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Draco is 43. He can hardly believe it. When daylight breaks on the morning of his birthday, Draco spends a long time wondering how he got here.
He used to pray he’d make it past seventeen.
25 Years Ago
It’s not much of a plan, and he decides against his better instincts to bolt as soon as the parchment stating his pardon is handed to him. Instead, Draco waits in the silence of the corridor of the ministry, heart pounding against his chest as he stares down at the words indicate his freedom. It weighs heavy in his hand, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He pockets it carefully, takes a few tentative steps into the foyer. No one looks at him. The ministry is business as usual; he barely feels the need to keep his head down.
Still, he does, scurrying along to the apparition point so he can get back to the Manor. The trip is short and splinch-free, and he spends the entire walk up to the wrought iron gates thinking about what to say to his mother.
He doesn’t want to be in Britain for the foreseeable future. He wants to move deep into Europe, maybe even to Asia and never resurface for years. He doesn’t have a reason, just that he needs to do it. Lately he’s been sitting with a discomfort in his chest that he can’t describe, the kind of discomfort that stems from a life of having the privilege of not choosing. Not choosing what school to go to, what to wear in the morning or eat at lunch, or what to believe in. Having your choices set out for you used to be good, until it wasn’t.
So, when he walks up to his mother in her study, he straightens his shoulders, as much as he can for a boy of eighteen whose body has been so emaciated by stress that his shoulders look almost comical in his oxford shirts. He’s woefully unprepared for this conversation, but he has the idea.
“Mother,” he says in a firm tone even though his hands are shaking. Narcissa turns, and smiles and Draco’s heart almost collapses in on itself at how heartbroken she’s going to be, but then he freezes, because behind his mother is a girl, no younger than he is, with chestnut hair and sharp eyes and a small smile.
“Draco,” she says, clutching him by the shoulders and giving him a kiss on each cheek. “Oh, I’ve the most wonderful news. The most wonderful! This is Astoria Greengrass. I’m sure you’ve met her? She was just a year below you in school…”
Somehow, without his doing, the conversation slips from his grasp. He doesn’t know what to say next, or at least his brain doesn’t. Apparently, his body knows what to do. It forces a smile and steps forward, reaching for the girl’s hand with a gentleness he’s sure he’s learned to exercise for pureblooded ladies.
It’s so ridiculously easy for him to slip into this version of himself, the one who doesn’t fight the choice given to him that even his brain, the part of it that wanted to fight at least, is up in arms at his behavior. But there’s nothing to be done. His mouth is already moving, assenting to the words, friendship and bond and marriage in the near future and before he can pull out the parchment in his pocket that indicates his freedom, it’s taken away from him, his freedom in all aspects, as his mother puts his hand in Astoria’s.
Draco forgets freedom for a while. He buries it some place even he knows he’ll never find, so when he stumbles upon it in search of a decent whiskey that will burn a hole through his chest he staggers, hand flexing and unflexing as he reaches for the parchment. It’s even more yellowed with age, and the writing on it is hard to decipher. It’s still a pardon, but from what, he can’t exactly remember.
He’s 28 now; there are a lot of things he doesn’t deserve a pardon for. Like his marriage to Astoria, which was rooted in friendship more than love no matter how much he tried. Or the fact that she was dead now, two years after the birth of Scorpius, because of a blood curse that they were both aware of and yet tried to ignore.
It’s the reason he’s in his study in the first place. The elf has just tried to make him pick up Scorpius and he did, but when the wailing baby turned its eyes on him and looked up at him like he was a version of Astoria, Draco froze, gave the baby to the elf, and fought with every step not to heave on the carpet.
He searches rapidly for the whiskey, ignoring the pardon that sits on the shelf, and when he finds the bottle, he uncorks it and drinks in rapid succession, ignoring the fire that bursts through his throat. He’s always been willful like this, except apparently not when it matters.
They should never have had Scorpius, and it isn’t a regret he wavers on. Astoria was kind and beautiful and gentle and he may not have loved her in the way he had hoped to, but there was love of some kind.
Apparently, it was not the kind that could say no to pureblood traditions.
Because he was aware of the blood curse- he was aware that childbirth for her was dangerous, that it would lead to her death and there was nothing to stop it. But she had insisted. The Malfoys had to have an heir. And she’d let him make the choice for them both, even when it broke her. Quite literally. She had shattered several ribs and a hipbone in the process.
He downs more of the whiskey, fighting the visions of Astoria that swim in his head. The last year of her life, the one where he’d hoped she’d make it out of bed. But it was string of foolish hopes: he’d hoped she would make it out of her sitting chair in the sunroom, then he hoped she would make it out of bed, then he hoped she would make it out of St. Mungo’s.
Hope stings, Draco agrees as he drinks even more than he’s drunk in years. Hope stings and burns and it should never exist.
He’s so sorry- sorry because this is his fault, because he caved into the pressure of having an heir even though history has taught him that pureblood traditions are foolish and stupid and useless. He thinks of his wife- his only friend who’s seen him through the years since the war ended.
How many times had she made it known to him that she understood him? The pain makes an animal out of him. He doesn’t love her, and maybe that’s what makes it worse. That she puts herself through all this for an heir that was not borne out of love.
His parents are a shining example of what you do for love- you risk death, life, liberty. You risk everything. In exchange for that one person who sees you for who you are.
Draco hurls the bottle against the wall.
No one sees him now.
When Scorpius is finally old enough to go to Hogwarts, Draco feels untethered. He’d spent the last few years making an earnest effort to love his son and he’s succeeded in so many ways. It still stings to look at him and see a blonde head with so much of Astoria’s features, but it stings worse to think about how disappointed Astoria would be in him if he’d let Scorpius grow up unloved and uncared for.
When the train pulls out of the station, Draco has to admit that his heart pulls away from him, that he misses the softness of Scorpius’ hand in his against the fabric of his coat. He turns to walk away and sees a sight he’s never imagined. The Weasleys- Ronald in the front, with a girl in his arms and… Lavender Brown. He blinks once, twice. Brown? Really? What had happened to Granger?
He doesn’t stare. If there’s one thing his own life has taught him, it’s that things don’t always turn out according to plan. Weasley and Granger were apparently not together, no matter how tight knit they’d been in school and during the war. He moves on.
Everybody does.
Except, not really. Because when he gets back home to the Manor, his entire body aches with the silence. The absence of pitter patter and laughter, the absence of screaming elves terrorized by Scorpius’ latest pranks turns a knife into his chest that grates and grates and grates. He misses his son.
And he has nothing better to do.
So he looks up Hermione Granger- out of curiosity, not obsession.
Nothing turns up. She’s been out of the papers for nearly four years now, never showing up at any memorials or events or even reparation efforts. It’s a curious little thing, her disappearing act. But he shouldn’t be so concerned. He puts the copies of the Prophet away and looks at the calendar on his desk. He has enough time in the world now to do what he wants. Scorpius will be home for the holidays, but that isn’t until three months away.
He puts in a request for a portkey.
It’s odd, he figures. He has time now. Time and choices.
A small fragment of freedom he has no idea what to do with.
The acceptance letters comes as a shock to him. He’d initially chosen Switzerland for the stunning views, but when the acceptance letter to the potions mastery comes through, Draco feels so stunned he collapses onto the couch in his hotel room, hands shaking as he reads the words.
Potions was always a pipe dream; Malfoys did not delve into such work. They owned businesses and contributed to pureblood causes and generally paid people off to do things for them. But that was why he loved it. There was a grounding feature to the hours of labor that went into potions. This was a special herbology centered mastery, with intricate studies of healing and medicine. It was a dream.
It isn’t anymore. It’s a reality, and even as he’s settled into the school’s premises nearly two weeks later, Draco still can’t shake the feeling that this is a dream. L’Institut is a sprawling campus made of several buildings. The designs are distinctly European but the technology is first class, so one of a kind it’s impossible to imagine such a thing exists in the magical world. The greenhouses and gardens are lush with life, and you can feel the thrum of magic wherever you move. It’s overwhelmingly beautiful.
But that’s just the one thing about it that is so overwhelmingly beautiful.
There’s another thing too.
There’s a woman on campus, in Draco’s class. He catches her attention the first time she answers a question in class- her hand shooting up with such assuredness that even Draco has to believe that she’s correct. And she is.
Jean Wendell.
She’s not a pureblood. American, from the sounds of it. Muggle born, probably. Brilliant, absolutely. Every time they’re in class together, whether it be laboratory sessions or lectures, he can’t help but be drawn to her- the sheer power of her intellect, the way she conducts herself. It’s intoxicating. It’s what makes her beautiful, Draco realizes. The way she is- the way she talks brings your attention to her lips, the curve of her jaw. The way she focuses makes you pay attention to the scrunch her nose always does when she’s concentrated. Her laughter carries in a room, her smile is infectious, her gaze, dark and deep enough to drown in.
Of course, these are all just inspections. Draco’s never actually bothered to talk to her. He’s 34 for Merlin's sake. And a widow. And a father. Ridiculous to think of dating at an age like this, when for the first time in years he’s finally had a chance to do things and choose things that make him happy. A small part of his brain declares that this, talking to this beautiful girl, could be something akin to happiness too, but he smothers the thought. Now isn’t the time.
Not ever.
He has Scorpius to think about.
It’s not to say he doesn’t waver on the thought. The months at L’Institut are long, and while he’s drowning in work he loves and has made a decent number of friends, he considers her off limits. Plus, a glance at the slope of her neck or an involuntary smile when she smiles is just a coincidence. It’s nothing more than a schoolboy crush, which at 34, sounds fairly hilarious to him.
One night at a party which he excuses himself from, he feels a stab of pain in his gut. He misses Astoria. He misses the way she manouvers crowds like these, how she floats through a party with him in tow, assuring him that she knows what she’s doing, and that she’s crafted the perfect route across the floor away from the nosy aunts and uncles.
The thought has him reeling, has him downing his wine much faster than he’d expected to and has him bolting back to the safety of his room.
Except it isn’t really safe, because as soon as he turns the key and enters, Jean is literally sitting in his chair, legs crossed, eyes narrowed at him.
“Jean-” he stammers, heat rising to his cheeks like a moth to a flame. “What are you- how did you get in?”
“I could say the same for you, Malfoy.” she drawls, all pretenses of her lovely inflection gone. The American drawl disappears. She’s distinctly British. He blinks, confused, hovers one hand over his pocket where his wand rests.
“You’re not… American?”
She scoffs and stands up, locks the door with a wave of her hand. “I’m not a lot of things Malfoy, and I know you know that too. You’ve been staring and stalking me for months.” He pales. Stalking? He wants to screech. He hasn’t done that. He’s just… been admiring her from afar.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about-” he says in defense but it’s too late, she’s rushing at him, has him pinned to the door with her wand tip pointed to the soft flesh underneath his jaw.
It takes a split second for the charade to fall apart- Jean’s blonde hair disappears in a rush, her blue eyes darken, everything about her either shrinks or expands in the space of so much time that Draco becomes confused by the sheer power of transfiguration magic. When it’s over, he’s staring at a completely different girl.
He’s staring, ridiculously hard, at Hermione Granger.
“Why are you following me?” She yells, slamming him into the door. Draco does not find the words. This is obviously a misunderstanding, but his brain is firing in different directions that he feels paralyzed, unable to move or think or do anything other than stand there, taking her in, trying to connect the dots.
Merlin.
He was not attracted to Jean at all.
He was attracted to Granger. The way she raised her hand, the way she spoke, the movements, everything- it was distinctly reminiscent of someone he knew, but he didn’t know that in the moment. He didn’t correlate it, brushed it off as a ridiculous coincidence. It was not.
“I have an explanation for you,” he says in a calm tone that masks the fear, confusion, and excitement brewing inside him. “And I can offer it if you put your wand down.”
She hesitates and he allows himself a little more time to stare into those dark brown eyes. When she finally pulls away and sits back down on his chair, Draco gingerly walks to his bed, sits down on it and stares at her, long and hard.
“Have you been here all this time?” he asks.
“I want an explanation, Malfoy. Not questions.”
It’s comical how it spills from his lips- the entire story. The entire Astoria, Scorpius, L’Institut saga. He doesn’t know why he does it, he just knows there has to be something in exchange, something he has to give up in order to keep this small piece of freedom he’s had here.
Granger’s expressions are indicipherable as he speaks. When he’s finished, she gives him a long, hard look before getting up.
“Stop staring at me. Nobody knows who I am here. I want to keep it that way.”
Draco nods meekly. When she leaves, Draco catches the wisp of her curls turning back into blonde.
His heart is pounding, nearly about to explode from his chest.
Fuck, he thinks.
Fuck.
He’s half hard.
He doesn’t speak or look at Granger/Jean for weeks. He keeps his eyes to himself, busies himself over the project he’s been trying to work on as the study for his mastery. It’s nothing too out of this world, it’s just a cross between a potion and a draught that detects blood curses through bioluminescence. It has a touch of muggle science in it, but as Draco’s learned over the years, almost all good things do. He’s cross referenced a lot of cancer studies to accomplish his study- which he assumes is the muggle equivalent of what Astoria was afflicted with.
For weeks, he becomes consumed with this, consumed enough to forget the fatal attraction he has for Granger. Until he comes across her lab one day, where everything inside is blown to bits.
The first rule of thumb in potions is to keep away from large fires or explosions. He forgets all of that in favor of jumping into the lab, searching for Granger. She’s in the far corner, shrieking like a banshee, shattering everything in sight with her wand. The room is vibrating with so much magic it makes Draco want to vomit. He thinks of restraining her, but how? How? She could blow him to bits. She could annihilate him.
It’s ridiculously sexy.
He opts for death and tackles her from behind. “Granger- Granger stop it!” He yells, trying to wrestle the wand out of her hand as she fights him. “No- No I can’t!” she shrieks back, and it’s only when he’s managed a death grip on her wrist and knocked the wand out that Draco realizes she’s sobbing, thrashing against him with halfhearted effort. He spins her around and her features fade, she’s Granger again, crying and crying and pushing at him.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He doesn’t know what this is.
So he crushes her to his chest and holds her, sinking into the floor with her curled up on his lap, with shards of glass stabbing them both underneath.
It takes minutes to put the lab back together. Granger had apparently warded the room from the school officials, so it makes the clean up faster and easier. She sits in the corner in silence, eyes glazed over from crying while Draco cleans everything with spells that zip back and forth. When he’s done, he checks her all over, hands roving her body gently to check for injuries. Her hands are full of shards.
“Look,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Can we head back to my room? I have a medicine kit and it would be better to treat you there rather than bring you to the infirmary. People will ask questions.”
Granger doesn’t speak, so he casts gentle spells to put her injuries in stasis until they get to his room. He sits her down on the bed when they arrive and he sets to work immediately, uncorking a pain reliever potion for her to drink and placing magical anesthetic on her hands while he works. The blood is endless, the gashes even worse, but he manages to heal her. Still no reaction. Not even as he helps pour potions down her throat.
“Granger?” he asks. She’s practically catatonic. He panics- he doesn’t know what to do. This isn’t Hermione. She’s never like this- not in school, not during the war. He tries to focus on her, but there’s panic brewing in him too. He’s meant to be doing something, but he’s not. So he wraps an errant curl around his finger and pushes it back, trying to ground himself.
She jolts back to life. Her eyes are like wildfire, fiery in the way they take him in. But that’s short lived. Because she starts crying again and before he knows it, Draco’s pulling her into his lap, cradling her until her sobbing stops.
They’ve well and truly crossed so many lines today. There’s very little he can do to make sense of this situation, of the girl in his lap, of the way he feels. All he knows is this is what he can do. He can hold her, even if she’d tried to kill him weeks before. He can hold her and share in her pain. It’s the least he can do.
They fall asleep at some point, or he does. Whatever the case, when he wakes up, she’s gone again.
It takes effort to stop staring at her. He can’t help it. Can’t help that he’s curious, that he’s confused, and still fucking attracted to her. Granger is acting like it’s normal, but deep down Draco knows that it isn’t normal. That it can hardly be that. Something is wrong, possibly with them both. And he wants answers, but he knows better than to push her.
The answers don’t come, either way.
The days at L’Institut are over before he knows it, he’s succeeded with developing the potion he’s working on, and he’s heading back home to see Scorpius for the holidays. He longs for his son far more than he longs for an answer to why Granger is who she is now. Just as he’s packing his things, he hears a knock on the door. She stands in the doorway. It’s still jarring to see her look the way she does, blonde hair and blue eyes don’t suit her. He likes her best when she’s herself.
Maybe he always has.
“I wanted to thank you,” she begins. “For helping me a few weeks ago and for not… saying anything to anyone.”
“Of course, Granger.”
“Are you heading back then? To Britain?”
He nods. “My son is coming home for the holidays.”
Hermione pauses, eyes wide at the mention of his son.
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“I’m widowed,” he gently corrects. Something in her stance changes and he picks up on this quickly. It’s a common thing people do when they learn of his fate.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She hesitates. “I know you have many questions.”
“I do, actually.”
“I can’t give you any answers.”
“I know.” he says, and he does. And he forgives it. With the hell his family has put her through, he thinks she deserves it, the opportunity to keep things for herself.
“You’re very different now.” She adds and he doesn’t know whether it’s an observation or a compliment.
“Well my life changed, Granger. Drastically.”
“I wouldn’t have known it was you if it weren’t for the hair.” she says and there’s a little smile at the end of it. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He smiles back, halfheartedly. He knows he won’t see her around.
That does nothing to stop him from hoping that he might.
Being alone is hard, Draco admits. The years slip by more often than he can help it, and most days, when he isn’t busy managing the school board or helping out at the departments in the ministry, Draco feels the years pass him by. It feels like a different man is staring at him in the mirror every day, so much older than he really is, the reflection slipping closer to the one his father must have seen when he looked at himself all those years ago.
He wants to stop time, if only for a moment. He wants to stop Scorpius from growing up. He wants to go back in time and make things right with Astoria. He wants to go back in time and find Granger and have his answers. But time has never been on his side. Nothing in life has ever agreed with him, he realizes this now. Despite the wealth and the luxury, the odds have never been in his favor in terms of happiness or peace.
It’s a struggle to make peace with the fact that there are things he has no control over. He’s 40 now- he should have a handle on it. He doesn’t. But maybe that’s why he practically bolts when he receives the letter from her, running into the cafe to see Granger, as herself, sitting in one of the booths and waiting for him.
This is a chance, he thinks. A chance to have his answers. A chance to not let the years slip by.
It’s an awkward meeting at first. Neither of them speaks. He just takes her in, drinks her in, every inch of her until his heart feels so full it’s bursting. He doesn’t know how to explain the attraction. He doesn’t want to try. He tried so hard to justify the attraction to Astoria back then, and it somehow only stopped it from happening. He wants to take this, his feelings, as they come, without regard for reasoning or explanations.
She speaks first.
“I have time now. For answers. I’ll answer anything you want.”
Time. He feels the longing bleed out of his fingertips. He wonders if it can reach her.
“You were in hiding for four years. Why?”
“I wasn’t hiding. I just moved. I didn’t want anything to do with Britain after the war.”
“Why?”
“Because I was tired. It felt like I had given so much. I had let so much pass me by. I couldn’t- I couldn’t live like that. With every choice being made for me.”
“How long had you been in Switzerland before I found you?”
“Not very long. I was in Australia for a really long time. I was- it had something to do with my parents. Switzerland was also about my parents.”
They spend what feels like hours in that cafe, sharing stories, unravelling truths. She tells him about her parents' memories, why she fought to restore them in Switzerland and broke down when she could not. He tells her about Astoria, the potion he developed, and his affinity now for muggle medicine. She asks him about his marriage. He tells her the truth. He asks her about Ron.
“It fell through very quickly. We weren’t as compatible as we thought.”
“But weren’t you childhood sweethearts? I saw him at the station years ago, with Brown. It didn’t make sense.”
“Did they have children?”
It’s an odd question, one that has Draco raising his eyebrows. But he nods.
“Then they were compatible.”
Something in Draco’s heart shatters. Not because of the admission that she can’t have or didn’t want to have kids, but because of how that relates to her relationship with Weasley. He feels the urge to shield her, to hold her, to pummel Weasley in the face.
They unravel more. So much more. Over weeks and months in that cafe.
They throw questions left and right and Draco swears, for the first time in years that this girl, this girl will know all of him. She will be the only one to know all of him.
When they both walk out of the cafe late one night, Draco shakes his head when she says goodbye. “No,” he says, digging his hands deep into his pockets.
“No?” Granger asks. She blinks at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean no, Granger. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to walk into this cafe and learn about you and feel this thing in my chest and not act on it. No.”
She blushes in the darkness of the night, but Draco can see it. He can see all of her. He wants to, anyways.
“I want this,” he says when Hermione has nothing to offer him. “I want you. I’ve sat on it for years, but I do. This- no matter what this is. No matter that it’s twenty years too late- I want it. You. I want you.”
The first thing he ever learned about muggles were magnets. They were a silly little concept to him then, ridiculous feats of muggle science that he assumed were old and outdated.
Crazy then, he realized, how quickly she pulled him into her. Like magnets- old and outdated in the concept, but electric, down right to the core, when they’d finally met.
The bed is still warm when he wakes up, so his wife must not have been out of bed for long. He can hear the kids in the kitchen, the shrieks as the probably cook up something for his birthday. It puts a smile on his face imagining Scorpius with his little sister Celeste, giggling with delight as she watched her older brother. Celeste’s giggles- it’s another thing that tugs at Draco’s heartstrings. It was the very thing that drew them to her before her adoption, the idea of having her laughter fill the walls of the manor- there was nothing else that he wanted more.
He sits up in bed, determined to walk in on the festivities, but the sight of Hermione walking out of the bathroom in nothing but a half-tied robe stops him in his track.
“Good morning,” she smiles, leaning against the door frame. He’s half hard already, cock straining against his boxers as he takes in his wife, the peek of the curve of a breast and a creamy expanse of skin showing through the loose robe. “Happy Birthday,” she greets him as she makes her way to the bed, letting the robe fall behind her as she pulls the covers off of him. Draco laughs softly, greedy with the way he pulls her on top of him immediately.
“You are glorious. Beautiful,” he praises as he kisses up the side of her torso before paying attention to her breasts and pulling a nipple into his mouth. He sucks and keens, lets his hands explore every inch of her. She loves it but she pushes him away, fingers resting gently against his lower lip. He sucks on the digit dutifully. “It’s not my birthday, Draco. Don’t spoil me. Let me greet you properly.” she teases as she inches her way down his body, coaxing him to lift up his hips so she can remove his boxers.
His cock springs free and lands against the pucker of her mouth. She smiles wickedly up at him as she wraps a hand around his cock, pumping him once and then twice as she tests him. His breath hitches, eyes trained to his wife’s beautiful face. “Happy birthday to you,” she sings as she tugs at him, placing sweet kisses against his shaft until he’s forced onto his elbows, panting with anticipation. Her mouth lands atop his head and groans when her tongue swirls, tasting him, teasing him until his toes curl.
“Please,” he begs, voice hoarse from having just woken up. She continues to sing, pressing light kisses down his inner thighs, ghosting her mouth over his balls until he’s breaking into a sweat, cock straining against her hold. She finishes the song and pulls him into her mouth and Draco groans, entire body shaking with the effort it takes not to cum. She knows him so well- knows that he likes it best when she takes him in one go and gags all over his cock. She knows how badly it makes his thighs shake when she cups his balls and hollows out her mouth over him, teasing his head again and again until he can barely form words. She knows how much he tries not to thrust into her mouth for fear of hurting her, but when her hands find his and she tugs him forward, he takes that as permission and gathers her hair in his hands, using it as leverage so he can thrust into her mouth.
It takes several shallow thrusts and the sound of her gagging and moaning against his cock, then Draco’s cumming, deep into her mouth, crying out her name in strangled tones as his body strains from the force of his orgasm. He’s seeing stars now, but she doesn’t stop. She always pushes him a little harder every time, tearing from him the small amount of comprehension he has left after every orgasm until he’s a shaking, moaning, sobbing mess. When she pulls away, Hermione lewdly shows him her painted tongue, then grins viciously as she swallows and pushes him back down.
“You’re-” he pants as he pulls her atop him. Hermione simply chuckles and presses kisses to his cheek until she’s seated atop him, rolling her hips against his growing erection. “Happy birthday baby,” she says as she rakes her nails down his chest.
“Happy indeed,” he groans thrusting up against her. He wants to bury himself deep inside her, but she’s always been a tease, and if he has to admit it, the teasing is always good. The sheer force of being inside her after feeling her around him, the slickness of her core, the heat of her- it undoes him. He sits up and lines himself up with her, attempting to take control, but Hermione’s in charge, and when she sinks down onto him, he can’t help but give in.
He loves his wife. He really does, not just because the sex is so mindblowing every time, but because of this- the way she looks at him, eyes dark and full of lust, mouth open as she moans with every thrust of her hips, her walls clenching around him as she groans, crying out about how full she is. There’s something feral in him, but also something deep- a connection. This connection is unreal. Otherworldly. He never wants to know anyone else this way. He only wants to be the one to know that taking her breasts in his hands makes her squeal, that toying with her nipples causes her to buck faster, that she takes control, viciously with every roll of her hips, bearing down on him when she really wants to be the one in charge of the sex.
Sweet oblivion, he thinks as Hermione bounces on his cock. He wants to be buried in her forever, committing to memory this moment. He can’t help the way he surges up into her, gripping every inch of her, sliding a hand in between them to toy with the bundle of nerves in her center that will have her screaming. He can’t help the way he kisses her like she is the only source of air around him, he pours himself into her. This is lust and love but not in equal measure. He loves her so much. Draco loves her so much. The life she’s created for them, the chances she’s given him, the opportunity to be so know and so loved.
It overwhelms him. With a final thrust into her he comes with a shout, holding Hermione to him as she reaches her own orgasm, body shaking as she thrust erratically, her walls bearing down on him until he’s sure he’s never felt something so tight, so good around him. When they come down from the high, Draco can’t help but kiss every inch of her.
“I love you,” he says as he cups her face, pushing away the strands of hair sticking to her face. They’re slick with sweat and they taste like sin and salt. It’s intoxicating. Maddening.
“I love you too.” she tells him.
Draco is 43 now. He wonders how he got here.
He used to pray he’d make it past seventeen.