Archive of Our Own

It’s been six months since Lord Theodore Nott was assassinated in France, and his body was yet to be returned by the French to the English Court. The King was on the edge of exploding every time she saw him, every time they met. She understood enough of politics to know they were on the verge of another war; a war their country should avoid at any cost, as she was told by the King and his advisors.

But deep down, even though he would never admit it, Hermione knew Draco wanted this war; he wanted to avenge his nephew and bring his body back to his homeland, bury the only family he had left in the Royal Crypt. She knew guilt was eating him alive for sending the young lord to Italy, and the least he could do was to make sure his name wouldn’t be forgotten.

She ignored the festering feeling in her gut that told her she was wrong about it all—so, so wrong.

As Lord Nott’s widow, she had inherited all his money, estates and a small fortune—all of which she didn’t care for. Obviously, she had heard the many, many rumours that were whispered about her in the castle, some of them ridiculously stupid—such as suggesting that she somehow killed her husband to steal his money and titles; some downright painful—that she came to the Royal Court to be a whore for anyone who knocked at her door.

But those things—she learnt how to ignore them; how to pretend she had never heard her maidens murmur and laugh behind her back, even though after Theodore’s death it was something she would have to suffer through every single day.

No. Those rumours were not harmful to her, for they were not true.

But as soon as the grievance period had passed and she shed the mourning black veil, a new type of rumour spread across the castle like a plague. Rumours that were true—or at least, partially.

For a long time, she didn’t tell Draco about any of them and she had hoped he didn’t hear them either, though given his possessiveness this seemed somehow less likely. But, even if he did hear anything, he didn’t make her uncomfortable by forcing her to talk about it.

Until one day, she had enough.

And apparently so did the King.

Draco summoned her to the throne room on a rainy Wednesday morning, one of his guards escorting her in complete silence, only the clicking of their boots against the marble floors echoing in the hallways. He was waiting by the entrance, and the moment Adrian, who was as always stationed at the door, closed it behind her, Draco dragged her to the throne, his hands roaming her body as he gently pushed her on his seat.

“Draco—” she breathed as his hands tore the thin fabric of her dress. “Draco, are you alright?”

As usual, he was wearing a whiteish, linen shirt and leather trousers; something that shouldn’t look so good on a man his age. Yet, no matter how many times she saw him in these clothes, no matter how many times she watched with fascination the strong muscles flexing as he moved, it still made her fall in love with him over and over again. She knew that other women at the court admired Draco mostly for his crown and the power it bore.

Hermione would have lied if she said the concept of him being the most powerful man in the country didn’t excite her. Because it did. But she fell for his kindness and chivalry, not for his crown. It was merely a nice addition.

His features softened as her eyes filled with worry, and he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, and then another one on the bridge of her nose, “I just missed you, little dove.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I missed you too. I can’t sleep anymore when you’re not next to me,” she admitted quietly, and something flashed behind his eyes. It wasn’t just lust, it wasn’t just arousal. And yet she felt confessing such a thing was inappropriate—especially to him, especially considering who he was. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't have—”

But when she noticed the happiness blossoming on his face, her lips melted into a smile too. “I’ll have your things moved to my chambers.”

“I am your nephew’s widow, Draco!” Her protests were there—but they were weak; as weak as her self-control. As weak as the urge not to spread her legs for him when his fingers brushed her inner thighs with featherlight touches. “The Church—”

A wicked grin spread on his lips, his silver eyes roaming her naked body up and down, “I said it once, and I said it again. Fuck. The. Church. Besides, the Pope owes me quite a favour for helping the Vatican with the Italian nobility’s uprising a few years ago. Had it not been for our men, there would be no Catholic Church, Hermione.”

His hands caressed her stomach and breasts, deft fingers playing with hair that fell loosely on her chest. She marvelled at his soft features, at the kindness that made him look so young, so handsome.

She often forgot that he was more than twice her age, and he had never abused it—not even once. There was enough of a power imbalance between them, with them being the most powerful man in the country. Bringing age into this would do them no good.

“Do you trust me?”

A low mewl escaped her throat as he rolled her nipples between his fingers, pinching one and then another to draw another needy sound out of her. Unsurprisingly, it worked.

“Of course, I trust you, Draco.”

How could she not trust him when he said things like that? How could she protest when she was already dripping on his throne before he had even touched her most sensitive spot? How could she pretend she didn’t dream of all of this when she moaned like a wounded animal when his finger, the one with a royal signet wrapped around it, dipped into her with such ease she should be embarrassed?

She let out a strangled moan when he dropped to his knees in front of her, a sign of utter submission; adoration from someone who would kneel for no one but her. It made her feel like the most powerful woman in the world, even if she were not the one wearing the crown.

The King's throne might not have been the most comfortable place in the castle but Hermione found it irrelevant when his fingers thrust in and out of her cunt and as she arched her back, fingers wrapped tightly around the golden armrests.

With both hands securing her thighs, he dipped his head between her legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her clitoris, sucking and licking; his tongue lapping at her juices, drinking them greedily, never having enough.

"Did you hear the rumours?" She rasped out, finally finding the courage to say those words out loud. It wasn’t the best moment by any means, but she was too much of a coward to ask during a normal conversation.

The blonde man glanced up from between her thighs, his chin glistening with her arousal. "What rumours?"

She tried to clear her throat before answering, but he slammed another finger into her, drawing yet another loud moan out of her. He continued looking directly into her eyes, and she couldn’t help but notice how incredibly handsome he was like this; his hair was dishevelled, the crown tilted. She wondered how many women had ever seen him like this—so carefree and casual. "Hmm?"

"Well," Gods, she could barely breathe when he curled his two fingers inside her. She had hoped he wouldn't hear her question, trapped between her legs. But he did of course—because a good king always listens. "They are not actually rumours, but—fuck!"

He grinned, his calloused thumb circling her clit. "Words, dove."

"They're calling me—they’re calling me a harlot. A child who wants to play the Queen."

His movements halted and she saw his shoulders tense under the linen shirt, eyes narrowing at something behind her. The muscle in his jaw twitched, a gesture she knew was a sign of annoyance, eyes flashing with rage.

"Who." The word sounded more like a bark than a question, but Hermione felt inclined to answer nonetheless. She started it herself. “Who started those rumours?”

"I—just a few servants."

To her dismay, he looked absolutely feral. Perhaps she made a mistake by upsetting him with something so trivial. She should’ve just kept it to herself until the whispers behind her back ceased.

"I'm going to cut their tongues off,” she knew it wasn’t a lie—she knew this threat to be as real as the crown on his head. “Every single one of them, and I'll do it myself."

She whimpered, bucking her hips to meet his slow thrust. "Ah, ah, stay still, Hermione. You move when your King says you move."

“Draco, please—" she whined, her legs trembling with anticipation. She wanted to forget about those rumours and now that she mentioned them, there was nothing she regretted more. He had enough on his plate, enough worries; he didn’t need her whining about some mean servants repeating ridiculous, though not entirely false, gossip.

“What do you want?” His hoarse voice sent a shiver down her spine and she shuddered when his fingers explored her core, teasing her walls, teasing her. “I’m at your service, my Lady. Just tell me what you want from me.”

He always did this—brought her to the edge with a few faint strokes of his fingers only to wait completely still until she told him what to do, “F-fuck me.”

“How?” He challenged.

“Your fingers,” she pleaded, her eyes fixed on the hand between her thighs; on the fingers, he slowly retreated before slamming back into her again. A loud moan escaped her throat, his thrust knocking the air out of her lungs. “And—and your mouth.”

Draco nodded slowly, a wicked smirk spreading across his lips, "This can be arranged. Give me one name," he demanded, voice leaving no place for discussion. "One name and you'll get to come. Two, and you'll come twice—I think you get the idea."

At first, she didn’t, or rather didn’t want to, “O-one name?” she tried to lift her hips, to fuck herself on his fingers if he wasn’t going to do so. His palm laid flat on her stomach, pinning her to the throne, “My King, please—” she moaned and, as usual, the two words forced him to move again.

It was still slow though—too slow, “One name of the servant who dared to call you a harlot, little dove. Don’t lie to your King, or he will have to punish you too.”

"You're going to torture them for speaking the truth?" she asked, somewhat terrified of that side of him. That ruthless and cold side he always hid from her. "It's okay—they don't deserve it."

Draco clicked his tongue again, clearly dissatisfied. "I'm not going to torture them. I’m simply going to cut their tongues off for speaking like that about their future Queen."

"W-what?"

She was sure she misheard him—with blood buzzing in her ears, gasps and moans filling the air, she definitely misheard what he just said.

"I told you," he drawled, leaning down to suck at her clit again, the ministrations of his fingers nearly making her cry with both pleasure and pain; the delicious pain she couldn’t imagine her life without now. "I'm going to make you my Queen."

She swallowed hard. “But did you actually mean it?”

She didn’t mean it to sound so rude, so blunt. But he had told her that so many times ever since Theodore died, it seemed like nothing more but an empty promise. And it wasn’t like she even could push him or talk him into it, no matter how much she wanted to be his.

Her eyes were glazed with unshed tears and she slid one of her hands into his hair, careful not to cut her wrist with his crown. Sensing her hesitation, he reached for the crown and slowly took it off, handing it to her. “I want you to wear it for me. I know it’s a little too big for your pretty, little head but you’ll make it work, hm?”

She took it, hesitantly; painfully aware of the significance of such a gesture. “I can’t—”

“You can and you will,” he demanded and threw her a wary glance before his focus returned to her aching cunt. His tongue circled her clit, fingers bruising the glistening skin on her thigh as he held her trembling legs in place. Still buried between her legs, his tongue lapping at her juices, he whispered. “Oh, my silly girl. Did you think I would drop to my knees for anyone else but the future Queen of England?”

Oh, God.

Sometimes she wondered if his words and that husky voice alone would be enough to make her come. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, no. His ego didn’t need more inflating, not from her. Not like this.

“Is this a proposal?” She joked instead, panting heavily, and his attention snapped to her face again.

The corners of his mouth twitched, eyes tracing every curve of her body, “Do you want an orgasm or the ring first?”

“You—I—are you—”

His smirk widened as his fingers fucked her at a relentless pace, her cunt clenching around him when he retreated. “An orgasm it is, then.”

She thought he was joking. Hell, she was joking when she asked about the proposal. But when he brought her over the edge not once, but twice, leaving her utterly spent on his throne and still knelt, she realised he was deadly serious.

It was truly a sight to behold.

King Draco I, that ruthless and brutal man she grew up being afraid of, let her sit on his throne—naked and sweaty, as he sank to one knee and pulled out the most beautiful jewel she had ever seen. Was he carrying it with him all the time? Or did he call her to the throne room knowing exactly how their encounter would end? “Lady Hermione Jean Granger, will you do me the honour and marry me?”

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe.

It was unfair to him that she only nodded, unable to form any coherent sentence.

But he understood—the sigh of relief he let out after another reassuring nod from her felt like a tidal wave washing over her senses.

His smirk melted into a smile; a real smile, the corners of his mouth twitching and eyes flashing with the purest form of joy she had ever seen. Still on his knees, he slid the silver ring studded with a subtle, pea-sized emerald on her finger, bringing her hand to his mouth to place a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

Only then was she able to say, “Yes.”

“You’ve made me the happiest man in the world, Hermione,” she could have sworn his eyes were glazed, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “I intend to return the favour.”

“Can you start with giving me something more than just your fingers?”

His eyes flashed, “Greedy little thing, aren’t you? You just asked me to make you come with my fingers and mouth.”

“I hear the King of England likes to spoil his women,” Hermione retorted sheepishly, knowing how her calling him King affected him. Even after they spent countless nights and mornings and afternoons together, he was still gentle with her. Cautious. And she wanted him unleashed, real. “Or was it another rumour?”

He was on his feet already, looming over her spread bare for him on the throne. Slowly—so slowly, he unbuttoned his breeches and tugged them down his toned thighs. “The only rumours this court’s filth will repeat from now on will be about your loud and never-ending screams.”

“I think not—”

“Ah, ah,” he clicked his tongue, deft fingers working through the buttons of his linen shirt. “Don’t interrupt me. I would hate to punish you.”

Draco grabbed her by her wrist and pulled her up, her bare chest colliding with him. With one swift movement, he took his seat on the throne, with his future wife on his lap. Her nipples hardened when she felt his cold skin against her, and Hermione didn’t think twice before she lifted her hips and impaled herself on his hard cock, a wave of electric pleasure washing over her.

The grip on her waist tightened and she forced herself to open her eyes, just in time to observe the blissful expression on his handsome face as she clenched around him, the back of her thighs slamming against his legs as she bounced on his cock.

“Fuck, dove,” he growled, tugging at her hair until her head tipped back, leaving her neck exposed for his slow and taunting exploration. “You have no idea how hot you look when you take what you want,” she shuddered when his teeth grazed at her throbbing vein, tongue rubbing circles around her pulse point, “so hot when you are in charge of your own pleasure,” he splayed his large above the swell of her bum, fingers dangerously close to her arsehole, “so god-damn hot. And only mine.”

“Yours,” she murmured. “Only yours.”

She let out a breathless chuckle, the muscles in her thighs burning as she tried to move faster and faster and faster. Draco brought his hands back to her hips, sensing her weakening, and helped her chase her orgasm, his grip firm and steady. He was like an anchor, preventing her from drowning, but never dragging her down; never restraining her.

The wet sounds of skin against skin that filled the throne room were far from decent, and so were the moans and screams that left both their throats. Hands slick with sweat, Hermione could barely hold onto the armrests of the throne.

“I got you,” he murmured into her ear, his voice low and hoarse. “Wrap your hands around my neck. You’re close, aren’t you?”

Hermione nodded, doing as he ordered, and he gently pushed her forward, until her forehead fell on his shoulder. “Yeah, just like that. Come for me, sweetheart.”

It was the combination of the softness of his voice and the roughness of his arms working hard to move her hips up and down that sent her over the edge; the mixture of gently-pressed kisses on the top of her head and the bruising hold of his fingers that made her cry out in pain, in pleasure, in love.

“Oh fuck—” still moaning, she collapsed onto his chest, her heart beating so fast she thought for a second it would jump out of her chest. “God, Draco…”

“There’s no God here,” he chuckled and pulled her on his lap. “Just you and me.”

And though she was utterly spent and still shaking from her orgasm, she didn’t think twice before wrapping her hand around his cock, slowly sliding it up and down. She squeezed at the base, her other hand gently kneading his balls.

A low, animalistic-like growl slipped past his lips, streaks of white come now coating her palm, dripping down her wrist. She watched him spill every last drop, eyes fixed on the oddly fascinating moment of the muscles in his lower abdomen tensing and relaxing.

“I think your screams might be the subject of the next round of gossip in your court,” she didn’t know what got into her, why she was suddenly so blunt in his presence. Maybe it was the ring on her finger—the promise it bore. His eyebrows rose and she teasingly bit her lower lip, inclining her head in a mocking gesture of respect. “I might start some of the rumours myself… my King.”

"You're playing a dangerous game right now," he warned, his hands trailing south to knead her arse. She wrapped her arms around his neck again, fingers scratching against his scalp. "Maybe I should wait with fucking you again until our real wedding night, hm? If you'll get a taste of a proper punishment perhaps you'll stop being so bratty."

"You love that about me," she purred in his ear.

A chuckle, "That I do. But I am a very patient man, Hermione. Are you a patient little thing?"

“No,” she admitted. “You know I’m not.”

“Of course, you’re not. But you know I could never say no to you, don’t you? And it must be nice, hm? ” Draco asked, and Hermione’s brows rose in confusion. “The power it gives you.”

And she couldn’t help but smile, inclined to agree with her King, her husband-to-be. She spread her legs wider, ignoring the heavy crown on her head; ignoring the weight of his proposal slowly dragging her down. Ring or no ring, crown or no crown—deep down she knew she always had power over him.

Her smile seemed like enough of an answer for him.

Their wedding was supposed to be small, something similar to the ceremony they had when Draco first married her—in absentia for his nephew, Lord Theodore Nott. But once the news about the King of England finally getting married again spread across the court and then, subsequently, the entire country, the people demanded a grand party.

And with the two wars they had won in the last ten years, the royal coffers were full of gold and treasure England was yet to spend. With pressure from nobility and his own countrymen, the King had decided that they would have the Royal Wedding of the century.

Naturally, Hermione had been against it at first, wanting nothing else than a humble ceremony with as few guests as possible. But Draco explained to her that their wedding would be a statement—not only of their love for the Church and people but also of power to all of the dignitaries and royals who would visit from across the world. They had to see how wealthy England was.

The King’s wedding was apparently a perfect opportunity to show off their assets.

He spared no expenses. For the most important guests, the feast itself consisted of nine courses and three deserts, all prepared by the finest chefs from England. Dozens of boxes of the most expensive wine had been exported from Burgundy, and at least another hundred bottles of Portuguese white wine brought all the way from the Douro River.

The musicians and bards arrived from Italy and Russia with pieces and shows they composed specifically for the wedding of King Draco and Lady Hermione. She couldn’t wait to hear and see them all, having loved music from the early years of her life. It was still lavish and unnecessary, yes, but at least this would be something the rest of the court would enjoy, too.

The clothes, however…

Hermione’s dress had been made from the most expensive and extraordinary silk from Greece, the one-hundred-feet long veil worth more than her father’s entire estate. The skirts of her wedding dress were adorned with additional layers of chiffon embroidered with threads of white gold. Everything was to be finished with the most beautiful pieces of jewellery she had ever seen—a silver crown made of at least a thousand small stars that draped over her head like a net, shimmering even in the faintest light; as well as a complementary necklace and earrings. Her outfit itself must have been worth a small fortune.

But she quickly learnt that there would be no winning with Draco, not when he set his mind on something. He wanted to spend money that was his, and who was Hermione to stop him? She managed to talk him out of ordering a cape studded with emeralds and white gold to compliment her dress, thank God.

The rest, unfortunately, was non-negotiable.

The King had given free rein to the court ladies who had been more than happy to plan the royal wedding, with only one rule: they were to make sure that Hermione shined. For, according to her husband-to-be, if the Queen shined, the whole country shined with her.

“Are you ready?” Her father asked, offering his arm as the first notes of the wedding march resounded in the Abbey.

Was she—ready? She spun in front of the large mirror Draco had ordered to be placed in the chapel, and watched a dozen layers of chiffon and silk spin with her, the stars and silver glimmering like the surface of the water in the cloudless night.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and nodded, the corners of her mouth twitching into a faint smile when she noticed pride and joy in her dad’s eyes, “I think I am,” she answered truthfully. “More than I will ever be.”

“You can always call it off, my sweet daughter.”

She shook her head, “I don’t want to, dad. I’m just stressed, that’s all—there are at least a hundred people in the Abbey, and at least four hundred more invited to the celebrations.”

Lord Granger gently caressed her cheek, before draping the veil over he head, covering her face with the softest layer of silk. “Mum and I will be there all the time, Hermione. Focus on the Ki—focus on your husband. If the rumours are true, he cannot wait to see you.”

A deep crease appeared in the middle of her forehead. Dread filled her stomach at the mere thought of even more gossip circulating across the castle. “Rumours?”

“Oh, yes,” he chuckled softly, his smile reassuringly calm. “Your mother’s ladies in waiting claim he tried to sneak into your chambers on four different occasions only last night. Had it not been for the guards stationed under your door, he would have probably succeeded.”

Hermione smiled inwardly and bit her lower lip, trying to imagine Draco—the King of England sneaking across the castle to see his bride-to-be. “That does sound like him.”

“He loves you.” Not a question, but so much happiness dripped from her father’s tone she couldn’t help but finally grab his arm and let him lead her to the altar. “King or not, if he ever hurts you, I will make him pay.”

Turning her head to him, Hermione squeezed his forearm, “I love you, dad.”

“I love you, too,” he said softly and gestured to the maids to open the oak door for them.

The moment they were out of the small room adjacent to the chapel, the music hit her like a stone to the face, a loud melody reverberating through her bones. “Focus on your husband,” her dad repeated, and this time, she listened.

Her eyes fixed on the massive figure waiting at the end of the nave, his red cloak draped over his shoulders and fastened with a golden brooch in the middle of his chest. The gold crown shone on his head, the flames of the hundreds of candles reflecting off its surface.

She knew what he would be wearing, after all, she had been one to pick his outfit. But she didn’t expect him to look that… handsome. He wore a white doublet that featured elaborate buttons and was embroidered with silver and gold that was supposed to match Hermione’s dress and jewellery. Underneath the doublet were loose-fitted leather breeches and knee-high boots. Low on his hips hung a jewelled belt and his old sword swung low as he stepped from foot to foot, impatient.

And only when he lifted his gaze to look at her, smiling in a way only she understood, only then Hermione knew she was ready.

This was what she always wanted.

He was what she always wanted.

“Dreams do come true,” she murmured under her nose, completely ignoring the gaping crowd silently judging her every step, every inch of her dress; of her body. “They really, really do.”

Hermione tapped her fingers against the wooden surface of the table, smiling politely at every Lord and Lady coming to greet and congratulate them on their wedding, leaving yet another present she doubted she would ever have time to unpack, let alone use.

But she was so, so bored.

It’s been four hours since the feast started and she was yet to have a second alone with her husband. There was always another noble, another dignitary or royal from a country she was ashamed to admit she never heard of, and even though he would entwine their fingers and squeeze her reassuringly from time to time, she really wanted the night to be over.

“I’m bored, Draco,” she half-whispered, pretending she was leaving over to brush a speck of dust off his shoulder. “Four hours and the queue seems to be never-ending. And you…”

“Yes?”

“You promised this would be fun.” She felt stupid and childish for complaining about something so trivial. The guests were, after all, there for them; to celebrate their special day.

And with so much money Draco put into the wedding, it felt ungrateful to even do so.

The King waved a hand at his most-trusted advisor, a signal they agreed on should Draco and Hermione need a break from their responsibilities. Lord Blaise inclined his head and sauntered over to the queue of guests, informing them that the King and his wife would like to rest. Though Hermione's coronation was scheduled for a four-weeks time from the wedding, Draco had instructed everyone in his court that they shall refer to her as their Queen already,

Finally, she thought and took a sip of wine. Even the Burgundy's finest was boring after her third cup; the taste bland and flat, as though it lost all of its richness.

She prepared herself for Draco to scold her, which he would have every right to do so, but he smirked instead, mischief dancing in his eyes like a spark of a flame that would soon spread out beyond his control.

“You want fun, little dove?” Draco asked, voice sultry and dangerously low. A shiver ran down her spine, straight to her core. Hermione nodded, a coy smile finding its way onto her crimson-stained lips. “Then I suggest you run.”

Her hand shook, the golden goblet threatening to fall out of her grip as she surveyed his stern, sharp features. As always when he was around other people, his expression revealed nothing. Had it not been for those silver, blazing eyes, Hermione would have thought he was bored.

“Run?” She echoed his words.

Her gaze darted to the white skirts of her wedding dress; soft, luxurious fabric that never seemed to end, flowing onto the marble tiles of the Great Hall as though it was sea foam. How the hell was she supposed to run in this? And why would she even do that?

The King cleared his throat, and the attention of every noble within the closest proximity snapped to their sire. He waved them off with a lazy gesture and leaned back in his chair, one elbow bent and leaning against the armrest, thumb and index finger cocked against his jaw.

“Have I not made myself clear?”

“I—I can’t run in this dress, Draco,” she said. Her voice trembled a little, whether it was from anticipation or fear, she couldn’t tell. “And I don’t understand why—”

“The rules are very simple,” he started, and only the barely noticeable twitch of the corner of his mouth told her that whatever he had in mind was, indeed, his idea of fun. Hermione drowned the rest of the wine and poured herself a glass of water instead, waiting. “I’m going to give you ten minutes to get out of here and run from me. Then—” his hand slid to her knee, squeezing not-so-gently. “Then, I will start looking. And once I find you, we will have the fun you begged for. On my terms.”

The voices in the background blurred into one as Draco’s eyes fixed on hers, fire clashing with ice. She swallowed hard, “And if you don’t?”

“If I don’t, what?” He mocked.

“What if you don’t find me?”

A dark chuckle slipped past his lips. “This is my castle, darling. Of course, I will find you.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but Draco only shook his head, sipping on the bourbon sent to him as a wedding gift by one of the lords from the North who couldn’t make it to the wedding due to unfavourable weather conditions. “Name your price.”

“What?”

“If you win,” he drawled, sticking his tongue out to catch a golden dollop of the alcohol from his mouth. She wished she could be the one to do it for him, and it seemed as though he knew exactly what influence he had on her. “I will give you any prize you want.”

“Anything?” She asked, suddenly drunk on the mere idea of power itself. Draco’s curt nod was his only response. “I want your crown—for a day.”

If the king was in any way surprised by her request, he didn’t show it. God, she hated him for always being so collected; so cold—while her face was an open book. There was already a blush forming on her cheeks, both from the game he suggested and from the way he slowly dragged his eyes up and down her body.

"Not the royal jewel I thought you would ask for," he smirked, watching her blush grow with satisfaction. Casually, he placed his hand on his hand and slid it up very, very slowly. "But don't worry, dove. You'll get it anyway."

She held his gaze, her heart racing in her chest. "Why ask for something you will give me whether I win or lose? Do you accept my deal, Your Majesty?"

The golden crown studded with rubies and emeralds tilted slightly to the side as Draco assessed her with cold, cold calculation. And then, just when she was about to ask for something else—something less controversial maybe, he said, “Done.”

Though the tone of his voice did not indicate he had ever planned on letting her win.

And, truthfully, Hermione didn’t expect to, either.

It was the challenge she threw at him itself that he accepted without any second thoughts; the fact that he trusted her enough to give her unlimited power for a day. She might have been a queen just because of the title, but he truly treated her as an equal.

She smiled coyly. “We’re in the middle of the feast thou—”

Draco clasped his hands together, loud enough for everyone to hear. Hundreds of heads turned to them, the chatters growing quieter and quieter with each second.

“My Queen is tired,” he informed the guests, faking a very convincing expression of a worried husband. “She will retire to our chambers now, but you are all more than welcome to continue the party. After all, this,” he gestured to the long tables groaning under the weight of the wood and drinks lined on them; to the musicians and bards in the corner, to the garlands on the ceiling, “is all for you. For our dear friends and families. Enjoy the feast tonight, my friends. We are looking forward to seeing you at the ball tomorrow.”

He eyed everyone in the room, and an echo of thank you, your majesty resounded in the large room. Content with the reaction, Draco clapped his hands again and jerked his chin at the musicians to continue the song he interrupted them.

And just like that, life was returned to the hall. Some of the lords and ladies threw her worried glances, their brows knitting together as they bowed each time she looked at them. But most of them didn’t care, for what she was eternally grateful for.

She wasn’t sure if she could pretend not to feel well, though she supposed the blush on her cheeks could be a great cover-up for the story Draco fed them with.

The King’s knife clattered against his silver plate as he accidentally dropped it from his hand, the sound echoing in her head. “Since it’s our wedding night, and I am very, very generous, I am giving you twenty minutes instead of ten,” he purred in her ear, hot breath dancing along her neck. “Make it count, little dove.”

Hermione nodded, and then Draco dropped the knife again, his lips tugging upward in a lazy smile.

Tick-tock, his eyes seemed to say.

“Run,” he ordered, though the intensity of his gaze pinned her to the spot.

Her chest heaved, the ornate silver necklace heavy against her décolletage. She still wasn't sure how she was supposed to move in that ridiculous dress.

Draco, however, seemed to be slowly losing his patience. He grabbed a fistful of grapes and slowly plucked them off the vine one by one.

"I said run," he leaned down, tracing the seam of her lips with one of the green grapes, and there was something so possessive about the way he did it that she immediately opened her mouth. The sweet juices dripped down the corners of her mouth as she bit down on the grape, “Mmm, naughty girl. I can’t wait to taste you.”

She felt him smile against her cheek, a wicked grin if she were to guess. His voice dropped to a low, sensual purr as he tucked a loose stray of curls behind her ear. "I would hate to punish you for disobedience before I even get to taste that sweet cunt of yours, wife."

“And what exactly would that punishment entail?” She found herself asking.

Draco’s hand wrapped around her throat, shielded from the view by her hair. The touch was scorching, nearly punishing, and yet she swallowed hard, the bob of her throat causing him to tighten the grip.

The air was thick with tension and anticipation, but her husband said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. She had a vague feeling that some of the guests were constantly monitoring them, but to anyone else in the room, it looked as though he was making sure she was okay; perhaps cupping her cheek.

Only they knew about the fingers dancing across her pulse point, about the thumb he dragged up and down the column of her throat. “Don’t test me, dove.”

As if it wasn’t the entire point of their little game.

Hermione whimpered, her heartbeat intensifying rapidly with each of his words. He released his hold on her throat but remained close to her, and the mere tickling of his breath against her bare skin was enough for the heat to pool in her core.

She had to play this game first, she realised. There would be no wedding night in the traditional sense, thank the Gods. However, there might not be any wedding night at all, if she pushed his patience a bit too far.

Feeling a sudden rush of courage, Hermione dragged her tongue across her upper lip, then repeated the movement with the lower one as she rose to her feet at last. The dress was heavy, layers upon layers of lace and chiffon and satin making each of her movements slow—so painfully slow.

He dragged an eye over her clothed body, his features softening ever so slightly. "I will enjoy ripping every bloody piece of that dress off you."

She smirked. "Only if you find me, husband."

And without waiting for his response, she pivoted on her heel and swiftly exited the room. With Draco's eyes fixed on her, no one dared to even look at her, let alone talk; though she noticed the worried expressions swiftly changing to curiosity.

She swallowed the grape, the sweet juices dripping down her throat and coating her lips. Looking over her shoulder, she made sure her king saw the tip of her tongue catching those tiny drops from the corner of her mouth.

He straightened on his throne, his expression positively feral.

Hermione winked as he held out two fingers in the air.

Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes before the cat went out to play with the mouse.

She quickly realised that there were two main issues with trying to hide from her husband in less than twenty minutes: first of all, she didn’t have a watch, and couldn’t tell how much time already passed. For all she knew, it could have been seconds; but it also could have been ours. Secondly, she truly didn’t know how to move around the castle, despite the fact that she’d lived there for the last year or so.

Having spent most of her free time with Draco, either in her or his chambers; or with her ladies-in-waiting in the Great Hall did not offer much comfort when it came to navigating through the never-ending hallways and secret passageways that she, somehow, never noticed before.

Hermione had no doubt Draco knew them all. After all, he said so himself.

She took a turn left, nearly slipping on the greasy tiles, only her grip on the brick wall keeping her on her feet. Releasing a shuddering breath, she took a moment to collect her thoughts; to calm her furiously beating heart.

It was dark and Hermione had no bloody clue where she was. Chances were that she would get lost sooner than she would actually run from Draco. Had she known the layout of the castle better, perhaps she would have stood a chance to beat him.

“Damn it, Hermione,” she muttered to herself. “You should have known better.”

A dark chuckle coming from the dark corner behind made her jump and had it not been for the arm quickly finding its way around her waist, she would have tripped this time. “Yes, little dove,” he whispered as he pulled her flush against him, the possessiveness of his grip sending a shiver down her spine. “You should have known better.”

“I—how can I—” she stammered, her breathing intensifying.

Even though she knew it was Draco—knew it because of the jasmine and citrus scent filling the hallway as if he sprayed it all over there; knew it because of the way she melted against his toned chest—it still made her nervous, perhaps even stressed. But the thrill that pooled in her core, the warm sensation spreading across her body, rushing through her veins—that thrill would soon overtake any other emotion.

“Hush, my darling wife. I told you I would find you and I am not one to break my promises. You didn’t really think you could hide from me forever? Though I must admit…” he paused, taking a few steps back until he collided with the wall and his right hand was fisting the skirts of her wedding dress. He tugged harshly, laughing with wicked satisfaction when it tore, piece by piece, and pooled around her ankles. “You were surprisingly good at running away. Do you even know where you are?”

She shook her head, gasping as he ripped yet another layer of the dress; destroying the finest piece of clothing she had ever worn. “I got lost.”

“You got lost,” he mocked, though she couldn’t help but notice an undertone of something else in his tone—not amusement but… pride? “And yet, somehow, my darling wife, you ended up just two minutes away from my old chambers. You could have waited on my bed instead of this filthy hallway.”

Hermione couldn’t suppress the shudder at the realisation, at the way the words my darling wife rolled off his tongue—a prayer, a plea, a threat.

“How convenient—”

Draco slid one of his hands to her chest, grabbing her breast in a borderline-painful grip. “I didn’t tell you to speak, Hermione. Hmm,” he hummed, the soft vibrations setting her blood ablaze. He pulled the bodice of her dress, ripping it to shreds with his almost inhuman strength. “I think we will leave this mess for your maidens to find in the morning. Or maybe I will leave you here, and see if you can find your way to our chambers, hm?”

“N-no, please!”

She felt him shift behind her, the broad chest moving up and down as he took deep, long breaths. Chuckling under his nose, Draco moved his hands up her chest, clicking his tongue at the straps of the white undershirt she wore under her dress. “Should we leave this on?”

“Yes?”

“No,” he said before pulling the left, then the right strap down. “From the moment we enter our rooms, the only thing I want to see on you is my seed, dove. I can’t wait to watch it drip down your thighs; can’t wait to paint those perky tits white,” she shuddered again, the mere thought of what he just mentioned making her breath hitch with anticipation. “You like that, hm? Don’t worry, you will get your fill soon, little girl.”

His fingers spider-danced across her bare stomach, trailing south, south, south until he reached the apex of her thighs. Draco leaned over, resting his chin on her shoulder and peppered the side of her jaw with wet, hot kisses.

“I’ll let you keep the necklace though,” he whispered, kissing her cheek, then her ear; nibbling at her earlobe. “It makes your tits look magnificent.”

“But it’s heavy—oh,” a moan full of surprise slipped past her lips when his thumb found her already throbbing clit. Her knees wobbled at the slightest touch, at the anticipation.

“You won’t feel it when I tie you to our bed and make you cry when I lick your sweet,” he paused, kicking her ankles apart and dragging his fingers through her folds, “dripping,” he teased the entrance, the calloused tips of his fingers rough against her core, “cunt.”

She choked on the moan that built in her chest, involuntarily grinding against his hard cock. “Oh my—”

Draco thrust two fingers inside, marvelling at the wetness and warmth that welcomed him with a low growl. “So desperate, my darling wife,” he bucked his hips, the erection pressing against her lower back like a knife. “Let’s take you home. And then we shall play.”

She whined, so pathetic and miserable when he retreated his fingers and took her into his arms, carrying her to their chambers in the true bridal style.

Only then did she see his face—twisted with mischief and that hint of darkness that made her fall in love with him. She smiled at him, at her husband, and Draco halted mid-step, leaning down to kiss her for the first time without the crowd, without the Archbishop separating them after a mere second. And even though it was just a brush of his lips against hers, the softest kiss they had ever shared, it made her heart beat faster.

“Don’t get used to that,” he said, voice still soft. “Since you lost our little game, you are still getting punished tonight.”

And somehow, Hermione had a feeling she wouldn’t mind it at all.

Draco never particularly liked or cared for music.

That was, obviously, until he heard his favourite symphony during his wedding night. The desperate, throaty moans of his wife danced in his head; his soul, like notes on a staff. He felt like a musician—a conductor, eliciting the sweetest noises from the depths of her chest; playing her as though she was a violin. His cold fingers caressed the swell of her breasts, cold drops of melted ice mixing with the beads of sweat that covered her body like a second skin.

He rolled her nipples between his fingers and pinched them, earning a needy groan that reverberated through his bones like a symphony. “Give me one more, my darling,” he murmured, pinching the other nipple. “You’re doing so well.”

“I can’t,” she rasped, arching her back as he leaned over to take her nipples into his mouth, alternating between licking and sucking and biting, “Please, just—”

Draco laughed and covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her. “You can and you will.”

He knew he could make her come again; and he knew she would beg him for it in the end, just like she did the three previous times. She didn’t use the safe word they had agreed on months ago, the one he reminded her about before he started to play with her. She wanted this as much as he did, and God, if it wasn’t one of the most beautiful, most attractive things about her.

After she nodded, he slid his hand up and untied the blindfold that covered her eyes for the last two hours or so. He watched her blink a few times, letting her eyes get used to the dim light of the torches and candles in their bedroom.

She tipped her head backwards, leaning further into the throne he had brought in specifically for this night. Yes, he planned to tie her to their bed, but that didn’t seem suitable for the new Queen of England.

Besides, he preferred her this way. He preferred to kneel between her legs; watch her cunt swell with each sweep of his tongue, each stroke of his fingers. It made him powerful and completely at her mercy all at once; made him watch with admiration how her chest heaved as she took quick, shallow breaths. The absurd necklace hung between her breasts, clinging to her sternum with the sweat dripping down her chest. He praised himself for the idea of tying her wrists above her head, for keeping the crown on her head.

But what was most important lay now right in front of him, as he sank to his knees again.

The treasure beyond treasures.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, spreading her legs as wide as the ropes allowed. Another wave of wetness gushed out of her cunt, pooling under her hips, coating her trembling thighs. He didn’t even have to touch her, he realised with wicked satisfaction. “Taking your first royal punishment so well.”

“Draco, please,” she whined, writhing under his words, under the mere ghost of his touch. “I need—”

“You need what?” He asked, smirking as he lowered his head to her cunt, and didn’t even give her a chance to answer as he pressed his mouth to her clit, sucking on the sweet juices coating her folds.

The music returned; the composer playing with his muse.

He had no idea how he lived his entire life without her, what kind of existence was it before he met her. His tongue lapped at her slit, licking every last drop of her arousal; his teeth grazing against the throbbing, sensitive bud of nerves.

She cried out—a broken, desperate sob—and he looked up at her beautiful face, at the tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Her chest convulsed, thighs trembled violently as he pushed two fingers inside, her cunt clenching around them in an instant as if she didn’t want to let him go; as if she wanted this moment to last forever.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she repeated the word like a mantra, like a prayer; as though she didn’t realise she was the one he would pray to; that she was the one he was ready to worship for the rest of his life.

Draco curled his fingers, his lips melting into a knowing smirk as he sucked harder and harder on her clit, eliciting yet another moan from his Queen. Breathless, he pulled away at the familiar, warm sensation coating his chin and hand, and pressed a gentle kiss on her clit.

As he stood up, he lifted his arm and brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting her again.

“You taste like strawberries.”

She giggled, eyes glazed with pleasure and tears, “Aren’t they your favourites?”

That little tease.

He knew what she referred to; what moment of their relationship she had in mind.

“No,” he said simply and slowly untied the ropes that held her tied to the throne. “You are my favourite, my darling wife. My Queen.”

“I like that.”

“Being my Queen?”

“Being your favourite.”

He let the ropes fall to the floor, a loud thud echoing off the walls, and slowly pulled her up. He gripped her by the back of her thighs and waited for those long, slim legs to wrap around his waist. “I have always known you’d be my favourite,” he said before leaning down to kiss her. “And you, Queen Hermione, were worth the wait.”

She kissed him then, pouring all the need and hunger that waited to be unleashed. She kissed him with fierce only she could muster; with lust only she could control. And that kiss, that god-damned kiss, was all he needed to lose control.

Hard—he was so hard it was pathetic. She broke the kiss and rested her forehead against his, her stomach soft against his cock. “Fuck me, my husband,” she murmured. “Fuck me now.”

How could he ever say no to her?

How could he deny her anything?

His wife. His Queen.

“You’ve earned your reward,” he said, his cock throbbing with need. “How do you want me?”

A smirk that could very well match his appeared on her lips, and she cocked her head to the side, looking down at him with challenge sparkling in her eyes. “How do you want me?”

God.

This woman could be, no—would be—the death of him one day. The teasing smirks, the false innocence in her sweet voice, the golden eyes blazing with fire. If that was how death would look like, he would gladly fall into her arms.

She pressed, with that seductive pout of her swollen lips, “Hm?”

“You know I don’t mind—”

“No, Draco,” she said, her voice soft yet stern. A Queen already.  So different from the shy girl he had kissed in the garden all those months ago. “Tell me, husband. How do you want to take me tonight? Do you want us to make love?”

He swallowed—hard. “No.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, cupping his cheek with her small hand, and a different kind of smile found its way onto her lips. A softer, warmer one—one that showed him she trusted him; that she wanted whatever he wanted.

“Then get on all fours,” he ordered before throwing her on the massive bed, the sheets rustling under the weight of her petite body. “Let’s see if you can handle me, hm? Let’s see how quickly this arse will turn—” he paused, only the swish of the air filling the otherwise silent room, before his palm landed on her cheek, “red.”

Hermione whimpered, and her elbows nearly gave out. He was surprised they didn’t, honestly, given her previous position and the restraints that must have made her arms numb. “Not quick enough, apparently.” He added as he spanked the other cheek.

"But royal red does suit you," he murmured more to himself than to her, caressing her skin.

The third and final smack—considerably gentler—landed across her cunt, making her scream again. “I asked you to fuck me,” she seethed. “Not—”

Draco chuckled, making sure she was wet enough to take him, “Last I checked, I didn’t take orders from you. You wanted to prove you can handle me, so I suggest the next time that comes out of this dirty mouth of yours is either a moan or a plea.”

“A plea?”

“Beg for my cock.”

He knew she would.

But as she hesitated, teasing him even more than he did her, he pumped his cock a few times before he lined it at her entrance, sliding the head inside before pulling away.

“Draco!”

He repeated the movement, holding her hips in place so she couldn’t push them backwards, “It’s my King now. Address me properly,” he spanked her again, harder this time, “and beg.”

His patience was running low, so bloody low. But he would not give in, not when she asked for it; when she asked for him. That’s how he wanted her, from the day he saw her for the first time, lost and lonely in Astoria’s old rooms.

He wanted her to beg, wanted to fuck her until he would be the only thing on her mind.

“Please,” she said finally, desperate just as he wanted her. “Please, my King. Fuck me.”

And he did.

He slammed into her, burying himself to the hilt, his hips hitting her arse with each thrust.

She moaned and screamed and soon her elbows gave out. Draco curled her hair around his fingers and tugged until her back arched, until she begged him to fuck her faster, harder. And she took him so well, all of him, as though her cunt was made for him.

It wasn’t a surprise that he came so pathetically fast.

He wanted to witness the expression on her face as he filled her up for the first time, so he quickly threw her on her back, spreading her legs before she even took another breath.

She gasped and he thrust into her one last time, his hands gripping her hips tightly.

"How does it feel, little dove?" He asked as his cock twitched inside her, filling her with her load. He intended to empty himself in her sweet cunt and then fuck her again, making sure his seed stays inside. “How does it feel to be full of my come?”

She glanced up at him, smiling coyly. Her eyes were glazed with tears and a deep pink blush spread across her neck and cheeks. She was the definition of beauty and perfection, with her small, round tits bouncing as he thrust harder, her tight cunt clenching around him.

“I asked you how it felt,” he repeated in a low voice, watching her chest heaving up and down when he brought his hand to her clit, rubbing small circles with the back of his hand. “Just because you’re my Queen now, doesn’t mean you can ignore my questions or orders.”

Hermione bit her lower lip, that little minx, and gasped when she felt his hot come dripping down her thighs. The somewhat innocent and surprised look on her face was enough to tell him she enjoyed it. "It feels—oh” she moaned when he wrapped his mouth around her breast. “It feels so warm."

Bloody hell, Draco thought, I will make her warm every day.

If it was possible he'd keep his cock buried in her forever. Until her cunt milked the last drop of his seed. Until he was sure she was carrying his heir. The future King of England. Or Queen, he didn’t mind.

"Good girl," he moaned as she wrapped her legs around his lower back and pulled him closer, taking his cock even deeper. "You're going to take all of my come, aren't you?"

“Mhmmmmm,” she hummed, eyes rolling in the back of her head. “Yes.”

When he finally pulled out, both of them groaning at the loss, he fought the urge to push the creamy come back inside her cunt. There would be plenty of opportunities for that in the future. Instead, he spread her legs and hooked them over his shoulders, kneeling between her thighs.

His cock hardened again when his come started seeping out of her sensitive cunt. Draco licked his lips, swallowing hard when she propped herself on her elbows and looked at him first, only to follow his gaze that was now fixed between her legs.

She hummed softly. “This is nice.”

Draco dragged his fingers up and down her slit, gathering as much of their mixed arousals as possible, before bringing his head to her mouth. “Open up,” his thumb tugged at her lower lip, waiting.

Eyeing his fingers glistening with their come, she asked, “Shouldn’t it—you know, stay down there?”

He released the grip on her throat, his hand now caressing her cheek.

Unable to control his laughter, he shook his head and with a gentle hand pressed to her chest, he pushed her back onto the mattress. As her mouth remained closed, he slid the hand up to her throat and squeezed gently again. His thumb grazed against her pulse point. “I said open up,” he knew she was being a little tease—taunting him with those innocent fuck-me-eyes and coy smiles. “I will fuck a baby into you soon enough, don’t worry, little dove.”

It must have been enough for her, or maybe she was done playing too, considering her ragged breathing, because she parted her lips and twirled her tongue around his index and middle finger. It wasn’t enough, though.

He pushed them into her mouth, hooking his thumb behind her teeth and flashed her a sultry grin. “Suck, I know you can.”

She obeyed, hollowing her cheeks around his fingers, her tongue brushing them ever-so-slightly. Knowing her limits and preferences, he pressed his finger deeper, the tips hitting the back of her throat. She gagged but wouldn’t stop sucking, swallowing all of his come.

“Enough.”

Hermione groaned but relaxed her jaw, and brushed the streaks of sweaty curls away from her face with the back of her hand. Draco watched her as she panted, chest heaving up and down as her lungs expanded in a desperate gasp for air.

There was a moment when he thought he was going to snap; breaking down the brick walls he built around himself to keep his dark urges in check. Shadows born of pure darkness coiled around his neck and clouded his vision.

But then—a smile broke through the darkness like a beam of divine light, reaching deep, deep into his soul and devouring what was rotten in him.

“This is the best wedding night I could ever imagine. Do you know why?” She asked.

Her voice was already raspy and strained and yet seductive. He realised, with wicked satisfaction, that it was because of him.

He would make sure to tell her how proud he was of his little Queen later. He arched his brows, genuinely curious. “Because you have given me all of you this time.”

Fuck.

He wanted to fuck her into the mattress. He wanted to fill her with so much of his come it would never stop leaking from her cunt. He wanted to feed her with it, to breed her, to worship her.

He wanted to corrupt her. The next time, he would have her beg him for his come. No more playing innocent, little dove she never truly was. He couldn’t believe his luck, couldn’t believe she actually agreed to marry him, even if she knew, or at least suspected, what was the reason for her old marriage ending before it had even begun.

She whimpered when he played with her swollen clit, so overstimulated he wasn’t sure she would take another orgasm from him. “Do you want to come again?”

When she moaned a muffled yes, he resumed playing with her tits, kissing and licking almost religiously, as though she was a Goddess sent to this Earth so he could worship her. And, he supposed, that in a way she was.

"Y-yes," he mocked her needy tone. “Spread your legs for me.”

“Can you—can you go again?” She asked innocently, and as much as he wanted to show her just how ready the sight of her cunt dripping with his seed made him, he only shook his head and pulled her from the bed.

“Do you doubt your husband?” Draco clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. “Do you doubt your King?”

“Never,” she said. “Never, Draco.”

And this time, he believed her.

“I love you, Hermione,” he said before showing her how many times he could go again. And he realised that this was the first time he said those words—and meant them. Never with his lovers, never with Astoria were these three words true. Not until now. “I love you more than I love my crown.”

He noticed his wife’s eyes shine with unshed tears as she said, “I love you, too. I think I loved you since the day I met you.”

Love.

He was going to shower her with love. For as long as he lived.

Draco woke up with a surprising clarity of his mind, and he didn’t know if he had the gorgeous woman clinging to his side like a koala bear, or the amazing night they had to thank for that. Perhaps both—it seemed as though Lady Hermione Granger, now Queen Hermione, was the missing piece of the puzzle he didn’t even know he had to complete.

The last time he slept so well and uninterrupted must have been over ten years ago. There had always been something to worry about—in the most powerful country in Europe, there had always been an issue with some greedy lord, or rebelling minorities. Wars and battles and politics he couldn’t avoid as a king. Getting grilled and criticised for not producing an heir, then for not taking another wife after Astoria passed away.

Years.

It had taken him years to return to the state of his mind that allowed him to breathe and relax, no matter how short the reprieve would be. And he knew there was only one person responsible for that—for the lack of buzzing and thrumming in his head, for the calm breaths and… a fucking smile on his face.

If he had believed in God, he would have thought she was sent to him from the deepest pits of Hell by the Devil himself. It was a good thing, however, that he thought Hell and sin to be much more entertaining than Heaven and absolution.

Draco slowly unwrapped her arm from his stomach and, as gently as he could, placed it back on the mattress. He thought about ordering some breakfast and drinks, maybe drawing her a bath, but then his attention wandered to Hermione and her half-naked body.

She must have tossed some of the bedsheets aside while they slept, her bare chest now the only thing that mattered. The centre of his fucking universe. His hands lingered over the swell of her perky breasts, chest rhythmically heaving up and down, up and down.

He wondered if her heart pumped blood into her veins, or straight to his cock.

Sultry eyes were glued to her pebbled, rosy nipples, and despite the many wars and battles he had fought, this one seemed to be the toughest one yet. It was also one he wouldn’t mind losing—and doubted his young wife would, either.

The battle with himself.

He wanted to close his mouth around those peaks, hardening from the lack of sheets covering her sweet body; from the summer, a somewhat chilly breeze that entered their chambers through the window he left slightly ajar. He wanted to sink his teeth in her skin—to claim her, as though she wasn't already his; to mark her as if his court was not already aware she was off-limits.

His Queen. His wife. His equal. She was all of those things and yet when he looked at her when she was at her most vulnerable, it didn't feel like she surrendered to him completely. Even now, she seemed to have utter control over him, and that made him realise two things.

One, this was the first time he was ever in love. It was over-consuming, bordering on suffocating as he watched her sleep, his heart thudding in his chest—with excitement, with happiness, and with fear.

Two, he was knee-deep in shit of his own making.

Draco had sacrificed everything, and he wondered if she knew—if she was so cautious about giving all of her because of that. The morals were rooted deep inside her, because unlike him she was innocent and righteous, and he knew it would take a lot of effort to plant the seed of destruction in her.

To taint her beautiful, bright soul.

However, there was darkness behind all that light, all that purity. They wouldn't end up here, in his—their chambers if there wasn't. From the day they met, in Astoria’s old rooms, Hermione wanted him as much as he wanted her. He’d never asked—hadn’t felt like there was a need to, but he doubted she would deny it.

Draco just needed to steer her in the right direction, down the same path Astoria refused to follow.

Hermione tossed on the bed, the unruly chocolate curls fanning over her head like an angel's halo, spread across the pillows and under her cheek. In her sleep, her right hand slid down the bed, fingers closing around nothing when she didn't find him next to her.

It was ridiculous—to be that aroused by her, half-hard from just watching her sun-kissed, delicate skin; the blissful expression on her heart-shaped face as she shifted slightly, that petite body nearly drowning in the sea of pillows and luxurious sheets.

He almost retreated his hands then. Almost.

But her body was so tempting, even more so now that it was only his, the scent of her arousal still lingering in the air like the original sin, like the snake in the Garden of Eden—tempting, teasing, boiling his blood with lust and need.

He could get off on watching her, though he had realised how creepy and inappropriate it made him sound. But everything about her was—or rather, started with inappropriate.

Their dalliance, the first kiss in the garden, how he traced her every move in the castle before he made his move.

And then the Theo thing—the real Theo thing.

Sometimes he wondered if she didn’t understand what had happened, or whether she did but remained silent nonetheless. They never talked about it again, save for the few mentions from his councilmen.

He played the role of a grieving, revenge-driven king well.

"Are you going to sulk over there all day, my King?" her quiet, sleepy voice drawled from what seemed to be an entirely different world. She didn't open her eyes, but a gentle smile melted onto her lips, so innocent—and yet not innocent at all. She was so young, yet her soul was so… mature. "If I recall correctly, I asked you for a proper wake-up. I would hardly consider this proper."

Draco chuckled darkly, and her eyes snapped open at the sound. God, they were married for a few hours and she already spoke like a queen.

How effortless it came to her was astonishing, something many should admire. Something he would ensure they would admire. In a perfect world, he would keep her only to himself; wouldn’t let anyone so much as look at her. Alas, it wasn’t a perfect world they lived in, and he would hate to deny her anything—any freedom she craved.

As if sensing where his thoughts went off to, she huffed at him again, and Draco shook his head in mock disapproval. With a swift motion, he grabbed the thick blankets and tossed it to the floor, exposing her entire body in its ethereal, unfathomable glory.

It was as though she was the Venus of Milo herself, with those soft curves around her hips and breasts, with those now pursed, cherry lips.

His cock twitched, and she giggled, Amber eyes darting to his thighs. "I didn't know you were such an early bird, little dove. I had a proper wake-up planned, but it seems as though you beat me to it. Perhaps tomorrow."

A shudder of her eyelids told him everything he needed to know, and when she bit down on her lower lip, the last remains of his self-control slipped—evaporated into thin air.

“You can still do some improper things then,” she slurred, the blissful expression not once faltering as she turned to fully face him. “You know… you made me a promise last night.”

Bloody hell.

This woman—she would be the death of him.

He wondered, very often in fact, whether she realised the effect her words had on him; whether she intentionally pressed all his buttons, or if it was an accident on her part. It would seem too much of a coincidence, though with her pure soul, he would not be surprised.

If she, however, knew how to use him, all he could do was to applaud her for seducing the King of England with her false innocence and charm.

“And I intend to keep my promise,” he placed his hands on both sides of her head, locking her in his embrace and lowered his face to place a gentle kiss on her forehead; barely a brush on her skin. “But first, I want you to remember that you are mine,” he murmured in her ear, “mine, Hermione. Do you understand?”

She nodded, suddenly at loss for words. Her skin turned the most beautiful shade of red when she felt his hard erection pressing against her stomach, when he grazed her cheek and neck with the light stubble that bloomed on his skin overnight.

“Words, dove,” he bucked his hips, pinning her down to the bed. “Say it. Say it now.”

He could feel her heart racing in her chest, like a dove locked in a cage desperate to be released. He could feel the muscles in her legs and lower abdomen tensing as he brought one of his hands between their bodies and dragged it to the apex of her thighs. “I’m yours,” Hermione whispered. His wife. His equal. His Queen. “I am yours today,” she said and lifted her head to kiss him quickly, desperately, her warm mouth melting the ice around his cold heart, “I will be yours tomorrow,” she added, bucking her hips to meet his fingers, “and I will be yours forever. Until my very last day.”

“Mine,” he murmured and gave her all the pleasure she asked for.

And more. So much more.

The throne room was silent. For the first time since Queen Astoria’s death, a second throne was standing next to the King’s one. And for the first time, there was a Queen sitting on that throne. Made from the purest gold, with two hundred seventy-four rubies decorating its frame; one for each day Draco and Hermione knew each other. The jewels reminded her of autumn leaves in the forest; though Draco used to laugh that they looked like drops of blood enchanted to shimmer in the summer sunshine.

Either way, Hermione thought they were beautiful. Unnecessarily lavish but beautiful nonetheless. The throne itself was a piece of art too, and what surprised everyone—it was not smaller than Draco’s. It was not standing a few inches behind his, either. No.

“It’s a throne for my Queen,” he warned the servants responsible for carrying it to the throne room from their bedroom. Hermione had hoped no one would ever know what they used it for during their wedding night… and many others. “And my Queen is my equal.”

It wasn’t true, but it was a nice gesture from him to say it. Or even think it.

But now, as they were sitting on their thrones, waiting for the visit from the mysterious French dignitary, she wished she could sit on his lap instead, feeling the warmth and safety of his strong embrace. She was a Queen, yes, but she was also still unprepared to rule alongside him.

Sensing her nerves, Draco reached for her hand, entwining his fingers with her and massaging her knuckles with the back of his hand. There were just two rings on his fingers—one with the royal seal; a grey M that made her blush at the mere memory of what he had done with the signet, and their wedding ring. He would usually wear more jewellery for official state visits, but considering they knew nothing about the man requesting to see the King, Draco appeared in his…less royal attire. He chose, in Hermione’s opinion, the most intimidating one.

As if anyone needed to be additionally intimidated by him.

They debated for a very long time whether to grant this dignitary a royal audition at all, but his letter bore an authentic French Court seal, and if they wanted to avoid another war—which Hermione wasn’t sure Draco really did, they had to agree to see him. Luckily, there wasn’t much expected of her this time, other than making an appearance and smiling whenever she would see it fit.

Draco, obviously, had told her she could speak any time she wanted; whether she wanted to ask the French some questions or simply offer any comment about whatever he would say. She knew plenty of politics but ever since she moved to the court, her priorities and interests had…changed. So, she decided she would just smile and nod. It was better if the enemy didn’t know England had a Queen with a brain.

She felt Draco’s eyes fall to her chest and linger there for a good minute or more, damn those tight corsets. She chose to wear a simple, yet elegant emerald dress and a matching necklace—the one Draco had gifted her as an engagement gift. Even if it was relatively small, it must have been worth a fortune, especially with the matching earrings and the silver crown he had made specifically for her in Italy.

Hermione looked regal. She looked like a real Queen.

But Draco—Draco looked like the devil incarnate. Every fibre of his body was regal and rippled with strength. It clung to him like a second skin. Power. He didn’t need a crown nor any other royal attributes to remind everyone he was the King. She dared to look at him, her breath catching in her throat momentarily. Against the advice of his counsellors, he had decided to wear black.

Black, leather trousers that hugged his toned body. Black cashmere turtleneck sweater that was just recently sent to him as a gift from the Ottoman Sultan, and that Hermione couldn’t wait to feel the softness of. Black, heavy boots that made him look even taller than he was. And on top of that, there was a black vest embroidered with the most beautiful, silver threads she had ever seen. The patterns were supposed to pay tribute to the countries and territories controlled by England—by Draco.

And as if this wasn’t intimidating enough, a black, heavy cape hung from his broad shoulders. There were two silver brooches holding it together—a dragon as a tribute to his family, and a lion as a tribute to Hermione’s heritage; both connected by a thick, metal chain.

Atop his head laid his crown, slightly tilted as he rested his head on his fist, elbow propped on the armrest of his throne. His usual curls were somehow straightened and combed back, the dimly-lit room making his hair look rather grey than white. His stubble was neatly trimmed, not a stray hair out of order.

But it was his eyes that completed the lethal look. His grey, stern eyes: narrowing at everything and everyone they fell on, scanning the room and assessing. Always assessing everything around him. Hermione knew that if it was possible, he would be able to murder people just by looking at them.

Even if he appeared to be bored and unbothered, his right hand still covering hers, she felt the power rippling from his chest. He rolled his neck and rested his ankle on his knee, so un-royally, yet at the same time the most royal gesture she could expect from him.

“Are the French always late?” he drawled, his voice razor-edge sharp. The question was directed towards no one in particular, it was rather an observation really, but all his guards tensed at his deep baritone. “He better be bringing me the head of King Francis if he dares to be late,” a loud snort escaped Adrian Pucey’s throat and Draco shot him a warning glare. Hermione too, thought it was a joke, but knew better than to laugh.

Not when Draco was in that mood.

Adrian cleared his throat, “My guards say a carriage with the French banner just crossed the entrance to the castle.”

“And what about our guest?”

“He was said to be wearing a hood. But we have confirmed that he came alone, with the coachman only.”

She saw Draco roll his eyes, the muscle of his clenched jaw twitching in annoyance. “Not even a guard with him?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“That’s weird,” Hermione offered, her voice trembling. In the side eye, she noticed Draco’s mouth curling into a smile and he squeezed her hand gently, gesturing her to continue. “We are not at war with France but isn’t it extremely—irresponsible to come here alone?”

Draco gave her another squeeze, thumb rubbing lazy circles on her soft skin.

“If I may, my Queen,” Draco mused, arching an eyebrow at her. She nodded, fighting the urge to grin. “The word you were looking for was stupid. It’s extremely stupid to come here alone, even if he is coming here in peace. While I promised him no harm in my court, I couldn’t have promised the same about all of our territory.”

“Yet he survived,” Hermione supplied flatly.

“Yet he survived,” the King echoed her words. “I am rather excited to see this French cockroach. Have your men drag him here, Pucey. I’ve done enough waiting.”

He offered Hermione the smallest and softest smile, careful to not ruin his ruthless and deadly attire, which she appreciated immensely. She was about to ask him something, when the door to the throne room opened, the twelve guards around their room prepared to defend their King and Queen.

A tall, hooded man entered the room, dropping a white rose to the marble floor and advancing a few steps forward. She felt Draco tense, his hand nearly crushing her bones as he straightened in his throne, his shoulders rolling back.

The man brought his hand to the black hood, similar to the one Draco’s cape had too, and with one swift move took it off, revealing his identity to anyone present in the throne room.

A series of loud gasps filled the room.

Hermione was sure the bones in her hand snapped.

Her heart stopped, and she didn’t even dare to look at Draco. His rage was palpable as he sucked in a sharp breath, then another. And another. For a second, she started to worry he would hyperventilate, but as if sensing her trouble, he squeezed her fingers tighter.

The stranger’s blue eyes drifted to where their hands were joined in an instant, a deep crease forming in the middle of his forehead. But Hermione knew his attention was entirely on Draco. She knew, too, that her husband would take all the blame.

Perhaps rightfully so.

What she didn’t anticipate were the words that came out of the brunette’s mouth. Seeing a supposed ghost was one thing, but seeing someone who had never existed was an entirely different issue.

“Hello, father,” their guest drawled.

Someone from the gathered crowd screamed liar, someone added a traitor. But it was more than obvious that the man was neither of the things he had been accused of. If anything, he had been the victim.

When Draco didn’t respond, his jaw clenched so tight it would soon crack, the guest asked, taking another step forward, “Surprised to see me?”

The low timbre of his voice caught the attention of every single person in the throne room, as though his vocal cords vibrated with magic capable of captivating human souls. And his eyes—blazing with amusement and mockery and, perhaps, grief—locked with Draco’s in a silent challenge.

A fight for dominance, if she ever saw one.

Pink, full lips melted into an all-too-familiar smirk, and Hermione was sure that if she weren’t sitting, her knees would buckle at the similarity. The portraits she had seen months before did the man standing in front of them no justice.

He stepped from foot to foot, midnight-blue cape swishing quietly in the air. There wasn’t any other sound but the rustle of the fabric and the rhythmic clicks of his boots. The man surveyed the room, breaking eye contact with Draco, and cocked an eyebrow. Another small gesture she knew so well from someone entirely else.

Those sapphire eyes slowly darted to her, storm locking with fire as she didn’t look away. “Hello, wife,” Lord Theodore Nott mused. Clearly not dead. Clearly not the decaying corpse he should be by now. “Or should I call you mother?”