“It doesn't have to be painful.” Malfoy said, staring above her head at the wall, seeming eager to over analyze the wallpaper, “There are ways for it to be.” He took a deep breath. “Enjoyable.” “I’ve had sex before.” Hermione said. “You have?” His voice was a touch surprised.

“Loads of times.” Hermione scoffed (three times, to be specific, and it had been almost a year since the last time) “I’m an expert.” Malfoy had the audacity to look relieved. “Good.” He said, “I’m glad you’ve had pleasurable experiences. When — when, we, consummate — ”

“Fuck.” Hermione said at the same time as him. “— fuck,” Malfoy practically hissed, “Just. Just think of them.” Hermione nodded. “Right.” She said, “Sure.” He was staring at her. Waiting for something; her permission, perhaps. “You can think about other people, too.”

The first time she’d had sex, Harry had been soft, if not a little too gentle. In the tent, surrounded by darkness and the ever present promise of death, their fumbling hands had met. It hadn’t been painful, but it hadn’t been overly pleasant, either. It just had been them.

The second time she’d had sex, Ron had been eager to please her, but it had felt off. Like a sneeze that wouldn’t come, like an itch just below her reach — overall, it had been unremarkable and unfortunately for her and Ron’s budding romance, a little unsettling.

The third, and subsequently final time, Hermione had decided that she needed to stop having sex with immediate members of her very small friend group, and Seamus Finnigan had been happy to oblige her. In the middle, he’d gotten a leg cramp and accidentally headbutted her.

She’d gotten a bloody nose and Seamus still wasn’t able to make eye contact with her without cringing. Then, the marriage law had been announced, and Hermione had been too swept up in writing motions and testifying in court to worry about the elusiveness of her own sex life.

“Did you ever think you’d get married?” Hermione asked to rupture the silence that had stretched on for a bit too long. It seemed like a fitting question to ask, given their predicament. “I was never sure.” Malfoy smiled and Hermione felt her stomach twist.

This would all be much easier if he wasn't so handsome. “It was never my choice.” Malfoy said with a casual shrug, “I always knew I’d marry someone my father chose for me. Perhaps that’s why I accepted all this — the lack of choice, that is something I’m familiar with.”

“You, however, fought to the bitter end.” He continued, “very valiantly, I might add. As is your nature.” “It didn't work.” Hermione said softly. Admitting defeat to Draco Malfoy never seemed possible before — but now? It felt almost inescapable, the partners they were becoming.

“You’ll figure out a way to make them suffer.” “Not my nature,” Hermione said, finishing her glass of champagne, “That’s yours.” The clock read 11:40pm. It seemed they could no longer avoid fate.

“If we don’t consummate,” Malfoy was saying, voice sounding far away, “And the punishment is a fine, I can pay it. I won’t pretend I’m not above bribery, either. I — we — have a lot of money. Perhaps we could buy the Minister an island? Do you think he’d like that?”

“Harry said the punishment was prison time.” “Hm.” Hermione stood from her chair and smoothed the nightgown over her legs. “Thank you,” She said, “For offering to pay a fine for me. And for hypothetically bribing the minister of magic with an island. But I think — ”

“I think this is just unavoidable. We’ll be okay.” He smiled again, soft like the fuzzy clouds at sunrise. Hermione had never really noticed how his smile changed his entire face. “Yes,” he said, watching as she moved across the room, “We’ll be just fine.”

She lay down on the bed, closer to him now then she had been in years. The last time they’d touched had been when he’d clutched her shoulders the day of the trial, fingers tight around her arm. When he’d apologized to her in that dimly lit hallway, tears tracking down his face.

Hermione found dwelling on the past did no one any good, but for once, she was glad he’d done so; if only for the growth that accompanied him with the passage of time. Glad, that if this was going to happen, she would face the future with this version of Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy shifted, looming above her, his fingers finding the strap of her nightgown, twisting the fabrics softly before firmly pressing his hands on either side of her body. The mattress refused to creak, the only sound in the room their soft breaths “On or off?”

He waited politely for her answer, but his hands betrayed his tension, clutching almost angrily at the sheets, in danger of ripping them. Rich people, Hermione thought, could afford to rip their sheets. They could simply buy new ones. “On.” Hermione said in a thick voice.

“On.” Malfoy agreed. “I’m going to touch you now.” “Yes.” Hermione wished she was someone brighter, someone like Ginny. If she’d been assigned Malfoy, the room wouldn’t feel so thick and heavy. She wouldn’t be frozen beneath him, skin as rigid as the bones underneath. “Alright.”

“You’re so much smaller up close.” Malfoy murmured, surprising both of them. “From afar, it’s easy to convince myself you’re a titan, towering above us mortals. But here, I think it’s undeniable.” “I was taller when we were kids.” Was the response Hermione decided to give him.

“Do you remember? I used to be taller than Harry.” “I remember.” His thumb was rubbing circles against the top of her thigh. Just touching the skin, nothing scandalous, but Hermione felt a bit like a puritan seeing ankles for the first time.

“Do you think our child will be tall?” She asked, “Like you are?” His touch faltered for a bit, a crack appearing in his perfect facade. For a moment, his eyes were bright, hungry. Then, he resumed his lazy touch, fingers slowly tracing down her legs, beneath the nightgown.

“I hope they inherit all your goodness.” Malfoy said roughly, “And they inherit all my height.” Hermione had never thought about being a mother, never considered that a possibility — she certainly had never expected to become a parent with Draco Malfoy.

But a life with Harry had inadvertently prepared Hermione to adapt to her environment, like those frogs that change genders. “I’ll need to stretch you a bit.” Malfoy was saying, sliding down her body. Hermione wondered when she should start calling him Draco.

Surely, soon, with the home he'd seemed to have made for himself between her thighs. “Please, just try to relax.” “Right.” His hot breath on her center was the only warning she received before he was licking her, tongue twisting its way inside her cunt, thumb rubbing her clit.

She was wet, not an embarrassing amount, but not enough for him to grunt his approval, the vibration sending a shudder skittering up her spine. “Oh,” she gasped, hips squirming against his hold, “Wha — what are you doing?” “Shh,” he hushed her, “It’s rude to interrupt.”

Then, he closed his lips around her clit and sucked, his sloppy noises filling the room. Distantly, Hermione heard someone babbling, broken cries and unfinished sentences — it took a moment to realize that voice was her own. Heat, like fire, like a dragon, spread across her body.

He was pressing her to his face, fingers digging into her flesh; each time she withered away from his tongue, his lips, even his teeth, his grip tightened, an arm pressed against the flesh of her stomach. Finally, finally, finally, she felt one his fingers slip against her —

Malfoy’s fingers were so much thicker than her own, entering her with a bluntness she wasn’t accustomed to, twisting her open. Fucking her slowly, with no clear intention of quickening his pace. It was madness, it was unending, and Hermione was trapped between those feelings.

“After the war,” Malfoy said, licking up her cunt with leisure, “When we were at school, I wanted to be near you every second. It was like waking up and realizing I could actually see the sun.” She remembered, even now, how he’d looked at her during their 8th year.