Chapter Text
Hermione’s next few days passed in a fever haze at Hawthorne. One would think that after a two week lock-in, she’d have cabin fever, but there was still so much to do.
Hawthorne was feeling improperly taken care of without a house elf, so Hermione called up the elves that had previously declined the position. Only one took her up on an offer to tour the house the next day. Hermione did it big, showing Skipper the Elf the grand dining room, kitchens, and ballrooms. Hawthorne brought out the tarnished silver, and even showed the elf the attic, with piles and boxes of antique Christmas decorations, all packed away. There were ornaments and accoutrement in such a quantity to bejewel a Yule tree in every room.
No elf could have resisted.
Skipper signed her contract and got to work unpacking the Christmas decorations that same day. (The retirement plan remained generous.)
In the last two weeks, Hermione and Malfoy had systematically gone through five bedrooms, the ground floor in its entirety, the ballroom, and the library. But now that Hawthorne had shaken off its boggart in the tower and accepted her as Mistress, it kept presenting her with new rooms. By the third morning after Malfoy’s exit, she had amassed three new bedrooms, a servants’ stair and quarters, a huge butlers’ pantry off the formal dining room, and most charmingly, a little Victorian potting shed in the back garden.
The restoration was a simple joy now, and Hermione found it the work of a morning to ponder a new bedroom’s style aloud, considering window dressings, wallpapers, and trim.
Hermione evaluated just as Malfoy had taught her: first with the walls, ceiling, and floor, of course, and saved furniture and wall hangings for last. For furniture, it seemed that Hawthorne had an endless supply of furniture sets down in storage, and based on her design choices it would conjure antique spindle bed frames, chairs and bedside tables, luxe woolen rugs.
She took a special care in imagining potential guests that might enjoy specific rooms.
A spartan bedroom with a gorgeous teak bed frame was perfect for Harry and Ginny, especially after she painted the walls a bold bottle green.
For James and Albus, she used a large bedroom and built two sets of bunk beds. She imagined the absolute mayhem they (or any children) could get into at a sleepover at Hawthorne. It made her smile.
She had taken to using the instant paint spell for the walls of the bedrooms, and conjuring floor length curtains from dish towels, which Hawthorne wouldn’t have borne last week. “Of course I’ll weave some real curtains for you later,” she said. “And we’ll do a nice paint with some protective spells plastered in. But let’s just get some paint on the canvas today, hm?”
Hawthorne had clearly decided that its new mistress was good for it.
“Malfoy would have a conniption about this color,” Hermione said absentmindedly when she and Hawthorne had decided on a bright lavender for the reading nook set into the back stair. “He’d say that this color hadn’t been invented when you were built. But we’re creating something new here, aren’t we, dear?”
Still Hermione found her mind increasingly occupied by her erstwhile companion. Not their sexual rendezvous, which she was still resolutely occluding. Nor about his quick exit as soon as he’d seen the door, which stung too much to bear.
No, she wanted him in the mundane.
She wondered what Malfoy would think of her pantry redesign. She wished to share passages from her latest non-fiction with him as she sat by the fire in the evening. One night, when Hawthorne served an especially bright Sonoma red that she knew he’d enjoy, Hermione made sure to take down the name and order a case.
Consummately independent, Hermione had never felt this way before.
On her third evening alone, Hermione prepared for bed in the master suite. As she turned down the pillowy duvet, a glimmer of silver caught her eye. It was on his side of the bed. She picked up a silver cufflink with an engraved M.
“He’s sure to be missing this, the vain creature.” She said aloud (she’d taken to speaking aloud the last few days). “I’ll owl it tomorrow. Though he’s had three days to owl, or floo, or anything. He’s been really rude, honestly. He’s the one that left in a rush when I was preparing a place for him at our table.”
Silence, all around.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, then, what would you have me do? Make a call to the Manor tomorrow?”
More silence.
“Exactly. It’s not that simple. I can’t keep reaching out. I’ve made it perfectly clear to him where I stand, Hawthorne. If he doesn’t reciprocate…”
Well, that was that.
The cruel part was that Hermione knew that he loved her. She knew it as certainly as she knew her own name.
So why hadn’t he owled?
“Ugh! Let’s change the subject, please.” Hermione announced, flopping into the bed.
Hawthorne was amiable enough to redirection, and it popped a tray with various letters onto her bedside table.
Good, a mindless task. She sorted the letters aimlessly, throwing most into a trash bin. Charmingly, she noticed that some of the dates on the letters preceded her Hawthorne residence by years’ time. Here was a Hogwarts Alumni letter from years ago, simply addressed to “Hermione Granger, Current Residence”.
Some erstwhile owl must have delivered it here three full years ago.
Hermione shook her head at the sheer magic. “I was always meant to be in your orbit, hm?” she said to Hawthorne.
Well, the time for fundraising on that particular cause had expired. She flicked the letter to the trash.
As she paged through the stack of post, she marveled that Hawthorne had been receiving her letters for years. Ever since she moved to America, and she’d never noticed any of it missing.
She looked through Christmas cards, party invitations, birth announcements—in a maudlin way, it brought her rather low to see all these life announcements, concentrated over years’ worth of time all at once.
Here she was, still on the outside looking in.
“But now I have you, Hawthorne,” Hermione murmured. “Maybe I’ll send out a moving announcement. Maybe I’ll throw a big party and we’ll open up the ballroom. That would be just the thing, wouldn’t it?”
A breeze rustled the curtains excitedly.
“Yes, you love that idea, I can tell,” Hermione smiled, paging through to the bottom of the stack. “Oh, this stationary reminds me…”
Thick, creamy stationary with just enough tooth.
It reminded her of Malfoy’s missives, throughout the restoration process. Merlin, was she going to think of him constantly?
But when she turned the envelope over, familiar handwriting greeted her, had written her address. It really was from him.
She shucked the envelope open and pulled out a handwritten letter.
“What is this?” she whispered. The letter that Malfoy had spoken of months ago: the one that she had never received. He had written it after his trial.
She flattened out the creases on her knee and then, fingers shaking, started to read.
—
March 3, 1999
Granger,
I’m writing to thank you for speaking at my trial last month. You saved me from Azkaban, and I’m very grateful.
I know you think I’m a prick
I have to tell you something that will probably be quite shocking
My mother died, this week. Not sure you would have seen it in the papers. She was hit by a slow-acting curse at the Battle of Hogwarts, as they’re calling it. Ten months later, she’s dead.
You have no idea how grateful I am that I was out of Azkaban, so I could be at home with her when she died. It was the greatest gift anyone could have given to me. We walked through the gardens, took every meal together, played games (as much as she was able, in those precious days). She was with me, in the home that she loved.
She told me to write you, actually. This is excruciatingly hard to write, but she advised me to be honest.
You see, I have a
blood curse
crush on you.
Maybe that comes as a shock, or maybe it was totally obvious… I’m not sure. But I’ve had a flame for you for years, and it caused me to be singularly cruel to you when we were younger. (I was also a bigot, so it was a layered thing.)
But I’ve always admired you. From the first time you showed off at Hogwarts, I respected you. I admired your bravery, your intelligence. The way you look, obviously. I was so envious of your friends. I drew your ire on purpose so that you would pay attention to me. When you slapped me in third year, I realized I had feelings for you, so then I ignored you as much as possible to make those feelings go away. It didn’t work.
I hope you really believe what you said at my trial. That I was in an impossible situation. That I couldn’t say no without harming my family and those I loved. That I helped you by not identifying you, here at the Manor. God, that was the worst day of my life. Well, it’s probably tied now with last Tuesday. And I can’t even imagine how it was for you. But you didn’t look at me when you spoke at the trial, so I wonder if even you really believe what you said. I was there, I lived it, and I am haunted by wondering how much more I could have done. How much more I could have helped. Or at least how much I could have negated harm.
I’m working my way down a list of the people I’ve wronged, writing them all letters. This is not one of those apology letters. I mean, it is, but it’s special. You’re special, is what I’m saying. To me. To everyone, but I mean, especially to me.
I know I don’t have much to offer you. No family, a terrible reputation, blood money, and a house that’s unsafe to live in after spectacularly bad houseguests. One word from you will silence me forever. Hell, your silence will silence me forever. But if you could find it within yourself to give a deeply flawed, exonerated Death Eater a chance—God, this sounds so pathetic—
What I’m saying is—
I would like to know you more. I would be very honored if you gave me the privilege.
Please owl me when you receive this. If you don’t, I’ll take that as my answer.
Yours,
DM
—
When Hermione looked up from the letter, tears streamed down both cheeks.She used a messy fist to swipe at the wetness.
That pitiful eighteen year old boy. Getting released from prison just in time to bury his mother. Then, newly orphaned and all alone in the Manor, penning this letter to her. Hermione’s heart ached for him. She ached for what must have inevitably come afterward, as he waited days, then weeks, then months for a response.
Hermione groaned and stretched out on the bed lengthwise. “Why is this so difficult? I love him, Hawthorne, and I know he loves me.”
A little velvet box popped into existence on the white duvet.
She grabbed the box and opened it. Inside, a set of golden rings gleamed. One was thin and delicate, sized for a woman’s hand, and the second was thicker and larger.
“Oh Hawthorne, not this again.” Hermione said. “This letter was from ten years ago. I… I don’t even know if he would accept me.”
She sat in silence on the king-sized bed, staring at the box in her palm.
“He probably wouldn’t. He left as soon as he could,” she murmured.
Hermione didn’t begrudge him for leaving after the sex. They’d gone through the ringer, and honestly in hindsight she was surprised that they’d been able to abstain as long as they did (wholly due to Malfoy’s herculean self-control, since Hermione was on-the-record for being ready to jump him on Day One).
No, she was angry—furious, really— that he’d left without saying goodbye after the companionship they’d shared. In the span of two weeks, he’d become the best friend she’d ever had. She missed him desperately, viscerally, with an ache in her heart she’d previously only read about.
“Why hasn’t he owled, Hawthorne?” she said finally.
Another pop, and an old-fashioned photo album appeared.
Hermione pulled it towards her and opened the cover to the first vellum page.
An old sepia photograph of a handsome couple in traditional wedding robes smiled and waved at her. The bearded man held on to his bride tight, and as Hermione watched he dipped her into a kiss. The bride laughed and swatted at him merrily. Disgustingly in love, in a way that Hermione thought was probably rare for arranged marriages of that time. In her current heartbreak, observing such a flamboyant ardor made her sad.
Underneath the photo, cursive letters spelled “ Corvus III and Cassiopeia Black, wedding day, 11/30/1924. ”
She flipped to the next page, and found a different story. The pair was much younger in this photo, probably teenagers, and they wore formal ball attire with a lavish backdrop behind. Cassiopeia was staring resolutely forward, unsmiling at the photographer, while baby-faced Corvus waved his arms to catch her attention. This photo was dated 1921. Hermione quirked an eyebrow.
The next photo was in a green tennis field, a bright sun casting stark shadows on the subjects’ faces. A whole pack of young people were standing at attention in white athletic wear. With some difficulty, Hermione found a grainy Cassiopeia on the front row, who was looking up admiringly at a blond wizard on her arm. From the second row, dark-haired Corvus watched the interaction with the intensity of a stormcloud. Hermione winced.
She continued watching the story unfold, photo by photo. They aged over the course of a few years, and Cassiopeia’s beauty matured, an English rose opening its petals. Corvus had the more impressive transformation, as young men so often do, turning from a gangly teenager to a burly man. The dark beard, which made an appearance in the fourth photo and then never left, aged him at least ten years. Still, Hermione could see that Cassiopeia was entirely lukewarm to the man.
One page read, “ London season, 1924 ” and held Cassiopeia and Corvus dancing to a quadrille. Hermione blinked, examining the background. That was the Hawthorne ballroom, lit up in splendor, with at least three dozen couples dancing. It looked like a magnificent party—at the edge of the dance floor, everyone’s glasses were full of sparkling drinks and smiles on their faces. A glorious enchanted mural lit up the entire ballroom ceiling.
The next page held a photo of Cassiopeia, seated in a drawing room. A bouquet of peonies sat on her lap, and Hermione watched as the witch smiled whimsically, reached down with a finger to pluck off a petal.
Had Corvus given her these flowers?
The second photo was even stranger, it was simply a photo of a daybed in the Art Deco style with polished burl walnut panels and velveteen cushions. “ Courting Gift, Maison de Verre daybed, ” read the title beneath.
“Courting gift,” Hermione whispered, touching the sepia daybed with a fingertip.
She watched the courtship unfold over the course of the 1899 London season; more dances, more gifts, with a trip to a country home with dozens of Cassiopeia’s relatives, overwhelming and flustering Corvus even in the photos. A “meet the family” trip, no doubt. Hermione watched as Cassiopeia softened her hard exterior, coming to look at Corvus with fondness, then admiration, then finally ardency.
The final picture before a flurry of wedding stills was simply a still portrait of wedding bands; it was the same set that Hermione currently held in her lap.
Hermione wished she could see the engagement, wished she could see if Corvus had been nervous before he’d proposed. But the narrative skipped ahead to an extravagant 1920s wedding.
She shut the book, her mind racing.
“You think I need to woo him,” she concluded. “Awfully modern, Hawthorne. Very well. Pull all the books that reference wizarding courtship, if you please.”
Hermione was already pulling on a dressing robe and heading up the stairs. By the time she opened the library door, a stack of tomes lay waiting at the research table.
Five hours later, the sun was just peeking through the blinds when Hermione slammed the last book shut. She stood from the table and rubbed her eyes. “Skipper?”
The house elf popped into existence, wearing a smart pillowcase with an “H” embroidered on the front placket. “Good morning, Mistress!” she squeaked.
“Good morning, Skipper. Can you please make me a breakfast? Eggs, bacon, and toast.” Hermione would need to regain some strength after her late night. “And… I need you to pop by the florist this morning. I’d like a bouquet of,“ —she squinted at her scrawled notes from The Language of Flowers— “white roses, speedwell, clematis, and bay laurel.”
Skipper’s eyes became huge. “Mistress is going courting .” She pirouetted away with a pop.
With the flowers sorted, Hermione went down to the cellars to look through the furniture storage. An established convention of wizarding courting was to gift a piece of furniture or art that would grace a shared home. But what to give the man who had everything? Trying to choose a piece for Malfoy, graduate of the Sorbonne School of Architecture, would be like him writing her a math equation. Each chair, each table, bed frame, etc. felt old and fussy. Nothing here was right for him.
Irrationally, Hermione felt tears run down her cheeks as she fell to the cellar floor.
She felt a whoosh in front of her, and she looked up to see familiar green fabric on the table where an empty spot had been previously.
The curtains.
“Oh, Hawthorne. But I made these for you,” Hermione murmured. She fingered the weave, the shining magic in the green threads. It was a priceless gift, and a part of her hated to see it go to the Manor. She had woven these panels at Hawthorne’s loom, nearly died at Hawthorne, for them to be used in the nursery here.
“Only if you’re very, very sure.”
But the home was sure. It had been sure of Draco Malfoy long before he’d been a thought in Hermione’s mind. Now, Hawthorne was willing to put forth even more chips to win its prize.
Hermione nodded, shrunk the curtain panels, and tucked them into the ring box alongside the two gold bands. She grabbed the flowers on her way out the front door and pressed a quick palm to the solid oak doorpost for luck.
It was snowing outside.
She apparated to the gates of a blanketed Malfoy Manor. She walked up to the silver gates in pristine silence, her footprints marring the perfect field of white.
Hermione had doubted that the gates would admit her, and mentally prepared herself to make a fuss outside until she drew Malfoy out. However, the gates opened smoothly. Like they’d been expecting her.
She inclined her head in gratitude to the Manor. A month ago, she would have called Malfoy very uppity for a move like that, but now she spoke the language.
The front entryway, too, swung open before her when she was about ten steps away.
“Malfoy?” she called, stepping into the Manor. She brandished her wand in one hand and his flowers in the other.
No answer.
The Manor was pristine, already all decked out for Christmas. She searched the ground floor to no avail. She knew he wouldn’t have gone to the dungeons. So she climbed the arching staircase up to the second floor, and tried each door.
All the doors opened except one.
Hermione knocked gently. “Malfoy? It’s Hermione. I have something for you. You left so soon.”
Silence.
“Come on, Malfoy, open the door. I know you’re in there.”
Why did she feel so awkward? She was carrying the man’s engagement ring in her pocket, and here she was afraid he wouldn’t open the door.
Hermione lifted her chin and rapped on the door three more times. “Malfoy,” she barked. “Open this door or I’ll break through.”
“Merlin, witch. Always jumping to violence at the first resort.”
Hermione jumped. His voice had come directly from the other side of the door. Only a breath separated them. She raised a hand to finger the wood grain; she imagined his hand there, or his neck.
She smiled softly. “You could say that my present company brings out my violent side.” She cleared her throat. “We need to talk.”
He was silent for a few beats.
“Can we postpone? I didn’t prepare for company today,” he finally said. Brief, formal. As if they were strangers.
“No.” Hermione said. “It’s important. Can you please open the door?”
“I don’t think…” —A sigh, heard through the door— “We can talk through the door, then. Please be quick.”
Hermione frowned. This was not how she had imagined proposing. To be fair, she hadn’t imagined proposing at all (she hadn’t had a modern type of upbringing). For a moment, she considered letting him beg off, considered letting his flimsy excuse stand.
But she suspected that if she let him recede today, he would hide from her for a very long time.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll talk through the door.” She took the ring box out of her pocket.
“I brought three gifts for you today. The first is a bouquet of flowers. I chose each one. I’ll just… leave them outside the door.” She shucked them to the ground.
“The next is the curtain fabric that we wove together. I remember you admiring them, last week. I was surprised that Hawthorne was willing to give them up, but we both agreed that it was a fitting gift.” Hermione set the shrunken curtains down behind her, in the Manor hallway, and waved her wand to restore them to their correct size.
“Granger…” he said. He sounded absolutely miserable.
Hermione lifted her eyes to the ceiling to keep her tears from falling. “Will you make me pass your third gift under the door, Malfoy? I want to look in your eyes as I propose to you.”
The door swung open.
“Don’t toy with me,” he hissed. His eyes were red-rimmed and furious. “You don’t understand how it feels for me. Don’t worry Granger, I’m not going to hold you back. I can let you go— I will let you go, but I just need,” a ragged, miserable exhale. “Space.”
As soon as the door had opened, Hermione had dove under his arm into the room beyond. She stood in a bedroom, minimalist in design, with a messy bed with a mossy green duvet.
She turned around to face him. He was standing frozen at the door, looking into the hallway.
He slowly bent down to pick up the bouquet of flowers, then turned it this way and that. Inspected each stem.
He touched a smooth bay laurel leaf, then a soft white rose petal.
“I didn’t understand, at first,” she confessed. “I didn’t understand how my childhood enemy could grow up to become everything I look for in a partner. Or how I was alone at Hawthorne for four days and missed you every minute. I’ve spent the last ten years alone and never felt so low. I’m not saying I know exactly how it feels to be you, Malfoy, but you should trust me when I say I’d never toy with you.”
She approached him quietly. She took a deep breath. “I love you, you know. I brought you the rings, and I’m yours if you’ll have me.”
Tears were streaming down his cheeks on both sides. He braced against the door, as if he wanted to go to her but held himself back. He was still suspicious, she saw, but now there was a light in his eyes. “There would be no separation or divorce after this, Granger,” he said. “You’d put me in my grave if you tried. And I’ll take it all from you, everything I’m due as your husband.”
Hermione felt a shiver race down her spine.
“But I’ll give— I’ll give you everything you could want. Not that you couldn’t get it yourself. But I’ll be a devoted father to your children, I swear it.”
She nodded. “I understand what I’m getting. Like I said, I’m yours if you’ll have me. You could have had me at Hawthorne. It would have made this all much easier.”
He ripped his eyes away from her and raised close eyes to the ceiling, exhaling shakily. “I… I feel like shit about all of it. You couldn’t consent to a life with me, locked in there, and I couldn’t bear to chain you down. I thought Hawthorne was feeding you emotions. But then I gambled with your life, and I felt like shit about that, too—“
Hermione shook her head. “It’s fine, Malfoy. We were in an impossible situation. You bet on me.”
“Oh, thank Merlin.”
And then he was on her like a beast.
The rings fell to the carpet, forgotten, as Malfoy swept his arms around her waist and pushed bruising kisses to her mouth.
Hermione’s arms rose to wrap around his neck, and she couldn’t stop her fingers from feeling him everywhere she could, his hair, his cheeks, his neck and clavicle.
He took hungry breaths in between his kisses, and his hands roved over her back and ass, squeezing at the cleft, then dragging up and down her inner thighs. He was stroking her whole body and she fucking loved it.
Hermione groaned, rubbed her thighs together; the ache in her center was too much. They’d been kissing for twenty seconds and her panties were swamped. To be fair, though, she’d been more-or-less in a constant state of arousal for the last four days.
“Can I fuck you?” he said into her neck, between kisses.
“You’d better,” she said faintly.
He picked her up and threw her on the bed.
“Take off your clothes.” He commanded, and she raced to comply, shucking her denims and shirt to the floor. She lay on top of the sheets, then, waiting for her next instruction.
Malfoy palmed his erection as he watched her from the foot of the bed. “The lingerie, slowly.”
She let out a gust of air, and then nodded. She’d be a good wife to him—while they were here in the Manor, at least. She’d show him that she could be good. Hermione took one arm out of her bra’s shoulder strap, then the other, and then pushed the cups down to bare her breasts. She teased him, taking off her thong slowly, then snapping it at him.
He caught it with one hand. “Do you remember what you said when you asked me to fuck you at Hawthorne?”
Hermione shook her head; she couldn’t remember her own middle name right now with anticipation.
“You said we could be done by dinnertime, Granger.” His pupils were blown out as he stared at her naked in his bed, black rimmed with silver. He brought he black panties to his nose and breathed in her scent. “You’re not leaving this bedroom for a week.”
He stalked toward the bed, and once he loomed over her he grabbed her ankles and yanked her towards him, then her calves, then her thighs, till her legs hung over the foot.
She yelped as he pulled her, and then propped on one elbow, she saw him drop to his knees on the floor, between her legs. “No,” she said immediately. “I want you to fuck me.”
It was the wrong thing to say to a Malfoy in his own bed, in his own house.
“No?” His eyes were black and wicked. He held her squirming thighs down with a forearm and fitted her thigh over a broad shoulder.
“I mean—“ Hermione started, then groaned, throwing her head back on the sheets as he blew a breath of warm air in the direction of her cunt. “Next time, please. I need your cock in me.”
“You can be fast, can’t you? We need to even the score.” He brushed his long fingers across the junction of her thigh and quim.
Hermione sighed. “I can be fast. Go ahead then.”
He fell to her cunt with his mouth like he was eating a feast. Big laps with his tongue, obscene sucks to her thighs, her labia, that she was sure would bring blood to the skin. Her canal felt empty and gaping, totally neglected, and it ached. His technique was mortifyingly sloppy and obscenely loud, and Hermione had to close her eyes to stop from being overwhelmed.
Her orgasm barreled toward her frighteningly quickly, but as she flexed her muscles in anticipation, he backed off, changing his rhythm and pattern. She sighed in frustration, threw her head back.
Then, the same thing happened three more times.
On another man, she’d have guessed ineptitude, but as she groaned wretchedly after the third close call, she caught a glance of wicked mirth.
“Malfoy, I swear to God,” she growled. She reached down between her legs and yanked at his hair, hard. Glittering eyes looked up at her patiently. Ah, she knew this game.
She looked him in the eyes. “I’m begging for your cock, all right? I’m gagging for it. Please put your cock inside of me. I want to come with you.”
“And you’ll let me come inside?”
“Yes, of course, not that it will do anything with my IUD.” She grabbed his shoulders bonelessly and hauled him up between her legs. “Why are you still wearing all these clothes?” She grabbed her wand and vanished his clothes so he loomed naked above her.
“Granger,” he propped himself on one hand and used the other to caress her cheek, to scrape her scalp tenderly. “You’re really going to be my wife. You ,” he said quietly. He’d buried his face into her neck.
Hermione nodded, tears welling in her eyes. She tugged at his hair so that he lifted up from her neck to look face-to-face. “You, Draco Malfoy,” she confirmed.
He sunk into her like a stone through water. Her cunt had been aching for this, and the stretch was divine.
Their tryst at Hawthorne had been brief, but Hermione had set the pace and called the shots. Now, it was all she could do to hold on to his shoulders as he fucked her. She was his doll, to be used and set in different positions. He would pull out and she would whimper needfully at the loss as he twisted her hip and thigh over and smoothly re-entered, or wrenched her ankles over his shoulders. She came like that, with his thumb and fingers on her clit and his cock hitting a deliciously deep spot.
He magnanimously gave her a moment to feel through the aftershocks, her cunt pulsing around him, and then he left her to grab a pillow. He flipped her over onto her abdomen and propped the pillow under her hips.
“Can I fuck you like this?” He murmured, stroking down her flanks and lower back, grabbing handfuls of her ass.
“Yes, if you do it hard.” She said with her ass in the air. Bargaining to the end.
His grip on her ass grew punishing, and she yelped in surprise as he brought a hand down for a quick slap. “Merlin, you’re a dream.” His cock bottomed out in her again.
Hermione lay there in his bed and just… took it. His hands gripped her hips bruisingly, and she moaned nonsensical words, total gibberish at each slapping thrust.
When she felt his pace start to stutter, she brought her forehead up from the sheets. “I want to see you when you come,” she ordered.
He flipped her back to missionary and she brought her arms around his neck.
Malfoy was more vibrant here, more clear around the edges. She stared at his face while he reentered her smoothly. Their breaths caught in unison at the sweet drag of friction.
His eyes were shining silver. She looked down his form and saw that his skin was lustrous like an opal. Hermione didn’t think it was just the new love in her heart for him; these changes were real. He groaned as he set a new rhythm, and the sound rang like a bell through the Manor.
This was the Lord of the Manor, fae-like and terrible. His ancient magic blanketed the air like ozone. Hermione closed her eyes when he became too awful to comprehend, but she could still feel him between her legs, in the bedsheets, on the headboard— everywhere she touched the Manor.
“Imagine how I felt,” he rasped. “Living in that house for weeks. I was dying . Look at me.”
“It’s too much,” she moaned, shaking her head against the sheets.
“You asked for this. You’ll get used to it.” He punctuated each sentence with a staccato thrust.
This was sensory overload. She whimpered, writhing, “I can’t, it’s too much—“
“ Look at me, ” he ordered.
Her eyes snapped open as if compelled.
She saw Malfoy orgasm with a loud, clear cry. The image pushed Hermione over the edge and she convulsed around him, nearly sobbing from overwhelm. She kept her eyes trained on him as she felt his warmth pulse into her cunt.
They both gasped when they felt a new magic slot into place. It lingered in her body, drawing out the aftershocks from her orgasm. It felt like a piece of Malfoy’s magical signature had broken off to find a new home, deep in her belly.
“You’re mine now,” Malfoy said, after. He pressed a simple kiss to her mouth. “Mine and the Manor’s. Do you feel it?”
Hermione nodded. “I do.”
—
Afterward, Hermione lay entangled in a sleeping Malfoy. She felt totally debauched, with swollen lips and no doubt bruises on her ass. His come leaked from her onto the sheets.
She carded her nails through his hair, in peace and quiet ecstasy.
“Malfoy,” she said, shaking his shoulders.
He blinked sleepy gray eyes at her. “Granger.”
He pressed a kiss to her sternum, between her breasts.
“Malfoy, I just had a thought. The ceiling fresco in the Hawthorne ballroom still isn’t charmed correctly. It needs to be fixed before the wedding.”
“Hm,” he murmured, thinking. “I wouldn’t trust anyone in the UK with that repair. We’ll have to bring in Maggiano from Milan.” He woke up a bit more and raised narrowed eyes to meet hers. “And by the way, absolutely not. This Malfoy will be wedded in the Manor Rose Garden, like his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. How mean of you to suggest that in our postcoital bed.”
She rolled her eyes, but privately she’d been hoping that would work.
“Hawthorne is what brought us together, so it makes more sense to be married there,” she explained. “And Hawthorne needs a coming-out society party so that everyone can see the restoration.”
“We’ll have the wedding at the Manor and the reception at Hawthorne, then,” he said.
Hermione hummed thoughtfully. “We’ll have to portkey shuttle all the guests. It will be obscenely expensive. It’ll come from your money, not mine.”
His arms tightened around her ribs, and he nestled back into the pillows of her breasts. From below, she heard his sleepy voice say, “It’s our money, Granger, and I mean to spend it all anyway. I don’t want our children to grow up trust fund brats like I did. They’ll have to make their own way, like their mother.”
—
FIN.
—
- Courtney Adamo, Midcentury Beachhouse, https://journal.pampa.com.au/mi-casa-courtney-adamo/
- The Biltmore Estate, The Biltmore Company, https://blueridgemountainlife.com/biltmore-events-guide/