Archive of Our Own

“What do you mean?”

Her assistant stands there, wringing the parchment in her hands into a tight scroll. 

There’s too much to do today. Hermione doesn’t have time for this. Not when the application for the property is due, an inspector is on his way and, fucking Christ , of all days… 

But no, instead, Jaqie is presenting her with a new problem. Not one that is her fault, per se, but it’s enough to throw a wrench into Hermione’s plans. They’re just weeks shy of getting the Acromantula Sanctuary up and running—her dream project since taking this position with the Ministry. 

Without a word, Hermione extends her palm out with a come-hither motion, and Jaqie unfurls the paper quickly. 

“It seems your husband donated a generous amount, multiple amounts, to your projects.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow, interest piqued as she takes the incriminating evidence.

“Define generous …”

Jaqie won’t meet her stare. The witch focuses on the painting of the Black Lake instead before she all but mumbles, “Almost 90% of the funding we needed.”

“Are we sure?” 

Jaqie wearily nods toward the parchment that Hermione doesn’t even realize she’s clutching. It curls up, crinkling in her hand as indignation simmers low in her gut. They’d spoken about this from the very beginning of their relationship.

Scanning quickly, she mentally notes each line.

Draco Lucius Malfoy: 20,000 galleons deposited March 14th; Centaur reservation
Draco Lucius Malfoy: 5,000 galleons deposited April 12th; Muggleborn Orientation
Draco Lucius Malfoy: 35,000 galleons deposited May 9th; Healthcare for Creatures
Draco Lucius Malfoy: 75,000 galleons deposited June 20th; Acromantula Sanctuary

It continues, deposits fluctuating in amounts. She balls up the infuriating ledger in her fist, and she fights not to set it aflame on her desk. 

Ever since she entered this world, Hermione strived to prove herself. For decades, she fought from the bottom of this society to be seen and heard. Every policy she drafted was backed authentically and genuinely by others. It meant something to her not to rely on his money but to do this on her own. 

He promised her and then deliberately went against her wishes. 

“Where did you find this?”

“Colin was doing the bookkeeping to gauge how much more funding was needed to get the Sanctuary up and running. It seems the records were tucked away in a random stack on his desk.” Jaqie hesitates, eyes narrowing and watching for a reaction before trying to defuse anything. “I can always…”

“No.” 

Hermione will not allow Jaqie to send the money back. The indignation turns to complete rage now, licking up her spine and burning her throat with each hex she wishes to cast at a certain blond tosser.

He thought he could just transfer these quietly and no one would notice? Like Jaqie and Colin would miss the subtle masses of deposits? Hermione pushes away from her desk, smoothing the creases from her skirt as she stands.

“It seems I need to speak with my husband.” Hermione tries to hide the annoyance, but the curt words and twist of her mouth in disgust speaks volumes. “Please reschedule any meetings I have this afternoon, Jaqie. I need to go home now. ”

“Yes, of course,” Jaqie hurries from her office. “Right away.”

With a simple flick of her wand, all her belongings fly into her bag. She closes the laptop and slips it in with a few memos to finish up later this evening. After this conversation, she’ll need a distraction, that’s for sure.

How many times did she refuse his help? 
How many times did she tell him to use his fortune for something else?
How many times did she request his trust and patience?

One bloody thing. 
Not to meddle. 
That’s all she asked of him. 

All for him to go behind her back.

If he would betray her this way, how else would he threaten that trust? Would it extend to other areas? Would she have to look over her shoulder, constantly waiting for another surprise? Anxiety mixes with her anger, tingling through her limbs. This isn’t what she wants. 

The parchment remains balled in her hand as she steps into the floo and calls out for the manor. As she twists into nothing, there’s only one thought circulating. 

Enough is enough.

______________________

The entire atmosphere shifts within the manor when she arrives. Energy shudders through the ancient walls and vibrates into the antique frames. Every one of his senses prickles before she even appears. Vanilla is suddenly prominent around Draco, her magic tingling through their bond, and the wards adjust to accommodate her power. 

His delectable witch.

Those heels click and echo down the hallway in quick succession, and Draco files his extra parchment under lock and key. As she inches closer, he can hear the mutterings, a well-versed speech she’s ready to unleash upon him. 

The door swings open with such force that he smiles delightfully, the hinges rattling as a reminder to make sure her magic didn’t loosen them too much. 

“ Draco.”

His name is bitter, almost poisonous on her lips. It corrupts each vein as it pumps vengeful infection into her heart and rots its very core. The look on her face is familiar, but from their school days, a time long past. Disgust deepens in her forehead lines, and her nostrils flare as she truly sees him for the conniving wizard he is.

But still, her rage isn’t nearly as loud as it once was. It’s more subtle, more strategic. 

“Hello, wife. ” He draws it out, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth to match the pride blooming.

Magic sparks from her hair, tiny flecks pulsing from her fingers. There’s a devilish flush covering her neck down her chest, and he swears her crossed arms are purposely pushing up her tits just enough to taunt him. 

“How can I—” His mouth waters, gaze snagging on her collarbone before stealing a glimpse downward.

Before he can blink or make a sly remark, she’s before him, palm slamming on his desk with a thin piece of parchment underneath. 

“Cut the shite, Draco.”

Fair enough. 

There’s no need for niceties; it’s no secret why she’s returned from the Ministry this early in the day. Now he can sit back, relax, and enjoy the breathtaking storm that is Hermione Granger-Malfoy. 

With an air of nonchalance, he retrieves the paper from under her hand, lifting it with a faux expression of curiosity. He scans it; the many deposits from his vaults are listed with timestamps for each, as his wife so vigilantly parades around the Ministry—the latest one, with the largest sum being his pride and joy.

The script flutters back to his desk’s surface as he leans back, foot propping on one knee. “Don’t worry, my love, this doesn’t make a dent in our finances. We have plenty—”

Her petulant foot cracks against the hardwood floor, and Draco stifles a laugh, which only spurs her forward. “That is NOT my concern!” Honestly, for such a petite witch, the rage she can exhibit is extraordinary. “How dare you!”

The lecture begins, the same one she murmured just seconds before entering his study. It’s revitalizing to see such passion exude from his witch. Enchantments swirl around her, no doubt excess magic trickling out. It’s mesmerizing— she’s mesmerizing. 

“We talked about this, Draco!”

Such power, such strength, as she paces. Her calves flex with each step, and Draco can’t help but grin deviously because it’s so similar to how her muscles strain when his head is buried between her thighs. He licks his lips at the image crafted into existence from sheer thought. He could spread her wide on his desk, ruck up her skirt, and leave no room for any more arguments. Gods , he’s missed it.

“You deliberately went against my wishes!”

Each sway of her hips as she struts back and forth entrances him. Pulling him deeper into her spell, and he has no complaints whatsoever.

“How can I trust you when you do things like this?!”

Those long fingers tap against her hip as she halts and he can’t help but picture them wrapping around his cock. His trousers tighten, and he shifts subtly to relieve himself. He can behave.

Draco would do anything for her. 

Scheme.
Plot.
Deceive.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

With bated breath, he waits. Whatever she says, it’s fine. Granger always comes around soon enough. Besides, this is the most he’s seen her recently. These last few months have been stuffed to the brim with her cumbersome efforts at the Ministry. 

Usually, Draco doesn’t complain. He lives to be her trophy husband. To stand by her side and let her bask in the glory and honor she desperately deserves. But lately, they’ve become two passing ships in the night. It’s not like he can do anything to help his stubborn witch. There’s no other choice but to force her hand. 

“I want a divorce.”

That gets his attention. 

Finally, he garners enough willpower to stop ogling and looks directly at Granger. Her posture is stiff and her nails dig into her waist as she huffs exasperatedly. A blush flutters over her cheeks and up to the tips of her ears. 

The threat holds weight, if the tears welling at the corners of her eyes are anything to go by. 

She wants a reaction.
Don’t fall for it.
This is a trick.

“Hermione—” He pushes back from the desk, rounding the corner. In two steps, he's towering over her. Agitation lines her forehead and scrunched brows, and those lips purse out in that adorable pout he loves. “Baby…” He attempts in placation. “Surely we can discuss this.”

On instinct, he reaches for her waist, eager to draw her close, but Hermione steps away. Rejection races through his heart, the muscles in his chest tightening and fingers twitching in her absence.

“There’s nothing to discuss.” Hermione hugs herself, a makeshift shield against the mistrust. “You don’t listen to me or respect my wishes.” Those curls he loves to sink his hands into shake with her head as she dismisses another silent thought. “That much is clear now.” One last glimpse of chestnut, and he knows the following sentence is meant to hurt. “It was a mistake to think you could truly change for the better.”

It’s worse than an Unforgivable to the heart. The sting of every half-truth hitting their intended target is enough to have him stumbling back. 

His ego.
His heart.
His everything.

He makes a show of clutching the desk’s edge for balance as she announces her next plan of attack.  

“I’ll contact Blaise first thing in the morning.” Her fingers twist with anxiety, pulling each knuckle as she waits for his protests. But Draco gives none. “He can begin to draw up the paperwork. In the meantime, I’ll stay with Harry until we can sort this out.”

He’ll fix this. 
He’ll keep her. 
His wife won’t be going anywhere . 

Before Draco can say just that, Hermione storms from his office. Anger thuds with every step and echos off the walls, subtle threats trickling through the air in her wake. All it does is make Draco chuckle. His witch always has a fight in her. It’s one of the reasons he fell so unabashedly in love with her.

One…

He returns to his desk, slipping back into the plush leather seat. Her steps are now a distant click down the hallway.

Two…

There are only a few more items that need his attention for the day. His quill glides down the parchment, initials scrawled over each line.

Three..

It’s a quick confirmation of where each donation goes, ensuring it’s all distributed equally. 

Four…

He doesn’t make it to the end of the list, or his countdown, before—

“DRACO! LUCIUS! MALFOY! YOU BLOODY FUCKING—-”

Frustration and sheer rage lace each word, and before she can continue, Draco apparates directly to her. Truly, who has time to walk across the expansive property anyway? 

The stubborn witch didn’t even change. Her curls are wild with vexation, sticking out from every end. No doubt, she’s been relentlessly tugging on them. Those fiery brown eyes glare at him, fists clenching, teeth grinding with every livid twitch of her jaw.

He crowds right in her space, forcing her chin to lift indignantly. It’s a risk, but he doesn’t care. Fuck—she’s so alive right now. It’s intoxicating, and Draco is addicted. 

Cocking his head to the side drapes blond fringe over his forehead as he refuses to break eye contact. He matches her tit for tat, jutting his chin out and leaning in as if to challenge her.

“You rang, baby ?” 

Without a word, she spins on her heel. The beaded bag hanging from her wrist swings with her as Hermione storms the floo, shouting for Grimmauld Place, only to be spat back out. Draco watches as she tries again, this time saying her office at the Ministry. It’s no use. Orange flames erupt instead of green, and his witch tumbles unceremoniously onto the floor. She squeezes her eyes shut next, and Draco figures that she’s trying to apparate, but nothing happens. 

Agitation reddens her cheeks as her fingers tangle into her curls, tugging and scraping against her scalp.

A noise in the back of her throat, close to a shriek, escapes before she points an accusatory finger. “Undo this right now! ”

Gods, she’s in a right state, and instead of cowering, it only turns Draco on. He wants to press her against that bloody fireplace and remind her exactly who she’s married to. Instead, he rocks on his heels, hands nonchalantly tucked into his pockets.

“Undo what?”

“Whatever ward you put on this fucking floo to keep me here against my will.”

The faux sigh he releases only serves to skyrocket her annoyance. Draco clicks his tongue tauntingly, receiving an eye roll as he strides to the plush chaise and flops down. 

“Oh, that’s not my doing,” he surmises, waving his hand dismissively. 

Instead, Hermione’s foot taps incessantly, her hip popping to the side as she shifts her weight. 

He picks pretend lint from his shirt, not sparing her a glance now. “That’s the manor’s doing.”

One eyebrow raises silently, asking for more, and he leans his head back, resting it on the chaise’s edge. “When we said our vows, in the gardens of this property… which, if you remember darling , was quite a beautiful ceremony. You were ravishing, but of course, you always are.”

“Malfoy,” she hisses, and he grins wickedly.

“I do love you with a bit of bite to you.” He leans forward now, ensuring she sees him as he says the next part. “Anyways, when we bonded ourselves to one another, it enacted an intention ward around the manor.”

She huffs, her arms crossed and fingers now tapping too. Hermione might not say anything, but Draco knows her mind is in overdrive trying to work out his underlying message.

“Then I added your blood, that you so generously provided, to the wards, which only strengthened it.”

“An intention ward?!” Her exasperation permeates the air, her tone an octave higher but not yet a shriek. “I’ve never even heard of that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. It’s part of archaic pureblood history.” He kicks his feet up onto the table, lounging again. “Intention wards are meant to protect the bond. Malfoys don’t divorce. Our marriages are forever. You can’t just leave; the manor won’t allow you to.“

“You barbaric, misogynistic—” Her wand is in her hand then, trained on him, but she fires no hex. 

“You wound me, baby. ”

“Stop calling me that!” 

Draco scoffs, head lulling back to rest on the back of the chaise. As if he could ever stop calling her that . She used to crave it, needing it like oxygen, every inch reacting to the nickname. 

Back arching.
Eyes dilating.
Grip tightening. 

Fuck, he needs her. Instead, he occludes, shuffling through each memory and bottling it to perfection before slipping it onto another mental shelf. 

“This type of ward has been around for ages with the Malfoy family.” He waves flippantly. “It forces the couple to work through their differences instead of fleeing at the first sign of trouble.”

“I will not be held against my will.” Her heel stomps onto the marble. “You will undo this NOW!”

Oh, what a naive little witch.

His head tilts, keeping his chin high, and Draco doesn’t miss the flicker of her gaze on his exposed neck. Hermione’s eyes trace the veins that cord down to his shoulders before sliding back up to him. “I fear I cannot. It’s old magic.” Her mouth opens, but Draco is quicker. “Magic that we have no tomes on for research.”

“I’ll just change my intention then.” 

Should he tell her? He should. But then, Hermione makes a show of pulling her shoulders back, her jaw set in place as she inhales deeply with her eyes shut. Determination sets deeper in her forehead, lines wrinkling as her eyebrows furrow.

Salazar, his wife is fucking adorable.

After a few more breaths, her shoulders drop and her curls shake with her body as she rids any lingering energy. Without a word, she tries the floo once more.

“Grimmauld!” she shouts, disappearing for only a second before she’s spat back out.

Draco chuckles when her balled fists knock onto the mantle with frustration. 

“It’s too late. It won’t be disabled until—well…” He makes a lewd gesture, if not to only get on her nerves anymore. “We set our own new intention.”

“I hate your pureblood ways!” Hermione shrieks, turning away, and her hands rip through her curls. Does he get up? Does he comfort her? Does he—Hermione barks a laugh suddenly, turning back with a menacing glare. “Good luck ever getting between my legs again after this, Draco Malfoy!” 

Curls whip around her furiously, lightning cracking with her steps through the hall as she storms away and out of sight. He watches her go, appreciating each sway of her hips and the blouse clinging to her waist. Those calf muscles tense, and he wants to lick over each dip and crevice.

Instead, he lounges back, hands propped at the nape of his neck and elbows splayed out.

“Challenge accepted, baby."

__________________

Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Endless hours spent with her husband.

Well, soon to be ex-husband if she has anything to do with it. Even more hours were spent hunched over each tome Jaqie could find on sentient objects from the Ministry Archives. Even the poor secretary worked overtime to find a solution. 

The only thing Hermione does know is it only impacts her and Draco. The intention ward doesn’t keep others out or owls away. It’s just meant to force the pair together. 

An entire section of her wing is now dedicated to her job to accommodate her infuriating new living arrangement, including an office for Jaqie and a conference room. Hermione scribbles another request to send off to the Italian Ministry for one of their rare books. Before she can roll the parchment and slip a ribbon over it, a disruptive pecking sounds. 

An owl sits, perched and ready, with more packages strapped to its leg. The Ministry seal is stark against the parchment, and as she unties it, her stomach twists when she sees no reply from Blaise, still . 

She had immediately submitted her request for him to draw up the petition for divorce, as well as calling for an expert on bonds, so that she could sever this bloody one. Merlin, what’s the point of having a solicitor on retainer if he’s not going to listen? Probably Draco’s doing… again. 

Her heart frays instantly, nerves raw and on edge as she waits to see if he appears. It seems like every time she so much as thinks of the bloody wizard, he materializes before her. It must be intentional, or did he somehow manage to turn thoughts into taboos? If only she could go back to the beginning of this nightmare.

At first, he ignored her, allowing every temper tantrum she threw to go unheard and unseen. This, of course, only enraged Hermione more until she sought him out, forcing him to listen to her as she wore down the carpets with her relentless pacing. His refusal to acknowledge his wrongdoings only sent her spiraling more. 

By the second week, it appeared Draco adopted a new approach. Each meal, he sat at the opposite end of the dining room table. The elves even shortened the length to the point that Hermione could see every lick of his spoon. 

Each time that pink tongue slid over the gods forsaken utensil in his hold, heat built at the apex of her thighs. She wiggled in her seat, ignoring those grey eyes flashing bright to match his smug grin. It didn’t help she was well acquainted with that tongue, and fuck, those fingers too. How did she forget how precise he was with handling utensils?  

Hermione was wound so tight after each meal that she found solace in her private dessert. Her fingers weren’t the same. They never were. Not after all this time with Draco. 

Fuck, she misses those bloody fingers. 

His tongue.
His filthy words.
His cock. 

He truly had ruined her.

Pompous twit.

“Tyler will be here next week to discuss a few matters of importance,” he announces, breaking their usually silent meal.

Her fork scrapes over the china, missing her tenderloin, as she regards him. He doesn’t spare her a glance, slicing his meat and taking a thoughtful bite. A bit of flavor slips down the corner of his mouth, and Hermione presses her thighs together. His thumb catches it, tongue wrapping around the digit and clearing her thoughts.

It startles her, nearly jumping as she’s pulled from remembering the many ways that tongue slides over her hips. 

“Tyler, you say?”

Fucking hell, why is her voice so shaky? Is this the bond? Is it urging her to make amends with her husband? Focus.

Tyler.
She knows of Tyler.

Tyler is a business acquaintance. He’s Draco’s go-to guy, handling their properties and event planning, among many other miscellaneous requests. For anything he needs, Tyler is available to make it happen. She hasn’t officially met him, and most of their meetings take place outside the manor. But alas, her husband is also bound to the property. 

Their plates vanish with a pop, and sorbet takes its place. A dainty raspberry flavor and sprig of mint atop the scoop. Finally, something to cool her off. 

“Yes, Hermione , Tyler.”

How does he make her name so sinful? Like an invitation straight to hell? Hermione hums noncommittally, eyes raking over his tongue on the spoon as he catches a stray drop of sorbet. 

So much for quenching the burning ache.

***

“Do you want these edits now or later?” Jaqie asks, waving the parchment in the air. 

Hermione’s not listening, her fingers strumming on the desktop, thinking about the past week. Blond and grey invade her space at every turn, flooding her mind with distractions. 

Shoulders brushing in passing.
Fingers catching when reaching for items.
Lustful gazes over dinner.

“Jaqie’s speaking to you, wife.”

That voice gets her attention. Hermione stands, brushing her skirt before stepping around the desk to meet the other woman. “I’ll take them now, thank you.” 

Jaqie gives a quick nod, disappearing back to her own makeshift office. Hermione can’t even turn before feeling him. His presence practically seeps under her thin blouse, and his fingers trail up her arm. Shallow breaths urgently escape as his fingers glide over her shoulder and into her curls. 

What the fuck is happening? 

There’s no air in the room. There can’t be. Everything is suffocating. Even as he inches closer, breath coasting over her collarbone, she’s grappling for a sheer semblance of control. 

You’re angry at him.
You can’t trust him.
You’re divorcing him.

“Don’t forget this,” he whispers over the shell of her ear, and Hermione has enough sense to glance down.. 

Her morning copy of The Daily Prophet. 

“Thank you,” she chokes out, fingers grasping the parchment. 

“Anything for you, baby.”

There’s that damn nickname again, and her core clenches only to flutter with disappointment from being empty. But then Draco’s lips are pressing to her throbbing pulse point, and he nips the skin just enough that a whimper claws its way out. 

Just as her restraint cracks, he’s gone, vanishing through the door with that triumphant Malfoy smirk. For the rest of the morning, it’s all she can think about, even while taking her leisurely stroll through the manor. Is she overreacting to everything? Has she just not been spending enough time with Draco? Does she need to do better with balancing her personal and professional obligations?

Then she hears it.

A distinct giggle.
From a woman.

Alarm bells sound in her mind, ears perking up to listen for which direction it comes from. The infectious laugh comes again, and she knows it’s from the west wing. She follows it, closer and closer, with only a few feet separating her from Draco’s study. 

The audacity…
Fucking prat…
I can’t believe this…

To think she was being foolish and making a mistake with wanting this divorce, and here he is so blatantly entertaining another woman in their home.

As casually as one can, Hermione slides the door wide open. Every ounce of her magic is for occluding, to hide the hurt and betrayal coursing through her veins. 

Gods, the witch is bloody gorgeous. Glossy brown hair, with a smile so bright and full of energy. Those hazel eyes are incredibly intoxicating, demanding your attention, and the laugh lines teasing her mouth are so welcoming. 

“Oh! Mrs. Malfoy, I didn’t realize you were home.”

Hermione slips a hand to her hip, head cocking to the side as she glances at Draco. Her husband leans against his desk, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, assessing the predicament. 

An unfamiliar pain roots in her gut, sprouting and spreading through her chest. It blooms into something nasty, a bitterness on her tongue as she swallows down her accusations. Gods, she’s horrendous when she’s jealous.

“ Tyler ," Draco emphasizes, the wicked grin spreading like he’s won some imaginary game. “While introductions aren’t necessary, this is my wife.”

This fucking bastard. 

Tyler… is a woman.

This whole time, she thought he’d been meeting with some man. 

More lies.
More distrust.
More betrayal.

An unbridled rage shatters any shields she’s placed. It’s on full display, her lips curling into a sneer as she grips the doorknob. Staring directly at her husband, Hermione hisses, “Don’t let me keep you, then.”

___________________

Draco’s insufferable wife will be the death of him.

For the last week, every time he tries to speak to her, charming his way back into her good graces, she all but vanishes into thin air. When she vacated their bedroom and opted to sleep down the hall, he could at least knock and enter. Now… now she’s warded him from stepping within fifteen feet of the bloody door. 

His marital bed is cold and lonely. 
His sanity is cracking. 
And fucking hell , he wants his wife.

It’s edging close to thirty days now since she requested their divorce. He can only keep Blaise at bay for so long before admitting defeat. 

But tonight is the prime opportunity.

His fingers glide down the onyx gown hanging in their walk-in closet. It’s custom-made, explicitly tailored to Hermione. It deeps low in the back, cinches at the waist and will cling to her gorgeous fucking tits. Fuck, those tits. Draco misses them. Especially how they round into delicate peaks against his tongue. But even more, he aches for the little noises his wife makes as he works his skilled mouth over her skin. His cock throbs, an eternal erection begging for attention that isn’t his hand. 

This is the step that will reveal it to her. It has to. Draco casts a detection spell, a map of the manor’s interior flashing before his eyes. When he spots her cozied up near the lake, he apparates directly into her vicinity. 

Her curls poke out from the large cocoon of blankets she's bundled in as she sinks further into the hanging egg chair. The wicker rocks gently from the branch as she devours each page of whatever book she’s now engrossed in. 

“Wife.”

“ Husband, ” she mocks, flipping another page.

“You need to get ready.” His hand steadies the chair.

Hermione flicks her gaze up for only a second, irritation scorching behind chestnut. “No need to look the part when I can’t leave my house.”

“Indeed, which is why they are coming here”

This time, she doesn’t even glance up as she turns the page. “Who?”

“Everyone.”

“I’m in no mood for your antics, Draco.”

“For the charity gala.”

The book flips onto her chest, and Hermione scowls. He doesn’t care how she’s looking at him,  just as long as she is. 

Even angry, she’s magnificent. Disdain etches into her brow, and Draco resists the urge to kiss away the irritation lining those lips. The sun shines from behind, casting an atmosphere of downright frustration. 

Those same delicious fingers wrap over the book’s edge. It’s an obsessive habit, imagining her fingers around his neck, his bicep, his cock. 

Hermione scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

It’s barmy, yes, but Draco is willing to take his chance. Reaching forward, knowing full well he could lose his hand, he plucks the tome from her grasp. The reaction is immediate. Hermione jolts forward, snatching mid-air as he pulls it further away.

“Give me that—”

Only one murmured spell vanishes the literature back to the library. Draco grasps the wicker chair and leans forward, his nose so close it brushes her own. Hermione’s breath stills, shaky and hesitant as her lashes flutter. 

“Listen to me, my stubborn little wife—” he seethes low. Brown embers flash open, and there it is again, just what he wants. Her attention. Just what he wants. “You cavort around this manor, demanding to do everything on your own with these projects.” He doesn’t miss the slight flare of her nostrils or how her gaze flicks to his lips. “So here it is. On a bloody silver platter for you. An event for you to parade around and smooze officials out of their galleons.” 

Their chests heave, almost panting, a silent challenge of who will speak again first. 

He thinks she’ll fight back, find a reason not to go, but instead, her lips part. No sound comes out as he waits for the rebuff. Instead, a gorgeous flush spreads up her neck. 

He’s won. 

Draco pulls back, straightening his sleeves. One stolen glance, and she’s tracking his movements, focusing particularly on his forearms. Just for show, he flexes as he secures the fabric, and there’s a sharper intake of breath. His control rattles, and it takes everything in him not to grab the witch by the neck and snog the living daylights out of her. 

Swiftly, he turns on his heel, pretending to be unfazed when he throws over his shoulder, “I’ll see you in the welcoming hall at seven.” 

***

As expected, though begrudgingly, Hermione is prompt in her arrival. The lavender and vanilla aroma of her shampoo cloaks him. He basks in the comfort of the scent. It lingers on the cold pillow of her side of the bed and their closet. Hell, he’s even gone as far as to have his favorite house elf, Tiggy, steal portions of the bottle so that he can keep the smell of her close.

Yes, he’s a desperate fucking wizard.

He takes her in, welcoming every ounce of torture Hermione provides. 

Those bloody curls are soft, framing her face just how he likes. It never fails. He always wants to tuck one behind her ear. Tonight’s no different; his finger itches, but he refrains. Hermione’s makeup is simple, as always, but the light catches a highlight that accentuates her button nose and full lips. 

Tracing patterns with his eyes over her freckles is one of Draco’s favorite pastimes, and it’s no different now as he counts the dusting on her shoulders and chest. 

“ Wife. ”

He tugs on his cufflinks. 

“Sometimes I think you’re just saying that to taunt me.”

Hermione pats her hair.

“Or, I enjoy claiming you.”

Draco offers his arm.

“Too bad you’ve lost that privilege.”

Magic surges up his arm when she loops her hand through, their marriage bond satisfied from the touch alone. Giddiness simmers from her slight gasp. 

“For now.”

“Someone’s stubborn.”

They enter the ballroom, and she’s immediately enamored by the twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling. Large floral arrangements of baby breaths and eucalyptus adorn each table. It’s moody and reminiscent of the night he proposed, just as he requested. Tyler outdid herself.  

“Hm, or confident.”

Draco pats her hand, the bond tingling with each connection. Hermione jerks away, but doesn’t let go of his arm.

“Enough. Let's get this over with.”

Hermione begins to charm each attendee. Over the years—with Draco’s help, he might add—she's learned the balance of which endeavors need statistics or an intentionally woven story of persuasion. Tonight is no different as she encourages Governor Rosier to bid on the priceless necklace donated by Borgin & Burke’s because, statistically, children with the necessary tools to learn are likely to succeed. Whereas, with Governor Creevy, Hermione recounts the struggles of growing up with no parents and why bidding on the collection of children’s books from Flourish & Blotts is the right choice tonight.

No matter, all proceeds from the silent auction will go toward the new wing of the orphanage Narcissa founded following the war. 

Draco remains at her side, hand fastened to her low back. It’s the most he’s been allowed to touch her, and the bond is singing its praises. She won’t shoo him away or brush him off, not with this many people around. Luckily, to his knowledge at least, no one is privy to their situation. 

While she convinces Governor Hanson that a healer's wing for the children is necessary, Draco slips away to the bar for a refill. There’s only so much he can listen to with these old twats. 

“You know…” a familiar voice surmises, and Draco hides his grin behind another sip of whiskey. “I can’t hold her off much longer.” 

“Just keep ignoring her.”

Blaise sits up, elbows propping on the bar as he motions for the bartender. 

“How much longer do you need?”

His impatience can get the best of him if he’s not careful. Slow and steady wins the bait? Or whatever the Muggle saying is. 

“A week tops.”

“All this and for what?”

“Mind your business.”

Blaise chuckles, swirling the glass in his hand now. “I’m your solicitor. Unfortunately, this is my business.”

Draco doesn’t answer; he claps Blaise on the back as the champagne flute arrives. Plucking the glass from the counter, he departs back to his witch. Her smile is fake when he approaches, lips tight and eyes strained. 

Never one to deny an opportunity, Draco hands the flute to Hermione, leaning in close to brush a chaste kiss to her cheek. His fingers run down her open back to settle just above her bum.

“Must you paw me so publicly?”

He teases the hem, finding pleasure when goosebumps appear along her back. 

“Then I’m left with imagining what I could do privately.”

“Tyler not quenching your thirst?”

Draco's smile broadens, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. Gods , he loves when she’s jealous. His witch is feisty and mean , just how he likes. 

“Oh, baby, I’m utterly parched.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

He grins, leaning to press another kiss to the space right below her, nipping her ear lobe. She gasps, trying to wiggle away, but Draco pulls her closer.

“I’m downright filthy when it comes to you.”

He twirls her, making a play at being affectionate like a husband. His palms land on her hips, swaying playfully to the music as he scours the room.

“See over there?” 

Hermione's eyes follow his cue to the corner where Tyler is hunched close with Daphne Greengrass, eyes glazed with lust as she twirls the blond’s hair. 

“Daphne is Tyler’s girlfriend.” His wife stiffens. “Going on, I believe, three years now.”

Hermione says nothing, wrenching away suddenly with a mumbled excuse of using the loo.

Yup, give it one more week.

_____________________

Hermione stares out the window at the herd of peacocks. Johnson fans his feathers, making a show for the peahens in the group. Lovely. It must be mating season. It’s no different than Malfoy parading her around that sorry excuse of a gala last week. 

Honestly, did he think he could just win her over this easily?

Touching her.
Goading her.
Taunting her.

It’s not an easy feat to get the best of her, especially after that embarrassment of Tyler to add to the list. The wizard is a web of secrets and lies. And for what? All it does is strengthen her distrust. 

Besides, if he wants to play games, so can she. 

Is that how she ended up here?

“I was ecstatic to receive your invitation for brunch this morning, Hermione.” There’s an allurement in his tone, like he’s trying to flirt. “I was amiss to hear of your impending separation. Jaqie didn’t mean to let it slip, I fear.”

She did.
I told her to.

Cormac swirls his mimosa, mumbling about the quality of the champagne. As if he’s well educated on the topic.

He isn’t.

Even Hermione knows this. 

Somehow, her alcohol-addled mind thought this was a good idea when she saw him at the gala. What better way to piss off her hus—soon to be ex-husband—than to parade another man before him. 

Cormac grins when the toe of his shoe glides up her bare leg. Hermione tries not to recoil from the unwanted touch. 

This is a bad idea.

Granted, at first, she didn’t even think that the floo would allow access. But when Cormac McLaggen didn’t end up fatally injured, Hermione chalked it up to the manor knowing her true intention. The damn sentient piece of rubbish would know it’s just rage bait.

“What bubbly did you say was used in this?” he takes another sip, a droplet dribbling down the corner of his mouth. 

Hermione gulps, fighting the curl of her lip, before glancing toward the doorway. “Dom.”

“Hmmm.” He examines the glass. Merlin sake, like you could tell from the size of the bubbles, this idiot. “I would have guessed Laurent-Pierre.”

Bloody wanker.

“No.”

Cormac slathers more jam on his toast, the crunch with his bite making Hermione want to crawl out of her fucking skin. “Shall we take a stroll through the grounds after this?”

If he says yes, then it gives her time to find an excuse to end the visit. A stomach bug? Maybe a headache? If she hurries, Hermione can usher him out before Malfoy’s even aware.

“Oh, do let me join. Mother’s roses are rather exquisite at this time of day.”

Regret twists through her bones, body stiffening at the familiar voice. Hermione takes one steadying breath before shifting in the chair just enough to catch a glimpse of his figure in the doorway. 

It’s disgusting how handsome he is. The green jumper stands out starkly against his porcelain skin, and his blond hair is styled dishevelled on purpose. 

Fuck my life.

His fingers twist the signet ring on his other hand, his eyes flitting between the pair before landing directly on Hermione. The fabric of her skirt bunches in her fingers as she grips the hem so tightly they ache. There’s a tingle through her veins, flushing her skin as he examines each expanse of exposed skin. 

“Malfoy, good to see you.” Cormac stands, hand outstretched. ”Apologies on the…well—” 

Her husband glances at the welcoming hand and blatantly ignores it, returning his attention to Hermione. She’s forgotten what it’s like, being the center of his world. She’s been so caught up with work that the attention feels almost foreign. 

It intimidates her. His eyes study every reaction and decipher it within seconds. Gods, inviting Cormac here was a bad idea. Malfoy does say she likes to torture herself. 

“Not sure I know what you’re referring to.”

Still not sparing the other wizard a moment, Malfoy licks his lips, head cocking to the side.

Cormac retracts his hand, running it through his locks. “Ah, I’ve heard about the denial stage.”

“That would mean something is happening.”

Great, now they’re having a pissing contest. 

Malfoy’s neck stretches to the side, his vein thrumming and teasing her. Hermione takes another nervous swig, her thighs pressing together under the table. 

“Malf—”

“Try not to think too hard there, McLaggen. Might get a headache, yeah?”

Hermione spares a look, her lips folded inward, only for Malfoy to wink before strolling out. She blushes furiously. This is ludicrous. They’re getting a divorce. Or they’re supposed to be, at least, if Blaise would ever send the paperwork. He shouldn’t be making her laugh or blush.

And she certainly shouldn’t be thinking about those lips or that tongue or those fingers… or… 

Her thoughts mangle together for so long that Cormac’s droning becomes white noise. His mentions of a second date and dinner have Hermione excusing herself to the loo to freshen up. He perks up, anticipation looming, and that makes her nauseated. 

Her?
Touch Cormac?
Be reasonable, at least.

She knows exactly what to do.

There is a loo two doors back, but she bypasses it and instead pokes her head into Malfoy’s study. 

Empty. 
His gym. Deserted. 
The library. A ghost town. 

She’s on the second floor now, close to their room, when she hears it. A quaint melody he used to hum against her ear as she dozed off into a deep slumber. She absentmindedly inches closer until she’s outside the large double doors. 

Her heart spasms, nostalgia clutching at her feeble willpower for a moment. Has she been irrational in this decision? Can she look past what’s happened? 

Stop, you’re here for a reason.

The door clicks shut, and she makes a beeline for the source of the humming. When she rounds the opening, Draco’s there, in the walk-in closet, sorting his ties. His jumper sleeves are rolled up, and those blasted forearms flex as he pinches each accessory. 

She can’t just ask. Malfoy’s too smart for that. He’ll bargain and challenge to get something in return, and Hermione isn’t feeling particularly giving at the moment. 

The man is a snake. He doesn’t even hide in plain sight. He’s open with his intentions, letting his gorgeous smile and captivating hands pull her close as he injects his poisoned promises directly into her soul. 

There isn’t an option too risky or dark that he wouldn’t take to achieve what he wants. 

“Moving on so very quickly, are we?” he tosses another tie into a drawer, moving on to the next like she’s invisible. 

Hermione needs his attention. He doesn’t give in, though, moving onto the next drawer to organize. 

“Kiss me.”

It’s all she says, but it’s enough. Not a second passes before his hand grips her hair. Her back slams into the bureau, the knobs pressing into her spine as he tilts her chin up. Their lips so close, they brush as she clicks her tongue. 

“Aht, aht…” she scolds. 

He’s starved, desperation clouding those stormy grey eyes while his lashes flutter. 

Hermione’s hand presses to his chest, and she can feel the pounding of his heart. Their stare doesn’t break. Not until she tilts her head to the left and her fingers scrape over her pulse point.

“Here.” 

Her nails tap lightly, and he catches the movement before flicking his tongue out. Hermione gasps, her hand sliding up and into his hair. He pulls back and tries to meet her lips again, but Hermione shakes her head.

He whimpers, eyebrows scrunched together until her fingers move again. Instantly, he tracks as she slips them over her collarbone, right above her breasts.

“And here…”

Wild abandon grows in his eyes, the silver darkening with each breath. Draco’s head lowers, pressing a kiss to her chest, and Hermione is more aroused by the second. 

It’s been so long, she’s forgotten how good he is. How can he make everything seductive? 

It’s a fucking crime. 

He lingers, waiting for instruction. 

Hermione glides her hand lower, slipping each button open on her shirt to reveal the lace bra underneath. He anchors himself, gripping her until she hisses. When she finishes, her finger taps one hip.

“Here.”

Draco sinks to his knees without a second thought, following instructions without further command. He kisses one before sweeping his tongue across her abdomen to the other side. Hermione keens, back arching as his hands slide up her legs, the skirt pushing further up. 

The bond is on the verge of exploding at every point of contact. She’s tried so hard to ignore it and pretend it doesn’t exist. But each brush of his lips is sending her careening into another plane of existence. 

Every kiss.
Every touch.
Every glance. 

It breaks her soul apart until he stitches her back together anew. 

When he presses forward, his tongue running over her knickers, Hermione lets herself have this one moment. The moan she releases is delicious, and Draco hums, a smirk playing on his lips as if he’s won. 

That just won’t do. 

Hermione hooks her index finger under his chin, guiding his face up. Her skirt falls back, but his hands remain on her thighs. He seems to know better than to say anything, lips slightly parted, cheeks pink, eyes feral. 

Her thumb lands on his bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to keep her husband entranced. 

“Don’t hex him. But make him leave.”

His throat bobs, his arms falling limply at his sides in an offering. 

“You always did look good on your knees, baby. ” 

Her thumb presses just past his lip as a reminder, before slipping from his hold and to the loo.

(art by elliemess.art)

_________________

Draco doesn’t have to be told twice. 

“Hermione okay?” Cormac asks, rocks crunching with each step in the garden. 

“She’s fine.” 

If what just happened is any indication, she’s more than fine. It’s a glimmer of hope, a light breaking through the clouds of despair, and he will not pass it up. Draco glances toward the open field. The peacocks remain free and unbothered, but not for long. 

What his wife wants, she gets.

“I genuinely mean no disrespect when I say this, Malfoy, but at the end of the day, Hermione is no longer yours. I think it’s—“

It’s laughable. This wizard truly thinks he has a chance with Hermione. Has this twat even taken a look in the mirror recently? Morgana, to think this is the level his wife stooped to for revenge. If he doesn’t hurry this along, Draco might also lose his breakfast. 

“I’m going to stop you right there.” Draco halts, head tipping back to let the sun bathe over his skin as a menacing grin spreads ear-to-ear. “While my wife is no one’s property, make no mistake, Hermione will always be mine.”

“Malfoy, let’s be reasonable. We are both adults here,” McLaggen offers. 

This prick really thinks he stands a chance. 

Draco clicks his tongue three consecutive times, and the ground begins to vibrate. It takes only five seconds for the peacocks to arrive, feathers fanning and beaks pecking at the intruder. 

McLaggen yelps, jumping high in with each attack. It’s like the pathetic man forgot he was a wizard and can use magic for protection. 

He wasn’t sure what was more satisfying: watching McLaggen run for his life to get to the apparition point at the property line or knowing that his wife stood at the window on the second floor watching the whole exchange. 

***

After the closet incident, Draco was sure Hermione was coming around. 

But instead, for the next few days, she continued to slip from his grasp. Every time he heard her, Draco rushed to find her, but she was nowhere in sight. However, he knew she was eating and sleeping. The eleves confirmed as much. If that little scheme proved anything, it was that he could win her back. 

It was time to cease this little game. The same way he started. 

He knew the exact moment she found the paperwork—the ones confirming the real deposits for her projects. Draco may have a vault the size of three countries, but if his wife wants to do something on her own, he will respect those wishes. 

Begrudgingly. 

But still, he is a wizard of his word. 

Determined feet pad down the hallway, and he can feel the irritation through the wood flooring. It’s time for a show. Her magic ripples through his study, demanding attention, but he doesn’t give in. 

“Hermione, I’m a bit busy—”

It’s like déjà vu when the parchment slams on his desk, obscuring his work. 

“What is this?”

Draco scans the numbers—all from large deposits from various governors and ministry officials, but none from one Draco Lucius Malfoy. 

“Looks like more accounting. Honestly, if Creevy is this awful, perhaps we should find you someone new.”

“Now, look at this one.”

Another piece of parchment is placed on top of it. This one he recognizes. The one Tiggy planted in her filings a month ago at his request. 

“It’s hard to tell, but see here?” Hermione points to the small emblem at the bottom. “We use West Stone parchment, and this is from the Nine Dragons Parchment Company.”

Draco stands, taking the stray books on his desk back to the shelves. “Interesting.”

“And funnily enough,” she continues, following behind him. “Since working from home, I noticed you use the same parchment.”

My clever witch.

Draco doesn’t respond, only sliding the books back into place. 

“Why?”

Draco turns and shrugs.

“I was bored.”

“You were bored ?!” She screeches, her hand shooting out to shove him before he catches it. 

Hermione tries again, but Draco captures her other wrist and backs her up to the wall. Pinning her arms above her head, he leans in, teeth grazing over her neck, causing her to whimper. 

“Fuck, baby —” he licks up her jaw. “You’ve been working rather tirelessly.” His knee slots between her legs, and she pants. “I’ve felt a bit—fuck, you know what those noises do to me— neglected .”

“So you, what?” Her hips roll forward on instinct. “Incite a bloody argument—oh fuck, fuck –we almost got a divorce!” 

His other hand travels down to her jaw, holding her in place.

“It would’ve never gotten that far,” he says with conviction, the bond instantly becoming lighter. Desire flutters through the connection when he lifts her, legs wrapping around his waist. 

Draco’s knees buckle. The feel of her around him, clinging with need, is intoxicating. Her cunt presses to his front and his grip tightens as he rolls forward. 

Hermione sighs, head lolling to one side. “I hate you.”

This is what he’s missed. How quickly his witch gives in to him and offers herself as sacrifice to their pleasure. His craving is barely satiated, it’s thrumming, and begging for more. 

“Yes, your contempt is obvious with how desperately you’re rubbing against my cock.” 

Hermione rolls her eyes and does it again, deliberately. “Merlin forbid, you use your words— fuck— that’s…oh, Draco—”

“Tell me where.”

She regards him for only a second before his brilliant wife understands. “Here,” she whispers, catching his mouth with hers. 

It’s only a kiss, but he’s been denied so much these last few weeks that just the simple embrace has his control crumbling. He releases her wrists, those hands instantly tangling into his hair as he pulls her close. 

Draco carries her to the desk, lips never parting as he lays her across the top and spreads her wide over the parchment. His hands glide up her legs, squeezing and feeling her supple thighs and soft hips until he cups both tits through her jumper.

“I’m so— oh gods —angry with you,” she stutters. 

“So, punish me.”

Draco smirks, muttering a quick Evanesco . Her nipples pebble from the shock of cool air, and she gasps. No time is wasted as he tucks down, taking one into his mouth in earnest.

“You’re just an arse— oh!” 

Draco sucks a bruise on those delectable tits, humming over the peak until she shrieks. 

“I’m an only child,” he jokes. “I always get what I want.”

“As do I.” Hermione shoves him back, sliding down from the desk onto her feet. She turns, curls spilling over her shoulders as her fingers trail over her waist and down her hip. They land on her backside, and those chestnut eyes glitter with mirth when she taps one cheek. “Here.”

Draco practically lunges forward, pushing her down, arse up with her chest pressed to the still drying parchment littering his desk. Her legs spread, and like the other day, he drops to his knees, his tongue diving deep into her cunt.

The bond explodes, buzzing with satisfaction as he devours her. Hermione wiggles her hips, moaning and pleading for more. 

“Almost forgot how good you taste.” He teases the tip of his tongue over her clit until she’s fucking his face. 

“Here, here, fuck me , here!” she screams as his tongue works her to the brink of ecstasy. 

His cock jumps when she finally lets go, body shaking with total bliss until she collapses entirely onto his desk. Draco teases her hole before planting kisses over both cheeks and then her lower back. He continues up her spine until he reaches her shoulder. 

Sweat glistens over her freckles, tiny diamonds that make her glow like the beacon of light she is. She flips over, ink dripping down her tits. He swipes his fingers through each droplet, creating runes with each cluster of freckles. 

She grins, pushing him back and down until he’s flat on his back. 

“Can’t believe you orchestrated this entire farce,” she scolds, sinking down on top of him. Draco groans, admiring the words of devotion stamped over her flushed skin from this angle. Her walls squeeze around his cock as she begins to move. 

“By any means,” he pants, his thumb swiping over her clit. “I missed this, baby— fucking cunt—gods you feel… fuck!”

Ink dribbles down her abs, splashing onto his thighs. He grips her waist, guiding her faster, and her hand plants onto his chest as she snaps her hips.

“Couldn’t just ask for more attention— yes, yes, right—nghhhhhhh— ” Hermione’s head falls back, nails digging into his pecs. “Had to— don’t stop, don’t— oh, oh–”

Draco sits up, pulling her flush to his chest, their foreheads connecting. “You love it, baby.”

His cock swells as she moves faster, fingernails biting into his flesh. He tucks down, sucking over her collarbone. The ink tastes bitter on his tongue, but Draco doesn’t care. He licks each rune away, knowing there’s not even enough to express his desperation. 

“I do, I do, I do— yes, fuck, Draco!” Hermione chants. 

Their breaths become heavy, both on the edge when her cunt squeezes him tighter. 

“That’s it, come on, Hermione,” he encourages. 

She groans, crushing their lips together when her orgasm barrels through. It takes Draco with her, his cock twitching from pleasure until it drips down his shaft and stains her thighs. 

Magic ripples through the wards and both notice when the intention ward shifts back. A shiver vibrates through Hermione’s chest to his. The bond is thrumming with delight, finally satisfied and Hermione groans. 

“Still find this whole thing—” she gestures around them– “incredibly misogynistic.”

Hermione falls forward, head resting in the crook of his neck as he slides back down to the floor. 

"I'll hire a specialist to get rid of the ward," Draco chuckles, tracing down her spine. “I love you.”

Warmth pools in his stomach when she leans back, brushing blond fringe from his forehead. “I love you, you absolute menace. ”

Draco barks a laugh and pulls her close, again. Seconds pass when a tapping sounds, and he looks to see a familiar grey owl at the window’s ledge. Without further instruction, it drops the heavy manila envelope labeled “Granger-Malfoy Petition for Divorce” beside them before departing.  

Hermione takes one look and mumbles, “ Incendio.” 

The flames burst through the papers long enough to incinerate any hope of legibility. 

“Don’t ever do that again, Draco.” Her lips skate over his neck, and he preens. 

Draco pulls back, brushing a curl from her face. Just as he tucks it behind her ear, Hermione grabs his hand and guides it back down to her navel. “Here.”

She squeals when Draco flips them, admiring the ink stains over her curves and his carpet. “Don’t tease me, wife.” Hiis thumb presses onto her bottom lip, dragging it down sensually. “We know I love a challenge."