Archive of Our Own

It’s not a place Hermione ever thought she’d be, in more ways than one. 

First and foremost, Malfoy Manor. With its imposing iron gate and unnecessarily long, stone walkway. Its sparkling Italian marble floors and exotic wallpapers. The gaudy chandeliers and golden accents. Persian rugs and china that have seen more history than any person still living. Bedsheets and towels made of the finest Egyptian and Turkish cotton. A library that has hidden books and parchment lost to wizarding society for centuries. A garden with the loveliest roses and rarest herbs.

Second, the usually locked study on the main floor. It’s filled with dark wood and darker liquor. A large hearth, big enough to stoop inside, and a bookshelf filled with literature normally housed in the library. Paintings and portraits, none that see or speak, of ancestors and important people in the history of the wizarding world. A large wooden desk with ornate carvings accompanied by a chair so plush and comfortable, it’s hard to stand from.

Third, the desk itself. With its uncomfortably rigid edges and toe-stubbing sides. An immovable hunk of wood with an array of windows behind it, looking out into the aforementioned rose garden. With more drawers and hidden latches than any seen before, a secret held inside much of the desk. All owned by a man with supposedly pure blood and shorn hair.  

Who’s as fair-haired as the albino peacocks that strut around the grounds and as grumpy as Crookshanks on a sweltering, summer afternoon. As—

“Stop occluding, little minx.”

She yelps first at the thudding slap to her bare backside before attempting to squirm away from the body pressing her into the side of the rigid desk. The edge has been digging into her hipbones for the last few minutes— not painfully, just on the wrong side of comfortable.

“I’m not.”

Her retort is met with a light tug to her hair, her curls wound around thick fingers that pull her head taught, ensuring her cheek stays off the cool wood of the desk. She wishes he would let her rest her head and close her eyes, just for a second, just until she can—

“You are. In fact, you’re doing it again.”

“I’m not.” She is. “I swear it—“

With a soft jerk of his hips, a quiet moan comes tumbling from her lips. This time, when her eyes close, it’s not to think of the fixtures inside Malfoy Manor or the way her husband’s personality is similar to the gruff hounds he keeps, but to attempt to keep control of her own body— like he’s asked her to do.

She feels his breath against her shoulder and the press of his lips to her skin, before his voice is in her ear. Quiet as a whisper, rumbling in his chest and vibrating over her back.

“Stop occluding.”

She hates this. She abhors this. She loathes this.

“You love this.”

Hermione’s eyes snap open but she still can’t move her head to peer back at him accusatorially, her hair caught in his grip. She can feel his cheek pressing against hers and his chest on her back. “Are you using legilimency on me?”

He thrusts into her again gently, just once, enough for her to release a shaky breath and tighten her grip on the edge of the desk she’s laid against. Her thighs and calves are starting to twinge, little electric pulses that make her toes curl against the very old Persian rug they stand on.

“Of course not, my darling. But you are so, so, easy to read.”

He straightens. His index finger is soft and gentle as he trails it down over her spine, a shudder racing through her. Her belly tightens at the feeling and she squirms against him, trying to get just a little bit more sensation, but his grip on her hip stops her.

Gods, she fucking hates this. She hates how patient he is and the extent of his experience. She hates the way he knows which of her buttons to press and in exactly the right order. She hates the way his touch is gentle on her skin and the way his words sink into her psyche. The way he praises her mind and her body, feeds her and nourishes her with things she never knew she needed, nor wanted.

Mostly, she hates the way she knows she’ll fall apart— but only when he says so. 

Only when he’s ready for her to break.

She hears him sigh as his thumb passes over her lower back, then down along the curve of her hip. “You’re still too tense, too…rigid.”

Hermione bristles, frustrated. Of course she’s tense, of course she’s rigid, of course she’s attempting to occlude— she’s been impaled on his cock for Merlin only knows how long with the barest hint of stimulation. There’s only the fullness inside of her and the ticklish feeling of the hairs along his abdomen and groin pressed against her arse. 

He gives her a single gentle thrust here and there when he feels like it. And then the shyest glance of his finger along her spine. Once or twice, he’s given a tight squeeze to her hip. A tug of her hair. A single slap to her backside. 

But the constant, continuous pulsing and squeezing of her cunt around the thick intrusion of his cock keeps every hair raised and every muscled tensed. If she doesn’t occlude, she can’t stop thinking about it, about the pleasure that is so close yet unattainably far. 

Her muscles tense all on their own, a natural reaction to her predicament. 

“Lucius—“

His grip on her hair loosens until it’s gone completely. His palm now rests flat against the middle of her back. His hands are big, fingers stretching from one side to the other, brushing against the ridges of her ribs. 

She sharp cold of his ring shocks her and she jumps, pressing back into his hips. She doesn’t manage to swallow the yelp as the tip of his cock presses up, hard. Her own doing.

“Oh, my darling, shh-shh.” He leans over her again, the hand on her hips sneaking beneath her to cup the lower part of her belly, where just inside she’s keeping his cock warm. He presses his against her own. “Do you want to stop?”

He will, she knows, if she wants to. If she asks him to stop.

But despite how much she hates-abhors-loathes this, she doesn’t want him to. She knows that the payout will be worth it in the end because it always is. As frustrating and sometimes uncomfortable as the long, winding road is, he always makes it worth it. He always breaks her down, bit by bit, flayed open and nerves exposed before he takes the time and care to build her back together again, better than what she started as.

Something only he can do, she learned quickly.

So, begrudgingly, she grits out a very quiet, “No. I don’t want to stop.”

Hermione feels the curve of his lips against her cheek that is just as telling as the words he rumbles into her ear. “Good girl.”

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Their marriage hadn’t been her choice, nor had it been his. 

No. This marriage had been thrust upon them by the powers that be, the powers that, soon after the war, decided to finally do something even if it was the wrong thing. No one had asked for this, no one had asked for a solution to a problem that didn’t exist, and still they offered one.

Forced one, was more like it.

A Marriage Law was the Ministry’s brilliant idea to replenish the young witches and wizards lost during the war. It was a way to foster a sense of community among those who had come out on the other side. It was all in the name of magical cooperation.

It’s all a load of shite as far as she’s concerned.

The morning she finds out is the same as any other morning. Her cup of tea is cooling on the table with a buttery croissant split open, topped with a hunk of havarti. She has the Daily Prophet hovering in front of her, swiping her hand through the air to turn the pages. There’s nothing special, nothing eye-catching, nothing different, until she catches sight of a photo of a very familiar wizard who she hasn’t seen in a few years.

Lucius Malfoy. 

Reformed Death Eater Release released after 2 years of house arrest

It’s an old picture, the same one she remembers seeing while they were on the run. His blond hair dirty and limp, his face gaunt, arms in shackles, more fear than anger in his eyes. She remembers looking at this photo, back then, with equal amounts disgust and pity.

The photo is distinctly different than the other posters that had been spread around during the war. He isn’t laughing or sneering, he isn’t pulling at his chains or lunging at the camera. He’s simply…there. Stuck in a moment in time that was likely one of his worst. 

While she considers the life of someone she doesn’t even like, someone who had duelled her as a child in the Department of Mysteries and watched on as his psychotic sister-in-law tortured her on the floor of his house, her own life changes in an instant. 

All it takes is the annoying peck of an owl against her kitchen window and the simultaneous alert of her floo. 

She stands from her kitchen table and glances between the window and her floo in confusion— she doesn’t believe in coincidences. With a wave of her wand, she lets the window slide open while she goes to answer the floo. It flashes red for an unknown caller.

Kneeling down, she answers the call just as the owl flies over, leg stuck out with an attached letter. It has her name printed on the front and the symbol of the Ministry— something official.

“Hullo? Who is it?”

She’s met with silence but is too distracted to realize it. Hermione works on untying the letter from the bird, shooing it in the direction of her kitchen and the bowl of treats left out on her counter when she does. It’s thick and heavy in her hands.

“Miss Granger?”

She hums in response, turning the letter over in her hands to slip her nail under the edge. It rips as she tugs it open and she frowns at the contents. It’s not often that she gets such official-looking mail from the Ministry.

The fire in the hearth bubbles as a reminder of the caller on the other end of the floo. 

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione frowns, not recognizing the voice. “Yes, sorry— one second, please. Who is this?”

“Miss Granger, I believe we need to speak.”

She huffs and pulls the letter from the envelope, unfolding it and scanning over the words. 

Dear Miss Granger,

As you are aware, the Ministry of Magic is working hard to improve the lives of wizardkind. This has not been an easy undertaking and has meant uncomfortable decisions have had to be made. We thank you for your cooperation.

At this time, we are pleased to be able to provide you, Hermione Jean Granger, with an approved match as part of the Marriage Law passed under the War Measures Act. Please understand that you will be taking a step that will aid in the future success of the wizarding world.

Her heart drops into her belly. 

She can hardly believe it as she reads. She’s the last of her friends to be given a match after waiting impatiently for the last two years since the law was announced. She’d only recently come to terms with the fact that, perhaps, there was no match for her. 

She’d only recently begun to consider other options for a relationship— namely venturing back into the muggle world.

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione huffs. “Yes, yes, I’m here. Look, you’re going to have to tell me who this is because—“

“Lucius Malfoy.”

There’s a slight crackle from the hearth and she finally looks toward it. There’s a vague impression of a face in the flames but it’s not clear enough to make out their features.

“I…what?”

She hears a low sigh. “It’s Lucius Malfoy. I believe we have some things to discuss.”

Hermione is beyond flabbergasted. She does not understand what’s happening.

Why on earth would Lucius Malfoy, of all people, be contacting her? What could they possibly have to discuss? The last she’d seen him was at his trial, his face falling as he looked toward his wife and son with something that looked an awful lot like guilt and remorse as he was remanded to house arrest.

She swallows heavily and wets her lips, her throat having gone dry with the realization of who she’s speaking to.

“I’m sorry, I— I’m afraid I don’t understand.” She frowns. “Nor do I really believe you when you say that I’m speaking to Lucius Malfoy right now.”

The fire flickers and crackles again as the face becomes more visible and she can hardly believe it— there, in the flames of her hearth, is that same familiar face. Granted, it’s not as gaunt or as dirty, instead flickering orange in the flames. It’s the same pointed nose and strong chin, though, the same raised brows and judgemental silver eyes. 

There are probably nicer things to say but the only thing that really comes to mind is—

“What the fuck do you want?”

A haughty brow lifts at her language. “I assume you have yet to read your mail today.”

“I’m in the process, actually,” she mumbles, turning back to the letter in her hands.

“Wonderful. I’ll wait.”

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Hermione’s cheek falls forward onto the cool top of the desk without the taught tension of her husband’s fingers curled into her hair. She closes her eyes and sighs into the soothing feeling against the heat of her cheek, her fingers unclenching to rest flat against the desk top.

The uncomfortable prickle is still present in her calves and thighs, stretching up into her lower back. There’s a strain in her upper arms despite not actively holding up her weight with her arms.

“Tired?”

It’s hard to shrug in this position so she hums instead. “Mm— not sleepy-tired.”

Lucius rubs his palm over the length of her back before pressing his thumbs into the dimples above her backside, trying to soothe the tension that has made a home there.

“Ah, the usual then— just my bone-tired, exhausted wife. Taking on too much, as you are wont to do,” he says softly, fingers still massaging the tight muscles in her back. “Would you ever slow down if I didn’t tell you to? If I didn’t put you on your back? Or bend you over my desk?”

She sighs happily at the perfect pressure of his fingers and the warm tendrils trailing along her spine. “Dunno.”

“Mm,” he hums, “So no. Well— that’s alright, my darling. I suppose you lucked out with your marriage match.”

Her limbs loosen with his ministrations until she feels his hips pull back from her backside, his cock slowly slipping from her cunt, wetting her thighs. Hermione whimpers and tries to reach behind her to grab his hip, to keep him pressed flush against her, but he’s quicker.

Thick fingers and a big, warm palm wrap around her wrist to hold her hand behind her back, her elbow bent. She whines loudly as he continues to pull out of her until just the head of his cock rests inside her entrance. She feels awfully empty, involuntarily squeezing around nothing.

He’s torturous— though some little tickle in her brain reminds her that he always has been. 

“Sadist,” she breathes, flexing her fingers.

His chuckle curls around her. “Yes,” he readily admits. “Are you going to listen now? Hm? Are you going to do what you’re told?”

She could— she should. He’ll drag this out as long as he has to to ensure that she breaks the way he wants her to. She’s been there, done that, and she doesn’t feel the need for a repeat. Not at the moment. 

The truth is that she is exhausted, she is bone tired; the sort of tired that infiltrates her body before her mind, that makes her bones ache and her steps falter. The kind of tired that means she continues to push herself because her mind isn’t quite there yet. She’ll keep pushing herself until she has an accident. Again, she’s been there, done that— needs him to stop her before she does it again.

A broken wrist. Unbearable sciatica pain along her hip and bum. A bruised and scraped knee from a fall. She gets clumsy when she’s tired like this. But Lucius always knows— her husband can always tell when her body is getting to the breaking point, but her mind is still raring to go. 

In the simplest of terms, he fucks it out of her. That’s inaccurate, Lucius had told her after the first time, after she’d dissolved into a cacophony of giggles over the realization. If he could just fuck it out of her it wouldn’t take this long. It wouldn’t feel so torturous in the moment. 

“Gods, that overworked mind of yours,” he says softly, free hand cupping the back of her neck. His fingers dig into the tight muscles and she groans, her internal muscles squeezing again. “You’re still thinking.”

“Yes,” she gasps, eyes closing at the feeling. “I— I’m sorry.”

He lets go of her wrist and moves her hand back to the desk. “Good girl.”

How do you know when it’s working? She’d asked him once after he’d successfully put her back together again, limbs and mind all on the same wavelength. 

Let me ask you something instead, he’d suggested. Do you apologize for something you don’t feel remorseful about?

Hermione had frowned in thought before slowly shaking her head. No, she said slowly. 

You start to apologize as if you feel remorse, as if your busy little mind is starting to catch up to the fatigue of your body.

Suddenly, his hips are pressing flush against her backside again, his cock lodged deep inside of her. It both surprises her and causes her to emit a yelp while all of the air rushes out of her lungs. She scrabbles at the desk underneath and digs her nails into the wood. 

“Oh, fuck—“

His fingers curl back into her hair and he tugs her cheek off of the desk, shushing her. “Shh-shh. You know you need to take it.”

And she does. His thrusts are slow but steady, filling her consistently with an exact amount of pressure and force only possible by someone with experience like his. Lucius is meticulous in his movements, in the way he brushes his fingers over her spine and carefully watches the way she breathes and shudders. 

It’s both too much and not enough— the feeling is too consistent, the girth of his cock brushing against all of the sensitive spots along the walls of her cunt, but it’s too teasing. She tightens her belly to try to feel more but she can’t, not at this pace.

“Lucius—“

He curls himself over her back, elbows pressed onto the wooden desk top, and leans his forehead against her shoulder. She can feel him, the rough scratch of the curling hairs on his chest and the softness of his abdomen pressing against her back. She loves this, loves feeling enveloped by him.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

“Just let go,” he mumbles against her shoulder. “Just let it go, Hermione.”

Perhaps it’s the weight of him, perhaps it’s the way he says her name, but she finds herself helpless but to agree. In an instant, it’s as though her mind catches up with her body and all of the thoughts that are tumbling around in her brain, all of the to-do lists and concerns and questions and worries seem to evaporate on the spot.

The tingling tension in her calves and thighs disappears as she lies limp over the desk. The only thing keeping her chin from hitting the wood is her husband’s hand still curled into her hair, pulling her neck taught. 

She groans, loudly— a noise that tapers off into a whimper as his hips move against hers faster. 

“There,” he breathes, pressing a wet kiss to her shoulder. He nips at the skin. “There you go—“ she whines at his pace and he shushes her “—shh-shh. Just take it, my darling.”

Pushing up off the desk, Lucius tightens his grip in her hair as his hips slap against her backside, now harder and faster, with more purpose— a single purpose. Her own hips hit the edge of the desk but she doesn’t care because she hardly feels it. 

This time, the tingling builds in her belly and travels up and out, making her curl her toes into the rug and her fingers against the desk. There’s nothing left to fight any longer, the only thing left to do is feel.

Suddenly, everything is magnified. The rough rug under her bare feet, the smooth, sharp edge of the desk against her hips, the taught tension of her hair pulling on her scalp, the heavy slap of Lucius’ hips against her backside, the hard length of her husband’s cock inside of her.

“You can never listen the first time, can you?” Lucius asks rhetorically. “You’ve never been able to just to do as you’re told.” He shushes her as she whines. “Shh-shh, none of that. I don’t mind—“

Everything feels like she’s never felt it before. She’s completely overwhelmed and no longer trying to fight it. Instead of each individual feeling, it all seems to simply feed in to one— like a storm.

There’s rain and wind and clouds and lightning and thunder, but in the end it’s all encompassed in a storm, and she’s in the eye of it now.

With one last slap to her backside, stinging in a way that only adds to the pressure she feels in her belly, Lucius pulls her head back further until she’s looking up at him. He leans over her, teeth gritted in pleasure, and she finds herself lost in his silver eyes.

“Go on,” he tells her, chest heaving. “I know you want to— come, my darling.”

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Lucius Abraxas Malfoy

Congratulations!  

She can’t help but feel as though the letter is taunting her.

On behalf of the Ministry of Magic we wish you happiness in your pursuit of marriage. Remember, you are truly making the wizarding world a better place for future generations.

“What a load of—“

“Shite, I know.”

Hermione’s head whips around to face the hearth again, reminded of the wizard on the other end of the floo. The same wizard who’s name is currently printed on the letter in her hands. She assumes that he’s holding a similar one with her own name. 

Like a flash, she grows angry. “What did you do?”

“Me?” He scoffs. “I’ll have you that I haven’t done a thing. I’ve hardly had my freedom for a single day, why would I do something like this? When would I possibly have the time?”

“Of course you’d do something like this! What better way is there to slide back into people’s good graces than to marry me, of all people. ”

“I assure you, Miss Granger,” he says haughtily, “there are easier and more pleasurable ways to lift my standing in society. Ways that do not involving marrying—“

“A mudblood?” Hermione asks, her voice slicing through the crackling of the fire like a knife. 

Even through the fire she can tell when his expression closes. His lips purse and his eyes narrow, a tense set to his jaw. It surprises her, the way he reacts to the word he’s thrown around his entire life, the same word he’d taught his son to use.

An act, she decides then. It’s all an act.

“I was going to say a child.”

Hermione frowns. Well— 

“I’m not a child, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, because she’s not. “The world has changed over the last two years. People have grown older.”

He sneers. “A fact I’m aware of, Miss Granger. However, seeing as you are all of 20—“

“I’m 21, actually,” she interjects, speaking over him.

He pauses, brows creasing, before he nods. “Seeing as you are all of 21 and I am most certainly not, I hardly think this is appropriate and I will be petitioning the Ministry with exactly that. I refuse to marry a child.”

“I’m not a child!” She shouts, huffing. Although, with her arms crossed over her chest like this, defensively, it could be described as child-like. She sets her arms at her sides. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been under house arrest for the last two years you’d know that no one has ever successfully petitioned the Ministry about their match. Age differences, included.”

“A first time for everything, then.”

Hermione sighs and folds the letter in her hands, staring into the fire. It’s hard to tell with the flames licking his features, but he looks truly perturbed. As though the issue for him really is her age and not her blood status.

That can’t be it though. Can it?

“Well, good luck with your endeavour. I look forward to hearing how it goes,” she tells him, curling her hands into fists. “Although, seeing as I’m practically the last available witch in all of wizarding England, I don’t think you’ll get very far.”

“I hardly believe that.” He sighs exasperatedly from the floo. “If I wasn’t certain that there is nothing you’d like less than to marry me, I would almost think that you want this. Am I mistaken, Miss Granger?”

How can a man in a floo be so infuriating? She runs her hands over her face, pressing down on her eyes until all she can see are exploding white dots. Gods, he pushes all of her buttons— just like his annoyingly perceptive son.

“I don’t! I don’t. I just— I…” she sighs and feels seconds away from burying her head between her knees. “I am.”

There’s a pause before he speaks again. 

“Am what?” He asks.

“The last available witch, I’m not exaggerating. Don’t you think it’s strange that the Marriage Law has been in place for two years now and I’m still single?” She asks, staring into the fire where she can no longer make out his features. “I mean…I may not be the most desirable but I…”

She trails off and he stays silent, not a single word or sound from his end of the floo. After a few seconds, she thinks it’s likely he’s left the call without telling her and she reaches for her wand to douse the fire. It’s just her luck, really, that the last available man would be Lucius fucking Malfoy.

It’s not as though her life has been difficult enough all these years. It’s not as though she’s wished and dreamed and, hell, even prayed for a match. At first she’d felt lucky, as though she had some control over her future. Now, though, with everyone around her matched and married, it’s not as though she has anyone to choose from.

His voice startles her from her thoughts. “Miss Granger, may I come through?”

Her mouth opens and closes for a few seconds before she finds her voice. “Yes, I— I suppose so.”

Hermione stands and steps back from her floo, watching as the flames shimmer and flicker green before a tall man steps through. He’s quick to pull out his wand to banish the soot and smoke that flank him, settling on his grey trousers and white shirtsleeves. 

She nearly chokes when she sees his face. “Oh— your hair!”

His blond brows crease as he narrows his silver eyes at her. She catches the slightest wobble of his lips before he presses them together in a flat line. “Yes, you’re very astute.”

“I just meant—“ she grimaces at his tone and tries to rescue herself. “You look quite a bit like your son with your hair like that.”

It’s shorn close to his head, a far cry from its past considerable length. The last she’d seen him it had reached his shoulders— pin straight and without any flyways, a hairstyle she’d always dreamed of. 

He does look like his son like that— she realizes now how similar their features and bone structure truly are. Now without the hair to portray such a fundamental difference, she feels as though she’s speaking to an entirely different person than the one she knew.

“Oh,” she says with the realization. “It’s on purpose.”

His brow quirks at her words and she’s surprised to see a gentle twitch of his lips. “Nothing gets past you, does it? Severus always did say you were a little know-it-all.”

“I believe he also threw insufferable in there, too.”

He looks down at his clasped hands and Hermione shuffles in place, her socked feet sliding against her floors. It’s surreal to have him in her home, standing in front of her dressed more casually than she’s ever seen before. He’s taller than she remembers, broader, too. 

It’s awkward.

“If what you say is true…” he trails off and taps his index finger against his chin. “I suppose we should attempt to get to know one another.”

“But, I thought—“

Lucius takes a step closer and she quiets. “I will be honest with you, Miss Granger, and all I ask for in return is that you are honest with me. Does that seem fair?”

Hermione agrees. “Yes, that’s fair.”

Nodding his head in understanding, he poses his first question. “Do you want to marry?”

“It’s not that I—“

“The truth, please,” he interrupts, before she can spin a web of words too difficult to decipher. “Honesty, remember?”

She wets her lips. “Then, yes. I do.”

He takes another step forward. “Even if it’s to me?”

That question is a little more difficult. She’s only known about their match for less than 10 minutes and now he’s asking her to make a decision? To decisively know something she’s never given thought to before? He doesn’t know her at all— clearly.

She could worry about the same thing for ages, weeks, even months, if given the opportunity. This is not something she can decide in minutes. She simply can’t.

So, instead, she turns the question to him. “Would you even consider marrying me?”

“Yes,” he says simply, surprising her. “If you are the last available witch, as you say, I can only assume that I am one of the last available wizards. I wouldn’t deprive you of something you wish for— regardless of my feelings about your…age.”

Hermione nearly laughs and looks at him bewildered.

“You don’t even know me. And before…you duelled me, as a child. You did awful, horrible things to people I know and love, to my best friends, to their families.”

Lucius doesn’t attempt to refute what she says. Instead, he simply nods his head. “I did. I have done terrible things, but two years is a long time to be on your own with your thoughts.” He pauses and digs in his trouser pocket for a folded piece of parchment which he holds out to her. “It was a requirement that I take and pass this course— I thought you might like the proof.”

Slowly, Hermione reaches out to take the parchment. When she unfolds it, she finds a certificate of completion for the new muggle studies course imposed by the Ministry of Magic for all those who hadn’t taken it during their school years. A second piece of paper behind it includes a handwritten testament to his interest and behaviour during the course.

But—

“This doesn’t mean you’ve changed.”

“You’re right,” he says, now hardly a footstep in front of her. She can smell the woodsy cologne he’s wearing. “But I’m trying.”

“Right…” She sighs. "We’re just so…different. Nothing about us is the same or similar.”

"I would argue that isn't necessarily a bad thing, though perhaps that's something you learn more with age."

Hermione sighs and turns in place, tilting her head back and rubbing her eyes with her fists. Gods, she can’t believe she’s even considering this. What will her friends say? What will everyone else say? 

“Okay.”

He raises a single blond eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Not like I have another choice, do I?”

Lucius stares at her contemplatively, eyeing the way she shuffles on her feet and twists her fingers together. She doesn’t like silences like this but isn’t sure what to say to fill it. They don’t have much in common, do they?

But, instead of commenting on how utterly uncomfortable she must look, he instead asks her another question.

“Would you like to go for a walk with me?”

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Her eyes blink open to the sight of the study again. She's first drawn to the big windows that line the back wall and the sun shining onto the rose garden. The flowers gleam in all shades of red. 

She looks then to the desk from where she lays on the couch, still big and imposing, too large for the space— in her opinion. But it’s an antique, she’s been told countless times. It’s a piece of my family’s history, Lucius has said time and time again.

It’s never made an impression on her, though, mainly because she can think of plenty of things that need to be forgotten from this particular family’s history. Although…she doesn’t think the desk is responsible for any atrocities. Perhaps it can stay.

The warm body behind her shifts, two muscular arms tightening around her shoulder and her waist. Hermione yawns and nuzzles her nose into the pale skin dotted with a few freckles— those had surprised her the first time she’d seen them. Now, she traces the shape they make like a constellation. 

“Always thinking,” Lucius says softly, clearing his throat. “Not even a few seconds reprieve.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “I mean, you know me…”

The kiss he presses to her shoulder is soft and barely there, just the barest brush of his lips against her skin. She sighs and shifts in his arms, wiggling closer to him and his body heat. He’s always so warm.

“I do know you. I think I know you quite well now,” he says and there’s a hint of smugness in his voice. “Please, won’t you do me the honour of gracing me with your thoughts?”

“Just about before.”

He hums, chest rumbling underneath her. “Before. Before us, you mean?”

“It’s sort of unbelievable, isn’t it? I don’t even…I don’t know how it happened— it just did. We just somehow clicked.”

His leg shifts between hers, pressing up until his knee is nestled between her thighs. She squirms against it, still sensitive, but likes the way it feels. He knows that because she told him and now he slips his knee there after she’s had some time to relax, no longer feeling so on edge.

He knows so much about her that he should have no business knowing but—

They just took to each other in a way neither of them could have ever predicted. Perhaps, at first, he needed her more. He needed her image and her work and her history as someone who saved the wizarding world. He needed her reputation and her kindness and her friends to find a place to slip back into society.

She doesn’t hold it against him. She has actively used her status to help him feel more comfortable out and about in Diagon Alley and beyond. It’s for selfish reasons but…isn’t marriage, sometimes, selfish?

“Do you remember that day?” She asks. “The day we found out? You brought me here to take a walk around the grounds. It was—“

“Autumn,” he says, finishing her thought. “The leaves had changed colours, some already on the ground. Much like it is today. It was cold enough that you let me warm your hands with mine instead of casting a warming charm— like you’d forgotten you could.”

Sometimes she still does, instead slipping her ice-cold fingers into the pocket of his coat or against his palm— a silent question that he always answers.

They’ve grown and changed over the few years they’ve been married. Slowly, he began to offer her something she hadn’t known she needed. Namely, the time and ability to decompress. He’d been horrified at the way she ran herself into the ground until she was nothing more than a puddle on the floor.

She’d crash for days, sleeping off the exhaustion before doing it all over again. She’d done it exactly once in his presence, as his wife, before he demanded that she learn to treat herself better. She insisted this was the only way she knew— he insisted he knew better.

“Do you feel better?” He asks, rolling them until he’s on his back and she’s laying across his chest. “Less scattered?”

Hermione presses a kiss to the skin of his chest, just above his heart. “You know I do. You always help. I just can’t help but think that this whole thing, us, our marriage…it’s just so…”

He squeezes her against him. “So, what, my darling?”

Their marriage is many things. If she had the time, she could probably name them all. But to start, just to name a few, their marriage is: full of love and respect, of arguments and opposing opinions, of differences due to their age and upbringing, of sex and pleasure, of admonishment and apologies, of lust and loathing. 

But most of all, their marriage is so, so—

“So unlikely,” she says, finishing her thought aloud. “There’s no precedence for this, Lucius. Everything about us shouldn’t work and yet it does.”

But the thing about her husband, about Lucius Malfoy, is he always sees things in a different way than she does. That’s another thing about their marriage, there’s no shortage of ways to understand a situation or a complex thought. They almost never agree on something straight off the bat, but she likes that about them. 

She likes that they have to attempt to win each other over time and time again— she likes to feel challenged and, she’s come to learn, so does he.

“Unlikely isn’t a bad thing,” he says, lips moving against her forehead. “It means that every day is a surprise, something to be grateful for. Every day is new, it’s never boring or expected.”

She takes in his words but is surprised when he speaks again. Her husband is usually incredibly articulate. He never says anything he doesn’t mean nor does he forget anything he wants to say. 

“It means more, I think.”

He says it like he expects her to disagree and perhaps, on another day, at a different time, if she wasn’t squished to his chest with his knee pushed up between her thighs, a blanket wrapped around their waists with a glowing view of the rose garden in the back, she would. 

But they are all of those things and, at this particular moment, she agrees.

"It does mean more," she says, tilting her to face to look up at him, her chin digging into his chest. "I think unlikely is very good."