Chapter 1: Chains into Crowns
Chapter Text
Hermione stood in the cavernous atrium of the Ministry, marble floors gleaming under the enchanted light as Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice echoed through the hall. His tone was heavy, reluctant, as he read the decree that will consumed every headline for weeks:
“By order of the Wizengamot and under the authority of the Ministry of Magic, effective immediately, all witches and wizards between the ages of seventeen (17) and thirty (30) are required to enter into lawful marriage..”
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd, followed swiftly by the cacophony of quills scratching parchment, reporters shouting over one another, and angry whispers swelling into arguments. To everyone else, this was a bombshell. To Hermione Granger, it was an inevitability.
She had fought tooth and nail against it—standing in heated chambers with Harry at her side, pleading with Kingsley, demanding reform, drafting counter-proposals until her quills bled dry. But the war was barely a year behind them, and the Wizengamot was still governed by the same clutch of wizened men, greedy for legacy and control. They had won. The law had passed.
Hermione did not flinch.
The law was meant to shackle her kind, to make her a pawn in yet another political game. But pawns, she thought, could become queens. And if they thought they’d cornered her, they were sorely mistaken.
They thought they’d forced my hand. They were wrong—I’d just found my opening.
She did not linger to hear Kingsley finish his announcement. As the crowd surged with outrage and despair, Hermione slipped away, her heels striking sharp and purposeful against the polished floors. Back in her office, she cleared her desk with one sweep of her wand, pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward her, and dipped her quill in ink.
If she could not fight the system, she would bend it to her will. And there was only one family in Britain powerful enough, influential enough, and disgraced enough to accept her proposition.
The Malfoys.
Her quill scratched decisively across the page as she began the letter—an offer that would scandalize the entire Wizarding World. An offer that would change everything.
To Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa Malfoy,
I write to you under circumstances that demand discretion, urgency, and strategic foresight. Recent legislation, passed by the Wizengamot, has imposed strict requirements upon the unions of witches and wizards—particularly those of Muggle-born and half-blood descent. While many regard this law as an unfortunate constraint, I see it as an opportunity for those capable of navigating the currents of power.
I propose a meeting to discuss a potential alliance—an arrangement that would secure mutual benefit for our families. It is my intention to offer my hand in marriage to Draco Malfoy. This union, I believe, can restore and enhance the influence and reputation of the Malfoy name while providing me with the necessary support to implement meaningful reform and rise to a position of power within the Ministry.
The details of this arrangement would, naturally, be discussed in confidence. I request the pleasure of your company for a formal meeting at a location of your choosing, at your earliest convenience. I assure you that I come prepared with a plan that is as pragmatic as it is ambitious.
The Wizarding World is shifting, and those unwilling to act decisively will be left behind. I hope that the Malfoys will recognize the advantage of joining forces at a moment when fortune favors those with the courage to claim it.
Respectfully,
Hermione Granger
Lucius Malfoy leaned back in his high-backed chair, long fingers steepled beneath his chin as the letter unfolded across the polished mahogany desk. He read Hermione Granger’s neat handwriting twice, each word sparking a flicker of curiosity behind his cold, pale eyes.
Amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. The girl has audacity, he thought. She comes to us with a proposal rather than a plea, offering what others would never dare—our son’s hand.
Narcissa, standing behind him, arched a finely shaped brow, her lips pursed in measured disapproval—or perhaps admiration. “Lucius,” she said softly, “she is bold… perhaps too bold.”
Lucius waved a dismissive hand, though his expression betrayed a spark of intrigue. “Boldness, my dear, is often mistaken for foolishness. Yet this… this is clever. She does not beg; she does not appeal to sentiment. She frames it as an alliance, as though she is extending power rather than taking it.”
He tapped the letter against the desk thoughtfully. “And she seeks Draco’s hand. Our Draco… she dares to place him at the center of her ambitions. It is audacious, but not without merit. There is power to be gained here, influence to be restored. The girl understands leverage.”
Narcissa folded her hands elegantly, her sharp gaze never leaving him. “And yet… she is a Granger. Muggle-born. The world has not been kind to those who cross the bloodlines. Are we certain we wish to entertain such a union?”
Lucius’s eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and calculation. “Certainly, caution is warranted. But watch closely, Narcissa. Hermione Granger is not the naïve girl who stormed through the Department of Mysteries years ago. This is no impulsive act—this is strategy. And strategy, when executed well, can be… profitable.”
He leaned back, a thin smile curling. “We shall see, of course. Invite her. Let us hear the plan in full. Draco will listen, and we shall judge whether this Granger has overestimated her reach—or whether she has, in fact, underestimated ours.”
Narcissa’s lips curved slightly, just enough to hint at intrigue. “Very well. But let us proceed carefully. The girl is ambitious… and ambition can be dangerous.”
Lucius tapped the letter again, savoring the tension. “Indeed. But ambition, when guided wisely, can be most… enlightening.”
Chapter Text
The thrum of bass shook the walls of Il Serpente, one of Rome’s most exclusive nightclubs, where velvet drapes hung from the ceiling and mirrored columns reflected the chaotic swirl of neon lights. Smoke curled lazily from hidden machines, curling over tables scattered with crystal glasses that glinted like stars under the club’s strobing lights. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and warm champagne, mixing with the tang of late-night indulgence.
Draco Malfoy sat perched on a high leather banquette near the DJ booth, a glass of deep-red Italian wine in hand. Blaise and Theo lounged on either side of him, each laughing easily, reveling in the anonymity Rome offered away from British eyes. Around them, the dance floor pulsed with bodies: women in sequined dresses swayed and gyrated to the relentless beat, their hair whipping with abandon, hands thrown in the air; men and women alike shimmered in the glow of gold and crimson lights.
Draco’s gaze flicked to the Italian girl beside him he had been flirting with for the past twenty minutes—a cascade of chestnut hair, lips glossed with a bold red, and a dress that left little to the imagination. He leaned in, letting a smirk curl across his lips as she giggled at some joke he didn’t even remember telling.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Blaise interrupted, leaning closer over the music, his voice laced with disbelief. “Did you see this?” He waved a crumpled piece of parchment—someone had sent him a copy of the new British Marriage Law decree.
Draco barely glanced at it, spinning the glass in his hand. “What’s this, a Ministry prank?” He snorted, then took a long sip of wine. “You’re telling me that, what… Muggle-borns and half-bloods have to marry pure-bloods? That’s… ridiculous. Completely bloody ridiculous.”
Theo laughed, shaking his head as a dancer in a sparkling black dress twirled past them, her heels clicking on the mirrored floor. “It’s real, Draco. Just passed. Kingsley and the Wizengamot finally did it. The whole Wizarding World is buzzing.”
Draco waved the parchment dismissively, returning his attention to the girl, letting his smirk widen. “Buzzing? Let them buzz. I’ve had enough of laws, decrees, and politics. Rome’s better. Wine, women… freedom. Now that’s a law I can obey.”
The girl laughed, brushing her fingers lightly over his hand as the DJ shifted to a new track—a deep, hypnotic beat that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Draco leaned closer, his green eyes glinting under the strobes, entirely unconcerned with anything back home. The decree, Blaise’s warnings, even the political world—they were distant echoes to him now. Rome was alive, intoxicating, and Draco Malfoy intended to drink in every moment.
Blaise watched his friend, exasperated but amused. “You’re impossible, you know that, right? You can’t just ignore this forever.”
Draco laughed, brushing a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Why would I? There’s nothing for me there. Politics, marriage laws… let someone else care. I’ve got Rome, and I’ve got tonight.”
And with that, he leaned back into the girl’s laughter, letting the chaos of the club swallow him whole, oblivious to the storm brewing back home.
Draco and the girl left the club, their steps quick and purposeful as they made their way to his flat. The night air was warm, and the city hummed with a life of its own, but they were focused only on each other.
Once inside his flat, Draco wasted no time. He pulled her close, his lips capturing hers in a fierce, hungry kiss. She responded eagerly, her hands tangling in his hair as they stumbled towards the bedroom.
The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows. Draco’s hands roamed over her body, exploring every curve, every line. She shivered under his touch, her breath coming in short gasps as he trailed kisses down her neck.
He pushed her gently onto the bed, his body covering hers as he continued to kiss her deeply. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, her desire matching his own.
Draco’s touch was confident and demanding, his fingers deftly unzipping her dress, revealing her bare skin. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of her before his mouth followed the path his hands had taken, leaving a trail of heat and want.
She moaned softly, her body arching against his, her hands gripping his shoulders. Draco smiled against her skin, his fingers tracing patterns on her thigh before moving higher, teasing her until she was breathless and begging.
With a final, fierce kiss, Draco positioned himself between her thighs, entering her with a single, powerful thrust. She cried out, her nails digging into his back as he began to move, his hips driving into hers with a rhythm that was both intense and intimate.
The room filled with the sounds of their pleasure—the soft gasps and moans, the wet slapping of skin against skin, the rustle of sheets. Draco’s body was slick with sweat, his muscles taut with effort as he chased his release, her name a litany on his lips.
Finally, with a low groan, he came, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside her. She followed soon after, her inner muscles clamping down on him as she rode out her own orgasm, her body trembling beneath his.
Draco collapsed beside her, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He pulled her close, his arm wrapping around her waist, their bodies still entwined. The city outside hummed with life, but in the quiet of his bedroom, there was only the soft sound of their breathing and the occasional sigh of satisfaction.
Draco woke to a blinding shaft of sunlight slicing through the thin curtains of his Roman flat. His head throbbed as if a troll had set up camp behind his eyes, each pulse in time with a lingering, faint echo of last night’s music. A dry, metallic taste coated his mouth, and the sharp tang of wine reminded him that his memory was fragmented—too many drinks, too many distractions, too many reckless choices.
He groaned, rolling onto his back, trying to piece together the previous night. The city outside seemed impossibly bright, the hum of distant traffic grating against his still-sensitive nerves. Somewhere beneath the disarray of clothes, bottles, and half-empty glasses, he felt the faint impression of a body curled against him. He squinted. Oh. Right.
Before he could slip back into a blissful stupor, a sharp, familiar tug interrupted him—a letter, levitating at the edge of the room, hovering mid-air. Draco blinked, trying to focus through the fog in his skull. The wax seal gleamed unmistakably: the Malfoy crest.
He groaned again, shoving himself upright. Of course. They’ve found me.
With a heavy hand, he broke the seal. The parchment was crisp, the writing unmistakably his father’s:
Draco,
It has come to our attention that your prolonged absence has raised questions and concerns. Your mother and I request your immediate return to Britain. There are matters requiring your attention—urgent, delicate, and of significant consequence. Your presence is expected.
Lucius Malfoy
Draco stared at the letter, a sharp pang cutting through the haze of last night. He felt his stomach turn, a mix of dread, irritation, and something he couldn’t quite name. Rome—the freedom, the chaos, the reckless nights—suddenly felt impossibly far away.
He rubbed his temples, grimacing at the pounding behind his eyes. Urgent, delicate… significant consequence… The formal tone dripped with the same authority and expectation he had always been trained to obey, whether he liked it or not.
Draco swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as the room spun slightly. The fun, the freedom, the playboy life—it was over. The letter reminded him that no matter how far he ran, the Malfoys had a reach, a grip that was impossible to escape. And now, with the Ministry passing ridiculous new laws and the world seemingly careening toward chaos, he realized this summons was more than a mere parental scolding.
With a resigned groan, he crumpled the letter in his hand, tossing it onto the floor.
Draco had spent the past three days in a haze of champagne, cocktails, and late-night escapades. Clubs in Rome, Paris, and even a brief stop in Barcelona had offered him anonymity and distraction—anywhere but home, anywhere but the summons from his parents. Each night blurred into the next: laughter, flirtation, clinking glasses, and the careless thrill of being untouchable.
Yet tonight, as the early morning sun crept over Rome’s rooftops, Draco stumbled back to his flat, the faint stench of perfume and alcohol clinging to him. Another girl in tow, giggling and leaning against his shoulder as they fumbled with keys, he barely registered the sense of relief at returning to his private haven.
He pushed the door open, expecting the familiar chaos of empty bottles and discarded clothes. Instead, the flat was unnervingly quiet. The air was still, save for a faint, deliberate rustle—footsteps, slow and measured.
And there she was.
Narcissa Malfoy, standing in the middle of his living room, her posture rigid, her pale hands folded neatly in front of her. Her silver hair gleamed softly in the muted light, and her eyes, usually soft with concern for her son, were sharp and disapproving.
The girl he had brought with him froze mid-step, sensing the weight in the room. Draco’s heart sank slightly—a mix of irritation and unease. “Mother…” he began, trying to keep the familiar arrogance in his voice, “I didn’t expect…”
Narcissa’s gaze cut him off before he could finish. “Draco,” she said, her voice low, even, and edged with steel. “Three days. Three days you’ve ignored your father’s letter. Three days of absences, of indulgence, of reckless behavior. And now you bring… this…” She gestured, faintly, to the girl lingering by the doorway, who shrank under the scrutiny.
Draco swallowed, feeling the sudden constriction of responsibility pressing down on him—something he had cleverly avoided for so long. He tried to muster a smirk, a joke, anything to deflect, but Narcissa’s gaze was unwavering, commanding.
“This,” she repeated, “is unacceptable. You are not a boy anymore. The Malfoy name… our position… your obligations—do you think they vanish because you are tired of them?”
The girl by the doorway cleared her throat and quickly excused herself, slipping into the hall as Draco remained frozen, caught between defiance and the undeniable weight of his mother’s expectations.
Narcissa stepped closer, her presence filling the room with the same quiet authority she had wielded over him all his life. “Pack your things, Draco,” she said softly, though each word landed like a stone. “You are returning to Britain. Today.”
Draco ran a hand through his hair, blinking against the throbbing hangover and the sudden clarity that his freedom—Rome, parties, girls—was over. He opened his mouth, searching for the defiant retort he had wielded so easily in the past, but nothing came.
For the first time in days, Draco Malfoy felt trapped.
Chapter Text
The green flames of the Floo network swirled around Hermione, tickling her nose and making her hair frizz as she appeared in the familiar but now strangely foreign drawing room of Malfoy Manor. The opulence was still unmistakable: marble floors polished to a mirror shine, gilded frames lining the walls, and crystal chandeliers dripping light like frozen stars. But the atmosphere was different. Gone were the shadowed corners that had witnessed her last, horrified visit here under Bellatrix Lestrange. Gone were the memories of fear and torture. In their place, a crisp elegance reigned: polished wood, soft velvet furniture, and the faint scent of Narcissa’s lilies filling the air.
Hermione straightened her posture, smoothing the creases in her robes. She would not let the ghosts of her past intimidate her. Not here. Not now.
Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa awaited her in the study, a room lined with tall shelves of leather-bound tomes, and a desk that gleamed ominously under the afternoon light. Lucius gestured for her to sit, his expression carefully neutral, while Narcissa’s gaze appraised her with subtle, sharp curiosity.
“You’ve changed,” Lucius began, though it was more a statement than a question. “It has been… some time since your last visit.”
Hermione’s lips curved in a faint, polite smile. “Yes. A year. And the Manor… it looks quite different from my last memory here,” she said lightly, letting her eyes sweep the room, letting her words linger. “Much more… refined.”
Lucius inclined his head slightly. “We take pride in our home. It reflects the state of our family"
She noticed immediately that Draco was absent. Lucius’s practiced smile did not falter.
“Draco could not be present,” Lucius explained smoothly. “Business matters require his attention. I assure you, his absence in no way diminishes the importance of our meeting.”
Hermione’s brown eyes glinted with measured confidence. “Of course,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Though I had heard through reliable sources that Draco’s business lately has mostly involved… drinking and an assortment of women outside Britain.” Her words were casual, almost conversational but the effect was electric. Narcissa’s eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued, while Lucius’s fingers twitched against the desk, a mixture of irritation and amusement flickering across his face.
Hermione folded her hands neatly in front of her. “I am here because of the new Marriage Law, and I am proposing a partnership—through marriage—with your son, Draco Malfoy. My status as a war heroine, my experience in the Ministry, and my influence among certain circles can provide both families with considerable advantages.”
Lucius leaned back, steepling his fingers, his expression carefully neutral. “And you expect us to consider this… favorably?”
Hermione allowed a faint shrug. “I expect you to consider the opportunity. For both our families. The Macmillans, Montagues, Shafiqs, Fawleys—pureblood families who have approached me through this law—are interested in alliances. The timing is advantageous, and the benefits are mutual.”
Lucius’s smile tightened, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of interest. “And what of your… personal obligations, should you proceed with this plan?”
Hermione leaned forward just slightly, her tone casual but sharp. “Are you referring to the traditional duties of a lady Malfoy? Producing an heir?” She let the words hang in the air for a moment, observing the effect. “I suppose a half-blood grandchild might not be ideal, but under the circumstances, it may be unavoidable. The law will ensure compliance, whether willingly or not.”
Lucius’s jaw flexed, irritation and amusement warring on his face. “You are… audacious.”
“Perhaps,” Hermione replied smoothly, “but I have always preferred opportunity over fear, Lord Malfoy. And I would hope the Malfoys are capable of the same perspective.”
Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line, while Lucius’s pale eyes studied her, assessing, calculating, testing. The conversation had begun as a meeting of courtesy but had shifted into a duel of intellect and ambition. Hermione had arrived ready—not as a victim, not as a petitioner—but as an equal, and the Malfoys recognized it.
“Very well,” Lucius said finally, leaning forward, his steepled fingers tapping the desk. “We shall continue this discussion. But know this—Draco’s presence may be required sooner than you think.”
Hermione inclined her head, her calm smile never faltering. “I would expect nothing less.”
The private dining room at Malfoy Manor smelled faintly of roasted pheasant and aged wine, the silverware polished to a sharp gleam. Draco sat at the long table, a glass of deep red in front of him, but the wine did little to settle the irritation coiling in his chest. Rome, freedom, and endless nights of indulgence had been replaced by the cold formality of home, the weight of expectation pressing down on him like a physical force.
Lucius, seated at the head of the table, regarded him with a faintly sardonic smile, fingers tapping the polished surface in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Narcissa sat across, poised as always, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“So, Draco,” Lucius began, voice smooth and mocking, “we hear that your year abroad has been… productive. A wide array of companions, from Rome to Paris, and perhaps a few in between. Pray tell, should we worry about any… bastard Malfoys surfacing in our good name?”
Draco stiffened, wine threatening to slosh in his glass. “Father,” he said, voice tight, “I assure you—”
Narcissa’s soft but commanding tone cut him off. “Draco, Listen. You will have time to respond. For now, hear what your father has to say.”
Lucius smirked, leaning back in his chair. “We know you, Draco. Always chasing the thrill, always seeking freedom. But there are consequences, even for the most… intrepid among us.” He paused, glancing at Narcissa with a faint, conspiratorial lift of his brow.
“Now,” Lucius continued, voice sliding into cold, clipped tones, “the matter at hand: the new Marriage Law. We have already made our decision regarding your… pairing. Not a half-blood, Draco, and certainly not one of the usual Muggle-born nuisances you might scoff at. No—someone has been selected with consideration for the benefits to both families.”
Draco’s hand tightened around his fork. “And just who,” he asked, voice edged with sarcasm, “do you intend to force upon me this time?”
“Patience,” Narcissa interjected, eyes sharp. “You will meet her before you voice any complaint. You will listen first, and only then may you speak.”
Draco opened his mouth to protest, but the firm, calm weight of his mother’s gaze froze him. He leaned back reluctantly, curiosity flickering through the irritation.
Lucius added, with a hint of deliberate teasing, “Had this girl been of pureblood, Draco, I would have betrothed you to her without hesitation.
Draco’s brow furrowed. “And she’s not pureblood?” he asked, curiosity sharp now, cutting through the remnants of his irritation.
“No,” Lucius said smoothly, “but she is… ambitious, strategic, and well-placed. We have reason to believe she will be… advantageous.” His eyes glinted with a faint amusement. “You will meet her. And then you may decide whether your complaints are warranted.”
Draco’s fingers drummed against the polished table, a mixture of irritation, intrigue, and the first sparks of genuine curiosity creeping in. His father’s words were carefully measured, but they had done their job: Draco wanted to know.
Narcissa’s serene voice sealed it. “Tomorrow. At the Black Cauldron. You will meet her, Draco. No excuses.”
Draco leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he took in the stern yet controlled expressions of his parents. For all his playboy bravado, for all his nights abroad, he realized with a sudden, uneasy clarity: this girl—this Muggle-born, this appointment of the new Marriage Law—was not someone he could simply dismiss.
Chapter Text
The Black Cauldron gleamed softly in the evening light, a new jewel in the Malfoy family’s ventures—a restaurant at once luxurious and discreet, with dark wood panels, flickering candles in ornate holders, and the subtle scent of spiced mead and roasted meats hanging in the air. Draco arrived fashionably late, as always, slipping through the doors with an effortless confidence, blazer tailored, hair slicked back just enough to look undone.
He had been curious—who is the Muggle-born girl my parents think is suitable for me under this blasted Marriage Law?—and the question gnawed at him all the way from the manor. His mind ran through possibilities: timid, compliant, delicate… someone he could charm into obedience.
The restaurant’s private dining area was dimly lit, with tables spaced just enough for discretion. And there she was—seated at a table near the center, her back to him. Draco slowed, letting his practiced smirk ease onto his lips, the one that had always worked on ladies in high society, and began to approach.
But then he saw her turn slightly, a soft movement, and the world seemed to shift.
Hermione Granger?
The name repeated in his mind, disbelief hammering against his composure. The girl he had tormented throughout their Hogwarts years—the clever, relentless thorn in his side. The girl who had stood alongside Potter and helped defeat Voldemort. And now… she was here. His intended bride, chosen by his parents.
Hermione sat poised, a striking figure radiating quiet confidence. Chestnut-brown hair fell in soft, natural waves around her face, stray strands drifting slightly as though caught in perpetual thought. Her large, expressive brown eyes met him with a mixture of curiosity and resolve, brimming with sharp intellect and unspoken determination.
Her skin glowed with vitality, fair and smooth, a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks lending her a touch of youthful charm that contrasted with her composed, mature demeanor. Her lips parted slightly, curved in a faint, knowing smile. Simple gold hoop earrings caught the light, understated yet sophisticated, and her crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just at the collar, spoke of effortless elegance—a careful balance of professionalism and relaxed authority.
Every detail of her, from the way she held herself to the subtle movements of her hair, exuded confidence, poise, and the quiet strength of someone fully aware of her own influence. She was approachable, yet formidable; intelligent, yet commanding.
Draco’s usual smirk faltered. His steps slowed as he approached the table, the words and charm he had perfected over years of society encounters dying on his tongue. He stopped dead, the smirk replaced by a mix of incredulity and begrudging admiration.
How… how did my parents make her agree to this? he thought, his mind racing to reconcile the fearless, determined woman before him with the girl from Hogwarts who had made his life miserable at every turn.
Hermione, sensing his gaze, lifted her eyes fully to meet his. There was no fear, no hesitation—only that same calm, measured intelligence, and the faintest glimmer of amusement playing at her lips.
“Draco Malfoy,” she said evenly, voice smooth and confident, carrying over the low hum of conversation in the restaurant. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Draco swallowed, the world around him narrowing to the sharp, commanding figure before him. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t in control.
And he wasn’t sure if he liked it—or if he feared he might.
Draco sank fully into the chair across from her, leaning back with that familiar, practiced smirk. “You’re late,” Hermione said, her tone clipped, her eyes fixed firmly on him.
Draco tried to tilt his head, grin widening. “Fashionably late, as always,” he said smoothly, letting his gaze linger suggestively, expecting a flicker of amusement. But Hermione’s expression didn’t change—not a hint of fluster, not a single upward twitch of her lips.
He froze for a moment, realizing the usual charm was useless. With a huff, he straightened, abandoning the smirk and leaning forward properly. “Then… how did my parents make you agree to marry me?” he asked, finally giving voice to the question that had haunted him since he saw her at The Black Cauldron.
“They didn’t convince me,” Hermione said, lifting her pumpkin juice gracefully to her lips and taking a deliberate sip. “I convinced them.”
Draco blinked, speechless. “…You asked my parents to marry me?”
“Yes,” she said, matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
For a long moment, Draco just stared, mouth slightly open. Then laughter burst from him—sharp, incredulous, and wholly unrestrained. Hermione Granger, the girl who had bested him countless times at Hogwarts, the girl who had fought Voldemort and lived to tell the tale… had asked for his hand.
When the laughter finally subsided, he blinked, still shaking his head. Hermione sat across from him, eyes fixed firmly on his, unimpressed.
“Was it my good looks? Or charming smile?” Draco asked, leaning back casually, gray eyes teasing, trying again to regain his composure.
“No,” Hermione replied bluntly, her warm brown eyes unwavering. “It was your last name.”
Draco’s smirk faltered. That bluntness—it cut differently coming from her. He hated it when other girls fawned over the Malfoy name, but for some reason, he didn’t hate it now. Somehow, her words didn’t feel like flattery—they felt… factual, almost admiring in a way he couldn’t place.
“Well, well, well,” he said, leaning forward again, a teasing lilt in his voice. “I didn’t think you had it in you. What do you need help for? Donations? Getting some decree passed? You don’t need to marry me for that—just one night with me and I can make it happen.”
He caught her raising an eyebrow, realized immediately how inappropriate it sounded, and shrugged. “I mean… blunt honesty, right?”
Hermione tilted her head, a hint of sarcasm playing at her lips. “Actually, I wanted to be Minister of Magic,” she said lightly, though her tone carried an edge that suggested she might very well be serious. “I figured it would take more than a one-night stand to achieve that.”
Draco’s smirk faltered again, replaced by genuine curiosity—and perhaps the faintest twinge of apprehension. This was no ordinary girl he could charm or manipulate. This was Hermione Granger: clever, ambitious, fearless. And for the first time, Draco realized he might actually have to step up—not just as Draco Malfoy, but as someone who could match her.
Draco blinked at her, still trying to gauge whether she was joking. “Minister of Magic,” he repeated slowly, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You say that like you’re ordering tea.”
Hermione met his gaze levelly. “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve already done what none of your esteemed bloodlines could manage. I survived the war, I helped defeat Voldemort, and I came out of it with recognition and respect. The people trust me, Draco. They listen when I speak. That’s more than half your Wizengamot can claim.”
Draco tilted his head, irritation flaring. “So you thought shackling yourself to me would get you the last piece of the puzzle?”
“I thought,” Hermione said calmly, folding her hands on the table, “that aligning myself with a family that still holds sway in the old bloodlines, that still commands respect—however begrudging—from the traditionalists, would ensure I don’t just rise. I dominate. Alone, I can only go so far. With your name beside mine, doors open faster.”
Draco scoffed, leaning back. “So it is about the name.”
Hermione didn’t blink. “Of course it’s about the name. But don’t flatter yourself—I could have chosen others. Macmillan’s family offered. Montague, too. Shafiq. Even Fawley. All respectable, all eager to latch themselves onto me. I came to you because the Malfoy name carries something theirs doesn’t: power and notoriety. No one ignores the Malfoys.”
Her words landed like hexes—sharp, precise, impossible to brush off.
Draco frowned, fingers drumming against the table. “You speak as if you’re buying an asset, not entering a marriage.”
Hermione’s lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile. “You’re learning.”
For a moment, Draco was caught between annoyance and reluctant admiration. She wasn’t batting her lashes at him. She wasn’t simpering over his name. She was using it—and unapologetically so.
“And what’s in it for me?” he asked finally, his voice sharpening. “Because I don’t exactly need a war heroine dictating my life choices.”
Hermione’s gaze didn’t waver. “Redemption. Stability. A future beyond scandal and whispers. You can keep running to Rome, to Paris, to every club in Europe, but sooner or later, you’ll come back and find your name means nothing but ruin. With me, you get to rebuild. You get to be more than the son of a Death Eater. You get to stand beside me when I become Minister, and no one will dare laugh at you again.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. Her words cut closer than he’d admit.
“And if I refuse?” he asked softly, almost testing her.
Hermione leaned forward, her warm brown eyes steady, unwavering. “Then I go to the next family. And when I win, when I reshape the Ministry into something new… the Malfoys will be left behind. Again.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and charged. Draco stared at her, searching for cracks in her resolve, but found none. Hermione Granger sat across from him, poised and unflinching, her ambition laid bare like a weapon on the table.
He should have hated her for it. But instead… he felt the first stirrings of something far more dangerous. Respect.
And—if he was honest with himself—intrigue.
Chapter Text
Draco stalked out of The Black Cauldron with his jaw tight, the night air of Diagon Alley cool against his skin. His shoes clicked sharply on the cobblestones as he shoved his hands into his pockets, his mind reeling.
Granger. Bloody Hermione Granger.
He couldn’t shake the image of her sitting across from him, poised as though she owned the very ground beneath his feet. Calm. Confident. Unimpressed by him in a way that left him… unsettled. She had stared him down without blinking, laid out her ambition like a chessboard, and dared him to underestimate her.
Minister of Magic. She had said it with the same certainty most people reserved for stating their names. And the worst part? He believed her.
Draco scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “She didn’t just agree to this madness. She orchestrated it.”
He hated her audacity. Hated that she’d marched into his parents’ study and convinced them of all people. Hated that she’d spoken to him as though he were the one being courted, tested, weighed.
And yet…
There was something magnetic about it. About her.
Hermione Granger didn’t look at him the way others did. She didn’t flutter or simper or fawn over the Malfoy name. She dissected it, wielded it like a tool. She had looked him in the eye and told him outright that she wanted his last name, his family’s legacy, and she had done it without shame.
That should have infuriated him. And it did. But beneath the irritation coiled a reluctant respect, an intrigue he couldn’t smother. She wasn’t like the girls in Rome, who came easily with a smile and left just as easily with the dawn. She was playing a longer game. She wasn’t seduced by charm or wit—she was too clever, too calculating.
She wants to use me.
The thought should have burned. Instead, it lodged itself deeper. Because part of him knew—if he agreed to this marriage, he wouldn’t just be used. He’d be standing next to a woman who had already changed the world once. Who might just do it again.
Draco stopped in the middle of the street, staring down at his reflection rippling faintly in a puddle by his feet. His mouth twisted into a bitter half-smile.
“Merlin help me,” he muttered. “I think I’d rather marry the madwoman than let her ally with anyone else.”
But the admission only unsettled him more. Because for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy wasn’t sure if he was making a choice or if Hermione Granger had already made it for him.
Witch & Tell Exclusive
By Rita Skeeter
War Heroine and Former Death Eater Heir Spotted Dining Together: A Match Made by Law—or by Choice?
Readers, brace yourselves! Your favorite quill-wielder has uncovered yet another delectable morsel for the hungry mouths of wizarding society. Just last night, none other than Hermione Granger, the celebrated Muggle-born war heroine, and Draco Malfoy, the only son and heir of the illustrious (and infamous) Malfoy family, were seen leaving Diagon Alley’s newest and most exclusive restaurant, The Black Cauldron.
The establishment, owned by the Malfoys themselves, has quickly become the pinnacle of posh dining. But it seems last night’s main course wasn’t on the menu—it was the company. Eyewitnesses report that Granger and Malfoy were seated together in a private dining room, their conversation intense, their expressions unreadable.
What could possibly bring these two together? Just one year ago, Miss Granger was the very face of the resistance against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, while young Malfoy was whispered about for his family’s… less-than-heroic allegiances. Yet there they were, side by side, leaving the restaurant at the very same time.
And with the ink still drying on the controversial Marriage Law, tongues are wagging louder than ever. Could Granger have chosen Draco Malfoy as her designated match? If so, it would be the most unexpected—and scandalous—union of the decade. Imagine it: the brightest witch of her age tying herself to one of the oldest pure-blood names in Britain. A marriage of necessity? Or perhaps… of opportunity?
Of course, when approached for comment, both parties remained maddeningly silent. Granger swept past reporters with her usual brisk determination, while Malfoy offered nothing more than a smirk (one imagines the same smirk that has made countless witches weak at the knees).
Whatever the truth, readers, one thing is certain: if Granger and Malfoy truly unite under the Marriage Law, it will send shockwaves through every corner of our world. For now, all we can do is speculate—and oh, how delightful speculation can be.
Stay tuned, darlings. Witch & Tell will keep you informed every step of the way.
—Rita Skeeter, Editor-in-Chief, Witch & Tell
Lucius Malfoy’s pale eyes pulsed between irritation and something dangerously close to amazement as he held up the glossy, self-congratulatory pages of Witch & Tell. The moving photograph stared back at him: his son, impeccably dressed, leaving The Black Cauldron alongside Hermione Granger—the very witch who had promised to show them just how influential she had become.
She had not failed.
The proof lay not only in Rita Skeeter’s poisonous quill but in the avalanche of parchment that had arrived since dawn. Letters from so-called family friends who, until yesterday, wouldn’t dare whisper the name Malfoy in polite company. Investors offering to buy stakes in their businesses. Requests from magazines and newspapers for interviews, features, exclusives.
Lucius tapped the article with one long finger, lips curling faintly in reluctant approval. He had tried to picture Draco with other half-bloods, had weighed names and lineages like ledgers in a vault—but even at his most calculating, he hadn’t imagined this. Hermione Granger’s influence was already eclipsing blood purity with something far more potent: public power.
The rustle of silk and the faint clink of silverware drew his attention back to the breakfast table as his son finally sauntered in, looking less polished than usual, though still irritatingly handsome.
Lucius lowered the magazine and let it fall directly onto Draco’s empty plate.
Draco frowned, picked it up, and his eyes widened as the magical photograph moved—his own face, caught in Rita Skeeter’s merciless ink, Hermione Granger at his side.
“Bloody hell,” Draco muttered.
“It’s too early, dear,” Narcissa admonished lightly, slicing her eggs with elegant precision.
“Sorry, Mother,” Draco said absently, flipping the page. “How did Rita Skeeter even get this scoop?” He scowled, snapping his fingers for the elf. “Mopsy, vanish this blasted article.” The elf squeaked and obeyed, though more copies sat waiting by the door, no doubt multiplying across wizarding Britain.
The three ate in silence for a time, the only sounds the scrape of silver on porcelain and the soft crackle of the hearth. At last, Lucius lifted his gaze, pinning his son with the familiar weight of inquiry.
“Your meeting with Miss Granger,” he said smoothly. “I trust it was… enlightening?”
Draco leaned back in his chair, cutting into a slice of toast with lazy precision. “I admit, I’m not really against it,” he said, glancing between his parents. “She’s not just good on the eyes—though she is—but she’s… impressive. More than I expected.”
Narcissa’s brow arched delicately, though she said nothing.
Draco smirked faintly, recalling the night before. “She told me she wanted to be the next Minister of Magic.”
Lucius paused mid-sip of his tea, the faintest crease appearing at the corner of his mouth. He did not scoff. He did not dismiss it. Instead, he arched a brow, and with the smallest of nods, acknowledged the possibility. “Ambitious,” he murmured, swirling the dark liquid. “And… not impossible.”
“So,” Narcissa asked, her tone deceptively casual, “are you agreeing to marry her?”
Draco smirked, eyes glinting. “Well, I admit I never dreamt of being a trophy husband. But the husband of the Minister of Magic? That’s good on the ears.”
Lucius’s gaze sharpened, but before he could speak, Draco went on. “We agreed to meet again today to discuss further. Don’t worry—I remember your advice, Father. ‘Never accept the first offer in a negotiation. Always press for better returns.’”
Lucius allowed himself a rare smirk, pride flickering in his eyes. The boy had listened after all.
Breakfast resumed, their discussion shifting to the latest tremors in their social circle, whispers of alliances rekindling, and the steady rise of their family’s investments. Yet beneath it all, the air in the Malfoy dining room carried a hum of anticipation—Hermione Granger had stepped into their world not as a pawn, but as a player. And Lucius Malfoy, though loath to admit it aloud, was impressed.
Chapter Text
The sheets of Hermione’s London flat were still tangled around her legs, the room thick with the musk of their passion and the lingering echo of their shared ecstasy. Harry lay beside her, his arm draped loosely over his forehead, glasses abandoned on the nightstand. His chest rose and fall steadily, but his green eyes were alert, watching her as she propped herself on an elbow, her skin still flushed from their exertion.
Hermione reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, sipping it slowly before setting it back down. “You’re quiet,” she murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.
Harry gave a faint, knowing smile, rolling his head toward her. “Just thinking. You, plotting your way into the Malfoy family. Didn’t see that one coming.”
Hermione smirked, tugging the sheets a little higher over herself. “It’s not about them, Harry. It’s about positioning. The marriage law is a curse for most witches, but for me—if I play it correctly—it’s leverage. Being tied to the Malfoys means influence, old money, name recognition. Things that will matter if I want to run for Minister one day.”
Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You sound like you’re already campaigning.”
She shrugged, lips twitching. “Maybe I am.”
There was a pause, only the creak of the cooling radiator filling the silence. Then Harry shifted, resting on his side to face her fully. “Hermione… I know you. Once you set your mind on something, nothing will stop you. And if this is what you want—if being with Malfoy is what gets you where you need to go—I’ll back you. You know that.”
Her eyes softened, studying him. “You mean that?”
“Of course I do.” His voice was steady, his gaze unwavering. “We’ve been through worse together. I don’t have to like Malfoy to understand why you’re doing this. You want to change the world, Hermione. And if this is the path that gets you there, I’ll keep supporting you. Until you’re where you want to be.”
Something in her chest loosened, a knot she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. She reached over, squeezing his hand. “Thank you, Harry. That means more than I can say.”
He smirked, the boyish curve of his lips undercutting the gravity of his words. “Besides, I get the best of both worlds. I get to keep you here, like this, when you need it. And one day, I’ll get to say I was in bed with the future Minister of Magic.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, swatting his arm lightly, though her cheeks flushed. “Honestly, Harry.”
But her laughter carried a warmth that lingered, even as her mind spun ahead—already calculating her next move, her next meeting with Draco Malfoy, her next step toward power.
And Harry, lying beside her, simply let her plot, knowing he would always catch her if she stumbled.
As they lay talking, Harry suddenly propped himself on one elbow, a lazy grin tugging at his lips as he watched Hermione stretch languidly across the bed. “So…” he began, voice dripping with mischief, “if you actually go through with this whole Malfoy marriage plan… what does that make me? Am I, I don’t know… your mistress?”
Hermione’s eyes flicked to him, a spark of amusement dancing in their depths. She raised an eyebrow, letting the question hang in the air for just a beat before answering. “Only if my future husband allows it,” she said smoothly, the faintest smirk curving her lips.
Harry chuckled, leaning back slightly, clearly enjoying the banter. “Well, I’ll have to negotiate then, won’t I?”
Before he could say more, Hermione’s hands gripped his shoulders, and with a swift, fluid movement, she straddled him, her presence asserting itself over his body and space. Her warm gaze locked with his, teasing but commanding.
“You’re not negotiating anything right now, Harry,” she murmured, pressing herself closer, her voice low and playful. “You just follow my lead.”
Harry’s grin softened, a mix of admiration and surrender in his eyes as he let her shift over him, feeling the effortless confidence she always carried. Even here, in the quiet aftermath of intimacy, Hermione’s focus and control were unmistakable.
“And here I thought I’d be in charge,” he teased lightly, tilting his head up to meet her gaze.
Hermione only smirked in reply, letting the moment linger. “Not tonight,” she said, voice warm and teasing, her hand reaching for his still hard cock, pumping it with a deliberate, rhythmic motion. Her eyes never left his as she felt him throb beneath her touch, a smirk playing on her lips as she savored the power she held over him.
Harry watched as the sheet covering Hermione slowly slid down, revealing her perky breasts and the curve of her hips. He let her slowly sink onto his cock, moaning at the familiar feeling of her tight, wet heat enveloping him. Their breaths mingled, and Hermione's eyes fluttered closed as she began to move, her hips undulating in a dance as old as time itself.
During their time on the run, after Ron had left them, Harry and Hermione found solace in each other amidst the lonely nights of hiding in the woods. In the absence of normalcy, they sought comfort in each other’s presence, their intimacy a way to distract from the constant danger and uncertainty. What began as physical connection in those dark, tense moments evolved into a continued pattern after the war ended. They cared deeply for one another, a bond built on trust, shared history, and unwavering loyalty—but it was never romantic in the traditional sense. Their attraction seemed rooted in the familiarity of each other’s bodies and the profound comfort they found together, transforming their physical closeness into a private language of friendship rather than love.
Hermione's movements became more urgent, her body pressing against his as she chased her pleasure. Harry's hands gripped her hips, guiding her, urging her on. The room filled with the sounds of their passion—moans, gasps, and the wet slapping of skin against skin. Hermione's head fell back, her hair cascading down her back as she rode him with abandon.
Harry could feel the tension building in his body, the familiar tightening in his balls as he neared his climax. Hermione sensed it too, her own orgasm building with each thrust. She leaned down, her breasts pressing against his chest as she kissed him deeply, her tongue exploring his mouth with the same intensity as her body moved against his.
With a final, shuddering cry, Hermione came, her body clenching around him, milking his own release from him. Harry groaned, his hips bucking as he spilled into her, the sensation of her tight heat almost too much to bear.
As they lay there, bodies slick with sweat and breaths coming in ragged gasps, Hermione collapsed onto his chest. Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as they both drifted into a satisfied, post-coital haze.
The soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a pale glow across the disheveled sheets. Hermione stirred, untangling herself from the warmth of Harry beside her. The night’s laughter and whispered teasing still lingered, but the edge of purpose—the unyielding drive that had defined her since the war—crept back into her mind. Today, she had another meeting with Draco Malfoy, one that required every ounce of her intellect, charm, and resolve.
She rose quietly, stretching and pulling on a robe, already running through her plans and talking points in her head. The bathroom door clicked open, the steam rising as she turned on the hot water. Just as she stepped into the shower, Harry’s voice called softly from the bedroom.
“Mind if I join?”
Hermione shot him a quick glance over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow in amused exasperation. “You do realize this is about strategy, not playtime?”
Harry grinned, leaning casually against the doorframe, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. “Oh, I know. But I thought I might give you moral support… and maybe keep you entertained while you’re plotting your world domination.”
Hermione’s lips twitched into a faint smile as she turned back to the warm spray, the tension of the upcoming meeting giving way to a brief, private moment of levity. “Fine,” she said, voice soft but teasing. “But only if you promise to behave and not distract me from being brilliant.”
Harry’s laugh echoed in the bathroom, a low, amused sound that only made Hermione smirk wider. “Deal,” he said.
Even as the water ran over her, washing away sleep and lingering tension, Hermione’s mind was already in motion—outlining her arguments, considering Draco’s likely responses, and planning how to turn every glance, every word, every subtle gesture to her advantage. The intimacy of the night and Harry’s teasing presence reminded her of the bonds she cherished, but her ambition—her drive to shape her own future—remained untouched.
By the time they stepped out of the shower, the air between them was warm, comfortable, and charged with unspoken understanding. Hermione dressed quickly, precise and deliberate, selecting attire that balanced elegance with authority. Harry lingered, watching her move with a mixture of amusement and admiration, silently promising his support no matter what lay ahead.
Today, she would meet Draco Malfoy again—and this time, she would leave no doubt as to who truly held the leverage.
Chapter Text
The afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of The Black Cauldron, bouncing off polished tables and gilded edges, but Draco barely noticed. He had arrived a few minutes late, as always, and when he finally caught sight of Hermione sitting across from the table, his pulse hit an unexpected rhythm.
Bloody hell… he thought, lips tightening against a flicker of surprise he didn’t show. The girl I used to call Mudblood… she’s grown into a hot, formidable woman. He quickly shoved the thought away, unwilling to betray it outwardly, but internally, he had to admit: she was no longer the bookish, serious girl from Hogwarts. This Hermione commanded the room with just the lift of an eyebrow and the calm certainty in her gaze.
Hermione looked up from her small notebook as he approached, a polite but confident smile on her face. “Thank you for meeting me again, Malfoy,” she said, sliding into her seat. “You said you’d like to discuss more about what our arrangement entails.”
Draco leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, eyes lingering just a moment longer on her before focusing on the table. “Actually,” he said, voice smooth but thoughtful, “since we’ve covered the political aspects of your proposal, I wanted to talk about what being my wife entails.”
Hermione nodded, already expecting the shift. “I’ve already discussed it with your parents. They don’t really have a choice—they will, sooner or later, have half-blood grandchildren anyway.”
Draco’s eyes widened. “You already discussed it with my parents?”
“Well… not in detail,” Hermione said evenly, her gaze steady, “but I wanted to know what you want.”
Draco blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Well… I really need to make sure we produce an heir. And perhaps another, if possible.” He hesitated, thinking aloud. “Pure-blood families don’t really have siblings for their children much anymore, but if I can… I’d like my child to have at least one sibling.”
Hermione nodded, pulling out her notebook again. “I understand. I’m an only child too,” she said, jotting notes carefully, her brow faintly furrowed in focus.
Draco’s curiosity got the better of him. “How about you? How many children do you want?”
“Three,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, not missing a beat.
“Three? Why three?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.
“Because five would be too much for me,” she said nonchalantly, as though it were the most obvious decision in the world.
Draco chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Fair enough.”
Hermione’s gaze lifted from her notes. “And how about their schooling?” she asked.
“Well, I was taught by tutors,” Draco replied, leaning back with a faint smirk.
“That’s interesting,” Hermione said, curiosity piqued. “What did you learn from these tutors?”
He recounted the lessons, the methods, the peculiarities of his tutors’ teachings, and soon they were discussing not only schooling but the broader shape of family life: the expectations, routines, and values they would instill in their children.
Eventually, their conversation shifted, subtle and careful, toward marital expectations and even extra-marital arrangements. Draco outlined the traditional expectations of Lady Malfoy: loyalty to her husband above all.
Hermione’s brow arched, a hint of disbelief in her voice. She had heard rumors of Draco’s exploits during his time abroad. “And what about you?” she asked. “Do you intend to remain loyal to your wife?”
Draco paused, considering. “I’ve never really been married,” he admitted with a faint smirk. “But I’m not the type to cheat on my wife.”
Hermione tilted her head, appraising him closely. “Because if I am expected to be loyal only to my husband, I expect the husband to be loyal only to me.”
Draco’s lips curved into a slow, confident smirk. “Fair.” His mind flickered for a moment, unspoken but undeniable: cheating on Hermione wasn’t even a thought worth entertaining. Not only did he find her attractive—he wanted her, and he knew it.
Hermione returned to her notes, the air between them calm but charged, a quiet acknowledgment of mutual understanding and unspoken desires threading through their careful, calculated discussion.
The private lounge of an upscale London club was dimly lit, the warm amber glow bouncing off dark mahogany panels and leather chairs. A faint haze of cigar smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, carrying the scent of rich tobacco and expensive whisky. Blaise and Theo lounged across from Draco, each nursing a glass of amber liquid, while Draco’s own fingers tapped idly against the rim of his goblet.
“So… let me get this straight,” Blaise said, arching a brow and leaning forward. “You’re actually considering marrying Hermione Granger? The war hero? The Mudblood?”
Draco rolled his eyes, though there was a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Not a Mudblood anymore, apparently. She’s… impressive. More than I expected.”
Theo whistled low, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Impressive? You mean, like, she scares you a little?”
Draco shot him a look, sharp but amused. “Scares me? No. Intrigues me? Yes. She’s clever, calculated… and she’s not going to fall in line like some little trophy wife. She knows exactly what she wants.”
Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. “You? You’re supposed to tame the wife, not the other way around.”
Draco leaned back, smirking, green eyes glinting with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration. “I think it’s the first time someone’s ever come close to matching me. She’s… she’s something else. And yes, she’s stunning—don’t get me wrong—but it’s more than that. She’s sharp. Strategic. She doesn’t let anyone push her around. Not even me.”
Theo raised an eyebrow. “So… you’re admitting you’re… interested?”
Draco waved a hand dismissively, though his smirk betrayed him. “Interested isn’t the word. Let’s say… she’s a challenge. And I don’t back down from challenges.”
Blaise grinned. “Sounds like you’re in trouble, mate. And what about your parents? I assume they’re thrilled?”
Draco shrugged. “They’re… intrigued. Hermione came in, laid out her plan, and they’ve been practically crawling to accommodate her ever since. I’ll admit it—it’s impressive. Even I didn’t see it coming.”
Theo shook his head, laughing. “So, Draco Malfoy, the great playboy, might actually be… settled down by a Granger? Never thought I’d see the day.”
Draco leaned forward, his grin darkening with a hint of mischief. “Don’t underestimate her, Theo. And don’t underestimate me either. This isn’t about settling down—it’s about playing the game. And trust me… I play better than anyone.”
Blaise clinked his glass against Draco’s. “Well, here’s to the game, then. Let’s see who wins in the end—Malfoy or Granger.”
Draco lifted his glass, eyes glinting. “Oh, we’ll see… we’ll see.”
Draco smiled as the almost naked girls sauntered into their private room in the club, their hips swaying seductively. One girl immediately made her way to Draco’s lap, her hands already exploring his chest. Draco could see his friends, Blaise and Theo, each had at least one girl on their laps, their hands wandering freely.
Draco felt the woman's hand as it began to rub his manhood. He stopped her with a smirk, "Naughty girl," he teased, before his own hands started their journey. He began at her legs, slowly creeping upwards to her thighs, feeling the softness of her skin. His fingers traced the lace of her thong, teasing her before finally delving into her folds, making her moan with pleasure. With a flick of his wand, he made all their clothes vanish, leaving everyone in the room naked and ready for the night ahead.
The room quickly transformed into an orgy, a tangle of limbs and moans. Draco, Blaise, and Theo indulged in multiple women, their bodies entwined in a dance of pleasure. Draco's hands and mouth explored every inch of the women around him, his touch leaving trails of desire. He took his time, savoring the sensation of skin against skin, the taste of their lips, and the sound of their moans.
Draco enjoyed one of the remaining nights of his singlehood, knowing that soon he would marry Hermione Granger. He planned to be loyal to her, but for now, he intended to indulge in every pleasure the night had to offer. The thought of Hermione waiting for him only heightened his arousal, making each touch and kiss more intense.
As the night wore on, the room became a symphony of pleasure, with Draco at its center, lost in a world of desire and satisfaction.
Chapter Text
“So this might be our last shag?” Harry asked, his voice a low, husky whisper as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the defined muscles of his chest and abs. His eyes never left Hermione as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, each inch of exposed skin a tantalizing tease.
Harry kicked off his pants, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, the outline of his growing erection unmistakable. He crossed the room to Hermione, his movements deliberate and purposeful. With a smirk, he helped her out of her blouse, his fingers brushing against her soft skin, eliciting a shiver from her.
“Well, the Malfoys expect the lady of Malfoy to be loyal only to her husband, and I had an inkling that they had a magic to ensure that,” Hermione said, her voice breathy as she took in the sight of Harry, fully naked and ready for her. Her eyes roamed over his body, lingering on the places she knew so well.
Harry grabbed her hips, pulling her flush against him as his mouth crashed onto hers. Their tongues tangled in a dance of familiarity and desire, deepening the kiss as they stumbled backward onto the bed. The world fell away as they lost themselves in each other, their bodies pressed together, hungry for more.
Harry broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “I’m gonna miss having sex with you,” he said playfully, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Hermione chuckled, pulling him close, her fingers tracing the lines of his back. “Well, we need to make the most of it before the wedding date is set,” she whispered against his lips, sealing her words with a kiss that promised more.
Harry’s hands roamed her body, exploring every curve and dip. He trailed kisses down her neck, lingering at the hollow of her throat before moving lower. His mouth found her breasts, his tongue circling her nipples before taking one into his mouth, sucking and teasing until she gasped. He moved lower still, his hands hooking into the waistband of her knickers, slowly, teasingly pulling them down, revealing her inch by inch.
With a smirk, he positioned her legs over his shoulders, his breath hot against her inner thighs. He kissed and nibbled, working his way closer to her center, drawing out her anticipation. Hermione’s back arched as he finally reached her most sensitive spot, his tongue exploring her with a skill that made her moan and writhe beneath him.
Harry’s fingers found her clit, rubbing it in the exact way he knew she liked, his touch both firm and gentle, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her. His tongue lapped at her juices, savoring the taste of her arousal, as he slid a finger inside her, curling it to hit that sweet spot that always made her gasp. He alternated between sucking and flicking her clit, building her pleasure with each pass of his tongue and each thrust of his finger.
Hermione’s moans filled the room, her body arching off the bed as he brought her closer to the edge. Harry could feel her tensing, her inner walls clenching around his finger as he increased the pace, his tongue working her clit with relentless skill. He could feel her orgasm building, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as she neared the brink.
With a final, deep thrust of his finger and a firm suck on her clit, Hermione came undone, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her cries of release echoed through the room, her hips bucking against his mouth as he rode out her orgasm, his tongue and fingers continuing to tease her sensitive flesh until the last shudder subsided.
As Hermione caught her breath, she pulled Harry’s head to hers, kissing him deeply, tasting her own juices on his lips. She could feel the hard length of him pressing against her thigh, and she knew she was ready for more. Harry positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock teasing her wet folds, drawing out her anticipation.
With a swift, powerful thrust, Harry sheathed himself inside her, filling her completely. Hermione moaned, her back arching as she wrapped her legs around his hips, urging him deeper. Harry began to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both familiar and intoxicating. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through her, building with each stroke as he drove into her.
Hermione met his thrusts with her own, her hips lifting to meet his, their bodies moving in perfect sync. The room filled with the sounds of their passion—moans, gasps, and the wet slapping of skin against skin. Harry’s hands roamed her body, gripping her hips, her breasts, her thighs, as if he couldn’t get enough of her.
He leaned down, his mouth capturing hers in a deep, hungry kiss, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips. Hermione could feel her pleasure building again, each thrust of his cock sending her higher and higher. She broke the kiss, her head falling back as she cried out, her body tensing as another orgasm crashed over her.
Harry’s own release was building, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. He could feel her inner walls clenching around him, milking him, drawing him deeper. With a final, powerful thrust, he came, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside her, her name a groan on his lips.
They lay there, their bodies slick with the sheen of sweat, the air thick with the musk of their passion. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, each inhale and exhale a testament to the intensity of their encounter. Limbs entwined, they drifted into a satisfied, post-coital haze, the world outside fading into insignificance.
“Do you have another meeting with Malfoy tomorrow?” Harry asked suddenly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her skin, pulling her from the blissful fog.
“No, why?” Hermione asked, her words slurred with satisfaction, but her curiosity piqued.
Before she could process his question, she felt Harry’s strong hands on her hips, flipping her onto her stomach with a swift, fluid motion. The cool sheets against her overheated skin sent a shiver down her spine, her body already anticipating what was to come.
“Because you won’t have any sleep tonight,” Harry said, his voice a promise laced with mischief. He lifted her hips, positioning her just so, before swiftly entering her from behind, filling her completely in one smooth thrust. Hermione gasped, her body arching back to meet his as he pulled her hands towards her back, his grip firm and commanding.
He began to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both relentless and intoxicating. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through her, building with each stroke as he drove into her. Hermione’s moans filled the room, her body responding to his with an urgency that matched his own.
Harry’s hands roamed her body, gripping her hips, her thighs, her back, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He leaned down, his chest pressing against her back, his breath hot against her ear. “Is this what you want, Hermione?” he growled, his voice a low, primal sound that sent a shiver down her spine.
“Yes,” she gasped, her body arching back to meet his thrusts. “More, Harry. Please.”
And he gave it to her, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. The room filled with the sounds of their passion—moans, gasps, and the wet slapping of skin against skin. Harry’s body was a machine of pleasure, each thrust calculated to drive her wild, to push her to the edge and keep her there.
Hermione could feel her pleasure building again, each thrust of his cock sending her higher and higher. She cried out, her body tensing as another orgasm crashed over her, her inner walls clenching around him, milking him, drawing him deeper.
Harry’s own release was building, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. He could feel her inner walls clenching around him, milking him, drawing him deeper. With a final, powerful thrust, he came, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside her, her name a groan on his lips.
They continued their dance of pleasure, their bodies moving in perfect sync, until the early hours of the morning. As the first light of dawn crept through the windows, their bodies aching with the delicious soreness of their continued lovemaking, they finally collapsed, spent and satisfied, their limbs entwined as they drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Chapter Text
The next meeting was held in one of The Black Cauldron’s smaller, more private rooms, the kind with velvet curtains drawn to keep out curious eyes. Hermione was already at the table, her notes arrayed neatly in front of her. Draco entered with his usual swagger, but something in her composed posture made him sit straighter than he intended.
They began with logistics—inheritance, estates, children—but the conversation shifted quickly toward fidelity.
“I expect loyalty,” Hermione said firmly, her quill tapping against her parchment. “From me to you, and from you to me. No double standards.”
Draco smirked, swirling the wine in his glass. “You make it sound like I’d have mistresses hiding in every manor.”
“Wouldn’t you?” she asked archly, brown eyes flashing with challenge.
He leaned forward, meeting her gaze. “Not if my wife keeps me… occupied.”
Hermione didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she laid out her circle of trust: her muggle parents, the Weasleys, and Harry Potter.
Draco raised a brow. “Potter and Weasley always at your side… figures. Oh—wait.” A slow grin spread across his face. “Didn’t I read somewhere you dated Potter?”
Hermione sighed. “Only for a month or two. Hardly worth mentioning.”
That caught Draco’s attention. He leaned in, curiosity flickering. “So you and Potter are only friends now?”
“Are we really talking about past relationships?” Hermione countered, her tone cool.
“I suppose we are,” Draco said, shrugging as if it didn’t matter—but his eyes stayed fixed on her. “I don’t want to be blindsided, suddenly married, and then hear rumors.”
Hermione tilted her head, assessing him, then smirked. “Fine. But only if you swear to tell me the truth too.”
“Promise.”
Without hesitation, she slid her notebook toward him. “Then sign.”
He frowned, bemused, but signed his name anyway. She added hers with a flourish, then folded her hands. “I’ve only had two real relationships—Viktor Krum and Harry.”
Draco gave a low whistle. “Krum and Potter? Not exactly forgettable names, Granger.”
“And you?” she prompted, raising an expectant brow.
Draco ticked them off like a list of trophies: “Pansy Parkinson, Amelie Fontenelle from Beauxbatons, Camille Noireflamme—family friend—and Astoria Greengrass.” He tried not to smirk as he watched her reaction.
Hermione didn’t blink. She just jotted something down in her notebook, maddeningly unfazed.
When she brought up his reputation abroad, Draco waved it off. “Those weren’t relationships. Just one-night stands.”
Then, curiosity sharpened. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “So what about you? Ever have a one-night stand?”
Hermione gave him a look, lips pressing into a firm line. “No. That’s not who I am. If I ever… entertain someone, it’s not casual. It’s with one person.”
Something twisted in Draco’s chest. He tilted his head, voice dropping. “So you’re fucking someone right now?”
She wrinkled her nose at his phrasing, but nodded once. “Yes.”
Draco’s jaw tightened before he could stop it. A flash of heat—irrational, possessive—flickered through him. He, who’d just tumbled out of an orgy days ago, had no right to feel it. And yet.
“You’re not planning to continue seeing this bloke after we’re married, are you?” His tone was sharper than intended.
Hermione’s eyes softened with just a hint of mockery. “We were just discussing fidelity, Malfoy. Of course I won’t. That’s the point.”
Draco leaned back, exhaling slowly, but the image gnawed at him—the idea of someone else’s hands on her, someone else in her bed. He didn’t like it. Not at all.
Hermione returned to her notes as if nothing had shifted, but Draco couldn’t shake the thought: If she’s mine, she’s mine.
Draco leaned back in his chair, but his shoulders were tight, his grip on the wine glass just a fraction too hard. He tried to mask it with a lazy smirk, but the truth betrayed itself in the way his gaze lingered on her mouth, on her hands, on the tilt of her chin as she calmly returned to her notes.
Finally, he set the glass down with a decisive clink. “Whoever he is, he’s a fool.”
Hermione’s quill froze mid-word. She lifted her gaze, brow arched. “Excuse me?”
Draco leaned forward, his voice low, almost dangerous. “If he has you now, and he’s about to lose you, he’s a bloody fool.”
Hermione blinked, taken aback—but only for a moment. Her lips curved, just slightly, into something between a smirk and a knowing smile. “Careful, Malfoy. That almost sounded… territorial.”
Draco straightened, mask snapping back into place, though his ears burned. “Just stating facts.”
“Mm,” Hermione hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Because it almost sounded like you were jealous.”
“Jealous?” Draco scoffed, a little too quickly. “Please. I don’t get jealous.”
Hermione tilted her head, eyes gleaming with challenge. “No? Then why are you gripping your glass like it personally offended you?”
Draco glanced down at his hand, fingers white-knuckled against the stem. He forced himself to release it, sitting back with exaggerated nonchalance. “Maybe I just don’t like the idea of my wife warming someone else’s bed before our vows.”
Hermione’s smirk deepened, sharp and amused. “There it is again—that territorial streak. I thought you said you weren’t the jealous type.”
Draco met her gaze evenly this time, something heated flickering in his grey eyes. “Maybe I’m not. Maybe I just don’t like sharing what’s mine.”
Hermione’s breath caught for half a second—then she leaned forward, her smile turning sly. “Then it’s a good thing, Malfoy, that I’m not yours. Not yet.”
The air between them crackled, heavy with tension neither was quite willing to break.
Hermione let the silence stretch, enjoying the way Draco’s jaw ticked ever so slightly, betraying the tension he was trying so hard to bury under his usual arrogance. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs slowly, deliberately, the hem of her skirt shifting just enough to catch his eye.
His gaze flicked down before he could stop himself.
Hermione’s lips curled. Got you.
“So,” she began, tone deceptively light, “if we’re drawing boundaries about fidelity, perhaps you should clarify something for me.”
Draco raised a brow, forcing his eyes back to her face. “Oh? And what’s that?”
Hermione tilted her head, feigning innocence, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Are you worried about me continuing with my current lover until the wedding… or simply worried that I have one at all?”
The question landed like a spark in dry grass. Draco’s smirk faltered, then sharpened into something hungrier, more dangerous. “What exactly are you implying, Granger?”
Hermione leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering her voice just enough that it felt conspiratorial. “I’m implying,” she said softly, “that if you’re already this rattled by the idea of me in someone else’s bed… how will you handle it when I’m in yours?”
Draco’s breath hitched—only slightly, but she noticed. His fingers tightened on the table’s edge.
For once, he had no clever retort ready.
Hermione smiled sweetly, as though she hadn’t just thrown down a gauntlet between them, and picked up her quill again. “Something to think about, Malfoy.”
Draco sat frozen, every muscle coiled, torn between irritation at her audacity and a pulse of desire that made his throat dry. Merlin’s bloody beard, she’s infuriating… And yet, he couldn’t stop picturing her words.
Hermione’s quill scratched across the page again, as if their little exchange hadn’t just set the air on fire. She noted something briskly in her neat handwriting, her face the very picture of composure.
Draco, however, was anything but composed. He sat back in his chair, posture loose but his eyes fixed on her, sharp and assessing, as though she were some puzzle he both loathed and needed to solve. Her calmness only needled him further—it felt like she’d won some invisible battle he hadn’t realized they were fighting.
Finally, Hermione set the quill down, closed her notebook, and looked up at him with that same sweet, maddeningly smug smile. “Thank you for your time, Malfoy. I think we’ve accomplished enough for today.”
Draco inclined his head, his smirk slow and deliberate, masking the coil of heat and irritation beneath. “Oh, I’m sure we have, Granger.”
Neither of them moved immediately. The silence stretched taut between them, heavy with all the unsaid things sparking like static.
At last, Hermione rose gracefully, gathering her notebook and quill. She gave him one last look—knowing, amused, challenging—before turning on her heel and striding out of the Black Cauldron as though she owned it.
Draco watched her go, jaw tight, a dangerous gleam in his eye. Not yours, not yet… her voice echoed in his head.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to lean back and feign nonchalance to the empty chair across from him. But the truth was undeniable. Hermione Granger was under his skin—and he hated just how much he already wanted to prove her wrong.
The Obsidian Phoenix was quieter than its Roman cousin, a bar Blaise had opened in Knockturn Alley after the war. Black glass chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, their flames casting sharp silver light across crimson velvet booths. A phoenix wrought in onyx sprawled across the wall behind the bar, its wings outstretched, feathers glinting whenever the light caught them.
Draco lounged—or at least pretended to—inside one of the private rooms, his long legs stretched across the booth. A blonde witch sat perched on his lap, giggling as her painted lips grazed his neck.
But Draco wasn’t laughing.
His jaw was tight, his mind elsewhere, and when the girl tried to trail her hand lower, he caught her wrist, eyes flashing. “Not tonight,” he muttered, flicking his hand toward the door.
The girl blinked, affronted. “But—”
“Out,” Draco snapped, not even looking at her. A bouncer appeared and ushered her away, leaving the three Slytherins alone.
Theo leaned back, amused, twirling his glass between long fingers. “Merlin. Draco Malfoy, dismissing a woman voluntarily. I should mark the date down.”
Blaise smirked, pouring himself a measure of aged firewhisky. “Only one reason for that. Granger’s gotten under his skin.”
Draco snarled, running a hand through his hair. “She bloody admitted it. Right in front of me. Cool as anything, she says she’s got a lover. Like it’s a footnote. Like it doesn’t matter.”
Theo raised a brow. “And it doesn’t—until she’s your wife. You said so yourself.”
“That’s not the point,” Draco snapped, pacing the room, his cloak trailing behind him. “She sets all these rules—fidelity, loyalty, no wandering husbands—and then she sits there confessing she’s tumbling around with some other bastard.” He stopped, gripping the back of the booth hard enough his knuckles whitened. “And I hate it. I hate that it bothers me.”
Blaise chuckled, raising his glass in mock salute. “Congratulations, Draco. You’re jealous.”
Draco whipped around, eyes narrowing. “I don’t get jealous.”
Theo snorted into his drink. “Oh, you’re jealous. You’ve gone full possessive already and you’re not even married.”
Draco dropped back into the booth with a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s impossible. Infuriating. And she bloody well knows exactly how to twist the knife.”
Blaise leaned forward, grin sharp. “You realize you’re describing being mad for her, right? Not irritated—mad. As in, you want her.”
Theo smirked, tilting his head. “If you don’t, Malfoy, I might. Granger’s not my type, but power, brains, and a face like that? I’d make an exception.”
Draco’s head snapped up, eyes glinting dangerously. “Don’t even joke about it.”
Theo raised both brows, clearly entertained. “See? Jealous.”
Blaise laughed, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “Merlin, this is better than I could’ve hoped. Draco Malfoy, the great libertine, about to be undone by Hermione Granger. I’d buy tickets to watch this play out.”
Draco shoved his glass toward Blaise for a refill, muttering darkly, “She’ll drive me insane before the wedding.”
Theo grinned. “Insane—or in love. Either way, we’re enjoying the show.”
Steam curled lazily into the air, fogging the bathroom mirror as the warm water lapped at the edges of the porcelain tub. Hermione leaned back against Harry’s chest, her wet hair slick against his skin, his arms loosely draped around her waist. The water smelled faintly of lavender and eucalyptus, a small luxury she had indulged in after another long day of negotiations and schemes.
For a while, they said nothing, only the soft drip of water breaking the silence. Hermione’s eyes were half-lidded, but her mind refused to quiet. Draco Malfoy’s face—irritated, amused, unsettled—kept flashing behind her eyes. The way his jaw clenched when she’d mentioned her lover. The way his hand had tightened around his glass.
She smirked faintly, almost to herself. I rattled him. More than I expected.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Harry murmured, his lips brushing lightly against her damp shoulder.
“I always think too hard,” Hermione countered softly, though her tone lacked its usual bite. She let her fingers drift through the water, creating ripples. “Malfoy doesn’t like being tested, but he’ll learn. If he can’t stomach a little pressure, he’s useless to me as a partner.”
Harry hummed in acknowledgment, nuzzling her hair. “Still… you sounded almost amused just then.”
Hermione’s lips curved. “Because I was. He tried so hard to hide it, but he hated hearing I had someone. It unsettled him, and I wanted him unsettled.” She tilted her head back slightly, thoughtful. “But the way he looked at me afterward… it wasn’t just irritation. He was… curious. Hungry, even. He doesn’t even realize it himself yet.”
Harry gave a quiet laugh, his chest vibrating against her back. “Dangerous game you’re playing, ’Mione.”
She tilted her head so it rested against his collarbone. “All politics are dangerous. Especially marriage.”
A moment passed before she spoke again, her tone shifting to something quieter, probing. “Harry… are you already looking? For a pure-blood partner, I mean. For the law.”
Harry’s arms tightened slightly around her. He didn’t answer right away, then sighed. “I’ve had a few offers. Letters from families who suddenly remembered I’m the Chosen One and think their daughters would look good on my arm.” His tone was wry, but Hermione caught the fatigue underneath.
She twisted slightly to glance up at him. “And?”
“And,” Harry said, pressing a kiss to her temple, “I haven’t decided. None of them matter to me. Not like you do.”
Hermione’s chest tightened at his steady, familiar loyalty. “We’ve always been complicated, haven’t we?” she whispered.
Harry smiled faintly. “Complicated, but simple too. I’ll support you until you’ve got everything you’re aiming for. Even if it means watching you marry Malfoy.”
Hermione let out a soft, humorless laugh and sank further into his embrace, her head resting against him as steam swirled around them. “Careful, Harry. You almost sound jealous.”
He chuckled against her skin. “Maybe I am. But I’m not Malfoy—I don’t mind admitting it.”
Hermione closed her eyes, her smirk fading into something softer, contemplative. Draco’s scowl flickered again in her mind, unbidden. She wondered if she’d underestimated just how far she could push him—or how far he might push back.
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