,” he interrupts. “I quite agree. When did you two arrive?”
Draco lets go of her hand only to wrap his arm around her waist, pulling her close to his side. She settles there, her fingers coming up to hide the laugh she can’t quite stop from escaping.
“Just a short time ago,” Draco says. “I was showing Hermione around.”
Lucius’ brow raises sharply and he lets out a huff of laughter. “Oh yes, I’m sure you were.” He turns to her. “And what did Draco show you? The gardens? Or, perhaps, the library?”
Her eyes widen and she swings around to look at her boyfriend. “You have a library?!”
“Yes ,” Draco says through gritted teeth. “It was going to be next on our tour.”
The elder Malfoy smirks. “You know, that’s not the reason your mother keeps the sheets fresh—”
Draco clears his throat and speaks loudly over him. “Yes, thank you, Father.”
An unimpressed sigh sounds from their left and Hermione watches as Narcissa steps up to her husband and lays her hand on his arm. She doesn’t miss the way her eyes drag up and down her figure, no doubt critiquing her dress or— oh, shit. Is she slouching?
She straightens as quickly as she can, her back tensing in a way that has Draco’s thumb rubbing softly against the middle of her back.
“Draco, please don’t raise your voice,” she says primly, eyes flicking over to her son.
She gives a quick nod of approval and reaches out to straighten his black bow tie, letting her fingers rest on the lapel of his jacket. “You look very handsome, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Mother,” he says, leaning forward to press his cheek against hers. “And you look beautiful as always. Are these from Father?” He asks, letting his fingers just barely touch the clearly very real diamonds hanging from her ears.
She smiles and looks up at Lucius. “Yes, for Christmas. Aren’t they lovely?”
“Quite,” Lucius says, switching his cane to the other hand so he can wrap his arm around his wife. “And I’d recognize those jewels anywhere.” He gestures to the necklace wrapped around her neck.
Hermione immediately raises her hand to touch the diamond heart at her throat, matching the small diamond heart studs in her earlobes. Between the dress and the jewels she’s wearing, she feels like she should have security following her.
“Are those…” Narcissa trails off, eyes drifting from her neck to her son. “Grand-Mère’s anniversary diamonds?”
“Yes,” Draco says, squeezing her waist and looking down at her with a smile. “Don’t they look lovely on her?”
Draco’s mother hums, her fingers coming up to play with the necklace at her own throat. She clears her throat. “Yes, lovely. And your dress is nice, too.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione responds, accepting the so-called compliment for what it is. “Your gown is beautiful— and your gloves, the detail is incredible.”
Narcissa’s eyes snap down to the elbow-length white gloves covering her hands and arms, lace and pearl detail overlaying the satin. In her honest opinion, they’re a bit old fashioned, but Draco has made such a big deal about the gloves that they must be something his mother loves.
“Thank you, Dear. They were Lucius’ great-grandmother’s.” She offers her a small, almost pained smile. “Tradition, for the lady of the manor.”
Draco squeezes her again, as if praising her for her compliment, before changing the subject.
“Have you seen Theo and Astoria?”
Narcissa shakes her head. “No, not as of yet. Astoria said they’d be arriving later as she can’t stay up on her feet for too long. Understandable, of course— she’s due quite soon.”
Peeking to the side, she notices how long the reception line has grown and nudges Draco, drawing attention to it. He looks and leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head, dragging his palm up her back.
“We’re going to grab some champagne,” he tells his parents, “and then I’m going to show Hermione the library.”
His mother frowns. “You aren’t going to greet the guests with us?”
“As much fun as that seems…no.”
“Draco—”
“I’ll come back and find you after, alright? After Theo and Astoria have arrived.”
This time, Hermione frowns. As she waves goodbye to his parents and Draco turns them around, leading them toward the exit, she feels guilt bubble in her belly. It’s because of her, she knows, that he’s waiting until Theo and Astoria arrives.
Because she asked him not to leave her alone.
She didn’t realize that he typically greets people during the lunch. Of course, it should have been obvious. He’s a well respected surgeon and the only child of two very well-known philanthropists. She should have known—
“Stop that.”
Her furrowed brow relaxes and she looks up at her boyfriend. “Stop what?”
“Thinking so hard. Somehow making something your fault that isn’t your fault and has nothing to do with you being here,” he continues. “I hate greeting guests, I never do it, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to get me to do it.”
He snags two glasses of champagne off of a passing waiter and they move outside of the ballroom, walking against the grain of the other guests. He holds his elbow out for her until she slips her fingers through, gripping his bicep, and leads her down a hallway and then another one.
“Well, she didn’t seem too impressed with my jewelry.”
“Well, she’ll get over it. They belonged to my father’s mother, not hers, so she gets no say.”
She fiddles with the necklace again. “What if your father wasn’t alright with it?”
“He was quite happy when I spoke to him about it the other day.”
“You asked him?”
“I told him I intended to take the jewels from the safety deposit box. He gets a notification anytime its accessed. He actually suggested a different necklace, but I knew it wouldn’t match what you were wearing.”
He nudges her to a closed door and Hermione turns the handle, opening it for them both to step through. It’s quiet in this area of the manor, no one else around and the sound of music and voices quieted by the walls.
Inside, it’s dark, and Draco slips his arm from her grasp before she can ask where the lights are. Suddenly, soft amber-coloured lights flick on in the room and she’s greeted by the sight of dozens of cases of books, some lining the walls and others placed through the room.
The walls are dark, a forest green, and the wood of the bookcases matches them well. Just a few steps in front of them is a sitting area with a few chairs and couches as well as a table close by.
“This is the library.”
She laughs, shocked, and turns to him with a great big smile on her face. “I noticed…” She shakes her head and turns back around, eyes jumping from shelf to shelf. “I can’t believe you have a library in your house. And not just a small room but a…an actual library.”
Draco steps around her and sets the glasses of champagne on the low table in front of one of the couches. He comes back over and takes her hand in his, leading her over to one side of the room where a bookcase towers over them, lined with books.
“Among many other things, Malfoys are book collectors. Old ones, mostly, ones that are difficult to find or amongst the only copies in the world. There’s a lovely collection of banned books over on the other side, too.
She shakes her head. “This is incredible, Draco. I could spend ages here.”
“You’re welcome to, anytime. I can always bring you here, Hermione, whenever you want.” He brings her hand up to press a kiss to her knuckles, suspiciously over her ring finger. “All you have to do is ask and its yours.”
She gets a strange feeling that he’s not just talking about visiting his ancestral home, but ignores the tingling in her belly in favour of dragging her free hand along the book spines closest to her.
There’s no dust, which tells her this room must be meticulously cleaned, and it feels colder than the rest of the home, probably for the protection of the older books. She takes her time, looking over the titles as Draco follows her.
“See,” he says. “Sometimes having money can be good.”
She throws a raised brow at him. “I mean, I could argue that. You’re keeping these books in a private collection, meaning you’re keeping them from public availability. Some would argue that you’re actually hurting the world of books, instead of helping it.”
Draco hums and shrugs his shoulder. “Well, when you’re lady of the manor, you can choose what to do with them.”
Hermione chokes.
Her eyes bulge.
She stutters in her steps.
And then she laughs.
“When I’m what?! ”
He shrugs and it’s…no, it’s far too casual for what he just said. He can’t just say something like that and then shrug as if it’s no big deal. Marriage is one thing— they’ve talked about it, however briefly, and she’d thought, sure, I can do that, I can marry this man and we can live in London. I can be a surgeon’s wife .
But lady of the manor ? That’s an entirely different thing.
She shakes her head. “I’m…I’m just realizing that you’re not just a surgeon.”
Draco gives her a wry smile. “I’m not, but I can be.”
“Can you?” She makes a show of looking around the library inside of his childhood home.
“Sure. If that’s what you want— I mean, regardless, one day I will inherit all of this. But that doesn’t mean we have to use it. We don’t have to live here, we don’t have to put on charity lunches like my parents, we don’t have to do any of that.”
Hermione frowns, her mind racing with everything that he’s saying. It’s just all so… no , that’s not true. It’s not unexpected. It should have been obvious but she’s been existing in this relationship obliviously, only seeing what she wants to see.
She’s been happy to accept his money. She’s been happier to stay with him at his only-in-dreams flat. The spa days, the dinners out, his friends. She’s been quite happy to take it all because they’re all things that appeal to her.
So far, it’s been easy to ignore all of the things she knows, deep inside, but doesn’t want to think about.
“Or,” he mutters, stepping closer, wrapping his arms around her waist so they’re chest to chest. “We could have it all. We could take on the manor and all that comes with it— the space, the charity, the notoriety. You could be the lady of the manor.” Draco leans in close and whispers, “You’d be the first brunette.”
Hermione laughs, pulling back to look at him. “What? You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly,” he swears. “I’ll even show you the portraits.”
Pressing her lips together, she blinks, staring blankly into space. “I don’t know—”
“Oh,” he laughs, “baby, no. I’m not asking you to figure it out right now. I’m just saying, everything and anything is an option for us. Alright? If you want this, it’s yours. If you don’t, we’ll just turn a blind eye to it all.”
“What if I just want the library?”
He grins. “Take it.”
Huffing a laugh, she pushes back from Draco and shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re insane, Draco. This, is insane.”
“Maybe,” he winces. “But I don’t want you to be afraid of it. My mother is…cautious with you not because you’re with me but because you could stand to inherit it all. She ignored Astoria when we were married because we were so young and there was no way they would give it up, but she spent a lot of time with…Pansy . Thinking about it more, I feel like that’s the issue, that she spent so much time molding her successor.”
Her eyes widen. “Um, I don’t—”
“You’re perfect as you are,” he says quietly. “She’ll see that, I’m confident.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” Hermione laughs. “I feel like this is some twisted Princess Diaries.”
Draco’s eyebrows crook. “Well, I’m almost scared to say that I’ve never seen it—” he holds up his hands when she makes a noise of shock “—but I’m very willing to watch it with you.”
“Tonight.”
Smiling, he approaches her and cups her cheek. “Tonight, baby.”
This time, she presses up on her toes to press her lips to his but, unlike him, she doesn’t keep it chaste. She licks into his mouth the way she’s been wanting him to do all day, tasting the faint sharp notes of champagne still lingering on his tongue.
He sighs roughly into her mouth, fingers gripping the back of her head. When their lips finally part, she keeps her eyes closed and leans into his chest, panting. Gods, there’s something wrong with her.
Even a kiss serves to calm her thoughts.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” he says softly into her hair. “Just options.”
“Easy for you to say,” she mumbles.
Hermione feels him raise his wrist and knows he’s looking at the time. They still have an entire afternoon at this lunch and, as if on cue, her stomach rumbles in hunger.
Draco hums. “Let’s get back to the ballroom— I need to feed my little girl, and I’m hoping Theo and Astoria are here. God knows they’re the only way we’re going to get through this alive.”
She takes one final look around the library and nods her head. “If I wander away, it’s because I’ve found refuge here.”
“I’d like to see you find it on your own,” he laughs. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Notes:
you may have noticed there's a final chapter count and the goal is to get it all done by the end of the year! yay celebrate!
in case you missed it, there is a deleted scene that takes place between chapter 32 and chapter 33, here.
eta: the line in this chapter where draco says, "...You could be the lady of the manor.” Draco leans in close and whispers, “You’d be the first brunette.”
yes, pansy and astoria are both brunettes but neither were ever lady of the manor. the lady of the manor is still narcissa. if draco and hermione were to inherit the manor, hermione would become the first brunette lady of the manor. just wanted to clear that up.find me elsewhere.
Chapter 34: 999
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The afternoon is, surprisingly, painless— more so than Hermione thought it would be in any of the hundreds of scenarios she’s imagined in her head. It’s just entirely different than anything her family has ever done before and it takes some getting used to.
Sitting at a table in the ballroom, she spends a lot of time people-watching. There’s hundreds of people mingling and eating and talking and laughing, all flashing each other little smirks and haughty expressions. She watches women nearly fall over themselves just to shake Narcissa’s hand and men shuffle off to the side to speak quietly to Lucius.
It’s a room full of what she can only imagine are some of the most powerful and wealthiest people in London, and somehow she’s right there with them— no degree (yet), limited dollars in her bank account and sticky thighs underneath her dress thanks to the wandering fingers attached to the tall, blond and handsome man sitting to her right.
To keep herself busy, she points out the oddest people she sees— a short, squat woman with scraggly grey hair and a potted plant (“That’s Pomona Sprout,” Draco mumbles under a laugh, “strange but wealthy and a big name among the climate action charities.”), a man so large she thinks him a giant with a bushy brown beard (“Ah, Hagrid. My mother can’t stand him but he’s got the ear of all the animal welfare groups.”) and finally a tall, skinny man with greasy black hair and a hooked nose ("Hey— be careful what you say, he’s my Godfather. That’s Severus Snape.”)
It’s the last one that causes her to loudly guffaw. “That’s his actual name? The poor man.”
“It’s probably a family name or something.” Draco shrugs. “He’s a nice person when you get to know him.”
Hermione eyes the dark-haired man again and grimaces at the way his lip curls in disgust when a woman stands too close to him. He certainly doesn’t look like a nice person, but she’ll take Draco’s word as fact until she meets him for herself.
Draco stays true to his word and doesn’t leave her alone. He doesn’t stand up from the table they share, waiting for Theo and Astoria to join them, or let go of her hand, resting it securely on his thigh, covered by his own. Instead, he urges others to come to them in a way that only those who have grown up in this environment — read: entitled — can. It’s a crook of his finger or a nod of his chin, once even a raised brow that she didn’t think looked particularly inviting.
They’re surrounded by academics and those in the business world, CEOs of big corporations and Executive Directors of charities and non-profit organizations. Draco seems to know them all, greeting them by name with a shake of his hand. It may look like mutual respect, what with the gentle conversation and questions about their families, but Draco doesn’t stand for a single one.
Instead they come to him like he’s a bratty little prince on a throne, expecting others to grovel and beg for a second of his attention.
She blushes violently when he squeezes her hand and introduces her to each and every person who comes their way by saying: undoubtedly you’ve been drawn over by my exceptionally lovely girlfriend, Hermione Granger. Her heart stutters every time but the guests always agree with big smiles and interested eyes, taking her hand for a shake or an old-fashioned kiss.
She sees, then, how easily it would be to let it all go to her head. But they don’t know her, nor do they actually like her. All they know is that she’s important to the youngest Malfoy, which makes her important in their efforts to…do whatever it is they’re trying to do.
After one-too-many kisses to the top of her hand, she also thinks she understands why Narcissa wears gloves— too many sticky lips and tickling moustaches.
They’re, thankfully, interrupted from the latest couple trying to keep Draco’s attention by Theo and Astoria loudly pushing their way through the crowd and over to the table. Hermione grins at the way Theo keeps his elbows out to keep others from crushing too close to his pregnant wife, and she pushes her chair back a touch so she can stand and greet them.
Draco is polite in the way he flashes the older couple a smile with a muttered excuse me, but otherwise ignores them in favour of moving her chair out of the way so she doesn’t trip among the combined fabric of her dress, the chair cover or the tablecloth glancing the floor.
“For Heaven’s sake, does no one see that I’m heavily pregnant?” Astoria grumbles, one elegant-fingered hand cupping her belly. “When I still had your last name, people automatically moved out of my way.” She huffs, eyes closing. “I miss that.”
“Tori—”
She cuts Draco off. “Not that I still want to be married to you, I’m just saying. Although, Theo was doing a fine job with his elbows.”
Theo raises his brow with a twitch at his mouth. “Thank you, darling wife. Apologies my last name isn’t as advantageous to you.”
Hermione stays quiet, lips pressed together, feeling awkward. She looks to her boyfriend only to see him rolling his eyes in a way that would have her earlobe pinched between his thumb and forefinger. She contemplates popping up on her toes to pinch his ear before deciding that’s not what she should do, especially not here.
Because they’ve had this conversation over and over and over again, when she’d whined that it wasn’t fair that he played by different rules than she did. He’d grinned at her pout and said, “That’s because little girls follow the rules and Daddies make them.”
In any case, he seems to realize what he’s done because he tugs Hermione into his side and squeezes her hip, almost in recognition. “Would you two stop arguing, please? There’s enough tension here today without having to witness whatever this is.”
They seem to argue a lot more now, she’s noticed but never voiced. Perhaps it’s just a first-year-of-marriage sort of thing, or maybe that they’re expecting their first child. Maybe that’s just the type of relationship that they have— slightly antagonistic in a way that would not be enjoyable to her but is to them.
“Tension?” Tori questions, eyes glancing around the ballroom. “About what? Oh dear— your mother debuted the twins, didn’t she?”
Hermione quirks her head to the side at the mention of the twins . She hasn’t seen any twins, nor has she heard any mention of any twins. She gazes out at the rest of the guests but quickly turns her attention back to their group when Draco’s hand tightens on her hip.
His face grows pink, lips pressed thin and white. It’s so rare to see him angry and she rubs her thumb soothingly along the flexing tendon in his wrist, in an attempt to comfort him.
“Astoria— stop.”
She frowns. “What? Is it something else? Sorry, I thought she’d had the surgery already. I was looking forward to seeing them—”
Draco rubs his face with his free hand. “Astoria— stop it.”
Theo snickers, his hand fisted in front of his mouth as he pretends to sniff and wipe his nose, all to poorly hide his blazing smile.
Hermione’s mouth slowly pops open in realization— twins and surgery isn’t so difficult a puzzle to put together. Her hand comes up to cover the laugh bubbling up through her throat and the twitching at the corners of her lips.
“Gods, you are so dramatic, Draco. They’re just tits—”
Hermione’s eyes go wide as Narcissa and Lucius approach the group and she tugs on Draco’s arm as he opens his mouth to, no doubt, say something vile and insulting to his ex-wife. His eyes flick in the direction of his mother before he turns his face down to her and nuzzles his nose against her temple.
“I’m going to lose it,” he mumbles softly, breath hot against her skin. “I swear to God, I’m going to lose it.”
She tips her chin up and purses her lips until he softly presses them together. It’s hardly even a kiss, just an acknowledgement and a small effort to calm him before they’re joined by his parents. He keeps his arm wrapped around her as he turns his attention back to their group, nodding his head at his parents.
While they’re busy greeting Astoria and Theo, she can’t help but let her eyes drift down Narcissa’s neck to her décolletage. Her dress is silver with a sweetheart neckline that just gives off the impression of cleavage— and it’s quite impressive cleavage. Mostly, she notices there’s no wrinkles on her chest, like she sometimes sees on her mother when she dons a swimsuit.
Considering Narcissa is a fair-few years older than her mother…well, she’s impressed.
She watches as Astoria leans in to press their cheeks together in those weird high society kisses that aren’t really a kiss, the ones her Grandmère and Grandpère always insisted on when she visited them in France. Astoria grips her ex-mother-in-law’s arms and shoots a fairly obvious glance down at her cleavage, giving the older woman a wink.
Narcissa grins so brightly, so broadly, that Hermione is genuinely startled. What she wouldn’t give to be looked upon like that by her potential future in-laws…
“They only started getting along after we’d already been divorced for 10 years,” Draco says softly into her ear, all-knowing, as always, as to the thoughts in her head. “It’ll happen, baby. I promise.”
Hermione shrugs her shoulders, hoping to come across as unbothered but undoubtedly looking petulant.
“And Theo— you look so handsome,” Narcissa says with a soft smile. She reaches over to pat the side of his bicep. “How’s your father? I haven’t seen him in quite some time— he never deigns to grace us with his presence when we invite him to these things.”
“Smart man,” Lucius mutters at her side, sidestepping the swat his wife flings at his arm.
Theo winces and Hermione look up at Draco questioningly. He frowns and shakes his head, mouthing later. She doesn’t know much about Theo’s family and upbringing, other than that his mother died when he was young and he went to boarding school, Eton, evidently, with Draco.
“He’s fine, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. Just not up for parties.”
She nods with a practiced, polite smile. “Well, give him our best.” Her eyes suddenly flick to the doorway where a herd of uniformed waitstaff enter. “You should all sit— lunch is served! Draco,” she says quietly, “are you going to sit with us?”
Hermione rubs her lips together uncertainly, and turns to look at her boyfriend. With an exasperated breath, he clutches her hip tightly in his hand again and slowly shakes his head.
“No, mother. We’ll be sitting here— like I already told you.”
Her nose wrinkles the tiniest bit. “Well, I just thought—”
“I’ll come find you after.” His voice is stern and hard. “I’m sure there’s no shortage of people joining you at your table.”
It’s a dismissal, one that makes Hermione uncomfortable to be a part of. Narcissa’s brows furrow a touch but otherwise there’s no indication that she’s been slighted by her son. She can’t help but look at his father who stares back at her with raised eyebrows and a tilt to his chin, almost like he’s…impressed.
Maybe he is. Perhaps she’s not the only one who’s noticed how easily Draco kowtows to his mother, whether it’s to keep the peace or because he’s worried for her reaction…she doesn’t know, but she nods in Lucius’ direction before letting Draco turn her back to the table they’d been occupying before.
She’s hardly got her bum in the seat when the jacket-covered arm of a waiter slips between her and Draco, carefully placing down a plate with a warm roasted-vegetable salad. It’s colourful, with Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes and mushrooms among mixed greens. She smiles nervously at Draco as he nudges the fork furthest from her plate and dips his head, encouraging her to eat.
“If you don’t like it, I can have something else brought out for you,” he mutters under the chatter in the room, digging into his own warm salad.
Hermione savours the first bite on her tongue— it’s delicious, so flavourful against her taste buds. She laughs at Draco’s casual offer and shakes her head. “Oh? And how are you going to do that?”
She looks around at the rest of the room, at everyone eating the exact same warm roasted-vegetable salad. It’s doubtful that there’s any other option for an appetizer, or that anyone, even Draco, would be able to get her something different.
“How? ” He repeats, brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, how? It’s my kitchen. I’ll simply tell the Chef—”
“—tell the Chef? Gods, Draco, you can’t just tell the Chef to make me something different.”
Astoria snorts from across the table and gives her a look that borders on pity. “Oh, honey. I wouldn’t tempt him—”
“Of course, I can!” He states, taking his cloth napkin from his lap and pushing back from the table. “In fact, just to show you that I can, I think I will!”
She sits there shocked, her mouth falling open, as he actually marches away from the table to speak to a waiter. The waiter looks at him with wide, slightly terrified eyes, and Hermione knows that he must know who Draco is. The waiter nods and takes off in the direction of the doors while Draco saunters back to his seat with a smirk on his lips.
Theo laughs loudly across the table and Hermione shoots a soft glare in his direction. It does nothing at all, except maybe make him laugh harder. Astoria shakes her head and continues attacking her salad, small happy noises coming from her mouth as she chews.
“Draco— I like the salad.”
He shrugs, sitting back in his seat. “Well, you’ll have two salads.”
“I can’t eat two salads and an entrée!”
She lets her palm drift down to her midsection and wrinkles her nose. She’s an after-eating bloater— no matter what she eats or when, or how much water she’s had, she bloats. The last thing she needs is for anyone to think that she’s not simply full, but pregnant.
“You don’t have to eat anything. Just eat what you like,” he says calmly. “And if you don’t like the entrée—”
“I’ll like the entrée just fine! Please, please, don’t order me any other food.”
There’s an annoying little glint in his eyes like he’s enjoying this back-and-forth far too much and Hermione decides the best option is to simply go back to her salad. She takes another bite of sweet potato and sighs, feeling Draco’s eyes on her.
If she looks at him, she knows she’ll see that stupid grin on his face.
“So, anyways…” Astoria starts, “before Hermione’s entirely new meal arrives, how has it been so far? Did Draco show you around?”
She nods, quickly swallowing. “He did. The library is incredible! I can’t believe there’s so many books— and so many first editions! I would kill to have some time to myself in there.” She whips her head to the side to glare at her boyfriend who’s already wiping his mouth with his napkin and preparing to stand. “I don’t mean right now.”
He gives her a toothy grin and lays his napkin back over his lap. “Well, sweetheart, when you call into question my ability to provide for you then I have to make a point.”
“I never called anything into question!” She whisper-shouts, not wanting to draw any attention. “Oh my gosh, Draco…fine. I will never ever again question your ability to procure a different salad for me.”
Draco leans closer to her and purses his lips, waiting for her to meet him. She does, just a gentle peck, groaning when he wraps his arm around her shoulder and covers her temple in kisses. His thumb rubs soothingly along her bare shoulder as he leans in to whisper in her ear.
“See how relaxed you are now?” He says softly, his breath tickling her baby hairs. “I have so many different ways of relaxing you.”
His palm rubbing along her upper thigh is a reminder, one that makes her jump. With a small squeak she pats her hand down on his to stop it from moving any closer to the apex of her thighs.
Turning, she presses her mouth close to his ear and does her best to sound sultry and breathless. “I never once questioned your ability to relax me, Daddy. ”
The low groan in the back of his throat is her only indication that she’s gotten to him like she wanted to, but they’re interrupted by the same waiter, who Draco had just spoken to, clearing his throat behind them. They separate and Hermione bites into her lip as the waiter slides his arm between them and sets down a garden salad with a dressing that looks suspiciously like the southwest-style one she likes.
“For you, Miss,” the waiter says. “Please— if you need anything else, I’ll be happy to do so.”
Her smile is tense and a little bit embarrassed but she nods her thanks and turns back to the table, all three of her tablemates covering snickers of laughter with their fingers. She scowls but is careful not to roll her eyes and uses her fork to stab a piece of lettuce, popping it into her mouth.
Her eyes close and she lets out a big huff of air when she realizes it is the southwest-style dressing she likes.
“I don’t even want to know how or why they have this dressing here, unless, of course, your parents are smothering all of their food with it, too.”
Draco shakes his head and smiles. “That would be a no, baby.”
The rest of the lunch flies by in a flurry of conversation and delicious food, none of which Draco feels the need to replace. They have gremolata-crusted salmon with barley risotto and Hermione moans through nearly every single bite. Draco watches her out of the corner of his eye, brows arching the more animated she gets.
The time between courses is punctuated by a speaker from the charity recipient of the luncheon— an affordable housing group working to provide more options than just tiny little flats to those looking for housing within their budgets. The representative starts off her speech with a thank you to everyone, as 100% of the ticket price has gone to the organization and many have given even more as a donation.
She looks questioningly at Draco at these words, realizing she never paid for a ticket, let alone made a donation.
“You think my mother would let me in for free?” He scoffs quietly. “I purchased our tickets and made a donation in both of our names. Don’t worry, baby.”
It’s a weird feeling— just being in this room with all of these wealthy people is strange enough, but now she’s one half of a couple who make donations together and attend charity luncheons. Draco could have simply made the donation for himself; after all, it’s his money, but he made sure to include her name, too.
It makes her slightly uncomfortable, though. Draco, Theo and Astoria have always made her feel like she belongs, despite being significantly younger and coming from a very different family background, but the others in this room don’t know her. In fact, they probably think she’s some kind of gold digger, hanging onto Draco and enjoying his wealth.
She’s not even really sure if that’s untrue. She does enjoy his wealth, in many different ways, and, deep down, feels like she’s not really bringing much to this relationship. Actually…she’s bringing nothing other than herself to their coupling.
It’s a strange thing to contend with, sitting there wearing a dress that costs more than she knows, eating a dinner she could probably only afford once, in a house that is more often than not given to the National Trust because of the astronomical cost of running them.
But…if Draco were unhappy, she would know.
After the food has been cleared away — their dessert an individual Victoria sponge — Draco curls his fingers around the back of her neck, rubbing just behind her ear, and gestures a little ways away at his mother who is staring at him meaningfully and gently crooking her finger in her direction.
“I think I’m being summoned,” he murmurs quietly. “Considering I’ve been putting her off, I should probably go over there. Are you alright if I leave you with Theo and Astoria? Just for a minute or two.”
She smiles, looking up at him. “Of course, go. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll take perfect care of your girl,” Astoria pipes up, her arm resting on Theo’s shoulder as she gently plays with the hairs at the nape of his neck. “Go on— your mother looks like she’s going to have an aneurysm.”
“Probably not too far off,” he grumbles, standing from the table and walking off in her direction.
Hermione watches them quietly for a few minutes, seeing the way Narcissa keeps one hand on his arm as she introduces him to the man and woman she’s speaking with. She’s not a lip reader by any means but she does make out the words, very successful surgeon, in her introduction.
His smile is one that seems practiced and fake. There’s no intention in his eyes, just a light quirking of his lips and an open-enough posture, to make him seem approachable. It’s weird to see him like this— he usually seems so honest in his expressions, never faking interest or emotion.
“It’s his schmoozing smile,” Theo says, grinning. “All of the Malfoys have one. I swear it’s the first thing they teach their young.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You say it like they’re a pack of animals.”
“Predators,” Astoria corrects. “Everything that Lucius and Narcissa do, everything they say, every emotion on their face, is carefully crafted for maximum effect. But Draco…Draco is their hidden weapon.”
“What do you mean, weapon?”
Astoria lifts her arm from Theo’s shoulder and leans forward on the table, cupping her chin in the palm of her hand. “Draco is their biggest accomplishment. Out of all of the money they’ve given to literally hundreds of charities, their biggest accomplishment is their 40-some-odd-year-old son. As if they graduated from medical school and became one of the most successful A&E doctors in the country.”
“He’s the last resort,” Theo clarifies. “When someone isn’t giving them the answer they want, they bring their very successful son in to close the deal. I mean, you must know how charming he is.”
She does. She knows exactly how charming he is because she’s been similarly charmed. But to think that this is some secret power that his parents have cultivated over the years leaves her with a sick feeling in her stomach.
Is he so easily used?
“I’m certain once they realize you’re here to stay, they’ll work on your own schmoozing smile,” Astoria says with a wink. “Maybe you can teach me— they never took me seriously enough.”
Hermione rolls her eyes, safe from her boyfriend’s pinching fingers. “I’m not sure that’s likely. It’s not as though I have much to offer them in terms of success.”
After all, an Honours BA in English Literature isn’t exactly secret weapon worthy.
They continue to share little tidbits about Draco that she absorbs like a plant in desperate need of water, but it isn’t until Astoria’s normally expressive face goes nearly totally blank, her eyes locked on something happening directly behind her, that Hermione feels a sense of dread build in her belly.
Her eyes flick back to Hermione’s before connecting with Theo’s and she gently excuses herself from the table. For the first time all afternoon, it feels like maybe, possibly, definitely something is off .
Before she can turn around to see where Astoria has gone, Draco sits back down in his chair and wraps his arm around her waist, tugging her into his side. He hugs her tight to him, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“Well that was nearly unbearable, but I’ve survived,” he says. “What did the three of you speak about?”
Theo clears his throat and avoids meeting her gaze. “Just your schmoozing smile.”
“I don’t schmooze.” He says the word as though it disgusts him, and then corrects himself. “Malfoys don’t schmooze.”
“Mate,” Theo laughs, “you absolutely do schmooze.”
Draco scoffs and looks down at her. “And what about you? Do you think I schmooze?”
“A little bit,” she laughs, holding up her thumb and index finger. “Just a touch.”
Before he can respond, Narcissa’s manicured hand and huge diamond ring settle on Draco’s other shoulder with a squeeze. He seems to tense under her touch and Hermione pulls away from him enough that she can see the older woman.
Draco turns his head to the side with his brow raised. “Someone else to impress?”
Theo clears his throat again and Hermione frowns. He looks uncomfortable, shifting around in his chair and keeping his eyes on the pristine white tablecloth. From the side, she can just barely see the hard-look in Draco’s eyes and she immediately feels like there’s something going on that no one will tell her about.
“No,” Narcissa says primly, “but there’s someone here to see you.”
Draco’s smile is flat. “I’m not interested.”
“And yet,” she says, “you’ll come with me. Now.”
It’s a tone she’s yet to hear from her boyfriend’s mother— hard and unyielding, giving him no option but to obey. Even she would obey, if she used that tone on her.
Draco drums his fingers anxiously on the table and looks at Theo who twists his lips and shrugs his shoulders as if to say, I can’t help you. Hermione nudges in closer to him and whispers softly, quietly enough that not even Narcissa can hear her.
“Is everything alright? ”
He’s still tense against her, but he turns and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Just fine. Can you stay with Theo for a minute? I promise I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” she tells him.
Draco stands, pushing back from the table, and turns to offer his arm to his mother. She almost wants to snort at the move, so prim and proper. It’s just another insight into Draco’s upbringing that seems so at odds with the man she spends most of her time with.
He’s always polite, of course, but he holds himself here as though he’s settling back into something that’s as natural as breathing. It’s silly of her not to have realized that he’d probably taken etiquette classes as a child and a teenager, learning how to do all of the things that must have been commonplace— feign interest, eat an eight course meal and, of course, escort a lady.
But despite the way he holds himself, his posture straight and tall, shoulders back, mask of entitled indifference on his face, she catches the way he drags his feet and curls his fingers into a fist at his side, not to mention the jumping tick in his cheek.
Wherever he’s going, he doesn’t want to.
They move behind her, in the direction that Astoria had gone, too, and this time nothing and no one stops her from turning around. She sees Astoria immediately, as tall as she is, standing beside Draco’s father and another man and a woman. They look to be around Draco’s age, somewhere in their late 30s or 40s, and the man is so muscular that his tuxedo looks incredibly uncomfortable.
The woman is short, maybe her height, and stands between the man and Astoria with a black chin-length bob cut so severely it looks like one swipe could slice through a log. She’s slim and dressed in a beautiful buttercup-yellow gown with a halter neck and dozens of floral appliqué.
She turns back around and stares at Theo, who’s finally looking at her with his hands clasped on the table.
“Is that Pansy?” She asks simply.
Theo crooks his head to the side. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
She flashes him a brief smile and sighs. “No, I don’t think I would.”
He hasn’t seen her since the last time they left the courthouse, when he took the opportunity to call her something vile under his breath and glare until he was certain she’d burst into flames. He’d thought her a witch after that whole ordeal and the flames would have been a nice way to confirm it.
She hasn’t changed much. Her hair is still cut in that ridiculously dramatic bob, still pitch black, and her skin tone is still paler than his, if that’s possible. Her lips are painted blood red and if his memory serves him right, which it does because there’s no way he could possibly forget the dozens of little black tubes that littered every room of their townhome, it’s the famous Dior Red 999.
There’s a man with her, her pointed red nails curling into the arm of his tuxedo jacket, and he’s carrying on what looks to be a surface-level conversation with his father. He knows this because his father has that polite-yet-disinterested expression on his face, his chin nodding every five to seven words like he’d been taught, too.
It’s the same man he saw in the picture Theo showed him once. Shorn hair, muscular. Her fiancé.
Shorter than him but bulkier, barrel-chested with broad shoulders. He can even see the dark flick of a tattoo peeking out of his collar which is… unfathomable. The Pansy Parkinson he knew would never even talk to a man with tattoos, let alone date one. But Theo had said he’s an athlete, and he can’t imagine her dating one of those either.
“Be polite,” his mother mutters quietly as they settle into the half-circle of people that includes both of his ex-wives.
Truly, how did he get to be so goddamn unlucky?
He catches Astoria’s eye and glares furiously— not because any of this is necessarily her fault but because there’s no one else to glare at. His plan for this scenario had simply been to send Astoria to the wolves and ignore his second ex-wife at all costs.
Even now, standing closer to her than he has in years, he has no plans to actually speak to her.
“Oh, Pansy,” his mother gushes. She moves over to her ex-daughter-in-law and grabs her hands, holding her arms out to look at her more closely. “You look absolutely stunning! Is this who I think it is?”
Pansy smiles demurely — sickeningly fake and he just barely keeps his scoff inside — and nods. “Elie Saab— who else?”
It’s interesting the way his mother ignores Pansy’s fiancé, as though he’s as noticeable to her as the waitstaff. Not entirely surprising, though, considering her one goal in life seems to be to get him back together with the Wicked Witch of Westminster.
He snorts at his own alliterative joke, inadvertently bringing the attention of the group to himself.
His mother turns to look at him expectantly, her eyes narrowed with a tilt to her head, as if to say, so help me God, Draco. He’s no stranger to that statement but it no longer has the same effect that it once did.
The silence that follows is awkward. His father huffs in annoyance, leaning heavily on his cane, and his mother’s narrowed eyes turn into a stark glare. Astoria winces beside his father, rubbing her fingers over the swell of her belly, as if to soothe herself.
He refuses to look at the pure evil in his ex-wife’s eyes and her fiancé isn’t tall enough to meet his eyeline.
Good riddance.
“Hello, Draco.”
Is it bad that the sound of her voice around his name immediately puts his teeth on edge? Memories swirl of the last few things she’d ever said about him, to him.
No, Draco and I never committed to having a child together.
(A lie.)
Yes, Draco could be violent. He once threw a plate at the wall during an argument and it barely missed me.
(The truth, an accident, for which he had apologized profusely for.)
His sexual appetites are…disgusting. I didn’t feel safe with him.
(He doesn’t know if she really felt that way or had been instructed to say so by her attorney. But, deep down, it felt like a lie.)
Go fuck yourself, Draco.
(As they parted ways for the final time at the doors to the courthouse. Probably heartfelt.)
The best he can do is nod. He’s certain that if he were to open his mouth, all of the disgusting, vile thoughts he’s ever had about his second ex-wife will come tumbling out. His mother is unimpressed but does what she does best and fills the uncomfortable silence, letting go of Pansy and moving to stand beside him again, probably to make sure he doesn’t leave.
“Well, I’m just so pleased you could join us, Pansy. I don’t think I’ve seen you since Paris,” she says, lips tipped up in a smile.
Pansy nods and takes her fiancé’s arm in her claws once more. “Luckily we were back in the country, visiting my parents.”
“Back?” His mother asks. “You’ve moved?”
“Yes, to Paris, actually.” Pansy tugs on her fiancé’s arm. “Viktor is playing for Paris Saint-Germain— the football club.”
Viktor— Krum? He’s not well-versed in the world of football but he does know that name. Regarded as one of the best players in the world, he’s surprised to find him so…lacking in person.
A quick glance at his mother makes it obvious how unimpressed she is.
“Oh,” she mutters, attempting to smile. “That’s…very nice.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees his father shuffle away from Astoria and over to his other side, so he’s sandwiched between his parents. He towers over his mother but his father is still his height, standing next to him and nudging him with his arm.
Draco turns with his brow quirked, taking in his father’s pinched brow and frowning lips. It’s clear that this whole ordeal is his mother’s doing, not his father’s, and he nods at his older lookalike.
When he was a child, he thought his father was the most intimidating person to ever live. With his unfashionably long hair and pristine three-piece suits accompanied by the ever-familiar Malfoy scowl, he was gruff and often impatient as a father.
Not to say that he didn’t love him, because Draco knows he always has, deeply, but he didn’t have an awful lot of time to do childish things with him. He was a busy man, building their wealth through his investment empire and making connections throughout Greater London. Now, as an adult, Draco understands that.
But back then…just a whisper of don’t make me tell your father and he’d smarten right up.
Now, as he takes the time to draw his eyes over him and ignore whatever conversation is happening between his mother and his second ex-wife, his father’s stature doesn’t evoke the same intimidation. His shoulders are pressed more inward and he leans to one side, putting his weight on his cane.
He looks older and frailer and it’s a realization that makes his insides twist. He knows, of course, that he’s getting older and the issues with his knee certainly don’t help, but seeing him in this situation— his mother’s famous luncheon where he was once known for slowly swallowing glass-after-glass of whisky as he sneered and joked his way through dozens of conversations with people he didn’t know or like…
It’s startling. Firstly, because his father seems to be stone-cold sober. Secondly, because he’s oddly quiet.
Over the years, his mother has emerged with the larger voice, with the opinions, and his father has taken a backseat. Happily? Maybe.
He’s just about to ignore his mother’s instructions to stay put and go and find a chair and a whisky for his father, when his mother’s words reach his ears and he fucking loses it.
“Well, I have to say I miss having you around, but as my daughter-in-law, you’re always welcome to stay here when you visit.”
Draco spins to the side with his eyes wide and his chest heaving. He hears a very quiet for fuck’s sake from Astoria.
“Are you serious right now?”
His voice is loud, louder than is appropriate, but he feels like he’s going to have a stroke. Her daughter-in-law ? Really? It makes him shake his head in disbelief while his father attempts to grasp his forearm. He wrenches it out of his grip and turns fully to face his mother.
“I can’t believe you,” he hisses viciously. “That woman is no longer your daughter-in-law. She is nothing to you— not even an insect on the bottom of your shoe—”
“Draco—” Astoria attempts to interrupt, stepping forward to press her palm to his back.
Carefully, he shakes her off. “No! I’m done, mother. I’m finished entertaining this bizarre and inappropriate infatuation you have with my ex-wife. We are divorced for a reason and— no .”
He cuts her off from interrupting, holding his hand out rudely in front of her face, but he’s so angry, nearly apoplectic. He’s shaking in his anger, in his disappointment in her behaviour and her actions and the complete disrespect she’s shown for Hermione.
“I don’t care that you never got a reason for our divorce. All that should matter to you, my mother , is that this relationship was completely and utterly toxic—” he gestures to himself and to Pansy behind him “—for the both of us. I don’t know what else I can say to you other than airing all of our dirty laundry, which is none of your business.”
His mother pouts in that way she always has, the way that’s always helped her get whatever she’s wanted, the way he’s always fallen for before. It must be some kind of super power that mother’s have, guilt.
“I’m allowed to have my own feelings!” She hisses back at him. “You may not believe it but sometimes your mother knows what’s best for you, and I believe you two should have tried harder to save your marriage.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m a grown man, for fuck’s sake.”
“Don’t swear at your mother.”
Draco huffs and continues, ignoring his father’s reprimand. “I can make my own decisions and if I ever need your opinion, I will ask you for it. This is over. We are done— we have been for years now. I don’t ever want to hear you call her your daughter-in-law again, especially not when Hermione is here.”
“Hermione is practically a child,” his mother scoffs, gesturing to the table where Hermione still sits with Theo. “You can’t tell me that this so-called relationship is serious and that you don’t miss Pansy! You were single for so long after your divorce.”
Narcissa reaches around him to grab onto Pansy’s hand, tugging her to stand beside her. Draco glares at them both, fuming. He wouldn’t be surprised if steam was rising from his ears, his cheeks burning in his anger.
Of course he was single for years after his second divorce. He was traumatized! He’d seriously thought, and still sort of does, that he’s simply not meant to be happy— that marriage, for him, will always end in divorce. It wasn’t until he met Hermione that he thought, just maybe, he could have a different, happier ending.
For once.
Maybe this is his fault, leaving this for so long, not explaining even just a little bit more about why they divorced. Maybe he should have been more honest, should have told his parents about the monster that Pansy accused him of being.
Maybe they would have taken his side and forgotten about his black-haired ex-wife.
But…
Maybe they would have agreed, and thought him a monster, too.
Certainly if they knew all the dirty details.
“Well, she looks to be your type,” Pansy mutters, brow arched as she looks at his girlfriend.
“Don’t look at her,” he grumbles, then glares and gestures to the big diamond on her ring finger. “You seem to have found your next pot of money.”
She rolls her eyes in the way she knows he hates . “Oh yes , Draco. I mean, I am just a gold digger looking for my next wealthy partner.”
“I can’t imagine you’d need any more money when you’re walking around with half of mine— and my last name!”
“You gave it to me!” She says loudly, leaning in.
Draco laughs scarily, throwing his head back as though he finds her to be hilarious. “You fucking lied.”
Suddenly, it feels like it used to, when they’d fight and trade rude barbs back and forth because neither of them were willing to back down. Their fights should have tipped him off that their relationships would never work in the long-term, despite the amount of pretending she did.
She never took easily to being told what to do, in any situation, despite making him believe so at first.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” she mumbles quietly under her breath, “but Narcissa…Draco’s right. I have no interest in getting back together with him, just like I know he has absolutely no interest in getting back together with me. If we did one thing right during our marriage it was divorcing. We’re…too different.”
The fucking understatement of the century.
His father steps closer to his mother, gripping her arm in his free hand and turning her to face him. He looks tired, completely and utterly exhausted, no doubt, from some combination of this luncheon and the argument happening here.
He doesn’t pretend to know the ins and outs of his parent’s relationship, nor does he really want to, but it never occurred to him that his father was the levelheaded half. But, perhaps, he is now. Maybe not before, but now…
“Darling, we need to stay out of this,” his father says quietly, looking imploringly at her. “It’s Draco’s business and Draco’s life, not ours.”
“But—”
“Cissa— please. It’s enough. Draco is allowed to make his own decisions. Did we not raise him to think for himself? Do we not trust him to do what’s best for himself?” His father cups his mother’s cheek. “Are you not proud of him?”
She huffs. “Of course I am, Lucius! Why would you even ask that? It has nothing to do with that, I just want what’s best for him.”
“Then listen to me!” Draco explodes. He sees heads turn to look at their group but he ignores them. “Listen to what I’m saying— I am telling you what makes me happy, and that’s Hermione. She makes me feel like I can be myself, mother. She loves me for me and I love her for her. She is…” he tips his head back sucking in a sharp breath, “she is everything that I have ever wanted and it truly hurts me that you refuse to see that.”
His mother purses her lips and he knows it’s on the tip of her tongue to tell him to keep his voice down. To her credit, she doesn’t, just taking in his words.
“You know,” Pansy says in a sing-song voice, stealing away his attention. “If you’d just speak to me, like I asked, then your parents wouldn’t be involved in any of our business.”
Draco shakes his head. “I have no interest in speaking with you— you’re no longer my responsibility.”
“It’s not about responsibility,” Pansy huffs, her arms slapping down at her sides. “What if I had something important to tell you? What if I wanted to apologize to you?”
“I don’t care—”
“You’ve never been open with us,” Narcissa interrupts, not giving up. “If you would just tell us why—”
Draco groans, both hands coming up to cover his face. This is quite literally a nightmare come to life. The only thing he can be thankful for is that Astoria has stayed quiet, not joining in on the pile-on his mother and his second ex-wife have started.
He presses his fingers into his eyes for a few seconds, just until burning spots appear in his vision. Looking down at the floor, he shakes his head and contemplates his words.
“It is none of your business. And if I had any interest in telling you before, I have less than zero interest now.” He shakes his head, a misplaced smile coming to his lips. “Did you not hear what she said? We wanted different things. And now we have those different things— Pansy with her mountain of a fucking diamond on her finger and a partner who I have yet to hear say a single word, and I…I have my Hermione.”
His Hermione. The poor young woman who he’s dragged into the mess that is his life, but who he no longer thinks he can live without. It’s the thought of going home with her, of forgetting about all of this with her, that has kept him going through this argument.
He suddenly needs to put his eyes on her and he turns, seeking her out at the table. What greets him there, though, is close to his second worst nightmare— a head of wild black curls leaning close to Hermione’s tame ones and just the corner of a vicious smile.
“Fucking Bellatrix,” he mutters under his breath, running his palm over the rasp of his beard. “I’m leaving,” he says aloud before correcting himself. “Hermione and I are leaving.” He turns to Pansy. “The polite thing to do would be to stop accepting invitations to my family’s home— but I won’t hold my breath. You never had a polite bone in your body.”
He turns and walks away, his shoulders tense and teeth clenched.
“I still need to speak to you!” He hears Pansy call out. “Draco!”
Looking at his Hermione, it’s never been easier to ignore his ex-wife’s voice.
Hermione swallows uncomfortably under the scrutiny of Draco’s aunt. She is the exact opposite of her sister, black hair to her blond, tall to her short, wild to Narcissa’s demure. Long nails painted a deep red, nearly black, and a surprisingly revealing dress for her age— she’s not sure whether she’s older or younger than Narcissa, not with the cosmetic surgery she knows her boyfriend’s mother has had.
She’d been sitting silently with Theo, doing her best not to turn around and look at what was happening behind her. Once or twice she’d heard a raised voice and assumed it was coming from that group. But, generally, she could pretty much tell that it was going terribly from all of the wincing that Theo did, sitting directly across from her.
His hands were clenched on the table and his eyes were squinted, as though he was afraid of what would happen next. She didn’t ask, just sat there quietly and sipped her champagne. Not because she didn’t want to know, but she’d rather hear it directly from Draco.
That is, until a woman approaches with curly black hair and a cruel smile. She walks toward her as if she owns the place and for a split second she wonders if the woman is related to Lucius in some way.
“Ah, you must be my nephew’s girlfriend,” she says, pulling out the chair next to her and sitting. “So young for him.”
Hermione freezes before nodding slowly. “Um, yes. Yes, I’m Hermione Granger. You’re his…aunt?”
She cackles. “Narcissa’s sister. His Aunt Bella, I’m sure he’s spoken of me.”
“No, actually, he hasn’t.”
Draco’s Aunt Bella narrows her eyes and raises a sharp brow and Hermione wonders whether that was the wrong thing to say. When she looks to Theo for some help, he’s purposely looking elsewhere, ignoring the interaction.
Great, she wants to say, thanks so much.
“You’re 18?”
“No, I’m 21.”
Aunt Bella hums. “No better. Gods, I can’t believe he’s brought you here. Although, Cissy did say that he’s been very argumentative lately. You must be part of this phase he’s going through.”
Hermione doesn’t even know what to say in response. Her mouth has dropped open a touch, surprised by this women’s words— someone who she’s never even met before. It’s something she’s noticed with Draco’s family, and even Draco himself; they all seem quite happy to say what they mean, no matter the scenario.
“Do you have a job?” Aunt Bella asks her, tapping her long nails on the white linen covering the table.
She winces. “I’m in school, graduating shortly with an Honours BA in English Literature.”
“In English?” The older woman laughs. “Well that’s hardly all that impressive, is it? Let me tell you something, dear—” she gestures behind Hermione to where she knows Draco is speaking to his ex-wife “—my nephew has married two beautiful, smart and successful women in the past. I tell you this not to hurt you, but I simply don’t know how you could possibly compare.”
As if to compound her statement, she runs a pointed nail over the side of Hermione’s tamed curls, a pitying look on her face. She’s almost certain that the dark-haired woman does say it to her to hurt her, but Hermione isn’t particularly insulted.
Before she can think of something to say in response, Theo interjects with a surprising ferocity.
“Oh fuck off, would you, Bella?”
Draco’s aunt whips her head around to face Theo and Hermione covers her mouth and the laugh bubbling through, when two hands come down on her shoulders, squeezing gently. She looks up, her chest settling when she sees Draco’s familiar dark-blond beard and his glittering silver eyes.
His jaw is tense and he looks sort of like he’s been to war and back, a haunted look in his eyes.
“My sentiments exactly. Fuck off, Bella.”
Aunt Bella’s mouth pinches and her eyes narrow. “I’m sure your mother will be thrilled when I tell her what you said to me.”
Draco shrugs his shoulders. “I really don’t care. Do whatever you want.”
He reaches down to take Hermione’s hand, pulling her up from the seat. She brushes her hands over her dress, stepping closer to Draco’s body until she’s pressed into his side. His arm curves around her waist, holding her close.
She shudders when he leans down to nuzzle his nose against her neck and shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to the skin. His thumb caresses her waist and he tugs her back from the table as Aunt Bella stalks off in search of her sister, presumably.
“Are you ready to go?” He asks, speaking softly in her ear.
Hermione frowns but nods. “Of course, whenever you want. Are you alright?”
He sighs loudly, deeply, his breath brushing against her bare shoulder and causing a shudder to run the length of her spine. “I will be. Once we’re home and I’ve gotten you out of this dress and into the bath with me.”
“Now that sounds lovely,” she mutters, turning in his arms until they’re pressed together, front-to-front.
Reaching up, she cups the side of his cheek and brushes her thumb over the scruff of his beard. He looks to be on edge, just barely holding on to whatever propriety he possesses.
“Tell me at home?” She asks.
He leans down and presses their foreheads together, nuzzling their noses.
“I will. Let’s go.”
He nods to Theo, still sitting at the table, and they turn to leave, pushing back through the crowd to one of the doorways. She can’t help but look over at Astoria who’s still standing in the circle of Draco’s parents and his second ex-wife, his aunt there now, too.
Astoria frowns and mouths call you later as they walk.
Just as they’re passing the group, her head turning to look in the direction they’re going, she accidentally catches Pansy’s eye. She’s as gorgeous as she thought she’d be, holding herself with a certain amount of entitlement that she finds in Draco, Astoria and Theo.
Her boyfriend’s second ex-wife scans her intently with her eyes, lips pursing as she trails down her body. Hermione looks away and tightens her hold on Draco's hand.
She's not brave enough to make eye contact with either of his parents.
Chapter 35: Obsessive and Possessive
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione isn’t typically clumsy. In fact, she’s never really been one to take a tumble— never really scraped her knee as a child or landed on her hands, leaving her palms raw and gravel-filled. Other than her unfortunate, but also fortunate, injury the night she met Draco, she’s not really one for needing any kind of medical attention.
She’s never had a stay in a hospital, never needed to urgently see her GP other than for the flu or that time she was down for nearly a month with glandular fever during her first year of university (a little gift from Ginny’s brother after she let him stick his tongue down her throat once). She’s lucky that way and she knows it. Still, she remembers as a kid being a little bit envious of the attention given to a girl in her class when she’d broken her arm. For ages she considered that maybe, possibly, an injury of that sort wouldn’t be too bad.
Alright, maybe not her whole arm but…even a toe! A broken toe couldn’t be too painful.
Alas, it was never in the cards for her. She stays out of the A&E, out of the hospital entirely, out of her GP’s office except for her annual (when she remembers it) physical. No cast for her friends to sign or sympathy to gather. Just her perfectly healthy, non-injured, never-broken-a-bone self.
Until, of course, a normal, everyday walk with Ginny, a larger-than-necessary iced coffee in her hand and a tote bag over her shoulder, her sunnies slipping down off her nose as she rummages in her bag for the book she’d just finished reading that her friend had asked to read next. Her sandals are a little bit loose because they’re rubbing against the side of her foot and the pavement is a bit cracked and uneven because…well, it’s London, and her attention is entirely elsewhere when she trips over one of the stupid little cracks and crashes to the ground.
A blinding pain rips through her arm but all she can focus on is the way her iced coffee has exploded on the pavement, splattering her white cotton dress…a complete and total waste of £3.50.
“Oh, fuck.” She hears Ginny’s voice from somewhere above her but her neck is stiff and her temple is pounding. “Shit, Hermione, you’re bleeding. Oh, God.”
She groans and catches sight of her plastic cup, iced coffee pooling on the pavement and pieces of ice scattered about and…she pouts. She hadn’t even been able to take a single sip before she’d ended up sprawled across the pavement. Her mouth has gone all dry and funky and—
“Hermione? Are you even listening to me?” Ginny asks, her voice halfway to a shriek. “Fuck. Oh— fuuuuck, your head. You’re bleeding!”
Her hand automatically comes up to press against the throbbing spot on her temple, rubbing the spot like she might be able to make the ache go away, but when she pulls her hand back she catches sight of something red on her fingertips.
Paling, Hermione gracelessly pushes herself up to sitting and stares unmoving at her fingers, coated in her own blood. “Oh fuck,” she murmurs, mimicking Ginny. “Did I cut myself?”
“Stop moving! You’re getting blood all over your dress!”
She frowns and looks down at the white cotton, twisted awkwardly around her hips and exposing the tops of her thighs, rubbed raw from her pavement landing, until she sees a bright red stain spreading along the material. Her mouth falls open in surprise and shock— how much could her head possibly be bleeding?!
Lifting her hand once more, she touches the throbbing spot on her temple, wincing as she looks at her fingertips, once again coated in fresh, slick blood.
“Oh my god,” she mumbles, her breath coming fast. “Okay…okay…um, head wounds…head wounds bleed a lot! But i-it’s okay. It’s fine!”
Ginny groans, grabbing the hand she’s waving at her face and holding it still. “It’s not from your head, it’s from your arm! Now, stop moving, I’m— I’m going to call an ambulance.”
She frowns, peering down at her arm, finally seeing the jagged, torn skin along her forearm, profusely bleeding and dripping down onto the cotton of her dress. It’s…utterly disgusting. Her stomach clenches at the sight, her arm a mess of blood and bits of gravel, the skin torn. She’s too afraid to look too closely, to see what lies beneath— muscle, bone, sinew.
Her uninjured hand claps over her mouth and she looks away, taking in a deep breath through her nose and closing her eyes shut tight. If she looks at it any longer she’s absolutely going to be sick, right here, fallen down on the pavement next to her spilled iced coffee and a nice big jagged rock that seems to be the culprit for her predicament.
“Don’t call an ambulance,” she mutters, catching sight of Ginny pulling her phone from her pocket. “I, um, I’m okay. I’ll just…I can go on my own.”
Ginny glares at her. “Hermione, no. You’re bleeding literally everywhere and people are staring and no one is just going to ignore you walking down the pavement like this!” She whisper-shouts in a way that makes her feel like she’s being scolded.
“Do not call an ambulance,” she repeats, pushing herself to her knees. “I can walk— there’s nothing wrong with my legs.”
“Well there’s certainly something wrong with your head—”
“Ginny—”
“No! You need to go to A&E—”
Hermione groans, stopping her slow movements to stare up at her friend. “Ginny— listen to me. If you call an ambulance you know where they’re going to take me and I…I cannot go there. He’ll absolutely lose his shit over this.”
Ginny stops, mouth popping open with her hand propped on her hip. “Are you kidding me? Your boyfriend is a doctor, you’re injured, and you don’t want to see him?”
Blowing out a low breath, Hermione holds up her uninjured arm, making grabby hands at Ginny. Clasping her arm, she steadies herself and very carefully, very slowly, pushes herself up to standing. Once she’s relatively balanced on her feet, she cradles her injured arm to her chest.
“You don’t get it, Gin. He’s so protective of me, he’s going to drop whatever he’s doing and he’ll never let me out of his sight again.”
“Well, I don’t really blame him! You look like you’ve been shot!”
Hermione looks down at her dress and grimaces— she’s not wrong. There’s a deep red stain all over the skirt of her dress but also over the bodice, right across her chest where she cradles her arm. It’s odd, though— she doesn’t feel much pain from the gaping cut, not like she should.
Maybe that’s…not a good thing.
“Shit,” she mutters, eyes closing just as she staggers on her feet, swaying. “Shit.”
Ginny wraps her arm around her waist and huffs. “Fine, I won’t call the ambulance. But we’re going to the closest hospital and if you stumble once I will make the call.”
“But that’s—”
“Shut up, Hermione. Someone’s going to think that I shot you.”
They end up tugging her thin sweater from her tote bag, wrapping it around her bleeding arm, and staggering the few blocks to the closest hospital. Ginny has to keep a firm grip on her to stop her from falling because she does stumble, over and over again, feeling suspiciously numb and full of energy. Adrenaline, probably.
The doors to the A&E slide open as they step up to them, immediately hit with a blast of cool air and the distinct disinfectant smell of the hospital that sometimes lingers on Draco’s clothes. She knows that he always showers and changes out of his scrubs before heading home, but sometimes his sweaters carry the nose-wrinkling scent of hospital on them.
Looking around, there are a few people sitting in the waiting room, one looking a little green around the edges with a paper bag in his hand, another clutching their stomach and groaning loudly, and no line at the reception desk. She looks at Ginny who waves her forward, shrugging her shoulders.
“You’d better go up— they’ll take one look at your arm and let you through, lest you bleed all over the place.”
She frowns and lifts her arm, still wrapped and— “Shit,” she says quietly, the fabric soaked through with blood and a few droplets on the floor. “Why won’t it stop bleeding?”
Ginny grabs her uninjured arm and drags her up to the desk. “Uh, maybe because you sliced your arm open? And wouldn’t let me call an ambulance?”
The nurse at the front desk doesn’t look up at them, still typing away on her computer, snapping her gum, until Ginny huffs and knocks on the wooden desk. The nurse continues typing, flashing her eyes to them for hardly a second, before muttering a terse, “Please wait.”
“Sure,” Ginny says sarcastically, waving her hand. “I’ll just let her bloody your floors.”
Hermione pushes Ginny away with her shoulder, holding her injured arm up and waving it, bloody sweater and all.
“Uh, hullo— I’ve, uh, I’ve cut my arm—” she pulls the soiled sweater away from her forearm, showing the nurse the long, bleeding cut “—obviously, I mean. Um, yes, so, I think it’s too deep for a bandage and, I don’t know, maybe it needs a stitch or two?”
The nurse looks at her with wide eyes as she finally looks at the bleeding cut on her arm. She stands, a pen clattering to the desk, and moves around to where she stands. She keeps her hands spread out, not reaching to touch her, but steps up, peering at the cut.
Ginny taps her foot impatiently but before she can say anything, another familiar voice chimes in from behind.
“Uh oh.”
Whipping her head to the side she sees none other than her boyfriend’s good friend and fellow doctor, Blaise. She winces, but it’s not from the pain lancing through her arm— this is exactly what she was trying to avoid.
“Shit, Hermione. Let me call Draco,” he mutters, moving around the nurse and behind the desk. “Actually,” he says, turning to the nurse, “can you page Doctor Malfoy for me?”
The nurse nods her head but before she can reach for the phone, Hermione’s uninjured arm shoots out. “No! Um…no, no. I’m just fine. He doesn’t need to— I’m sure he’s really busy and this is just a small cut.”
Blaise laughs. Loudly. “Yeah…that’s not going to happen. Besides the fact that this is not a small cut, he’ll have my head if he finds out I knew you were here but didn’t tell him.”
“Told you…” Ginny mumbles at her side, eyes rolling. “You’re just going to have to deal with your overprotective doctor boyfriend knowing that you’re in his hospital. I mean, think of the pampering! You should be excited.”
Hermione groans and stomps her foot like a child throwing a tantrum. “You don’t get it— it won’t be a few days of pampering it’ll be—”
“What?” Ginny asks with a laugh. “Your whole life? Oh, poor you. You know, some of us have boyfriends who sick up at the sight of blood.”
Coming around the desk, Blaise takes her arm in his hand and gently removes the soiled sweater, tossing it on the desk, and peers at the long cut. He shakes his head and turns back to the nurse. “Admit her and get her into a bed. I’ll suture it.”
The nurse nods as Blaise walks away then peers at her. “Lucky girl. It’s not everyday the Head of Plastics sews up an arm.”
She shakes her head and huffs. “This is exactly what I didn’t want.”
“You’re the one who chose to date a doctor.”
Hermione winces, her arm pulsing and the numbness she’d previously felt fading away. The nurse had gotten her admitted and set her up in a bed in the corner, the curtains pulled around it to give her some semblance of privacy. They’d moved a table of sorts over and laid her arm across it, the cut facing out.
The nurse had spent ages staunching the bleeding with cloth dressing, keeping pressure on the wound until the bleeding had turned sluggish. She’d swallowed heavily at the amount of blood-soaked dressings that had come away, turning to look at Ginny instead who sat just on the other side of the bed.
“You’re not going to sick up are you?” She asks, looking at her friend’s face.
Ginny rolls her eyes. “No, who do you think I am, Harry?”
She winces again, the pain getting stronger in her arm and making her wiggle on the bed.
Blaise eyes her as he wiggles his fingers into a pair of gloves. “It’s the adrenaline fading. I’m going to numb the area in just a minute, alright? You won’t feel a thing. Let me just take a look at your head first— I think a little bandage should do the trick, it doesn’t look very deep. Mostly superficial.”
She keeps still as he leans forward to move her hair out of her face, carefully patting the cut on her forehead dry with some gauze. It doesn’t hurt, at least, not compared to her arm, and as far as she knows it stopped bleeding almost immediately. He picks up a bandage from the tray of medical tools and she winces.
“I don’t like needles,” she mumbles, eyes glued to the instrument tray that’s filled with the exact thing she’s afraid of. “Never have.”
Pressing the bandage to her forehead he gives her what she thinks is supposed to be a reassuring smile before turning, picking up a light blue cloth and draping it over her arm, until only the cut is left exposed. Rolling over a stool, he sits down and rolls his shoulders, as though settling in for a while. She swallows uncomfortably at the thought and hopes this doesn’t take too long.
“Do you want me to wait for Draco?” He asked. “The bleeding has stopped, so I don’t mind.”
“No, no. I know you must be busy and you’re already taking time of out of your day so stitch up my arm— which, by the way, is totally unnecessary Mr. Head of Plastic Surgery.”
Blaise grinned. “It’s Doctor Head of Plastic Surgery, actually.”
“Oh, pardon me
A pair of heavy footsteps sound, like someone is running, and she stares at Blaise with wide eyes because she knows exactly who it is. It’s of no surprise to her when seconds later the curtains are being shoved open by a heavily-panting figure clad in blue scrubs, silver eyes narrowed and blond hair unruly.
Hermione attempts to smile, as if there isn’t a gaping gash across her forearm, but it does nothing to calm her boyfriend.
“Why didn’t you call me?!”
“Dr—”
“I would have come to get you.”
“Dra—”
“What were you doing? Running? I told you not to run on the pavement— it’s uneven, baby.”
“Draco—”
“Oh fuck, baby. Your arm! What the hell happened? You’re supposed to call me when something happens! You know that! We’ve talked about it! A hundred times! What do you do when you’re hurt?”
“Call you, but—”
“Exactly! You’re supposed to call me—”
Blaise sighs as he watches the two of them — Draco intent on admonishing her — and stands from his rolling chair, motioning for Ginny to join him as they duck out of the curtained area. He yanks them closed behind him to give them some privacy and Hermione takes advantage of it.
“Daddy! ”
He stops, running his hand through his hair again. “Oh, baby. Are you in pain? Didn’t Blaise give you something? Hang on, let me get him—”
“Stop!” She hisses, reaching out with her uninjured hand to grab onto his scrubs. “Daddy, just stop. Please. I’m alright, I promise.”
Draco crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at her, at her words, at her tone of voice. She’s never spoken like that to him but her arm hurts and she doesn’t feel like being admonished for something she didn’t even do. She pouts at him, waiting until his face relaxes, his eyes no longer narrowed, his brows no longer pinched.
“Please, Daddy. It hurts and I just want to go home.”
His eyes close and he curses quietly under his breath. “Of course. Of course, baby. I’m sorry, I got carried away. Let me get Blaise back in here.”
She nods and relaxes back against the bed. All she wants is her Daddy to hold her and block Blaise and his stupid needles from view. Then, she wants to go home and curl up on his chest with her stuffed elephant and a movie.
Without another word, Draco yanks the curtain open and orders Blaise back inside. “I’m going to get the lounger, it’ll be easier.” He turns to face her. “I’ll be right back and then I’ll sit with you, alright? We’ll get this all cleaned up.”
Ginny wanders back inside their little curtained off area with wide eyes and a look of surprise. Coming over to her side, she bends down and mutters, “I see what you mean now. Gods, maybe my squeamish boyfriend isn’t so bad.”
“I told you,” she says under her breath, closing her eyes and breathing through the pain lancing through her arm. “He’s just…protective.”
“Yeah, overprotective.”
Hermione shrugs, not arguing. He is overprotective, there’s no denying it.
A scraping sound comes from outside of the curtains until Draco swipes them back open, dragging a heavy-looking chair with an attached table on the side. He settles it beside the bed and extends the cushion at the legs until it looks like the lounger in her parent’s house, the one her dad falls asleep in after dinner.
He’s gentle as he pulls back the thin blanket on the bed and tugs her legs to the edge, until she’s sitting on the side. As she gets ready to stand, though, he surprises her by lifting her up, being careful of her arm, and turning to fall back into the chair. She lands on top of him with a small oof, wiggling to get comfortable.
“Really?” Blaise asks, taking a seat on his rolling stool again. “I hardly think this is sanitary.”
Draco’s arms squeeze tighter around her waist. “Just drape over me, I won’t move. I’m not sitting anywhere else.”
Her cheeks heat with a blush as Draco effectively traps her against him, moving the small attached table so it’s just beside where her arm rests, still wrapped in layers of gauze. Blaise shakes his head but clearly finds the issue not worth fighting over, and drapes a blue cloth over the table before setting her arm on top.
“No more moving, alright?” He says kindly, looking at them both. “Once you’re draped, that’s my sterile field.”
Hermione nods her chin, holding herself still as he peels the gauze from her arm. She immediately turns her head to the side, not wanting to see how deep the cut is or any of the blood. Ginny makes a small yuck sound from the other side and she wrinkles her nose.
“No noises!” She tells her friend, glaring at her. “I don’t think Blaise will appreciate me being sick on his sterile field.”
“I will not,” he says in a clipped tone.
Ginny apologizes. “I’ll just move to the other side— maybe I’m squeamish.”
Blaise continues to drape around her wound, across Draco’s own arm and over her chest. He’s quiet and focused, a new pair of surgical gloves on his hands as he picks up the needle, one with a plunger, and looks at her with a smile.
“I’m just going to numb the area, alright? Maybe it’s best if you turn away, if you don’t like needles like you said.”
She nods and Draco squeezes her tightly around her waist once, dipping his face into the crook of her neck. He presses his lips to her throat and mutters softly in her ear. “It’ll all be fine, baby. Just squeeze my hand, alright? It’ll just take a second.”
Hermione winces at the feeling of the needle, poking in once near the top of the cut and once at the bottom, tensing her legs and gritting her teeth. Draco rubs his thumb over her uninjured hand and she knows if Blaise hadn’t been so serious about them not moving, he’d be rocking her.
“Good girl,” he says softly again. “All done— we’ll just give it a few moments and then you won’t feel a thing.”
Letting out a shaky breath, she opens her eyes and looks at Ginny sitting in another chair with her phone in her hand. She scrunches up her nose and pouts, her universal symbol that she’s about to ask for something.
“Talk about something,” she demands, resting her chin on Draco’s bicep. “Anything.”
Her friend grimaces. “Um, alright. Uhhhh— might be pregnant.”
Draco’s arms tighten around her as if he knows her first reaction is to launch herself up and out of the chair. Her eyes go wide and her mouth falls open as she stares at her best friend. Ginny smiles awkwardly and laughs, as though it isn’t a huge deal.
“You’re what?!”
“Maybe! Just maybe, I dunno.” Her friend shrugs her shoulders, leaning back inn her chair like she doesn’t have a single care in the world.
“Are you late?”
“A few days, yeah.”
“Why aren’t you freaking out more?!”
She rolls her eyes. “I told myself when we started playing hard and fast with contraceptives that I couldn’t freak out if this happened.”
Hermione shakes her head in disbelief, looking down at Ginny’s midsection. “So…”
She raises her brows. “So?”
“Aren’t you going to take a test?”
“Is there any point? I mean, at some point I’m either going to get my period or I’m not, so…”
Draco huffs beneath her, moving slightly, enough to tell her that he’s getting ready to give them a lecture if they give him an opening. God knows she’s been lectured enough about scheduling an annual and the importance of yearly blood work. She decides that, as the injured party, it’s her right to see Draco lecture someone else.
“Draco? Any thoughts?” She asks, trying to hide her grin. “Any…doctor information to share?”
“Plenty,” he mutters. “Not sure if you really want me to share though.”
She hears Blaise moving on her other side, shuffling something around, but does her best to ignore him. “Oh no, I do. I really, really do.”
He takes a deep breath before asking his first question. “What exactly does that mean— playing hard and fast with contraceptives?”
Ginny shifts in the chair. “Oh, like, I don’t always take my pill and I literally have no idea when the last time we used a condom was.”
“Oh dear God,” she hears Draco whisper, shaking his head behind her. “Alright, but…why?”
“Forgetful,” Ginny says with a shrug. “Depends on the day, really.”
There’s a light snicker from Blaise and Hermione scrunches up her nose again. “Please don’t laugh while you’re sewing me up.”
“Not laughing at you,” he mumbles. “Just never really heard that before— depends on the day. You know, there’s other kinds of contraceptives that don’t depend on the day.”
Draco straightens a little bit underneath her. “Exactly what I was going to say. Ginny— I can get you in with a GP who can talk to you about other kinds of contraceptives. Perhaps the shot or an IUD, something that just…works without relying on your memory.”
Hermione does her best not to giggle. Not because she finds her friend’s situation funny necessarily, but because she can’t keep a straight face at Ginny’s expression. Her brows are lifted and cheeks a little bit red, as though she’s talking to her parents about sex, and she supposes it is sort of like that.
Draco’s an adult, a real, grownup adult, and a doctor. Talking to him about her maybe pregnancy and the fact she can’t remember to take a pill every day is no doubt embarrassing. Normally, she’d swoop in and save the day, get Draco talking about something else. But this is…enjoyable.
“Oh, um, no, no. That’s fine. I have a GP, actually—”
“A test then,” Draco interrupts. “We could do it right now, I can get the nurse over.”
“Is that really necessary?” She asks, tangling her fingers together. “I really don’t think—”
“Yes,” both Draco and Blaise say. “It’s necessary.”
Before she can respond again, Draco takes the buzzer hanging off the wall in his free hand and clicks it, calling for the nurse. “It’ll be fast and easy, just a little bit of blood and you’ll know for certain.”
The curtain parts and a nurse pokes her head in. She’s older with blondish-brown hair, her brows raised in surprise when she sees them sitting together. There’s a bright smile on her face until she realizes that Blaise is currently working on her forearm.
“Oh no,” she mutters, stepping forward into their little curtained area. Her eyes flick down, taking in the way she’s sitting on Draco’s lap, and it’s only then she realizes how strange it must look, a patient sitting on a doctor’s lap, scrubs and all. “Oh! Doctor Malfoy, is this her?”
He clears his throat. “Her? Oh, yes, Joanne, this is Hermione. Hermione, this is Joanne, she’s—”
“His favourite nurse!”
Hermione smiles and waves with her free hand. “Hello.”
Joanne waves back and sets her hands on her hips. “Did you need something, dear?”
“Actually,” Draco says, getting her attention, “can you take this young woman for a pregnancy test? Blood, please.”
Joanne quirks her head to the side just as she feels a strange tugging sensation on her arm. It’s only natural to turn her head to look but Draco quickly stops her with the side of his head, blocking her from seeing what Blaise is doing. The tugging continues and her breath hitches, thoughts of her arm being sewn plaguing her mind.
“Don’t look, baby. Sorry— I should have warned you. The anesthetic blocks the feeling but you may still feel tugging or pulling. Just let Blaise work and try to ignore it. He’s almost finished, right, Blaise?”
The other doctor makes a humming sound. “Yep, almost done, Hermione. Just stay still for me.”
“Am I putting your name on the order?” Joanne asks, eyebrow raised. “Or Dr. Zabini?”
“Mine,” Draco clarifies. “Would you run it down to the lab for me, too? We’d like to get the result as soon as possible so they can head home.”
The nurse smiles and nods her head, a hint of a blush coming to her cheeks like she has a crush on her boyfriend. She peeks over Draco’s head just to look at Blaise’s face and raises her eyebrow in question. He snickers and waits until Joanne leaves with Ginny in tow.
“They’re all crushing on him. Bastard gets everything he asks for,” he faux-grumbles, winking at Draco. “S’alright, though. Anytime I need a favour I just ask him.”
“You have enough favour with the nurses on your own,” Draco mutters, sighing behind her. “Joanne is just…protective of me.”
Blaise snorts. “I can never tell if she wants to mother you or fu—”
“Stop,” Draco hisses, shooting a glare at his friend. “That’s not true!”
“Seems kinda true,” Hermione says softly, laughing. “But it’s okay, I can share you with Joanne.”
He rubs her uninjured arm soothingly with his thumb and scoffs. “Believe me, baby, there’s no sharing happening. Besides, I definitely don’t have the time for it, especially not if you’re running around London getting yourself injured.”
“It wasn’t my fault! I was just walking — I wasn’t running! — and I tripped on the pavement. It was an accident, honest!”
She leaves out the part where she was beyond distracted, digging through her tote bag with one hand while her sunnies slid down her face and her sandals slipped from her foot and— well, it doesn’t matter. It was an accident! She wasn’t being intentionally unsafe, just…unintentionally.
Draco clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Fucking pavement.”
She snorts out a laugh. It’s not every day that her Daddy swears, especially not the fuck word. Once in a while she catches a muttered shit if he stubs his toe or drops something on the ground, but fuck? No way. Not unless they’re, y’know, doing things.
“Yeah!” She agrees, digging her teeth into her bottom lip to make the F sound and mimic him. “Ffff—”
“No,” he says sternly, tightening his arms around her waist again. “C’mon, you don’t need to say that.”
“You said it,” she mumbles, turning to look at Blaise and roll her eyes.
“Yeah, well…” he trails off, but she knows the words I’m the Daddy are on the tip of his tongue, where they stay as long as Blaise is around them. “It’s a bad habit.”
As if he knows there are things being left unsaid, Blaise clears his throat and the sound of something metal clangs against the small tray of instruments. She cautiously looks down at her injured arm only to see the gaping wound sewn up in a straight line with very neat stitches.
Hermione peers at the stitches, counting them up in her mind.
“Eight stitches,” Blaise says with a nod. “They’re as clean and straight as you’re going to get. You should have very minimal scarring. Now, I’m going to put some antibiotic cream on it and then a bandage. Keep it clean and dry for the next 24 hours. In about a week, let Draco take a look and he can determine whether they should be taken out. Sound good?”
Hermione nods, still staring at her arm. “Sounds good. Thank you so much, Blaise. I really appreciate it— you didn’t have to—”
“Yes, he did,” Draco interrupts, pushing the footrest down so they can sit up. “No scars for my baby.”
Hermione looks down at her uninjured arm, opening her hand to look at her scarred palm— a memory of the night she first met Draco. Normally, she’d agree with him. There’s an ugly little scar on her right knee that she’d love to magic away and another on her elbow that always stands out when she gets a tan. But some scars…well, some of them are okay.
Draco notices her looking and drags the tips of his fingers over the scar, tickling her palm. “I suppose that one’s alright, though.”
“I kinda like it,” she admits, watching his index finger trace down the length of the scar. “It means something.”
Blaise finishes bandaging her arm before stepping away with the tray of instruments. With Draco’s hands on her hips, steadying her, she carefully stands and stretches. She’s sore and stiff from her fall and the only thing she wants to do is sink into Draco’s couch.
As she turns, Draco stands and pull his phone from his pocket before he leans close to softly press his lips against hers. It’s gentle, like he’s afraid of hurting her, but still makes her feel cared for. It’s only when he pulls back, fingers pressing her curls behind her ear, that he frowns.
“Shit. I didn’t even notice your head— baby…” he frowns, his thumb just barely rubbing the edge of the cut. “Why didn’t you call me? Hm? Why did the desk page me? I would’ve come to get you.”
“You were working,” she says. “I just didn’t want to worry you. It was only a cut.”
“A deep cut,” he corrects, softly rubbing his thumb over the edge of the bandage. “Did you call an ambulance, at least?”
Hermione scrunches up her eyes and presses her fist to her face. There’s no version of this that goes well, that doesn’t get her a lecture about taking care of herself. But in the moment she was so adamant that she could make it, that it wasn’t that bad.
Mostly, she didn’t want to accidentally tear Draco away from a potentially lifesaving procedure. Don’t get her wrong, she likes how possessive he is and the way he takes care of her, how he wants to know where she is at absolutely every minute of the day. But other people rely on him and she couldn't bear the thought of being responsible for someone else not getting the care they deserve.
“We walked,” she mumbles, staring down at her shoes. "It wasn't very far."
Their little curtained-off area goes silent and she can’t bring herself to look at him. It was the wrong choice, she knows that. She knew it then but…her stubbornness won out.
“You walked!?”
“Daddy—”
He reaches out and grips her waist. “No, no, you walked here? Bleeding? Hermione—” his head falls back and his eyes close as if he’s completely and totally exasperated with her. “What were you thinking?”
“I…” she trails off, looking at the curtains and hoping that someone will come and interrupt them. When the curtains stay still, she glances at her boyfriend’s very serious, very stern face. “I guess I…wasn’t, but—”
“Not pregnant!”
Her head whips back to the curtains, Ginny now standing between the two open sides with a big smile on her face. She dances side-to-side and raises her arms in the air, waving them around like she’s cheering for her favourite sports team.
Draco’s hand falls from her waist but the frown remains and Hermione takes the opportunity to walk over to her friend, wrapping her in a hug. She squeezes her tightly, both relieved for the redhead and for the chance to abandon her conversation with Draco.
“Oh thank God,” she mutters into Ginny’s shoulder before pulling back and lightly shoving her. “Take the pill! Or get something else— the last thing you and Harry need right now is a kid.”
Ginny laughs. “Tell me about it. Can’t make any promises though, when the moment feels right…”
They’re interrupted by Draco’s pager going off, a loud repetitive beeping that has Hermione wincing, too many memories of the thing going off in the middle of the night. The beeping noise is always accompanied by a kiss to her forehead and mumbled words that never really connect with her brain.
This time, she’s met with a soft curse from her boyfriend, his hand on his hip, bicep straining against his scrubs, as he tucks his pager back into his pocket. He scrubs a hand through his already messy hair and moves closer to them.
“I’m getting paged for an emergency— Ginny, do you mind heading back to my flat with Hermione?” He asks, resting his palm on her lower back. When Ginny nods, he digs his wallet out of his pocket and plucks one of his many credit cards from the leather. “Use my card for a ride home. Make sure she’s settled, grab dinner if you want, and then use my card to get a car home. I really appreciate you helping Hermione and making sure she made it here despite her copious protests.”
“I can get home on my own—”
Draco laughs, patting her back and squeezing her to his side. “Yeah, no baby. I don’t think so. I’ll see you at home, hopefully not too late.” He leans down to press a kiss to her forehead before tilting her chin up, staring into her eyes. “I expect to find you either on the couch or in bed, understand?”
Hermione nods, pressing her lips together. “I understand.”
“Good.”
When Draco unlocks the door to his flat, stepping into the front hallway and quietly closing the door behind him, the place is dark and quiet. He carefully puts his keys down on the small table near the door and toes off his shoes before moving further into his flat. Just as he moves past the wall, the flickering light from the television illuminates the couch, lights glancing off the windows.
His socked feet are quiet as he moves around the couch, peeking down to look at his girlfriend who is…not sleeping. Instead, she’s staring up at him with wide eyes, her arm laying out flat with a clutter of two water bottles, an empty salad bowl, half-finished pasta and a bag of chips on the coffee table. Her stuffed elephant sits beside the water bottles, as if he's watching over her. He shakes his head at the mess but ignores it, the weight of the day making him want to collapse on the couch with her.
But he’s a Daddy and he’s careful, so he gently moves her feet before plopping down, letting them settle in his lap. Leaning back, he closes his eyes and cups her foot in his palm, digging his thumb into her arch.
“I want to be mad with you,” he admits, sighing. “But I’m too tired. And you’re hurt. And I just want to cuddle you.”
She’s quiet, only the sound of her breathing filling the space. The TV is silent, too, only flashing colours slipping through his eyelids, and he realizes she must’ve muted it when she heard him coming inside. Opening his eyes, he peeks at her and takes note of the way she winces.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Huffing, he pats her foot and turns his head, staring at her. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she says firmly, pushing up to a sitting position. “I am. Not for falling because that really was an accident, but for not calling you or letting Ginny call an ambulance. I just…I didn’t want to make a big deal.”
“Your health and safety is always a big deal, Hermione. Always.” He shakes his head and leans into the side of the couch, opening his arms. “Come here, please.”
She does, crawling over to him, careful not to put any weight on her arm or to knee him between the legs, but soon she’s settled on top of him, her cheek against his chest and legs fitting between his. He groans, happy to have her in his arms, to smell her shampoo and curl his fingers around her waist, just underneath her shirt.
After a day like he’s had, not only the stress and urgency of other people's emergencies, but the realization that his little girl was there, that she’d been hurt and in pain, that he almost didn’t know, that he couldn’t leave with her to take her home…he closes his eyes and breathes her in. Feels something in his chest finally settle into place.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you home,” he tells her quietly, lips brushing against her curls. “I wanted to, baby, I really did. You have no idea what it was like to see you there like that. And then to find out that you didn’t want to call me…”
“It wasn’t like that,” she says, lifting her head. “I mean, I guess, it was but I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I wanted you there, of course I wanted to just bury my head and let you deal with it and make me feel better but you were working—”
“So?”
“So, other people are relying on you! Draco, you can’t tell me you spend your days suturing arms. You do surgery— long surgeries for people suffering from traumas like bullet wounds and car accidents.”
He grunts. “That’s besides the point, Ginny told me it was because you worried I’d be too overprotective.”
Hermione falls silent and his heart thumps erratically in his chest. It’s his biggest fear come true, that his protectiveness, his care, is too stifling. That she withheld something from him to avoid his nature, to avoid dealing with his questions and his concerns, his need to Daddy her, to completely immobilize her until she’s safe and healthy again.
After they’d left, after he’d finished the surgery he’d been paged for but before his next emergency page, he’d texted Ginny just to make sure that Hermione was alright. Not because he didn’t believe her, or thought that there was something nefarious afoot, but to make sure that she’d settled in at his flat and wasn’t feeling any pain and had something to eat.
Ginny
Ginny: yep, she's settled on the couch
Ginny: we've ordered pasta and salads
Ginny: and she took one of the pills that the doctor prescribed
Draco: I'm hoping I won't be too much longer. Next time, I would appreciate it if you'd call me if something happens.
Ginny: if hermione says not to then i won't, girl code and all that
Draco: She said not to call me?
Ginny: best you two talk about it but she seemed worried about your overprotectiveness
“She told you that?” Hermione asks.
Draco nods, chin brushing the top of her head. “She did. I wasn’t prying, I just wanted to see how you were. If that’s really how you feel, then—”
“No!” She scrambles up, wincing when she leans on her arm and he grabs her, steadying her with his hands on her hips until she’s straddling his stomach.
“Watch your arm,” he says sternly. “I mean it, Hermione.”
“I know, sorry, I just…no! That’s not how I meant it. It’s not…it’s not a bad thing. I like that you’re overprotective, I do, I swear. I just…in the moment…”
He stays quiet, waiting for her to continue. Waiting for her to assuage his fears. Unsure if she’ll be able to.
“Draco, I love you and I love how protective you are and how much you care about me, but I never want it to interfere with your work. You know when people say that, like, their jobs aren’t life or death? Well yours is. I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. What if you were working on someone? What if an emergency came in and…I don’t know, you were the only doctor who could operate but you were adamant about seeing me and my stupid little cut?”
“It’s not a little cut, Hermione.”
She groans and leans forward, the top of her head meeting his sternum.
“When I fell, at first, it seemed too small to go to you about, almost like if I got a papercut and called you. Because I know that you would drop everything for me, that you’d wash it and bandage it and kiss it better. You’d probably take the time off of work if I looked pathetic enough— right?”
He can’t deny it. He would.
“See? If I’d…had my arm blown off, I would have made Ginny call you.”
Draco frowns and rubs his thumbs over the warm skin of her hips and belly. “It’s not funny.”
She lifts her head and can’t hide her little smile, which makes his lips perk up, too. God, her smile and her laugh is infectious and he falls for it every single time. “It’s a little funny. Just… I’m sorry, Draco— Daddy. I am. I didn’t want you to worry and I knew you would. I knew you’d do exactly what you did today, busting in there like I was missing a limb instead of just needing stitches.”
He swallows uncomfortably. “So, you don’t want that?”
“No, I do! I do want that. When you’re not busy saving lives. When you’re with me or just at the shops or we’re going for a walk. When we’re here— I want your full attention.” She pouts and reaches out with her uninjured arm to cup his cheek, fingers brushing against his beard. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Daddy. It wasn’t my intention.”
He nods in acceptance of her apology. His heart is no longer racing and his chest doesn’t feel so tight. He understands where she was coming from, even if he doesn’t agree with it, doesn’t think it’s necessary. But he gets it— he knows it’s something that spouses of surgeons contend with every day. Trying to decide what’s important enough to bother their surgeon spouse with, especially if they’re working.
It’s not a new problem and it’s not something that will easily go away, but at least he knows now that it’s something she thinks about, that she takes it into account when they’re apart. He wishes she wouldn’t, that she’d be selfish and pull him from whatever he’s doing, but she’s not like that. His Hermione is as selfless as they come.
“I understand what you’re saying, but I’m just going to remind you that I’m the Daddy in the relationship. Alright? You don’t need to Daddy me. I am protective of you, you’re right, and I would have dropped everything as soon as it was safe to do so. As it was, I was in my office, not working on anyone. But I do understand the requirements of my job, OK?”
He tips her chin up with his finger until he’s looking into her eyes, a soft smile on his lips, trying not to come across as angry. Because he's not, not really, he just wants her to know that he's not liable to go off the rails if she's injured, he's perfectly capable of looking at the situation as a whole.
“I know it may not seem like it with you, but I am quite measured in my responses, especially when it comes to work. Believe me, baby, I wouldn’t leave someone open on the table to come look at a papercut. I need you to trust me on that.”
“I do. Sorry, I didn’t mean to Daddy you.”
Draco rubs his thumb over her bottom lip. “It’s alright. I know it’s hard. Now, do you want Daddy to kiss your arm better?”
She smiles at him, so open and happy at his question, and nods eagerly as he wraps his fingers around her arm, just under the edge of the bandage. He’d watched Blaise carefully as he’d sewn up his girl, happy with the uniformity of the stitches and the prognosis— he was almost positive he could take them out in about a week.The cut had been deep but not so deep that his friend had to complete two layers of stitches, just one.
Carefully, he pulls her arm up to his lips and presses a kiss to the bandage, being careful not to put any actual pressure on the wound. She sighs happily, still straddling his stomach, and seems to relax down on him. Peppering kisses up her arm, he presses himself up until he can wrap his arms around her, tugging her down against his chest again.
“You were very brave with Blaise today. Such a good girl. Listening to Blaise and to Daddy, staying as still as you could.”
She huffs softly against the soft material of his t-shirt. “I didn’t like the tugging.”
“It feels a bit funny, doesn’t it?” He asks, rubbing his hand up and down her back. “But it’s better than feeling the stitches, right?”
She agrees, resting her cheek against him as her eyes move to the television. There’s some kind of cartoon movie on, something bright that makes his eyes hurt a little bit after so many hours in the A&E underneath bright fluorescent lights.
They’re quiet for a while, just the sound and feeling of her breathing against him, the television still muted but she watches intently, reading the subtitles. His hand runs gently up and down her back, over the notches of her spine and up along her shoulder blades. Finally, he settles it across her lower back, pressing his thumb against the tense muscles until she squirms, trying to get more comfortable.
When she speaks next, it catches him off guard.
“I do need you, you know. More than is probably healthy.”
“Nonsense,” he mutters. “I’m a doctor, I know what’s healthy.”
Hermione scoffs and he just knows that she’s rolling her eyes. “I just mean…I don’t want you to ever think that I don’t want your attention. I want it all the time — all the time, Daddy — but I worry that I'm asking for too much from you. That I'm too much."
“Hey,” he says softly, fingers coming to rest under her chin. “Look at me.”
She does, turning her head until her chin is pressing into his chest. She’s biting her bottom lip and her eyes are wide and a bit watery, like she’s on the verge of crying.
“I want you to need me. Actually, I need you to need me. Hermione— if you’d let me, I would do absolutely everything for you. I’d pick you up and carry you everywhere, I’d never let you hold a utensil again because I’d be feeding you, I’d even take you to the toilet, baby. I’m a very capable wiper.”
She grimaces. “Ew, Daddy. I did not need to know that.”
Draco laughs. “I’m just saying— whatever you think is too much probably doesn’t even scratch the surface. I love every single piece of you, every inch of your skin, every sound of your voice, every speck of your spit.”
Hermione’s fighting a smile now and it makes him grin.
“I will happily admit that my love for you is possessive, Hermione— obsessive, even. I want you near me all the time, so much that I know it’s probably too much. If I had it my way, we would hole up here or I’d take you back to Wiltshire, kick my parents out, and we’d never leave again. I would keep you reliant on only me, needy for me, because deep down…” he shakes his head and questions whether he should really be telling her all this. “There’s something inside of me that craves you, Hermione, and only you.”
He shrugs as best he can lying down. “As it is…we exist in the real world and I have a job and you have school and I can’t do that. So,” he says, brushing his knuckles over her cheek, “instead, I’ll take anything you’re willing to give me.”
She looks a bit frightened at his words. Wide-eyed with parted lips and a jumpy heart, thumping against his chest. But when he asks her, “Did I scare you?” she shakes her head and leans down to press a kiss to his shoulder.
“No, Daddy. I…I feel the same way, but the opposite? It’s like you want to hover around me, to cover me up from the world, but I want to crawl inside of you.” She grimaces at her words. “God, we’re a bit messed up, aren’t we?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, “I’m a doctor, I know what’s messed up and it’s definitely not us.”
"I just said I want to crawl inside of you."
"Yeah," he agrees, "but only metaphorically."
She's quiet and he pauses, waiting for her agreement. When it doesn't come he looks down at her. "Right?"
"I dunno, Daddy. You do seem awfully warm and comfortable..."
She trails off just as his fingers find her middle, digging in and tickling her, careful of her arm. "Silly girl!"
He finally pulls his hands back, holding her close to his chest and breathing her in again. It's like he needs the scent of her to breathe, to exist.
As she calms down, her fingers clutching the material of his t-shirt, she mumbles against him, "You took time off of work, didn't you?"
"I did," he says. "Just a few days."
Her sigh is tired but happy. "Good," she mumbles, "that makes me happy."
Notes:
glandular fever is mono
thank you all for still sticking around 💗
eta: no update schedule, not abandoned, just taking my time…
find me elsewhere.
Chapter 36: Guilt
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The coffee maker brews quietly as the newly risen sun shines through the windows of his flat, bathing everything in a subtle golden glow. The sunrise was one of the reasons he’d chosen this particular flat; the amenities had been nice, sure, but it was the eastward-facing corner flat with full-length windows on two sides and the promise of unending sunrises that really sold it to him.
He’s always preferred the sunrise to the sunset. The reminder of new beginnings and hope. The fact that no matter how terrible something seems to be, how awful he feels or how unfair life has been to someone in his A&E, the sun will rise again in the morning and bring with it a new day, new challenges and new potential.
Of course, his sunrise glow is quickly ruined by the quick tapping-knock on his door.
It’s early, hardly half-past-six in the morning, but Draco’s biological clock has him up and ready for the day. Hermione is still snuggled in bed, sleeping soundly with the odd small, cute snore. The painkiller that Blaise had prescribed, an ibuprofen with codeine, had both dulled the ache in her arm and quickly lulled his girl to sleep.
Scrubbing a hand over his scruffy jaw, Draco pads down the hallway on slippered-feet and to his front door. It feels a little like deja-vu when he opens it and his ex-wife pushes in, a pair of oversized black sunglasses covering her eyes and her Neverfull hanging off her shoulder. Nearly a year ago she’d shoved her way into his flat with a giant iced coffee in her hand and told him in no uncertain terms to go after the girl who had so-infatuated him.
This time there’s no iced coffee and he gets bumped by the big swell of her belly, jutting out in front of her.
He stumbles back, blinking wildly at the sight of her, dark hair a little wild and frizzy, like she’s not yet run a brush through it, which is…unheard of. Without saying a single word, she huffs and shoulders her way past him, moving through his flat like she owns the place, which she absolutely does not.
“Um,” he mumbles, scratching at his bare chest with blunt nails. “Good morning?”
“Ha!”
Draco freezes at the loud, sarcastic laugh and carefully closes the front door. “Bad morning?”
He watches as she dumps her Neverfull on the kitchen island and pushes her dark glasses up into her hair, climbing onto one of his barstools. She leans her side against the island and rests one hand beneath her belly, too large now to simply call a bump. He’d never say it outright, but she looks exhausted with dark purple circles and sickly grey shadows around her eyes.
“Insomnia?” He asks, cataloguing the most common symptoms this far along in her pregnancy.
Astoria’s eyes flutter shut before he hears a sniffle and a hitching breath, her shoulders shuddering. “This is…” she shakes her head, a low frustrated groan coming from her lips, “the absolute worst thing I have ever had to do. How could anyone enjoy this? How could anyone be happy?!”
Stepping closer, he holds his hands out like he’s dealing with a wild, rabid animal, gentling his eyes and his voice. “Hey, keep your voice down, please. Hermione’s still sleeping.”
“Sorry, sorry,” she mutters quietly, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I’m just so fucking tired, Draco. I have absolutely no control over anything — my body isn’t even mine anymore! And I know I’m keeping Theo up with all of my tossing and turning but this little monster is keeping me up!”
Draco frowns and steps closer, reaching out to rub his hand over her back in circles, doing his best to soothe his ex-wife. “Okay, listen to me.” He tips her chin up, making sure her eyes are locked with his. “This is the hardest part, Tori. You’re almost there and then you never have to do this again. Remember what you get at the end. Remember?”
Her eyes fill with more tears, dribbling down her ruddy cheeks. “A baby.”
“A baby,” he repeats. “Now, why aren’t you talking to Theo about this?”
“I have,” she says, shrugging her shoulders again before wiggling out of his grip. “It doesn’t matter! This isn’t even why I’m here— but God forbid I try to speak without blubbering all over the cunting place.”
The coffee maker stops in the background and he steps away from Astoria when she wipes at her eyes, watching her carefully. Cunting place… Gods, she’s got a mouth on her on a good day but she’s clearly beyond overwhelmed. It’s plain to see.
Draco tries to give her some space to gather herself, pulling the oat milk from the fridge. It’s only one of the dozens of things that Hermione has influenced in his life. He still drinks regular milk, but he likes the way the oat milk tastes in his coffee. Gives it a nice flavour.
“So, why did you come here?” He asks, trying to change the subject away from her pregnancy. “You could’ve called.”
He looks at her out of the corner of his eye and is surprisingly met with a sheepish expression, pulling on her lower lip with her teeth, eyes a bit red and still watery. Draco frowns, immediately on edge.
“What’s that look for?”
“No, no, it’s…it’s nothing. I just— I wanted to speak to you about something…about someone—”
He sets the oat milk down with a little too much force and some splatters out of the spout, landing on his hand and over the countertop. It’s exhausting, really, to have to deal with this time and time again, over and over again, because for some strange reason, someone — his mother, Astoria, the fucking planet — has decided that he simply can’t make a decision for himself.
And he’s obviously not going to yell at the heavily pregnant woman sitting at his kitchen island but he’s also not going to stand here and be lectured at, again, for something— for someone who is no longer his responsibility. She is nowhere in his interest, completely undeserving of his time, attention or care.
“If the next words out of your mouth are that you’re here to speak about Pansy, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. And because I care about you, and your husband would kill me if I didn’t, I will kindly walk you to your car, but I will do so in a way that you know how seriously pissed I am.”
“Draco—”
He slaps his hand down on the counter, right in the puddle of oat milk that he’d spilled.
“No. I am done, Astoria. I am happy— why can’t you just let me be happy? Has my mother gotten to you? Hm? Gossiping about my girlfriend, are you?”
Hurt flickers over her face at his accusation. “Of course not, Draco. I love Hermione, I would never—”
He slinks over to her, standing close enough that she has no choice but to look up at him. “Then why are you doing this? Why are you still speaking to her? Why are you giving her the time of day? What could she possibly want that’s so fucking important?!”
“Look—”
He shakes his head, a wild, crazy-sounding laugh bubbling out of his throat. “I will not look, Astoria—”
“Would you shut up for five minutes?!
The silence in the room rings in his ears. His eyes flick to the hall, just waiting for the thump of Hermione crawling out of bed, but his too-loud voice and Astoria’s hissed response don’t seem to have woken her. Swallowing heavily, his throat feels thick and dry, like he can’t move past the lump that has settled there.
He doesn’t like to yell at anyone, let alone his pregnant ex-wife, especially because he’s not usually one to raise his voice. Usually, he finds that a stern, level tone gets him the attention and reaction he’s looking for. Mostly, yelling reminds him of a time when he behaved so-beyond poorly, when he used his size and the tenor of his voice to intimidate his second ex-wife.
Maybe it wasn’t on purpose. Maybe he was so fucking angry that it just spilled out of him, but it doesn’t change anything. He shouldn’t have done it.
Even with a few years having passed, just thinking about it leaves a guilty feeling in his stomach.
Draco rubs his hand over his chin and jaw, shuffling his feet. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I mean, I wasn’t trying to scare you, I swear—”
Astoria scoffs, rolling her eyes in a way that has his thumb and index finger twitching. “You’re not scaring me, you git, you’re annoying me! If you’d just let me say my piece then it’d be over. Gods, you whine worse than a child. I’ve already got more than enough experience for this one,” she mutters, patting her belly.
“I do not whine—”
She holds her hand up, palm flat and facing him, non-verbally telling him to stop.
Folding his arms across his chest, feeling more than a little bit judged, he frowns. “Fine, I don’t whine often.”
“Pleaseeee— just stop. Please. Let me speak.”
He mimics zipping his lips shut and stares at his ex-wife expectantly. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t care what she has to say, but he knows the easiest way out of this is through it, regardless of his feelings.
Her eyes flicker between his eyes, cataloguing his expression as she licks her bottom lip and nods, stiffening her shoulders.
“She wants to give you the money back. All of the alimony that you’ve paid her over the years.”
Draco watches as she watches him, following her eyes as they bounce around his face, as she squints, fine lines appearing in the corners and a subtle groove that he’s never noticed before across her forehead. She frowns, as if noticing where he’s looking, and slaps her hand over the offending line.
“Did you hear what I said? And stop looking at my forehead— I can’t go for my usual injections until I’ve given birth.”
He hums and nods, stepping closer and pulling her hand from her face. With a gentle thumb, he presses along the line until the crease disappears.
“Yes, I heard you,” he says quietly, mind racing. “And the simple solution is to stop frowning.”
“Impossible when I’m speaking to you,” she mutters, brushing his hand away from her face. “Why aren’t you reacting? I thought you’d…I don’t know, lose it or something. Have questions, maybe.”
He does have questions but none of them seem all that important at the moment.
“I guess I’m just not sure what you want me to react to,” he explains, taking a step back and crossing his arms over his bare chest again. “Is this really the big reveal?”
“She wants to give you your money back,” Astoria enunciates slowly. “Get it?”
He huffs. “Yes, Astoria, I get it. I just don’t believe it. Why would she bother?”
“Because she feels bad—”
He laughs, covering his mouth with his hand.
“She does,” Astoria says, narrowing her eyes at him, that subtle groove appearing, once more, across her forehead. “She feels guilty about everything that happened and for the things that she said, but—” She shakes her head when he opens his mouth to respond, holding her hand out again. “No, just listen, alright? Just listen. She didn’t defraud you, Draco.”
“I never—”
“You did. You argued, in court, that your entire marriage was a sham. That she had no intention of fulfilling promises to you. That she married you for money. But, Draco— she just changed her mind, honey. She changed her mind about having children, that’s it. And — no, no, hold on — to be perfectly honest, the two of you shouldn’t have been having children anyway.”
He’s almost ashamed to admit how much the comment stings, burning through his chest. He’s heard this all before, but he’s never heard it from Astoria, someone he thought would support him no matter what.
Draco scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean? That I shouldn’t have kids?”
“Of course not— you shouldn’t have been having kids because I remember all the fights! You were both filled with so much anger toward each other, spiteful in every word you exchanged, every action you committed. It doesn’t even matter, Draco. I’m telling you — me, Astoria, your friend — that she simply changed her mind about having children. She did not lie. She didn’t do it on purpose to hurt you or steal anything from you.” At his look of disbelief she continues. “Women are allowed to change their minds, are they not?”
His mouth gapes at her words, both suspicious and offended at the same time.
“Yes, of course they are. Don’t even start with me, Astoria. I have never pressured anyone into anything—”
“I’m not saying you have! I’m just trying to get you to recognize that it wasn’t some giant conspiracy theory. I mean, she has her own family money. It’s not like she came from nothing, far from it. She brought assets into the marriage, too, did she not?”
Draco nods stiffly. Pansy came from family wealth similar to his own.
“You attacked her, so she attacked back.”
He speaks through gritted teeth, “She said that I—”
“I know what she said to you. You think I didn’t let her have it? You think we were all sunshine and rainbows? You think I didn’t seek her out to give her a piece of my mind?” She shakes her head and stands up, reaching out to place her hands on his arms. “Of course I did, you stupid git. You’re my…you’re my best friend, Draco. I would defend you to the ends of the earth, against anyone, and I always have.”
His hands clench into fists at his sides as he remembers that barbs thrown back and forth between them, the way she cringed away from him and accused him of only being interested in her to treat her like a child— of doing his best to rid her of any personhood, any self-determination.
“I never wanted to take away her agency. I never expected that she would simply…fall in line and treat our relationship as if my word was law. I never, not once, demanded that of her— I wouldn’t. She was always free to do as she pleased and she did— more than she ever spent time with me. You know I would never do that, and to have her say that in court—”
“I know, honey,” Astoria says softly. She runs her hands up and down the length of his arms, comforting him. “I’m not going to make excuses for her. But what I do know is that you attacked her by saying she defrauded you and the next thing I know she’s making accusations, too.” He opens his mouth and she immediately corrects herself. “Untrue accusations.”
He smiles, but it’s not a nice one. It’s mean, remembering that way it had felt to be sitting in the courtroom, trying his best to avoid making eye contact with his soon to be second ex-wife, when she’d announced to the judge that he’d controlled her— sexually, personally and professionally. That he hadn’t allowed her to have her own mind, her own thoughts or opinions. That he’d demanded depraved things of her, insisted that she call him Daddy—
“My reputation as a well-respected doctor in this city — in this country — could have been destroyed.”
“As if your accusation wasn’t reputation ruining? Draco, please…come on. She was a soon-to-be single socialite whose future marriage prospects tanked the second you accused her of marriage fraud.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s completely different.”
“Draco…”
“What?” He snaps, then shakes his head, wiping his hands over his face. “I hear what you’re saying, it just seemed like…I don’t know.”
“I swear to you, she is not lying. When you told me that she lied to you about having children, I spoke with her and you know that I can tell when anyone is lying.” Her eyes seem so large, so imploring, that he feels the doubt begin to crack and fall away. Astoria wouldn’t lie to him. “She didn’t defraud you. She didn’t marry you with the intention of hurting you, just like I didn’t marry you with the intention of hurting you. But it wasn’t just the kid thing, Draco. You can’t tell me that you two were in a great place. I mean, if you were then you probably wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion, right?”
“Yes,” he mutters. “I mean, no. I mean…things weren’t good, but…I don't know. It’s all a blur now.”
She rubs his arms again before taking a step back and leaning against the island. “Like I said, she feels guilty. She has since she walked out of that courthouse. And, she wanted me to tell you, she hasn’t touched a dime of your money. It’s all just sitting in an account. She wants to give it back to you and apologize.”
The possibility that, for all these years, he’s vehemently believed something that is very not true is agonizing. The amount of pain, hurt and incessant drama that he could have avoided is incalculable at this point, and, if it’s all true like Tori says it is, then he’s more than a little angry with himself.
He’s stubborn, he always has been, and his ability to hold a grudge is unmatched.
“It can’t have all just been a misunderstanding. All these years…”
“No,” Astoria says firmly. “It’s not all a misunderstanding. You said it yourself, things weren’t good between the two of you, regardless. The divorce was necessary. And it doesn’t just land on one of you, you both lobbed insults and accusations at the other because you both felt attacked.”
They both lapse into silence. Draco blinks, staring blankly at the wall just over Astoria’s head. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see her tapping out a rhythm on the island.
She’s right in that the divorce was necessary. They really weren’t getting along, not even close to it. By the end of their marriage, they were hardly spending any time in each other’s company. He was picking up more shifts at the hospital and she was always on a weekend getaway with her friends, all to avoid being in the other’s presence.
He doesn’t regret getting divorced, again, not for a single second. But he does regret the explosive way it happened.
The anger he’d felt.
The words he’d lobbed.
The fist he’d thrown into the wall.
So, maybe, it’s guilt of his own that makes the mere thought of taking back the alimony he’s paid to her over the years a sickly lump in his throat.
“I don’t want the money back,” he finally says, focusing on Astoria. “Tell her to donate it. It’s already out of my accounts.”
“Fine,” Astoria says with a half-shrug to her shoulders. “That’s your choice.”
“And…while I appreciate what you’ve said, I still have no interest in speaking with her. You can tell her that I’ve…heard her apology and I appreciate it. I suppose I should also apologize for my role.”
This time, Astoria huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and on top of her belly. She looks very put out but he doesn’t really care— if she initially deemed it necessary to behave as a go-between, then he’ll treat her as such.
“Fine, but then I’m finished with this. I needed to tell you the truth so you could stop it with that ridiculous furious face of yours and now I've done my duty,” she tells him, plopping back onto her seat. “I’m just as tired of it as you are, Draco. I’m tired of seeing you hurting, I’m tired of listening to your mother wax poetic about her — I mean I like her but she’s not fucking Mother Theresa — and I’m tired of seeing Hermione caught in the middle.
“You needed to know for her. To have a successful, long-term relationship with Hermione— because I know that’s where it’s headed, even if you don’t want to admit it—”
Draco chokes out. laugh and can’t help the smile that comes to his face. “Oh, I’m happily admitting it, Astoria. If there’s something greater than love, then that’s what I feel for her.”
The smile on Astoria’s face nearly rivals his at his words and she pops up, falling forward to hug him. He wraps his arms around the woman he’s known for more than half of his life, holding her close and squeezing her shoulders. She fits awkwardly against him, her covered belly pushing into his bare abdomen, but he doesn’t care.
Despite how annoying she can be, always poking her regal nose into his business, she’s been a constant support in his life. At the end of the day, she’s always on his side and has always wanted what’s best for him.
“Thanks,” he grumbles, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “I’m sorry for getting so worked up.”
She pats his back and pushes away, rolling her eyes in a way that has his fingers twitching. “No sorries, not between us.” She leans forward to press her lips to his beard-covered cheek. “We’re good, Draco. We’re always good.”
“Good,” he says softly. “Now, please. I’m begging you— let this be the last time we talk about this.”
When he crawls back into bed, after having walked his ex-wife down to her car, he presses up against Hermione’s back, nuzzling the back of her neck with his nose and tangling their legs together. She sighs comfortably in his embrace, wiggling her hips against him, though not enough to engage the lower half of his body.
Truth be told, he does feel lighter. It feels like the uncomfortable feeling that’s been settled in his chest for so many years has finally dissipated, leaving, instead, the perfect little crevice for Hermione to burrow deeper within. He no longer feels like he’s dwelling on the past, only thinking about the future.
“Did I hear Astoria’s voice?” Hermione’s voice is rough with sleep and very, very quiet. Almost too-quiet for his mid-life ears.
“Yes. She just left.”
She hums. “Everything alright?”
“Mhm. Everything’s fine.”
“You’ll tell me later?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
When she wakes the second time, it’s because there’s something tickling the bottom of her foot and something rough scraping against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Hermione wrinkles her nose and scrunches her toes, trying to wiggle away from the opposing sensations.
The light tickle on the bottom of her foot stops and the rough scrape disappears for long enough that she settles into her pillow again. Only when she’s nearly on the verge of sleep again does she feel the same motions and, without another thought, kicks out her leg.
In her sleepy brain, it doesn’t even occur to her what it might be, let alone that it’s Draco.
Draco, who she inadvertently knees in the chest with all her wiggling around, who grunts at the feeling and sinks the blunt edges of his teeth into her thigh. Hermione yelps and pushes the covers off, reaching her hands down until she feels his hair beneath her hands.
“What are you doing?” She pouts, eyes still closed, fingers curling into the ends of his hair. “You’re tickling me.”
The gentle brush of his tongue over the indent his teeth left on her thigh makes her shiver and her fingers tighten in his hair, tugging on it until he grunts again. She blinks her eyes open slowly, the light pouring in from the windows, illuminating her boyfriend laying between her spread legs.
His hair is messy in her fingers, the blond hairs shining in the morning light, and his silver eyes look lighter than they’ve ever appeared before. Somehow, even rumpled as he is, he looks so incredibly put together.
“And you kneed me,” he complains, sucking the same spot on her thigh. “How naughty of you. I thought you were going to be all soft and sweet for me.” His fingers crawl up the back of her leg until he’s clutching the meat of her bum in his palm. “Instead you’re being violent.”
“You tickled me,” she whines again. “And you bit me!”
He scoffs, licking over the spot again. “Hardly.”
“You’re not supposed to be mean to me, especially when I’m injured.”
He reaches up, letting the point of his chin dig into her thigh, and carefully holds onto her arm. The stitches are still covered by a plain bandage and he gently rubs his thumb just over the corner. His breath tickles against the bare skin of her thigh but she does her best to stay still, too afraid of him accidentally touching the stitches.
She watches him and doesn’t look away when he finally makes eye contact with her, raising her eyebrow slightly in question.
“How about you keep your knees against the bed and I…” Draco trails off, nuzzling his nose into the crease of her thigh. The tip of his nose brushes against the soft curls she keeps and she wiggles without expressly realizing it.
Hermione lets loose a low sigh at the implication and settles more comfortably against the bed. Her head is still propped up by the pillow and her fingers still loosely tangled in Draco’s hair. His beard is rough, but welcome, against her thighs, and one hand is wrapped firmly around her knee, the other at her hip.
“You know,” she says softly, “you still haven’t let me…y’know. With my mouth.”
He hums against her centre, pressing the softest kiss against the seam of her lips. The touch makes her squirm, makes her skin breakout in full-body goose pimples.
“And you won’t be so long as there are still stitches in your arm.”
His words vibrate directly against her clit and this time she moans, unabashedly. Her legs widen on their own, allowing Draco more room, and his hand trails up from her knee to the meat of her thigh, gripping her open.
He presses one last gentle kiss to her mound before parting her lips with two fingers and dragging his tongue up and down her slit, a leisurely licking that turns her brain to mush. He knows exactly the way to tease her clit out from its hood, to suck on the spot just above it, dense with nerve-endings but so often forgotten.
It’s unfair, really, how well he knows her anatomy and how poorly she knows his.
Unfair, but…actually, it’s fine, she thinks, luxuriating in his tongue.
It’s perfectly— no, scratch that, it’s beyond fine. It’s great. Soooo good, in fact.
“So good,” she whispers, eyes closing. “So good, Daddy.”
He doesn’t respond — thankfully — but instead slides a single finger inside of her, just up to the first knuckle. He doesn’t press it in further, doesn’t try to fuck her with it, just gives her something to squeeze around while the flat of his tongue laps over her clit.
The fingers of her free hand brush over her t-shirt covered chest, lightly thumbing at her nipples. The coarse feeling of the t-shirt is perfect against her sensitive skin and she clenches around the finger inside of her, squirming at the feeling.
Draco doesn’t let up, only switches to sucking her clit between his lips, keeping up a steady amount of pressure that makes her hips twinge and her toes flex at the tension building. The hand wrapped around her hip moves over her belly to press down, to tighten the already overwhelming tension.
The feeling builds quickly and she gasps out the words before she forgets, asking, “Can I please come, Daddy?”
His affirmative hum is answer enough, vibrating against her nerve-ending, and exactly enough to tip her over the edge. It slams into her quickly but Draco proves just how much he knows her body by gently pushing her through it, making it feel like her orgasm lasts an age before it slowly peters out.
When she finally blinks her eyes open, for the third time, Draco’s still resting between her legs with his cheek on her belly and his finger still inside of her. She clenches down as she stretches out her legs and Draco hums, brushing against her walls.
“I will never grow tired of that, you know?” He asks, tilting his head up. His cheeks are rosy and his eyes glazed, a slickness to his mouth that makes her flush in embarrassment. “The way you squirm, the sounds you make, the way you look when you come— the way you ask Daddy for permission. So fucking beautiful, baby. So perfect.”
Draco’s fingers are soft and careful as he gently peels the edge of the bandage covering her stitches. She winces and does a little shimmy on her feet at just the thought of the stitched-up wound on her arm. The whole thing makes her squirmy and uncomfortable to think about, let alone see.
“It’s alright,” he mutters, thumb rubbing back and forth along the sensitive skin of the inside of her wrist. “You’re all good, baby. I’m not going to touch them— I just want to see, make sure it looks alright, and then we’ll cover it up and take a bath, okay?”
Her responding whine is babyish but she doesn’t care. She really, really hates the stitches. The day before, the actual wound had barely phased her, but the sight of her skin being stitched back together makes her stomach threaten to revolt.
At the very least, Draco is already used to treating her like a little girl and he’s a doctor, so this all comes very naturally to him. The soothing way he rubs his thumb along her wrist, the soft noises he makes when she wiggles in his grasp, the way he leans down to press his lips to her forehead.
“It looks good, baby. Blaise did a nice job— can you hold your arm out for me?” She nods but doesn’t look, keeping her arm steady while staring at the wall of his bedroom. “It’s just a latex cover to keep it from getting wet, but I’m going to have to smooth it over. Okay?”
“You’re going to touch it?” She asks, turning her head enough to see his face, her eyes wide.
“Only over the covering,” he reiterates, calmingly. “Take a big breath in for me—” He does it with her, taking in a noisy, big breath until she copies him. “Perfect, again. Good girl.”
Hermione squeezes her eyes shut and takes a shuddering breath, wiggling in her spot on the end of his bed. It’s quiet except for the rustling of a wrapper and the slight creak of the bed beneath them.
“You know,” he starts, just as she feels his thumb press into the meat of her arm, “those are some very cute slippers you have on.”
Her eyes pop open before she realizes it, looking down to the floor and at the soft pink bunny slippers that had been waiting for her when she’d slid out of bed. They’re new, with floppy ears and a tiny pink nose, and extremely soft and warm around her feet.
She kicks her feet out, watching the way the ears sway, and smiles softly in thanks. Except—
Hermione’s head flies up and she looks at him accusatory, just as he drags his fingers down the inside of her arm, just barely nudging the edge of the waterproof latex that now covers her stitches. She really, really, doesn’t want to look at them, so she does her best to keep her eyes locked with his.
“Did you just distract me…again?”
Draco grins, leaning down to bump their noses together. “Did it work?”
“You already know it did.”
He stands up, scrunching the old bandage the wrapper in his fist before tossing it into the small bin just inside the door to the toilet. When he turns, he takes her hand and helps her stand up until she’s barely a step away from him.
Her eyes follow the rough hairs that line his pecs and the slightly darker line that leads to his navel. His muscles shift as he moves, carefully letting her arm hang at her side, and she immediately steps into his chest and rubs her nose into his skin.
Not only does she hear the happy rumble from his chest, but she feels it, too, vibrating through her. Being cuddled into his chest is one of her most favourite places to be, feeling the scratchy, rough hairs against her cheek. He’d asked her once before if she would prefer that he shave it, to be smooth, but she’d vehemently shaken her head and made him promise that he wouldn’t touch his chest hair.
He just looks so… old— not in a bad way! Experienced. Because, being honest with herself, that experience is what drew her to him in the first place. He looks his age, not trying to hide the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes or the softness of his abdomen, and it turns her on.
Boy, does it turn her on.
The bath is nearly finished filling when the move into the loo, bubbles already foaming at the surface. It smells nice, too, like lavender and roses, and she feels the tension and anxiety about her stitches slowly leave her body. With his help, she slides out of her slippers and pulls his baggy shirt off of her body before sinking into the water.
Draco follows, thumbs dipping into the waistband of his joggers and pulling them, and his pants, down his muscular legs. She follows the bare skin as it’s revealed to her, all the way down to his feet, and waits quietly while he dims the lights and connects his phone to the bluetooth speaker on the countertop.
Her heart nearly skips a beat as she watches him step over to the tub. His hips flex with each step and despite the fact that his cock is mostly soft, it’s shockingly large against his thigh. He holds every bit of her attention, even as she leans forward and waits from him to slide into the water behind her.
“You’re so perfect,” she says in a barely audible whisper, leaning her head back against his chest as the water rises dangerously high, yet not over.
He snorts, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her close. “Hardly, Hermione.”
“You are to me. You’re so gentle with me and calm. You always know what to do.” She tips her head slightly back so she can look up at him. “I can’t believe how lucky I am.”
His fingers slide into the back of her hair, holding her head at that same angle. His brows furrow in thought, eyes bouncing between hers. She will never grow tired of looking at him, at the strange silver colour of his eyes and shockingly dark eyelashes.
“I will always maintain that I am the lucky one, to have found you,” he says softly. “And I definitely don’t always know what to do. In fact, I very rarely know what to do. I just…hope that I’m on the right track.”
“Well, you are,” Hermione mutters. She gently drags her fingers over his thigh, all the way down to his knee before coming back up. Over and over. Until she’s finally too nosy to keep it in. “How was Astoria?”
He hums underneath her, thumbs rubbing the bare skin beneath her breasts. “Astoria is…pretty miserable, I think. For the baby’s sake, she better go into labour soon. She is definitely on the side of people who find pregnancy to be a difficult experience. Not that I blame her…”
“It’s too bad,” Hermione mutters. “She’s always glowing when I see her. Maybe she’ll change her mind after she has the baby.”
“Yeah…I don’t think so. I think this is one and done for the two of them.” He sounds distracted, thumbs still brushing her skin. “She came by to tell me something, though.”
“Oh?”
As if she didn’t already figure that.
“I don’t want it to become the topic of the day— a day that I took off from work to baby you and shower you with love, might I add.” He says it with a smile, his lips quirking, and she nods. “But I also don’t want you to think that I’m hiding anything from you. So let’s get it out, enjoy our bath, and we can talk about it at a later time if you still have questions. Sounds good?”
She agrees easily, because while she’s nosy and wants to know about the main topic of conversation, she also wants to be babied. She wants his attention all to herself.
“She came to tell me that Pansy wants to give me back all of the money I’ve paid out to her over the years. Apparently she feels guilty about everything that happened and wanted to set the record straight.”
His fingers loosen their grip in her hair and she frowns, curling her toes. “What does that mean?”
“It means…” he sighs, long and loud, breath brushing the back of her head, “that in our anger and desire to divorce each other, we both accused the other of things that weren’t true. Namely, that she defrauded me into a marriage and that I…well, that I was depraved and only interested in controlling her. Evidently, both things are untrue and we worked ourselves into a completely unnecessary tizzy.”
Hermione pushes herself up so she’s sitting and twists around to look at her boyfriend. He’s looking at her with dull eyes and a small frown that brings out the lines around his mouth.
“Depraved? Like…like she told the court about…” she waves her hands between them, “about this? About your interests?”
Draco shrugs a single shoulder and nods. “More or less, yes.”
Her brows droop and her mouth pinches into a frown. Gods, she can only imagine the type of reaction that would encourage— especially for a well-respected doctor. Kink is seldom ever widely accepted, let alone something like their type of relationship, which she knows he’d once had with his second ex-wife.
Before she can say anything, Draco speaks again. “I had accused her of lying to me about having children— remember? I told you that. Well, I suppose I may have… assumed that bit. Astoria told me that Pansy had simply changed her mind about having children and, looking back now, I can’t say I blame her. We were awful together, Hermione. It wasn’t a situation to bring a child into.”
“But you were hurt,” she says softly, petting her hand over his chest in comfort. “And at the risk of sounding cliché, hurt people hurt people.”
She blinks and squeals when he taps her on the nose with a gentle finger, waving away his wet hand.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters before winding his arms around her waist and pulling her to lay back against his chest again. “Too smart for your own good.”
“Sometimes.”
Draco hums, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “Always. My smart girl.”
Notes:
So there we have it. Is Draco now as unencumbered as he thinks he is? Or is there, perhaps, someone else who's still not entirely on board with the direction of his romantic life?
Also, we'll get to that blowjob one day.
Mistakes are all my own and one day I will fix them. Went crazy with the italics...
On a personal note:
Thank you for your unending patience with my severe lack of updating. It's not even particularly that this year has been any more, or less, difficult than any other, but my desire to write and explore this world has weakened. It's no one's fault, I don't think, but just...natural? Interests ebb and flow and this is one of them.
And honestly, I am so appreciative of how understanding you all are. I don't think there are more patient and appreciative readers than you all reading this fic! I was just thinking last night about how much of a joy it is to write for you all. Joining this community came at a time when my life was a bit upended and I'm grateful for getting to interact with you all.
If you made it this far, thank you for reading my mini essay. I hope, with everything going on in the world, with all of our hardships, tragedies, horrors and sadness, that this might be a very small and inconsequential bright spot in your day.
As always, find me elsewhere.
Chapter 37: Fallacy
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Really, she should be happier that she’s putting together her final paper. She should be ecstatic— jumping for joy, putting all of her effort into the very last thing she’ll write to complete her bachelor’s degree.
It should be easy to focus. All of her notes from her readings are organized meticulously; colour-coding is essential, not to mention penmanship— and hers is perfect. Her reading list for the term is overflowing, chock-full of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton and Webster, sprinkled with Salinger, Twain and Steinbeck— the cherry on top Auston, Woolf and Wharton.
The list doesn’t even touch on the classic poets — Donne, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Keats — and their poems, her scribbled notations in the margins of her course books and the late nights she lay awake contemplating their meanings. Some of her favourite lines are scribbled throughout her nearly-full notebook, in between the notes she’s taken in class.
…any man’s death diminishes me because i am involved in mankind…
…i am part of all that i have met…
…for sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds…
And yet, even with all of her preparation, the blank, bright white document with its lonely blinking cursor shines against her face in the quickly darkening sitting room of Draco’s flat. She has some time still, it’s not situation critical just yet, but with her arm still on the mend and Draco back to work, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity to at least start on her final paper.
Hermione turns her attention back to her notebook, flipping through the pages of notes, eyes caressing her favourite lines and brain quickly falling into the trap of daydreaming. She shakes herself out of it, refuses to picture her favourite scenes, and instead forces her eyes to land on the pink highlights — representing literary devices that are always useful when putting together her papers — hoping that they’ll spark something academic.
It’s true that the biggest draw for her in her decision to pursue English literature has always been her imagination and ability to picture the scenes from her favourite books like a movie playing out in her mind. Growing up, more often than not, she was picturing the most fanciful scenes, always spilling with colour, during lessons for other subjects.
So attempting to come at an assignment at a purely academic level is always a bit of a struggle, at least at first.
She forces herself to read through her list of literary devices:
- Allusion
- Irony
- Metaphors
- Similes
- Pathetic Fallacy
- Foreshadowing
- Assonance
But there’s no spark. She even has her fingers in position, waiting on the home row of her laptop keyboard, in the hope that they’ll simply start to type in their eagerness to start the paper. Instead, they remain stiff and still and she furrows her brow in simmering frustration.
She wiggles in her spot on the couch, sitting cross-legged with her laptop precariously balanced, and decides that maybe she needs to sink into something else, first. Maybe her brain just needs a little entertainment before it slips into the world of academia.
With the tip of her index finger at her lips, she uses her other hand to click away from the empty document and over to the web Kindle app, eyes carefully floating down the list of titles she currently has downloaded. There’s nothing too serious — on purpose — and, really, any one of them would probably do the trick, but as she hovers over a title and chews on her nail, she abruptly changes her mind.
Actually, she doesn’t feel like reading.
With a rough sigh, her head falls back onto the tall back of the couch and she closes her eyes. The TV is off, so the flat is silent around her, and she questions whether she should just take another nap. It’s not like she’s exhausted or anything, not with Draco constantly hovering over her for the last few days and encouraging as many naps as she’ll take. She always ends up falling asleep in his arms, though, comforted by his warmth and the dull thud of his heartbeat against her cheek.
Can she even nap without him?
Her eyebrows raise though her eyes stay closed, thinking it over.
Probably not, and her brows sink.
Strangely enough, it’s the thought of her notebook and the highlighted literary devices that finally gives her an idea of what to do. It’s not so much the concept — she’s well-versed in the literary device, has been picking it out in books since she was a child — but the second word. Twisting between all of her other thoughts, the word fallacy flashes in her mind as though highlighted in neon pink.
Her hips twitch.
Fallacy.
Phallus.
The same. But different. Very different.
But— if there’s any representation of a failure in reasoning, it’s a phallus.
She snorts a laugh and presses her palm to her face, letting out a soft groan as the word quickly changes into an image of her boyfriend’s phallus. And it’s not the same at all— this, really, isn’t something she should be laughing about or even thinking about. But her mind is too far gone. Fallacy. Phallus.
And yet, it’s the only thing that piques her interest, sending a soft, gentle tingle up the length of her spine, causing a flood of warmth to pool in her belly.
Now that’s an idea…
Her hand reaches for her phone before she remembers that she doesn’t actually have any of those types of photos of Draco— and immediately questions why? It occurs to her that they’ve never really sexted and as much as she likes a photo of him in his scrubs she’s, at the moment, more interested in seeing what’s underneath.
Speak of the devil— her phone vibrates in her hand and she holds it up.
Draco 🥰🥵
Draco: I’m leaving work in the next 20 minutes and then picking up dinner. See you soon, baby ❤️
She chews on her lip and quickly responds by reacting to the text with a heart— before going back into the conversation to reply with a line of hearts. Draco threw a bit of a fit the last time she only reacted to his text—
You’re responding to the message!
I’m responding to you.
You put a heart on the message, you didn’t send a heart to me.
—so she always makes sure to do both now.
Hermione shakes her head a little bit and sets her phone down on the couch, and immediately finds her thoughts back to the tingle in her belly. She squeezes her thighs together and wiggles on the cushion, swallowed up in the corner of the L-shaped couch.
It’s not a horrible idea, she thinks. Just something to relax her, to settle her brain until it’s ready and willing to exert itself on literary devices and authors long dead and buried. And she knows she can’t touch without permission, but maybe she can convince Draco to touch her when he’s home.
Maybe she can just get herself started a bit. Watch something…arousing.
Maybe…
Her fingers move on their own, typing into the address bar the way she’d been hoping they’d do for her paper. But instead of anything useful, they lead her directly to…
Porn.
She’s had no reason to partake since she met Draco. To be honest, until this very moment, the thought of watching porn hasn’t made her feel anything. There’s simply nothing else she needs; Draco certainly keeps her satisfied and fulfilled, more than watching someone else have sex could.
Gods, her sexual experience, not to mention appetite, has ballooned since she met Draco. She hadn’t been a virgin and she’d certainly had her fair share of sexual encounters, but nothing as good or as fulfilling as what she has with Draco. The things they partake in just so happen to be things that used to feature prominently in her porn searches.
Dirty talk, soft dom, Dominant/submissive
Mostly, she liked to see the way couples interacted. She liked to watch how the man would touch the woman, how he’d speak to her. All the dirty things he’d say. The way a woman’s fingers would curl around the man’s wrist, nails digging into his skin. How her thighs would tremble. His hand caressing her skin.
In the back of her mind she thinks of one in particular in which the man fucked the woman with his fingers, enough that she could hear how wet the woman was as she pleaded to come— but he said no. He said no with a sympathetic click of his tongue and petted over her swollen flesh until he started it all over again.
She dreamed of it. She wanted so very badly. Before, she’d close her eyes and listen and imagine it was happening to her, that someone was touching her, that they were speaking to her.
Funny, how that exact scenario she used to fantasize about has become so, so real.
Hermione clicks open a few different options, settling further into the couch, squeezing her thighs together but being sure not to touch herself. Her nipples are stiff and poking through the knit sweater she’s wearing and she so badly wants to brush against them with the tips of her fingers. Wants to slide her fingers under the band of her leggings, the elastic of her knickers, and gently drag the tip of her index finger through her folds.
Wants to circle the swollen nub of her clit, not touching, just teasing.
But she doesn’t.
She won’t.
There’s nothing stopping her from watching, though.
Her arms feel a bit numb, with the way they’re pinned under her laptop that’s resting high on her chest. Her whole field of vision is filled with the video on the screen, the edge of her laptop just barely touching her chin. The volume isn’t low but not high, either, a happy medium— loud enough that it’s the only thing she can hear but not so loud that the neighbours can hear it, too.
It’s been…a while. Less than an hour but nearing so, filled with soft, gentle pornography that makes her belly tingle. Things that remind her of her own relationship, of Draco— his strong arms and gentle fingers, the way he grins down at her from above, the way he plays with her body unlike anyone else ever has.
She sees so much of themselves in what she chooses to watch. So much of what she desperately craves, what has her contemplating grabbing her phone and sending Draco a couple of enticing texts.
Nothing dirty just…pleading.
come home soon daddy
daddy i need you
Just to make him hurry up a little. She’s not even hungry, despite the fact it’s time for dinner, and her mind goes wild with all of the ways she could welcome him home. Should she take off her clothes? Maybe put on her pajamas, the cute ones, the little ones. She could just go lay in their bed, wait for him there.
Her eyes are drawn back to the screen, to the woman in the video with her pink knickers pulled up tight, the man’s fingers moving back and forth underneath them. The woman moans loudly, her head thrown back, her features hidden from the camera. But the noises she’s making are familiar, are noises that she herself has made before, and it makes her wiggle, makes her thighs squeeze together to try to get just a little bit of pressure.
“What on earth are you doing, little girl?”
Hermione yelps loudly, jumping in her place on the couch, knocking her computer off of where it was balanced on her chest until it’s sliding down to the floor with a loud thump. She stares up and over the back of the couch where her boyfriend is staring down at her, one golden eyebrow raised and a small, annoying little smirk plastered on his mouth.
She opens her mouth to respond— to say something, anything , but she can’t. She can’t because her computer, while no longer flashing porn in her face, still has the sound on and the woman in the video is still moaning. If anything, she’s moaning louder.
Draco makes a clicking sound with his tongue, his cheeks lifting the slightest bit at her predicament. “Oh, Hermione. Are you being a naughty girl?”
She immediately shakes her head. No— no , she’s not being naughty. She’s just…she’s…well, she’s…
“I— there’s no rule against…against watching, um, watching…”
“Porn?” He says plainly. “No, I suppose there isn’t.”
The woman moans again from the computer, drawing her eyes back down to the floor. She can still see the screen, despite it being folded down just a bit, and chews on her lower lip at the sight of the man tugging the woman’s knickers down with thick fingers.
She swallows heavily, like there’s a lump in her throat, before turning back to Draco. He’s still standing at the back of the couch, staring down at her both bewildered and unbearably intrigued. It’s not like they’ve ever watched porn together— they’ve never even talked about it before, though she had simply assumed that he had, probably, most likely, watched it.
She thought he’d just assumed that of her, too.
“You know,” he starts, and something drops down to the floor with a quiet thud— their dinner, she thinks, “it’s quite a shock to come home to my little girl watching something so naughty.”
“It’s not,” she mumbles softly.
A single eyebrow raises in question. “It’s not what?”
Her teeth nip at her lip. “It’s not naughty.”
Her heart feels like it’s going to beat out of her chest, whether it’s from nervousness or excitement, she can’t tell. Probably a mix of both. They certainly feel one in the same at that moment.
“I suppose Daddy will have to be the judge of that. Have I not been looking after you enough? Hm? Are you feeling needy?”
“Uhuh,” she mumbles softly, her eyes blinking wide. “I mean no! No, um, you have I’m just…I’m…”
She squirms in her discomfort and feels the growing stickiness spreading between her thighs. Gods, is she turned on from being embarrassed? From that know-it-all look on Draco’s angular face? From the way he grins at her like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. From the striking feeling of shame at the predicament she’s found herself in?
Hermione flexes her thighs one before confirming, yes, it is turning her on.
Leaning his elbows on the back of the couch, Draco peers down at her with his hands clasped. His eyes have never looked darker to her before, stormy and cloudy, his pupils nearly taking over the normally silver irises. She waits on bated breath, lips parted and chest heaving for him to do something— to say something.
“Grab your computer for Daddy.”
Her chin bounces up and down on its own in an exaggerated nod before she twists on her side and reaches out to pick up her laptop. She quickly stops the video and the flat falls into silence. Draco moves around the couch and extends his hand for the computer, which she carefully hands to him, before taking his other outstretched hand to help her stand.
Her legs feel like jelly and her thoughts are foggy, but all she can do is focus on the man standing in front of her. He looks so different, so much taller and bigger, more intimidating than she’s ever found him to be. She could stop it, she knows that. She could shake her head and take a step back, tell him that she feels uncomfortable, and that would be the end of it.
But maybe discomfort isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe…maybe it can make the things that already feel good to her, that already turn her on, feel better.
“C’mon, let’s go see what my baby has been watching.”
Draco leads her around the couch and down the short hallway to the open-door of his bedroom. The two lamps on the nightstands are already on, giving the whole room a soft orange glow. He holds on to her hand as he sets down her computer, before leading her to stand in front of him.
Their hands slowly untangle before he grasps her waist, fingers pushing up underneath the sweater she’s wearing and gliding softly against her skin. She shivers when the cold of his signet ring glances off her warm skin and watches the tendons move in his arm as he pushes the sweater up and up before she has to raise her arms.
He folds the sweater, a little thing that is just so Draco, and tosses it carefully onto the chair in the corner. Hermione licks her lips and nearly stops breathing when he lowers himself down to one knee, thumbs brushing over her belly just above the line of her leggings. He tugs those down, too, thumbs catching on the elastic of her knickers so they both come down at the same time.
“Better,” he murmurs, tossing her bottoms on the same chair as her sweater. “You’ll be more comfortable this way while Daddy sees what you were watching.”
Draco bends slightly to get his hands around her thighs, lifting her up so her legs encircle his waist. He’s still fully dressed, her centre pressed flush to the collared shirt he still wears after showering and changing at work. But before he moves, he nuzzles her cheek and the sensitive shell of her ear with his nose and the rasp of his beard, pressing his soft lips to her skin once, twice, three times.
“Feeling alright, baby?” He asks softly, speaking quietly in her ear.
One of his big palms trails up the length of her back to cup her neck and sooth over her skin. Hermione shudders at the feeling but nods quickly against him.
“Yes, Daddy,” she answers, just as softly. “I’m good.”
“Good,” he mutters. Draco pulls back until they’re looking at each other, the hand on her neck moving to cup her cheek. “I just want to make sure you know that you are not in trouble. It’s just a bit of fun. Hm?”
Hermione nods, smiling shyly. “Yes, Daddy.”
He squeezes her arse with the palm still gripping her to him and nuzzles their noses together. “If there’s anything you don’t like, you just tell me.”
“No safe word?” She asks.
She hasn’t asked before because it hasn’t even really registered, except maybe once or twice in the back of her mind. Not that she’s ever felt unsafe— he’s always simply told her to tell him if she felt uncomfortable or wanted anything to stop. Just with a no or a stop or to let go of her stuffy. There’s always a very clear line.
But the video she’d been watching had started with a quiet moment between the man and the woman, words mumbled between the two of them, faces close like hers and Draco. She’d caught the soft question from the man — “You remember your safe word?” — and the gentle nod from the woman.
Draco stills, his brows furrowing. “Do you feel like you need one?”
“I just thought it was normal for a…relationship like ours.” She shrugs her shoulders, cheeks pinking. “Or maybe not, I don’t know—”
“No, don’t do that,” he says, chucking her under the chin. He takes a seat on the end of the bed, her legs still wrapped around his waist. “You’re right. Safe words are very normal— but a simple no or stop is always enough with me. We don’t typically play around with anything that would have you yelling out either unless you meant it.”
Hermione agrees because he’s right. Everything is very much centred around pleasure. There’s no pain between them and he never gets rough with her. It’s just not what either of them wants.
“Unless that’s something you want to explore?” He asks. “Consensual non-consent is…well, I would explore it with you if you wanted to, and in that case we would have a safe word.”
Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head. “Oh, no thank you, Daddy.” And then she mutters, “I don’t think I could pretend not to want you.”
Draco chuckles and winks at her. “I wouldn’t want you to. I like hearing how much you want me.” He lets both arms circle around her waist, rubbing his thumb over her tailbone. “Regardless, we can have safe words if that would make you feel more comfortable.”
She considers it, but, in essence, they already do have safe words— they’re just no and stop. Does she need a third?
“I don’t think so— just as long as I have a way out. Like when you, um, when you… you know …when we went on holiday?”
Draco grins in that sly way of his, leaning forward to press his lips to her chin. “When I made you come— no, when I told you to come.”
His fingers grip her waist, just above her hip bones, pressing into her flesh. She rocks in his lap, rubbing her core against the hardening line of his cock. She sighs softly, tipping her head back and exposing the length of her neck which he takes full advantage of, leaning in to rub against the smooth skin with the rasp of his beard.
“Yes, then,” she agrees, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You told me to let go of my stuffy or-or—”
“Or tell me you love me and come for me again,” he mutters into her skin. He nods, beard scratching at her skin again. “Of course, baby. You’ll always have a way out. No matter what— as long as it’s safe.”
Her hips jolt, her clit gliding along his length, even through his trousers. She moves her hands from his shoulders to cup the sides of his face, tilting his head up until he’s looking at her from underneath unfairly long lashes. His eyes have darkened again and she presses her breasts forward until her nipples brush against the front of his shirt.
He peeks down at her, fingers of his right hand trailing up her waist to cup her ribs just underneath the pillow of her breast. His thumb circles her crinkled areola before brushing so gently against her stiff nipple that she shudders in his grasp.
“I think I’m ready to play now, Daddy.”
Draco nods in agreement, looking back to her eyes. “I think you are, baby. I think you are.”
The video is rather tame but he sees immediately why she’s chosen it. It’s not that they look like either of them, but their personas are so similar to the way they act that it’s a little like what he imagines watching themselves would feel like. The man is very obviously holding all of the power and the woman has freely given it. She lays back on the bed, eyes glued to the man, in the same way that Hermione does with him.
He’d sat back in his bed, leaning against the headboard, and encouraged her to sit, curled into his body. He’s still completely dressed while she lays nude and he can’t help the path his fingers take, trailing up and down the length of her body. She’s so incredibly soft to touch, so addicting to feel.
Her computer sits open just off to the side, the volume up, and they watch the video together. Hermione squirms against his side every time the man coos something equally sweet and depraved, embarrassment nearing on the barest hint of humiliation colouring the woman’s cheeks.
It tells him a lot, how she reacts to this— the way all the little hairs raise on her arms, how her stomach sinks concave, when her thighs squeeze together and twitch. He watches it all very, very carefully, cataloguing it for his own use, for their own playtime.
He’d also quickly realized that she hadn’t, at any point, broken his rule. She hadn’t touched herself, not even a little dip underneath her leggings and her knickers or a shallow brush of her thumb against her stiff nipples. He knows this because he knows her, and he knows that she’d never be able to keep it in. She would’ve admitted it as soon as she was caught.
He plans to reward her, he just hasn’t decided, yet, of how to reward her. He also needs to continue to be careful with her arm, not that he has any plans to put her into a position that would make her struggle.
Draco’s leaning towards getting his mouth on her and sucking her swollen little clit between his lips, lashing it with his tongue. He could use the vibrator, but it’s always a little impersonal, not to mention he finds it difficult not to torture her with it. Pleasure is always her goal, but there is such a thing as too much pleasure, and he’s well versed in that, too.
It’s not until the woman on the screen cries out in orgasm, again, that the video goes black before the picture reappears with the two in a different position. The woman is kneeling on the floor and the man must be holding the camera with one hand, the other threaded through the woman’s long, dark curls. She’s nuzzling her face into the man’s thigh, rubbing her cheek against his hard cock.
At the flicker of the woman’s tongue against the man’s length, he feels Hermione tense up next to him and the sound of a small moan that does not come from the video. He looks down at her and watches her reaction— her breathing comes fast, chest heaving, and her teeth dig into her plump bottom lip.
“You were a good girl,” he tells her, speaking over the soft, wet mouth sounds coming from the computer, “not touching yourself, before. In fact, you were so good that I think you deserve a reward.”
Hermione immediately turns to him, a smile lighting up her face. “Really? A reward? But…I was watching, um, I was watching… porn.”
“There’s no rule against that, although I do enjoy watching it with you. But yes, good girls get rewards,” he tells her, cupping her cheek before letting his fingers trail down over her throat to her breast.
She breathes shakily under his touch, her breath hitching when he gently pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He loves how sensitive she is, how she reacts just to a simple touch. He’s hardly doing anything at all but would bet anything that she’s wet between her thighs.
It makes him want to laugh, the way she doesn’t even take the time to think about it. Instead, she wraps her fingers around his wrist and brings his hand back up to her face, chasing his thumb with her mouth. Another second and she’s got his thumb captured between her lips, laving it with her tongue.
“Can I suck you?” She asks, looking at him with wide, pouty eyes. Her tongue glances off his thumb when she speaks. “Like the girl in the video? Please, Daddy?”
He blinks at her, eyes catching on the way she pleads with him, even with her mouth full of his thumb. Her teeth scrape over his thumbnail and he jerks in place, his own chest now heaving with uneven breaths. It’s not that he’s never thought about it before— in fact, he’s thought about it a hundred times, at least.
He’s imagined the way her mouth would feel wrapped around the head of his cock, sucking gently like she is his thumb, her tongue playing along the throbbing veins, her saliva dripping down over his sac. He imagined his hand threaded in her hair, her cheek bulging with his bulbous head, her bright, shiny eyes staring up at him.
Gods, he’s imagined it…
“Really?” He asks. “That’s what you want your reward to be? Not this?”
Sneakily, he tucks his free hand between her thighs, feeling the warmth and silky wetness at her centre, before she clamps her thighs shut around his hand so he can’t move it.
She shakes her head, pulling her mouth off the tip of his thumb with an exaggerated, wet pop. “That’s what I want. Please, Daddy.”
And…really, who is he to continue to say no? She’s been asking for months, nearly since they first started dating, but he’s always hesitated. Most of the women he’s been with have always felt the need to take his cock as deep into their throat as possible, despite his protestations.
It’s not that he doesn’t want the feeling of a tight, warm, wet throat around his cock, but he’s not interested in hurting anyone. And, at the risk of sounding full of himself — more than he’s already accused of being — he’s not exactly reasonable in size.
“If that’s what you want, then it’s yours, but I don’t want you kneeling on the floor. Just here, alright?” He pats the side of the bed.
Hermione nods before flipping over onto her belly. She quickly darts for the fastening on his trousers while he works on unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders and down his arms. He’s left in a plain white t-shirt that he quickly pulls off, leaving his chest bare.
She makes quick work of his trousers, working them down his legs, along with his socks. Fitting his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, he lowers them enough to kick them off his legs, sending them down to the end of the bed. Hermione, in her eagerness, settles on her belly just at his hip, resting her left arm and elbow against his stomach.
“Like this, Daddy?” She asks, looking up at him with those wide, innocent eyes of hers.
Her mouth is so fucking close to his cock. He can feel her breath against him and it makes the tendons in his thighs jump, his stomach tensing.
Draco clears his throat and runs his hand over his face. “Yeah, baby. Like that.”
Gods, he’s already this wound up and she hasn’t even put her mouth to him.
The video is still playing somewhere behind her and he can vaguely make out the wet sounds of the woman sucking the man’s cock, but it’s the furthest thing from his mind. Instead, he watches intently as Hermione leans her face down to press a soft, gentle kiss to the head of his cock.
He groans, embarrassingly, and throws his head back against the headboard. Just the touch of her mouth on him has pre-come leaking from his tip, and when he looks back down, she’s licking across her bottom lip with a small scrunch to her nose.
He immediately tries to reassure her that this isn’t necessary, not if it’s something she doesn’t like to do.
“You don’t have to—”
She shakes her head. “No, Daddy. I want to— just, maybe, do I have to swallow?”
“Of course not,” he says, reaching down to cradle her cheek in his hand. “Whatever you want to do.”
She could stop now and he wouldn’t be upset in the slightest.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, her fingers loosening their grip on his cock. “That’s probably rude, isn’t it?”
Draco laughs. “No, baby, it’s not. You don’t have to do this at all— and you certainly don’t have to swallow something you don’t like.”
“It’s just the texture—”
“Hermione,” he tilts her chin up, “you’re fine. I promise. I’m not offended.”
She wrinkles her nose again but nods. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am.” Then, “Want to sit on my face instead, baby?”
Hermione laughs, like he was hoping she would, and climbs up his body to press a kiss on his lips. He grasps her cheek in his palm and deepens the kiss, slipping his tongue between her lips to caress her own. Hermione sighs softly into his mouth before pushing back against his chest.
“I still want to suck you,” she breathes. “Please, Daddy?”
“Sure, baby. Go ahead.”
She gets back into the same position, taking his cock in her hand before leaning forward more decisively than before and wrapping her lips around the head of his cock. She flicks her tongue out at him and he huffs a breath, his belly moving underneath her arm. He groans softly and rests his head back as she gets familiar with him.
She’s touched him before, plenty of times, wrapped her soft and warm fingers around the hard length of his cock, but her mouth is another story. Slowly, she takes more of him into her mouth and gently sucks, hollowing her cheeks. She jerks over what she can’t, and doesn’t try, to fit into her mouth.
He doesn’t need to warn her away from taking too much of him, or edging him into her throat, because she doesn’t try. He’s pleased and lets her do as she wishes— he’s only a man, after all, and it all feels good.
“Good girl,” he says softly, carefully threading his fingers through her hair. Not to pull, just to hold. “You’re doing such a good job, baby. Making Daddy feel so good.”
She wiggles up onto her knees, coming off her belly, and takes a little bit more of him into her mouth. She sucks harder, now, moving her head up and down to give him more friction.
Draco feels his balls tighten and his stomach tingles, calves flexing. He does his best to control his breathing, but the feel of her mouth is everything he imagined it would be and more. He’s going to come embarrassingly fast but he can’t bring himself to regret it.
He wants her to know how good she makes him feel— that she’s the only one who can make him feel like this.
Hermione pulls back until it’s just the head of his cock between her lips and sucks particularly hard, hard enough that his cock jerks in her hold. His sac tightens further and he grunts out a warning to her.
“I’m going to come, baby,” he tells her, tugging gently on her hair. “Pull back.”
She shakes her head and sucks him harder, if possible, moving her hand quicker. His belly jumps and his thighs tense, groaning out his pleasure when she doesn’t relent despite his warning. It happens quickly, too quickly, and, after, he worries that he tugged too hard on her hair.
His cock kicks in her mouth and he lets loose a low moan when he comes over her tongue. She slows down her hand when she must feel the first spurt of his come, holding his cock inside of her warm, wet mouth. He feels wrung out with pleasure, especially knowing that it came by as a result of her mouth.
“You did such a good job, baby. Absolutely perfect, my good girl.”
His breath comes heavy along with his words but he’s aware enough to sit up and carefully untangle his fingers from her hair, grasping both her arms until she’s sitting. Her lips are pink and swollen, closed tightly with slightly bulging cheeks. He frowns, knowing that she’s probably holding his come on her tongue.
Hermione moves as if to crawl out of bed but he stops her, gripping her hip with one hand and holding the other out, cupped. She stares at him with furrowed brows, quirking her head to the side before pointing to her mouth and then to the toilet.
“It’s okay, baby, just spit it out in Daddy’s hand.”
She shakes her head adamantly but he fixes her with a stern look and brings his hand up high to her chin. He also doesn’t let her go, keeping his grip on her hip, giving her no choice but to spit in his hand.
“C’mon. It’s not going to gross me out— it’s my own come, after all.” He doesn’t want to make her laugh but her nose scrunches and her lips tilt upwards. “Spit, baby. The sooner you do, the sooner I can get you some water.”
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t watch the way she carefully and shyly spits his come into his own hand. It’s warm from her mouth but nothing he isn’t used to. He’s come in his own fist more often during his life than into something, or someone, else.
When she’s finished, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, he pushes himself out of his bed with a low groan and a crack of his knees, reminding him just how old he’s gotten. It takes hardly a minute to wash his come from his hand and to clean himself up, and then another to get her a glass of water.
When he comes back out to the bedroom, she’s lying stretched out in her spot on the bed, where she normally sleeps. Her computer is closed now, sitting on the nightstand beside her, and she smiles widely at him when he hands her the glass.
She takes a few quick sips before handing it back and smiling once again.
“Was it good, Daddy?” She asks, as if she doesn’t already know.
He bends down and takes her cheek in hand once again, pressing a full, deep kiss to her lips, not caring about his own taste on her tongue. She kisses back with enthusiasm before pulling back, pressing against his shoulders.
With her index finger at her lips, she looks at him coyly. “Can I have your mouth, too?”
He grins at her, crawling up the bed and between her thick thighs, nuzzling his nose into the trimmed hair on her mound before smothering himself in her delicious little cunt.
Only once does he come up for her, licking his lips, to ask, “Did you get your paper done?”
The way she tangles her fingers in his hair and points his head back down to her pussy is all the answer he needs.
Nope.
Notes:
This is the longest author's note ever, I'm so sorry.
Poetry: I love poetry and included a few of my favourite lines from some of my favourite poems. They are as follows:
...any man's death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind... - No Man is an Island by John Donne
...I am part of all that I have met... - Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson
...for sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds... - Sonnet 94 by William Shakespeare
Safe Words: This chapter wasn't really supposed to be included because it's basically all porn, but I wanted to write it, so there we go. On discussing safe words, this is something that should be between you and your partner and you shouldn't be following along with what Draco and Hermione are doing just because it sounds cool. Do your research, make your choice based on what feels right. Not every kink relationship has the participants stopping to ask for stoplight colours, in my own experience. But some do! Lots of ways to go about this.
And yet another personal note and expression of gratitude:
A little more than a month ago, one of my best friends passed away. She was the first friend I ever made when I joined this fandom in 2021, and I spoke to her nearly every day. To say I have been lost without her is an understatement. Some days are harder than others, but every day I wake up and wish I could talk to her, to tell her how much she means to me. She was with me through the outlining of this fic and was always the best person to bounce ideas off of. Skully was a light in my life, who I will never forget.As always, my gratitude to all of you who have reached out and to everyone who loved her.
Finally: I'm off for a vacation for a few weeks and I can't tell you when the next chapter will come, but I hope you all trust that I am working on it and I will update this fic until it's finished.
All my love,
talieta sept. 4/25: life & writing update.
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