3 Works by treaturself
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Summary
Draco Malfoy was killing for her. Hermione Granger didn’t know why, but she knew he did it—and he was good at it. One offhanded name, a whispered complaint, and by the next day, it'd be handled. A tumble down the stairs, a potion gone wrong, a sudden case of spattergroit.
It was easy. Convenient. So for months, she let him rid her world of anyone who dared call her a Mudblood, laughed her policy proposals out of Wizengamot sessions, or dismissed her with a patronizing “sweetheart.” All she had to do was look the other way, pretending not to notice the intense grey eyes that seemed to be watching her every move.
Until he told her why, with a truth that shattered her world: “Because I’m a werewolf, and you’re my mate.”
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“Are you absolutely sure there aren’t any other options?” he asked, a hint of desperation creeping in. “You’re sure the glowy yarn ball hasn’t come up with an alternative?”
“I’m assuming you're referring to the threads of time and truth that indicate every possibility of our universe and any other universe parallel to it. In which case yes, I double-checked. Triple-checked, even. To prevent our reality from collapsing in on itself, your only options are to marry Minister Granger or let her murder you.”
Or: When the universe forces Draco Malfoy to choose between marrying Hermione Granger or dying by her hand, he chooses death—because she deserves more than him. But Hermione seems determined to sabotage his heroic exit at every turn.
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Summary
When Hermione's stuck in boring Ministry meetings, she lets her mind wander. It's not like anyone can hear her thoughts, right?
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She watched as Malfoy's fingers wrapped around his fancy feathered quill, flexing with each stroke as he meticulously penned line after line of notes. His fingers were long and elegant, the kind her mum would’ve deemed “fingers made for playing the piano.”
But Hermione thought his fingers were made for far more exciting things.
Fingers nimble enough to easily undo the back buttons of her knee-length pinstripe dress. Fingers gentle enough to skate across her jaw, leaving a fiery path behind, fingers firm enough to find home in her unruly curls, to fist at the root and pull, just enough to feel just right.
Fingers made to be buried in a woman’s cunt.
She was jolted from her thoughts by the sharp crack of Malfoy’s snapping quill.
“Excuse me, so sorry,” he muttered as all eyes turned toward him.