The weeks had drawn them closer, yet an unspoken tension remained—a quiet, persistent pulse beneath the surface. It was the kind of unease that didn't demand immediate attention but never truly faded, lingering like a shadow in the periphery.
One evening, nestled in the warmth of their living room, Draco finally broke the silence.
"Mother wants to have tea with you tomorrow," he said, his voice even, though laced with something unreadable.
She glanced up from her book, her brows furrowing. "Tea?" she echoed, skepticism flickering in her eyes. "Did she say why?"
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "No specifics," he admitted. "Just that she wants to speak with you. Alone."
She shut her book with a quiet thud, the weight of the unknown settling in her chest. "Well, that's ominous," she muttered. A dry smirk touched her lips. "I suppose I'll find out soon enough."
Despite her composed exterior, a dull knot of apprehension coiled in her stomach. Narcissa had already extended her apologies, had already reached out in ways Hermione never expected. Which left only one question—what exactly did she want now?
She highly doubted it was to discuss the fact that her late husband's demise had been delivered in a cup of poisoned coffee. So, whatever this tea was about… well, it was bound to be interesting.
~~~~~~
A tight knot of apprehension coiled in Hermione's stomach as she approached Malfoy Manor. The grand estate, an unyielding monument to power and legacy, loomed over her like a silent spectator, its imposing facade growing more daunting with every step. Narcissa's poised smile stood in sharp contrast to the quiet dread creeping through Hermione's veins. Even the immaculately trimmed hedges and meticulously arranged flower beds—an artist's dream of controlled beauty—offered no comfort against the storm of unease brewing within her.
The soft clink of porcelain against fine china shattered the silence like a delicate but deliberate warning. Narcissa poured tea with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime mastering elegance, the rhythmic motion a stark contrast to the tension thickening the air.
"Thank you for coming, Hermione," she said smoothly, her voice as polished as the silverware adorning the pristine table. The artificial warmth in her tone did little to dispel the sense of foreboding curling in Hermione's gut.
Hermione met her gaze with a carefully measured smile, her own mask of civility slipping seamlessly into place. "Of course, Narcissa," she replied evenly, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup. "What is it you'd like to discuss?"
Narcissa took a measured breath, her piercing gaze unwavering. "Hermione," she began, her voice laced with something unreadable, "while it brings me great joy to see the bond you and Draco share, I find myself concerned about the burdens you may be shouldering as his wife. Your rejection of an allowance, your reluctance to host social gatherings—admirable choices, no doubt—but I wonder… are they truly your own? Or are they a quiet rebellion against traditions that you believe you must resist, even at the cost of your own desires?"
"What do you want from me, Narcissa? Why do you cling so desperately to a rope I'm barely holding onto? What should I be? A therapist, a mother, a maid? Nymph then a virgin, nurse then a servant? Am I meant to exist as nothing more than an appendage, living solely to serve Draco? Or is it that you fear a woman who dares to carve her own path?"
Narcissa's gaze softened, a flicker of introspection crossing her refined features. "Hermione, if my words carried an antiquated weight, I ask your understanding. The traditions I was raised to uphold, the roles I once believed necessary, were never meant to diminish you. The expectations of our world can be suffocating, but please know that my concerns are not meant to chain you—they come from a place of love, of wanting Draco to have the best possible partner by his side.
"I see now that I was mistaken in assuming that tradition alone could provide the foundation for your happiness. Perhaps the true path forward is one that allows you both to grow—not within the confines of expectation, but in a way that nurtures who you truly are. You are not an appendage, Hermione, nor should you ever be reduced to one. What I truly want is for you to find fulfillment—not dictated by society, but defined by yourself."
Hermione inhaled deeply, steadying the storm within her. Her voice, though measured, carried the weight of years spent carving her own space in a world that tried to shrink her.
"Narcissa, I appreciate your honesty, and I do believe your intentions are rooted in love," she said carefully. "But you must understand—my worth is not measured by how well I fit into a role history has written for me. I love Draco with everything I am, but my love is not contingent upon being the perfect wife, the ever-supporting shadow. I need to stand on my own, to pursue my ambitions, to be more than someone who exists solely to uplift him. Draco and I are building something real, something that isn't dictated by legacy or tradition, but by choice.
"I hope you can see that, in giving each other the freedom to be whole as individuals, we are stronger together."
Hermione's breath hitched, her voice steady but thick with emotion. "Narcissa, if we had a daughter, I'd watch and couldn't save her from the emotional torture she'd endure from the head of your high table. She'd do what you taught her, and she'd meet the same cruel fate. I can't bear the thought of that. So now, I can undo this mistake. At least I've got to try."
Her words lingered in the air like an unspoken curse, the weight of generations pressing down on them both. Narcissa exhaled slowly, her hands folding gracefully in her lap, but Hermione saw the flicker of something deeper—regret, perhaps, or the realization of wounds too old to heal.
When Narcissa finally spoke, her voice carried not dismissal, but quiet conviction. "Hermione, the role of a wife, a mother, is not meant to be a gilded cage, nor should it be a sacrifice of self. It is a partnership—an alliance where both souls rise together, not one in service to the other."
She leaned forward, her cool blue eyes holding Hermione's with an intensity that demanded understanding. "Tradition may dictate certain expectations, but tradition is not law. We are the architects of our own unions. You are not meant to shrink within this marriage, Hermione. You are meant to redefine it. Discard the roles that do not serve you, shape the ones that do. Create something new with Draco—not as an extension of him, but as his equal, as his challenge, as his match in every way. That is what will make this union unbreakable."
A long silence stretched between them, and for the first time, Hermione saw Narcissa not as the icy matriarch of a dying aristocracy, but as a woman who, in her own way, had been trapped too.
Hermione studied Narcissa carefully, her voice edged with both curiosity and challenge. "Do you truly believe Draco and I are equals, Narcissa?"
Narcissa tilted her head, weighing her response with the precision of a seasoned strategist. "Hermione, the foundation of your union is promising, but true equality is not merely granted—it is forged. Draco reveres you, that much is clear, but reverence alone does not equate to equilibrium. A marriage of equals demands more than admiration; it requires a continuous exchange of power, a symphony of shared burdens, and an unwavering commitment to mutual growth. It is not a state of being, but an act of becoming—one that both of you must cultivate deliberately."
Her lips pressed together, absorbing the truth in Narcissa's words. "I want that," she admitted, her voice softer now. "I want a marriage where we stand side by side, not one where I shrink beneath his name."
A flicker of amusement danced in Narcissa's eyes as she lifted her teacup with deliberate grace. "Then construct it, Hermione. You possess the intellect and tenacity to shape the life you desire. And as for Draco?" She took a slow sip before meeting her gaze. "He is a Malfoy. He will adapt."
Hermione let out a slow breath, forcing herself to acknowledge the weight of the truth buried beneath Narcissa's perfectly poised words.
Fucking bitch.
~~~~~~
Hermione stormed into the penthouse like a tempest barely contained, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, her chest heaving as though the act of holding herself together was tearing her apart. Her cheeks were streaked with tears—hot, furious, relentless—and her hands trembled at her sides as if they no longer knew what to hold onto. She staggered forward, her knees buckling before she could make it more than a few steps inside. The moment her legs gave out, she collapsed onto the edge of the velvet couch, her body folding in on itself, shoulders shaking with the force of emotion she couldn't yet name.
Draco, who had been seated across the room sorting through a stack of documents, was on his feet in an instant—startled, panicked, completely abandoning whatever he'd been doing. His eyes darkened with alarm, and he rushed to her side as if drawn by instinct more powerful than gravity. He dropped to his knees in front of her without hesitation, hands reaching for hers, then cupping her face, then wrapping around her as though unsure which part of her needed comforting most.
"Hermione—darling—what happened?" he asked, his voice roughened by urgency, taut with fear. He pulled her into his arms and cradled her against his chest, holding her like she might slip through his fingers if he didn't anchor her tightly enough. His fingers threaded through her hair in long, steady strokes, murmurs of comfort tangled in every breath. The thunder of his heartbeat against her ear was steady and grounding, a sharp contrast to the chaos unraveling inside her.
Hermione sucked in a shallow breath, trying to force words through the tight, aching lump in her throat. She swallowed hard, her whole body quaking as she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—those storm-grey eyes that had so often steadied her, now filled with panic and love in equal measure. "Draco…" she whispered, the syllables cracking as they passed her lips. "I need to know something."
He blinked, brows drawing together, his gaze searching hers with immediate worry. "Anything, love. Whatever you need."
Her grip on the front of his shirt tightened, white-knuckled and desperate, as though she needed to hold onto something solid before the floor vanished beneath her. "What do you expect from me as your wife?"
The question landed like a curse in the space between them—softly spoken, but laced with the weight of something ancient and aching. Draco stilled, caught off guard, his expression morphing from confusion to growing concern. He shifted closer, his hands reaching instinctively for hers again, grounding her with the warmth of his touch.
"Where is this coming from?" he asked gently, though the line of tension in his jaw betrayed the panic he was already trying to smother. "Hermione, my only expectation is that we face everything together. That we love each other. That's what matters to me. That's what's always mattered."
But she shook her head, tears breaking anew as frustration mingled with something more primal—fear, grief, the sharp stab of disillusionment. "No, Draco," she said, voice trembling, rising from her chest like a bruise blooming beneath the surface. "I mean really. What do you want from me? What role do I play in your life, in your family? Am I just a symbol of progress to them? Or am I something real?"
Her words cracked the air like lightning, raw and unflinching. Silence stretched, taut and brimming with unspoken things. Draco stared at her, his mind suddenly reeling with the clarity of things left unsaid for too long. And it struck him—he had taken for granted the idea that their love would be enough. That everything she was, everything they were together, would speak louder than the echoes of the world they'd come from. But she was right. Love could not exist in a vacuum. Not in their world.
His eyes softened, his hands lifting to cradle her face again, thumb brushing away the salt of her tears with reverence. "I want you," he said, his voice roughened by emotion. "Not a performance, not a version of you that anyone else expects. You—just you. The woman who argues with me, who holds me accountable, who doesn't flinch when I fall apart. The woman who challenged everything I thought I knew and still chose to love me anyway."
His gaze held hers fiercely. "I don't want a wife who fits a mold. I don't need a puppet who hosts galas or nods along at the table. I want my partner. My equal. Someone who walks beside me—shoulders squared, head high—not behind me like a fucking accessory."
Another tear traced down her cheek, but her lip trembled with something more than sorrow—relief, maybe, or the ache of finally being seen. "That's all I needed to hear," she murmured, voice cracked but clearer now.
But she hadn't said the worst of it.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Your mother told me today that love isn't enough. That being your wife means conforming. Serving something larger than us. She made it sound like my life needed to shrink to fit this role. That I'd have to become something… less."
Draco's expression darkened instantly, fury snapping to life in his eyes like a match to dry parchment. His hand dropped from her cheek to her waist, as though needing to hold her closer, to protect her from something he couldn't quite punch in the face.
"She said what?" he asked, voice low, dangerous.
Hermione nodded, swallowing back another sob. "She said it kindly, of course. With tea and gentle smiles. But the message was clear. And I—Draco, I can't do that. I can't be someone I'm not. Not even for you."
His jaw locked, every muscle in his body suddenly taut with rage. "That's not just cruel," he said quietly, venom seeping into every word, "that's cowardly. To speak to you like that behind my back, to try and shape you into something you've never been—that's not love. That's fear. And I swear on everything I am, Hermione, she will never have that kind of power over you again."
Hermione closed her eyes, breathing in the quiet promise in his voice. And when she opened them again, it was like staring into a storm made just for her—wild, fierce, and utterly unshakable.
Draco reached for her hand again and brought it to his lips. "You are not less, Hermione. You are the sun in every room I walk into. And anyone—anyone—who tries to tell you otherwise is a fool who's never known what it means to love someone completely."
"She doesn't speak for me, Hermione," he said, his voice laced with steel, a quiet thunder simmering just beneath the surface. "She never has. And she never will. I won't stand by and allow anyone—especially her—to tell you who you're supposed to be. Not in this life. You are the most extraordinary woman I've ever known, the only person in this world who has ever truly seen me, and I will burn down every expectation, every tradition, every fucking legacy if it means protecting that light inside you. I'd rather lose the Malfoy name entirely than watch you shrink beneath it."
Hermione let out a soft, broken noise as she buried her face in his chest, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt like she was clinging to the last stable thing in her world. Her voice was a cracked whisper, muffled by the silk of his robes. "It was earlier… at the manor. She said things about tradition, about my duty. The way she looked at me—it was like she didn't see me at all. Like I was some experiment her son brought home. Like I didn't belong."
Draco's arms tightened around her, his chest rising and falling with controlled, burning rage. "Listen to me very carefully," he said, his voice low, deliberate, full of that quiet fury that only surfaced when someone tried to touch what was his. "My mother's beliefs were forged in a world that taught her to survive by becoming untouchable. But I am not that man. And we are not that legacy. Her fears, her values—they have nothing to do with the life we're building. You are not a symbol or a solution. You are my wife. But more than that—you're my equal. You're my anchor. My sanctuary. My best friend. My partner in every fight that matters. Bloodlines, social circles, inheritance, all that pureblood performance—it's meaningless compared to what we have. I would trade every Galleon in our vaults just to keep you by my side."
He gently pulled back, just far enough to cup her face in both hands, forcing her to look up and meet his eyes. The sheer intensity in his gaze made her breath catch. "You are enough, Hermione. More than enough. You are brilliant, ferocious, kind, and terrifying in your own right. You don't need to become someone else to be worthy of this family. You are what makes it worthy now. We're rewriting everything, love. Together. And I swear to you, whatever future we build—it will be one rooted in love, not obligation. One forged by our rules."
His voice, though fierce, never lost its tenderness. And the unwavering truth in his eyes cleaved through the doubt still swirling in her chest. She searched his face, eyes wide and shimmering, desperate to find even a flicker of hesitation—but there was none. Only fierce, unrelenting love.
Something fragile and unspoken unfurled within her. "Are you sure, Draco?" she whispered, her voice quaking, small beneath the weight of centuries of expectation. "Are you really, truly sure?"
His thumbs brushed her cheeks, chasing away every last tear with reverence. His lips hovered close enough to feel his breath when he spoke again. "We will carve our own path," he said, each word deliberate, sacred. "A path built not on legacy, but on choice. On respect, on equality, on us. And no matter what challenges come our way—no matter who tries to undo us—we face them side by side. Always."
A tremulous smile bloomed on her lips, so small and hesitant at first, but it grew with each breath she took in his arms. "Thank you," she breathed, the words half-sob, half-relief. "I just… I needed to hear you say that. Needed to know I'm not crazy for wanting something different."
He kissed her forehead, slow and lingering, like a vow pressed to skin. "You'll never need to doubt it. Not with me. And you'll never have to walk through fire alone again. I'm yours, Hermione. For every battle, for every breath."
She sighed and melted into him, her fingers gripping the back of his robes as if she could fuse them together by touch alone. But even as his embrace calmed the trembling in her bones, a single thought still gnawed at the edge of her heart.
"It's just…" she whispered, her voice barely more than air. "Sometimes it feels like there's so much pressure, so many expectations pressing down on us. I get scared that I'll fail you. That I'll disappoint everyone."
Draco's hands framed her face again, and this time, his voice was quieter—but no less commanding. "Hermione, look at me." She did, her eyes glossy and raw. "You could never disappoint me. Not now. Not ever. We've already walked through hell and come out holding hands. That's more than most people ever manage. And if we stumble—if we fall—we do it together. You, exactly as you are, without a single mask, are more than enough for me."
Her lips parted, trembling with emotion, but she couldn't find the words. She simply leaned into his touch, drawing strength from the certainty in his gaze, the conviction in his voice, the safety of his love.
"Thank you, Draco," she whispered again, softer now. "You don't know how much I needed to hear that."
He didn't reply with words this time. Instead, he wrapped her in his arms, holding her as though the world itself could collapse around them and he wouldn't care, so long as she was safe within his grasp.
And for a long, long while, they stayed there in silence—wrapped in one another like armor, their love a quiet fortress against the outside world. Whatever came next—whatever burdens, whatever ghosts—they would carry them. Together. Hand in hand. Heart to heart.
Later that night, when the house had fallen into stillness and the moonlight cast long silver trails across their bedsheets, Hermione turned to him, her body curled into the crook of his arm, but her mind spinning far from rest. Her voice was barely more than a breath against the quiet. "Draco… there's something I need to tell you. And I don't know how."
He shifted instantly, the barest trace of sleep vanishing from his features as he propped himself on one elbow, his gaze sharp with concern. "What is it, love?" he asked, his tone gentle, but laced with the kind of urgency reserved for things that mattered.
She paused, the weight of her thoughts suddenly pressing down on her chest, making it harder to breathe. Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she whispered, "I feel like there's something inside me… something I don't understand. When it happened, when I decided to kill him—Lucius—I didn't hesitate. Not even for a second. It was like the idea didn't even need to be debated. I just knew. And that terrifies me."
Her fingers curled into the sheets, her body coiled with tension, her voice cracking under the weight of her confession. "It wasn't just instinct. It felt good, Draco. The moment I knew he was gone, that he couldn't hurt you anymore—that he couldn't touch the future we're building—I felt… relief. Satisfaction. Like something vile had been purged, and I didn't mourn it for a second. That scares me. Because if that's who I am now… if that's what I've become…"
He didn't recoil. He didn't blink. Instead, he reached for her with unwavering certainty, his arms wrapping around her like armor. He drew her against him, kissed the crown of her head, and whispered into her hair, "Hermione, listen to me. You are not evil. You are not broken. And you are certainly not a monster. You are a woman who has fought her entire life to protect the people she loves—and when the world offered no mercy, you created your own."
His voice was low, fierce with truth. "You did what you had to do. What I couldn't. You chose freedom over fear. And maybe the line between justice and vengeance was blurred, but that doesn't make you wrong. It makes you human."
She trembled against him, her tears hot as they soaked into his chest. "But what if that part of me never goes away?" she whispered. "What if I carry that darkness forever, like something coiled under my skin, waiting to surface again? What if I can't control it next time?"
He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup her face in both hands, his thumbs wiping away her tears with heartbreaking tenderness. "We all carry darkness, Hermione. Every single one of us. But it's not the shadow that defines us—it's what we do with it. And you—you—have the kindest, most unshakable heart I've ever known. The way you love, the way you fight, the way you never let cruelty go unchallenged... that's your light. And it will always outshine anything else."
His words wrapped around her like a balm, but another thought still ached inside her, pressing sharp against her ribs. "We both killed someone," she said, the words dragging out slowly, as if they hurt to speak. "You killed Greyback. I killed Lucius. What does that do to people like us? What does that make us?"
Draco didn't speak right away. He laced their fingers together, grounding them both in the familiar touch. "It makes us survivors," he said at last, his voice quiet but resolute. "It makes us people who saw the abyss and still chose love over fear. I killed Greyback because he touched what was mine. Because he hurt you, and I couldn't let that go unanswered. It wasn't justice. It wasn't mercy. It was you. And I would do it again."
Hermione nodded slowly, tears slipping freely now. "I hated Lucius for what he did to you. For what he turned you into. And I kept telling myself that if I just removed him, we could finally breathe again. That if he was gone, you'd be free. And I wanted that more than anything. I still do."
He didn't let go. He didn't falter. He pulled her close again, wrapping her in an embrace that felt like both forgiveness and promise. "We made hard choices, Hermione. And they'll haunt us. I won't pretend otherwise. But we did it for each other. For a future worth living. We'll carry that weight. Together. Every scar, every regret—we'll hold it between us, and we'll never let it break us."
She sank into him, her face buried in the hollow of his neck, drawing strength from the steady beat of his heart against hers. "Together," she repeated, and this time the word felt like a vow.
He kissed her temple, slow and reverent, his voice a whisper full of resolve. "No matter what."
And in the hush that followed, as they lay tangled together under the fragile weight of night, neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. Because they knew what they were now—two souls stitched together by war and will, forged in blood and sacrifice. Not perfect. Not pure. But unbreakable.
Two broken creatures, marked by darkness, standing at the edge of everything they used to fear—and choosing, still, to leap forward into the unknown.
Not because they believed they'd be caught.
But because they had each other to fall with.
~~~~~~
The Sunday brunch was a spectacle of wealth and tradition, a pureblood affair where appearances were as calculated as alliances. Draco and Hermione arrived dressed to command attention, both impeccably clad in Valentino—because, somehow, the brand had cemented itself as a modern pureblood signature.
Hermione's velvet dress, rich as spilled wine, hugged her frame, the golden accents of her goddess-inspired jewelry catching the sunlight like molten fire. Beside her, Draco cut a striking figure in a sharp, obsidian suit, his presence dark and magnetic—Hades incarnate to her Persephone. Together, they were a vision, a fusion of past and present, a contrast that shouldn't have worked yet did.
As they stepped into the gathering, a hush of quiet approval rippled through the crowd. Eyes lingered, heads nodded—the old guard recognizing not just their status, but their power. Draco's hand rested possessively on Hermione's waist, his grip firm yet reverent, a silent declaration. A couple forged in fire, bound by something deeper than history's disapproval.
"Hello, lovebirds," Ginny greeted as she approached, her grin bright with mischief. "You both look infuriatingly stunning."
"Finally," Blaise drawled, stepping up beside her, his smirk sharp, "some pureblood elegance has rubbed off on Hermione."
Draco arched a brow, his voice smooth with mock arrogance. "Perhaps you should be thanking my impeccable influence."
Hermione scoffed, tilting her chin up in challenge. "Oh, please. More likely, some overworked Valentino intern owes you a favor."
Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. "Regardless of how it happened, the results are undeniable. You both look like you stepped straight out of a bloody fashion campaign."
Ginny smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Terrifyingly gorgeous, annoyingly well-dressed, and, of course, disgustingly in love. Merlin help us all."
"Absolutely," Blaise added with a mock sigh. "You two look like you just stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly's 'Most Unbearably Perfect Couples' edition."
Draco turned to Hermione, his smirk deepening. "See? Even Blaise and Ginny approve."
Hermione arched a brow, but the amusement in her eyes betrayed her. "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment."
"Definitely," Blaise said, this time with sincerity. "You two exude power. It's actually quite disturbing."
Draco inclined his head, accepting the praise with a flicker of pride. "Appreciate that, mate. We're just doing our best to keep up with you and Ginny."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You two have the whole 'dark and untouchable power couple' aesthetic down to an art. It's almost unfair."
Draco's gaze flicked toward Hermione, something softer, almost reverent, settling in his expression. "Maybe we were made for this."
Hermione squeezed his hand, warmth unfurling in her chest. "Maybe we were."
Determined to shift the attention elsewhere, she glanced around the room. "Who's on the guest list today?" she asked, a trace of nervousness threading through her composed tone.
Ginny surveyed the room, her fiery hair catching the light. "The usual suspects. Harry and Cho should be here by now, and Luna and Theo promised they'd drop in."
A genuine smile broke across Hermione's face. "It'll be nice to catch up."
"They should be here any moment," Ginny confirmed, checking her watch. "Theo mentioned a slight delay, but Luna—fashionably early, as always."
Draco, ever the strategist, swept the room with his usual precision, though for once, his sharp gaze was laced with ease. "It's good to see familiar faces again."
Hermione smoothed the emerald folds of her dress, exhaling softly. "It has been a while."
Ginny nudged her playfully. "Relax, Hermione. They'll be thrilled to see you. And seeing you two together? That's going to be the highlight of their day."
A silent charge passed between Hermione and Draco, a wordless understanding of the weight this moment carried.
Right on cue, the grand double doors swung open, and Luna swept in like a vision of whimsical chaos. Her diamond earrings glinted under the chandelier's glow, her wide, knowing smile as radiant as ever.
Following close behind was Harry, his familiar lightning scar partially obscured by the ever-messy mop of black hair. Cho Chang walked beside him, her long raven locks cascading down her back, a soft, knowing smile gracing her lips.
Relief flooded through Hermione the moment she saw them. Whatever tension had been coiling inside her chest loosened its grip, replaced by the simple joy of familiarity. Years had passed, battles fought, scars earned—both visible and unseen—but the foundation of their friendship had remained unshaken. She rose to greet them, her smile genuine, unguarded.
"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed, his voice alight with warmth as he pulled her into a tight embrace.
"Harry," she whispered against his shoulder, squeezing him just as fiercely. "It's been far too long."
Draco, ever the observer, watched the exchange with something unreadable in his expression. His fingers tapped idly against his glass, but when Harry turned to him and extended a hand, Draco didn't hesitate.
"Draco," Harry greeted with a nod, his voice absent of old grudges, of past animosity.
Draco clasped his hand firmly. "Potter," he acknowledged, his tone measured but not cold.
A beaming Luna bounced on the balls of her feet. "Lovely to see you all together!" she declared, her dreamy voice infused with a peculiar kind of wisdom. "Now, who wants to hear about the Wrackspurts infesting my attic?"
Laughter rippled through the group as they moved to take their seats. The tension that had once loomed over the gathering dissipated, replaced by the easy camaraderie of old friends reconnecting. Conversations flowed effortlessly—stories exchanged, jokes shared, memories dusted off like old books finally reopened.
Hermione, settled comfortably beside Draco, found herself relaxing, her earlier apprehension melting away with each burst of laughter. She stole a glance at him and found him surprisingly at ease, engaged in what looked like an animated discussion with Harry and Theo. The warmth of his smile, rare but genuine, sparked something unfamiliar inside her—a quiet pride, a realization that he belonged here just as much as she did.
Across the table, Theo, ever the troublemaker, smirked. "Ah, so the eagle's nest, the lion's den, and the snake's pit all in one place. It's like Hogwarts is assembling its own rogue council."
Draco let out a chuckle—a real, unrestrained one. "Almost," he mused, taking a sip of his drink. "Just missing a Hufflepuff, wouldn't you say, Potter?"
Harry, never one to miss a beat, met Draco's gaze with a lopsided grin. "And here I thought you didn't believe in their existence."
Hermione let out a small laugh, the lighthearted banter warming something deep within her. "Perhaps next time," she quipped, her voice carrying the ease of someone who had finally exhaled.
Ginny, always the bridge between their worlds, grinned as she leaned back in her chair. "You know, it's good to see all of you like this. Feels a bit like a Hogwarts reunion, doesn't it?"
Theo lifted his glass, the gleam of mischief ever-present in his eyes. "To Hogwarts. To surviving its madness. And to the unexpected friendships forged in the fire."
Glasses clinked, the sound ringing through the elegant space like a quiet testament to the bonds they had built. They were no longer children defined by house colors or wartime allegiances. They were something else entirely—something stronger, something lasting.
°°°°°°°
Hermione and Harry found themselves tucked into a quiet corner of the terrace after lunch, away from the hum of polite conversation and clinking cutlery, the laughter of old friends echoing like a warm lullaby behind them. A gentle breeze stirred the ivy climbing the stone wall, sunlight casting soft golden beams across the space. It was the kind of rare, still moment between two people who had been through the worst of life together and come out the other side with scars they didn't need to hide.
Harry exhaled deeply, sinking into the seat beside her, the familiarity of it making his shoulders finally relax. He glanced at her, a soft, almost shy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Merlin, Mione. It's good to see you," he said, his voice tinged with something nostalgic and fond. "Like… really see you. Not through rushed owl replies or public appearances. Just you."
She smiled, something tender flickering in her chest. "It feels good to see you too," she admitted. "To be here like this again. Like old times—just with less danger and slightly better shoes."
He chuckled, then leaned back, folding his arms casually but with that ever-perceptive glint still alive in his gaze. "So," he began, teasingly but not without sincerity, "how's life with Malfoy?"
She hesitated—not out of shame, but because putting that kind of truth into words still made her feel vulnerable. She met his gaze and didn't flinch. "Harry… Draco and I—we've grown closer. We're… we're in love."
His eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. "In love? With Malfoy?"
"I know how it sounds," she said quickly, not defensive but understanding the weight of it. "I know who he used to be. Who we all used to be. But he's not that boy anymore, Harry. And I'm not the same girl either. We've both changed. What started as necessity… as circumstance… it's become something real. Something I never expected but couldn't walk away from even if I tried."
Harry's arms remained crossed, his expression unreadable. "It's just—he made our lives hell, Hermione. For years."
She didn't deny it. "He did. And I won't pretend he didn't. But he's done the work, Harry. Quietly. Relentlessly. And not for applause or redemption. For me. For us. He's patient. He listens. He knows when to push and when to pull back. He's kind in ways that would've shocked all of us back then." She paused, her voice softening, her chest tight with the weight of how much she meant this. "And he makes me feel safe. Cherished. Like I'm the center of his universe."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, sighing as if trying to untangle the web of old memories from the reality in front of him. "I just… never imagined this. You and him. After everything."
How did it happen? They killed their devils.-for each other.
Hermione's voice steadied, though the words still felt like an exposed nerve. "It wasn't easy. We unlearned hate. We confronted parts of ourselves we didn't like. But he became someone I could trust. Someone who challenged me. Made me laugh again. Gave me hope when I thought I had none left. He's… he's home now."
A long pause. Then Harry let out a breath, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Well," he muttered, his tone lightening just enough to soften the edges, "don't expect me to go easy on him if he ever messes up. I've still got a few decent hexes in me."
She laughed—really laughed—and the sound felt like a balm over the rawness of the last few days. "Oh, trust me, Draco knows. You might hex him, but I'd bury him. And he knows better than to test me."
Harry tilted his head, a ghost of a grin curving on his lips. "That's the Hermione I know."
He studied her for a long moment, the way only someone who had walked beside her in fire could. Then he nodded. "I trust you. If you say he's changed… if you say this is love, then I believe you."
Her eyes shimmered, warmth blooming in her chest. "That means everything to me, Harry. Truly. I just hope—someday—others will see him the way I do."
"They will," he said, his voice laced with quiet certainty. "They always do. You've always had a way of seeing the good in people—even when the rest of us couldn't."
A wistful silence settled between them.
" Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."
Fucking Shakespeare is always right.
~~~~~~
As soon as they stepped through the door, Draco wasted no time. He pressed Hermione against the wall, his body flush against hers, his hands capturing hers and pinning them firmly above her head. His grip was possessive, yet reverent, his touch igniting a fire beneath her skin.
His gaze, dark and smoldering, raked over her face with a mix of admiration and barely restrained desire.
"You were such a good girl today, darling," he murmured, his voice rich and husky, each word dripping with praise.
Hermione's breath hitched, her pulse hammering in her throat. The way he looked at her, like she was something to be worshipped, sent a thrill down her spine. The warmth of his words settled deep in her chest, an intoxicating blend of affection and something far more primal.
Draco leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear, his breath warm and teasing. "You handled everything with such grace and strength," he whispered, his voice velvet and sin. "I'm so proud of you."
Oh she definitely had a praise kink.
Her breath hitched, the weight of his words sending a delicious shiver down her spine. She tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze with a soft, knowing smile. "Thank you, my love," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with affection.
A playful glint sparked in her eyes as she let her fingers trail up his arms, slipping from his grasp to wind around his neck. "And what do good girls get?" she asked, her voice dripping with mischief.
His smirk deepened, his fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path down her face. "Oh, darling," he purred, his voice rich with promise. "Good girls get rewarded."
A teasing hum left her lips just as he closed the space between them, his mouth brushing against hers in a kiss that was soft yet brimming with intent. She melted into him, savoring the heat, the sheer possessiveness of the moment.
"They get kisses," he murmured against her lips, the warmth of his breath sending another shiver down her spine. "And so much more."
A flush bloomed on Hermione's cheeks as, in one fluid motion, Draco lifted her effortlessly into his arms. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her fingers tangling in the silk of his hair as he kissed her again—deeper this time, hungrier, as if he needed to feel her against him. The air between them crackled with a tension that neither of them intended to resist.
He carried her to their bedroom, his grip firm yet reverent, as if she were something precious. Laying her down with a slow, deliberate ease, he hovered above her, his stormy gaze drinking her in. His thumb brushed over her cheek, reverence flickering in his eyes.
"You deserve everything, love," he murmured, his voice thick with adoration. He dipped his head, his lips grazing hers before he added, "Gods, you're so beautiful."
Her heart swelled, her hands threading into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. "I love you, Draco," she whispered, her words melting into his mouth as she kissed him again, drowning in him, in them, in this moment that felt like everything.
The sight of Draco on his knees before her sent a molten rush straight to her core, the same way it had since the first time he ever touched her like this. His silver gaze flickered up, dark with intent.
"You want my lips here?" He flicked her clit, the brief touch sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up her spine. Hermione's eyes widened, a choked whimper slipping from her lips.
"Or maybe my fingers here?"
Without waiting for an answer, he slid two fingers inside her, the stretch delicious, the sensation grounding and dizzying all at once. He had turned his ring around, and as he withdrew, he angled his hand just right, the ridges of the band catching against her clit, sending a shockwave through her. His lips traced teasing kisses along her inner thighs, avoiding the one place she needed him most, dragging out the ache, the anticipation.
She let out a breathless whine, her body trembling, her voice lost somewhere in the heady, charged air.
His hand came down suddenly, a sharp slap against her clit. Pain and pleasure blurred together, white-hot and dizzying, her spine arching involuntarily.
"Use your words, darling," he murmured, voice dark and amused.
Her gasped, barely coherent. "Y-your tongue. Please, dear God."
She needed him. Needed the rise and fall of pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside her, ready to send her spiraling.
The first swipe of his tongue against her slit sent her body jerking, pressing herself against his face with desperate need. Draco groaned, the sound vibrating through her, and then he was circling her clit in slow, lazy figure-eights, his tongue spelling out words she'd never decipher through the pleasure.
Her eyes fluttered open before she even realized they'd closed. Her gaze caught on the flex of his biceps, his forearm taut with tension. She followed the path downward, her breath catching when she saw it—his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself slowly, his hips rocking ever so slightly as he devoured her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
Hermione couldn't focus on anything except the relentless torment of Draco pushing her right to the edge, only to cruelly pull her back—again and again. The unbearable tension coiled inside her, so tight she thought she might shatter. When she reached the point where she genuinely feared she might die if he didn't let her fall, a desperate cry tore from her lips.
"Please," she gasped. "I beg you."
A deep, satisfied growl rumbled from his throat. "Shhh, darling," he soothed, but there was no mercy in his voice. His tongue worked her over with devastating precision, and when he finally pushed three fingers inside her, curling just right, her body bowed, her muscles tightening like a bowstring.
Pleasure detonated through her, white-hot and all-consuming, flooding every nerve ending in her body. She came apart in waves, pleasure cresting and crashing until she was trembling, boneless beneath him.
As the last tremor of bliss faded, Hermione slid off the bed, her knees meeting the floor before she even fully processed the movement. Draco loomed over her, dark and predatory, his gaze burning with anticipation.
He stood like a god surveying his offering.
She steadied herself by digging her nails into his thighs, half-moon imprints sinking into the firm muscle beneath her fingertips. Slowly, deliberately, she ran her tongue along the underside of his cock, savoring the way his body tensed, the way his breath hitched. She loved the feeling of his veins beneath her tongue, the way he always stiffened in that first moment of contact, as if bracing himself for what was to come.
Like Eros and Psyche. Mortal and god. Which was which was still up for debate.
A strained groan broke through the air as Draco's left hand tangled into Hermione's curls, his grip tightening with every slick pull of her lips. "Fuck, love," he rasped, his voice rough with pleasure. "Look at you—my gorgeous wife on her knees for me."
The words shot straight through her, sending a pulse of heat between her thighs. She moaned around his cock, the vibrations dragging another curse from his lips as he pushed deeper into her throat.
"Mmmm, my perfect fucking wife," he mumbled through panting breaths, his body trembling with restraint.
Hermione took him deeper, her throat constricting as he hit the back, before pulling off to swirl her tongue over the swollen tip. The way he shuddered, the guttural moans that escaped him, sent a surge of satisfaction coursing through her.
The small gagging sounds had him gripping her hair even tighter, his control fraying with each slick stroke of her tongue.
Minutes passed in a haze of pleasure before she surrendered completely, letting him take over, his hips snapping forward as he fucked her mouth. Saliva dripped from her parted lips, trailing down her chin, coating her breasts and stomach in a sticky sheen.
She finally pulled away, her breathing ragged, and climbed onto Draco's lap, straddling him. His eyes, dark with need, locked onto hers as she teased him, hovering just above his aching cock. Slowly, agonizingly, she lowered herself onto him, inch by inch, until he was buried inside her.
A sharp hiss left his lips. "Fuck, Hermione."
She moved with deliberate slowness, grinding against him, savoring every second of the stretch, the delicious friction between them. He reached up, his hands molding to her breasts, thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples. They moaned in unison, lost in the intoxicating rhythm of each other.
She leaned forward, hair spilling over her face as she captured his lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing his groans as she rode him harder.
The pace shifted—urgency replacing languid strokes. Hermione chased her pleasure, her moans growing desperate, raw. He gripped her bum, guiding her down with force, meeting every roll of her hips with a deep, punishing thrust.
"That's it, love," he growled, his voice strained. "Come on my cock."
The moment shattered. She cried out, her cunt tightening around him as waves of pleasure crashed over her, her entire body shuddering. He groaned at the sensation, gripping her even tighter, chasing his own release. A few erratic thrusts later, he pulled her down onto him, burying himself as deep as he could as he came, his release filling her in hot, pulsing waves.
She collapsed against him, their bodies slick with sweat, hearts hammering in sync. Silence stretched between them, thick with the afterglow, their breathing the only sound in the room.
He pressed a lingering kiss to her shoulder, his grip on her tightening possessively. "You're mine," he murmured, voice hoarse with exhaustion and satisfaction.
She smiled against his skin, utterly spent. "Always."
And as they lay tangled together, bodies sated and souls entwined, he couldn't help but think—there would be many more nights like this. Many more ways to worship each other, to drown in pleasure, to fall deeper into this maddening, all-consuming love.