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The library smelled of parchment, old wood, and the unmistakable sharp sweetness of cinnamon.
The scent had, over time, become something Draco instinctively associated with late-night debates and a certain level of intimacy that came after winning them, and sometimes losing them, too.
He found her hunched over a mountain of notes, fingers ink-smudged and hair wrenched into a knot so disordered it looked like a siege had taken place. She was murmuring under her breath, utterly absorbed, chewing the corner of her lip in that way that drove him mad.
She didn’t look up.
“I can always tell when you’re staring,” she said softly, flipping a page.
Draco smirked, the slow, lopsided sort that curled like smoke. His laugh, low and decadent, spilled into the room like champagne against glass. Smooth. Golden. Unhurried.
“Can you?” he asked, meandering toward her like a storm cloud in silk.
He came to a halt behind her, bracing his hands on the table and leaning in, pressing himself into the frame of her back. She was warm and taut, smelling like that sweet spice he so admired. He let his body settle against hers until they fit together in that now-familiar way.
“Stop that, Mr. Malfoy,” she groaned, voice thick. She didn’t move, though, nor did she lean forward or swat him off. That alone nearly undid him.
“Why should I, Mrs. Malfoy?” He smiled, slow and pleased, before dipping his head to her neck.
Her skin tasted like salt and maybe, if he was being fanciful, the last bite of something stolen. His lips brushed against the curve where her pulse beat like the flutter of a trapped bird, and he inhaled deeply, letting her scent burn through him like brandy.
“You’re procrastinating,” she said, tone clipped, but her fingers curled against the edge of the table like she was holding onto something dangerously unstable.
He hummed against her skin, shifting just enough to run his thumb along the inside of her wrist. Her blood sang beneath it. Quick. Wanting.
“We must discuss your birthday present, my dear,” he murmured.
“Oh?” Her voice was tight now, still scholarly, but wilting around the edges. She didn’t pull away. Of course, she didn’t. They had never been very good at pretending they were immune to each other, even when they’d tried. ”My birthday, that isn’t for another month…?”
Draco pressed another kiss to her throat, softer this time. “Well, you see, it’s rather complex,” he whispered. “And very, very wicked.”
Her laugh, while dry, annoyed, and aroused, made his knees go weak.
“If this involves one of your experiments again, I’m locking the lab for a month.”
He grinned into her neck. “You’d have to find a way to break my wards first.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “you’re still not telling me to stop.”
Her only answer was the way she leaned back, just slightly, into him.
Allowing.
Wanting.
Draco inhaled again, this time slower, more measured; less intoxicated by the scent of her skin and more in need of clarity.
There had been a reason for this glorious ambush, an actual purpose to interrupting his wife mid-legislation preservation mania. He pushed away the temptation to simply breathe her in until he forgot his own name.
His hands fell away from her body with a slight reluctance and drifted to the fireplace with a glide that was more choreography than movement.
The chaise lounge beside the hearth was as ridiculous as it was indulgent—tufted, emerald, imported, and large enough for at least two dubious consenting adults.
Draco sank into it like a man bred for lounging, one arm draped over the back, the other lifting a heavy-cut glass of brandy to his lips.
He was perfectly aware of how he looked.
Perfectly aware that, even now, Hermione’s gaze had flicked to him the moment his limbs sprawled across the velvet. And as working-class as she liked to pretend she was, crusading for elf wages, drafting endless footnoted reform proposals in her dressing gown, she secretly loved him more for it. The whole polished, bratty spectacle of him. The pomp. The privilege.
He took another sip, long and unhurried.
It warmed his throat before settling in his chest. Then, with the ease of someone reading a menu, he got to the point of his presence.
“Do you recall our eighth year? What was it—seven years ago now? That strange post-war moment when everyone who came back spent a year testing, drinking, and fucking everything in sight?”
Across the room, Hermione’s spine went straight. She turned, slowly, to face him. Her mouth had parted slightly—her expression caught between sharp remembrance and the slow, inevitable tug of arousal.
Draco didn’t miss the way her eyes skimmed over the curve of his body against the chaise, the curl of his fingers around the glass.
“The year you realized you couldn’t live without me, dear?” she hummed. “Yes, I believe I can recall that.”
His lips lifted in a lazy smirk. Mischief flickering behind his pale eyes like a match about to be struck. “Do you recall a certain game we played with Veritaserum?”
Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her gaze sharpened. Her pulse, visible at her throat, ticked faster.
Oh, she remembered, and she did her best to control the awareness flooding her body, though it was obvious Draco picked up on it.
It was both a curse and a blessing - the way her husband knew her tells.
“You see,” he lifted the crystal to eye level and twisted the magnificent little tumbler beneath the firelight to admire the way the light played through the surface, “I’ve felt both proud and cheated about a piece of knowledge you shared that evening. And I think we should revisit it.”
There were a great many things he could have been referring to. Hermione ran through the possibilities in her mind, recalling the evening he spoke of and just how broad the spectrum was of things that had been revealed that night.
Draco was very aware that his wife was rummaging through her mind, trying to pinpoint the exact thing he could be referring to.
He shamelessly cherished these moments, in which he was able to confound her.
“Because I love you, I will not hold you in suspense,” he finally breathed, savoring the heat blooming across her cheeks. “It was the particular moment in which you admitted to not being able to decide who had the most beautiful cock. It had resulted in a tie between me, obviously, and Weasley.”
Hermione’s cheeks spread wide as an intrigued grin overtook her face. “And you want to revisit that conversation? For my birthday?”
Draco stood slowly, tugging at his shirt sleeves before adjusting the impeccable cufflinks, before taking a step toward her.
She watched as her heart raced and thighs clenched.
“Not quite,” he said, moving to stand directly before her. He gazed down at her honey-colored eyes, enraptured by him, her lips puckered ever so slightly. “We should get to the bottom of this conundrum, once and for all…” His voice was like satin being spun on a wheel.
“We?” Hermione asked, pulse racing faster than a fucking firebolt.
“Yes, wife. ‘We.’ You, me, and The King.”
~~*~~
It was remarkable, really, how time could unspool a boy and reweave him into something altogether mythic.
Seven years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Ron Weasley had, against all odds and in full view of the public, become something of a rake.
Not in the sordid, tabloids-on-the-doorstep kind of way, but in the slow-burn, rough-knuckled, collar-askew kind of way that made him impossible not to notice. There was a certain tragic charm to him now, a lived-in charisma one might say, as if grief had carved out the unnecessary and left behind only the essential.
It might have been the rare freedom of that eighth year—the first time in his life he hadn’t been standing in Harry Potter’s shadow or scuttling behind his brothers’ louder, larger personalities. Or perhaps it was Fred’s death, and how it had embedded something deep and aching into Ron’s core: the need to live every day to its fullest. Maybe it was even the way Hermione had looked at him in that secret chamber beneath Hogwarts, like he was unshakable and worthy.
Like he had saved more than just their lives.
Whatever it was, the transformation had been steady and devastating.
Gone was the lanky, red-eared teenager always a half-step behind. In his place stood a man who wore leather gloves with his Auror uniform and always seemed to smell faintly of smoke and thistlewood.
His smile was slower now and a little crooked from a dashing scar sliced diagonally across his right cheek and over his lips.
Ron had joined the DMLE not long after Harry had bowed out, choosing instead the quiet, chalk-dusted life of the DADA professor at Hogwarts.
The Potter-sized vacancy had been significant, but Ron had filled it with an easy kind of gravity, moving through the Ministry like he belonged there, like he owned the floor when he walked across it.
And then, of course, there was the matter of his singlehood. Last of the Golden Trio. Last of the Weasley boys. And, though the purebloods tried not to say it out loud, the last of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, unwed and uninterested in rushing toward matrimonial obligation. He was a relic and a renegade all at once, and he carried both identities with an unintentional elegance that made it easy for him to find his footing when it came to the opposite sex.
And to Draco Malfoy, Ron was no longer the bumbling, dirt-under-the-nails nuisance he had once sneered at across the Great Hall. He had become something different.
Some might say, ‘a friend.’
And it was (though he’d only admit it with a brandy in hand and a smirk twisting his mouth), quite possibly true.
Draco didn’t fear him. Not anymore.
The rivalry had dulled over the years, sharpened instead into a strange camaraderie forged in the fire of war.
Ron was not a threat to his marriage, nor his ego. He was, at worst, a mirror Draco could look into and see another man shaped by grief, love, and the maddening demands of legacy.
Besides, he was far too busy bedding half of Magical Europe to come between Draco and Hermione.
Still, when the fireplace flared green and Ron stepped out of the Floo, all lazy smirk and Auror leathers and that damnably rakish posture, Draco allowed himself the indulgence of a single raised brow.
“Look what the Kneazle dragged in,” he drawled, voice smooth as lacquered wood, brandy still warm in his palm.
Ron grinned, all teeth and suggestion. “Missed you, too, Malfoy.”
And Hermione, still frozen mid-turn from Draco’s last wicked inquiry, could only sigh - long-suffering, amused, and maybe a little undone.
“Mione,” Ron breathed, his voice low and slightly hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken all day and was suddenly remembering how.
He ran a hand through his hair, which was longer now. It was a rich, coppery red, and just long enough to curl at the edges. It had a careless wave to it that hadn't been there before.
It made him look like trouble, and worse, it made her wonder.
Hermione didn’t know why it unsettled her, perhaps it was because he looked like he’d just been thoroughly fucked, or like he should be…
Her lips pressed together, the set of her mouth betraying nothing, but her eyes, sharp and narrowing, drank him in as he stood framed by the firelight. The flames cast a ruddy gold glow across his features.
Behind her, Draco remained stoic.
Cool and statuesque, the measured rise and fall of his chest pressed flush against her back. He was composed, as ever.
A study in elegant disinterest.
But Hermione knew him, really knew him, and could feel the tension coiled in his stillness. He wasn’t detached. He was watching.
And Ron... Ron wasn’t even pretending.
His gaze skimmed her like fingertips down a spine. Slow, knowing, unhurried. The slight, deliberate flick of his tongue over his lower lip—a twitch, barely there, but calculated in a way that made her thighs tense.
Hermione swallowed. Hard.
She was entirely, horrifyingly aware of her own body. The weight of the moment pressed against her chest. The heat curled low in her belly. The unbearable knowledge that she was, quite literally, standing between a rock and a hard place.
These two men, who had shaped her most: one - her soul’s eternal equal, and the other - the smoldering storm of her youth.
Neither said a word.
Neither needed to.
Whether they intended it or not, this had the shape of a challenge.
A dare.
A… proposal, in its most dangerously seductive form. Something glinting beneath the surface, unspoken but understood. The weight of history, of memory, of some unholy trinity forged in war and grown in shadowed silence.
This was not coercion. This wasn’t some foolish fantasy projected upon her. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, knew her power. Knew her consent. Knew her options.
She also knew what this was.
Draco would never so much as let another man breathe the same air as her if he thought she didn’t want it. And Ron? Ron had spent years proving he’d rather cut out his own heart than harm hers. They were here because they knew her, knew her mind, her appetite, the way she buried want beneath her intellect and curiosity beneath control.
And now, as Ron stood before her burning like an ember while Draco remained pressed behind her like a glacier, their polarities pulling at her from both ends, she began to feel the edges of herself fray.
Because this wasn’t some adolescent fantasy.
This was her choice.
And still, she trembled.
Trembled at the thought of what might happen if she let go. Trembled at how very much she wanted to.
The heat pooled between her legs like a blooming spell. And in that awful, beautiful silence, Hermione finally understood…
She wasn’t standing in the middle of a moment.
She was standing at the edge of an inferno.
And all the power - all the finality lay with her, in what she decided. One word, and this ridiculous proposition would be shoved to the back of a dark, secluded section of their memories, never to be brought out or up again.
But it was her birthday.
And wouldn’t it be fun to decipher a truth that even Veritaserum hadn’t been able to procure?
Hermione swallowed down the nerves bubbling beneath her skin and let out a stable breath.
“Rules?” She asked confidently, the heaviness in the air palpable.
Ron’s bright eyes shot to Draco’s, the grins on their faces a perfect mirror of each other’s.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be too shocked that that is the first thing your brain needs to know,” Ron barked out with a laugh. Hermione felt herself smile at his reaction - the naturalness of it, the familiarity of his gentle teasing…
The sound pulled a smile from her because, of course, he teased her. Because it felt safe, even now, teetering on the edge of something completely, deliciously unsafe.
“First,” she said, gaze sharp, “I’m in charge. No surprises. No secrets. No power plays.”
Draco hummed behind her, the sound brushing her neck. “Naturally.”
Ron gave a lazy salute. “Your word is law, Commander.”
“Second,” she continued, stepping into the space between them, “if I say stop, we stop.”
Draco’s touch, barely there, skimmed the small of her back - a promise. Ron’s teasing dropped to something deeper, heavier.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “You set the pace.”
“Third…” She hesitated. The tension coiled tighter. “No wandwork.”
“Blasphemy,” Ron muttered, but he was grinning again, wide and wicked.
“Easy,” Draco murmured. “I prefer precision,” fingers brushing her sides again.
She nodded once. The air between them shifted, like the moment had settled into something inevitable.
Ron moved first, all heat and hungry gaze, the scent of smoke and something earthy rolling off him in waves. He stepped closer, until her breath caught and she could see the freckled line of his throat, the darkness behind his eyes.
Draco’s hands ghosted down her waist from behind, steady, grounding, impossibly composed. He felt like luxury and control, like the calm in the eye of a storm.
Ron looked at him, one last glance, a flicker of question.
Draco met it with a crooked smirk, nodding his assent. Then leaned forward, his voice low, decadent at her ear. “Let us pay tribute to Our King, shall we, Granger?”
His hands slipped beneath the hem of her blouse, slow and warm, tugging gently upward.
She raised her arms, trembling and sure, her eyes never leaving Ron’s.
He smiled down at her, the boy he’d been flickering behind the man he’d become.
Then he growled—low, primal—and her knees nearly gave out.
Between fire and ice, she was burning.
Ron watched as Malfoy lifted her blouse—an ordinary motion, something banal and practiced—but somehow, beneath the weight of this moment, it became something reverent. Sacred, even. Like unwrapping a relic, or stepping back into a dream you thought you’d forgotten.
He’d seen her like this before. He’d known the curve of her back, the weight of her moans, the heat of her core. But this… this was different.
Because this time, he understood.
Under the guise of some long-unfinished question—some playful dare wrapped in memory and lust—Ron felt the truth of it settle in his chest like gravity. His mouth watered, not just from want, but from the quiet, desperate ache of finally being given the chance to make it right.
He had taken from her once. Not cruelly, but carelessly. She had offered, and he had received. And maybe, back then, she needed to give, and he needed to take. Perhaps they had only known how to survive one another. But now, standing here with her suspended between past and present, her arms raised in surrender while Draco cupped her breasts, making them appear as an offering, Ron’s entire body seized at the thought of her being given to him - in supplication.
This was the moment he could finally give her what she had always deserved.
Draco’s pale hands curved beneath the swell of her breasts, two rich, caramel-toned orbs held up in offering, her nipples taut in the chilled air, pebbled and begging for touch. The contrast of their skin - the white of Draco’s skin against the gold of hers - it was fucking devastating.
“Merlin,” Ron breathed, the sound torn from somewhere low and aching. Hunger pulsed through him, hard and immediate.
But it wasn’t just about hunger.
It was awe.
His eyes found hers, those pretty honey-hazel eyes, and she was watching him. Parted lips, flushed cheeks, chest rising like she couldn’t quite breathe.
He slipped a single finger beneath her chin, lifting her face toward his. Slowly. Intentionally. The air sparked between them, heavy with everything they hadn’t said and everything they might.
“Fucking brilliant,” he murmured, poised and wrecked all at once.
She shuddered. Her eyes fluttered shut, a moan catching in her throat like he’d just touched her where it counted most.
Draco pressed closer from behind, his mouth finding the tender column of her throat. He kissed her softly, almost absentmindedly, the same way he’d kissed her there a thousand times before. His tongue swept out at odd, maddening intervals, teasing, tasting, coaxing her to feel everything.
And she did.
She moaned, needy and ragged, as her body arched between them. “More,” she whispered, voice broken with want. “Please… more.”
But they held still.
Because she’d set the rules.
She’d said it was her pace.
Ron leaned in again, closer now, until their noses brushed, their lips not quite touching. Then he kissed her. Once. Soft, unsure. Then again, firmer. Her mouth opened to him on instinct, like it hadn’t been years, like no time had passed at all. She molded to him, needy and responsive, her lips pulling him back for a third.
Still, he hadn’t touched her.
Draco’s hands remained at her breasts, holding her delicately, but even he had not moved to devour her.
Not yet.
Then, in a voice low and edged in velvet, Draco murmured against the sensitive point beneath her ear, “Words. Use your words, Granger.”
This was her birthday.
This was her moment.
Hermione pulled back from Ron’s mouth just enough to make his eyes open. They were darker now, storm-swept with desire, his pupils blown wide, lips parted.
“Touch me,” she commanded, voice steady and smooth. Her lips slipped into a smirk she’d inherited from her husband and waited for him to obey.
Draco’s answering smile against her neck was slow and deliberate. He moved with purpose, slipping his hands to the clasp of her trousers and tugging downward, unveiling her inch by inch as Ron growled low in his throat and pulled her face back to his with feral intensity.
Their mouths crashed—not so much a kiss as a claiming. Ron poured himself into her, all molten heat and muscle, his hands threading into her curls before roaming greedily down her spine. His lips spoke everything he hadn’t said - years of want, of regret, of aching memory, and she drank it in like wine gone to her head.
Behind her, Draco could hear the sound she made, her strangled moans and desperate sighs. His cock throbbed with want, but he kept himself anchored, his movements precise, restrained. This was about her pleasure; his need to show her what it felt like to be adored entirely, overabundantly, and absolutely.
Her trousers slipped to pool around her ankles, and she stepped free, elegant even in that moment of surrender. Draco’s hands found her again, sliding over the slope of her hips, skimming along the smooth curve of her arse, fingers teasing the edges of skin that begged to be worshipped.
Ron broke from her lips to gasp a curse into the hollow of her throat, his hands rising to cup her bare chest. “Godric, these tits,” he hissed, like he’d been holding that sentence for a decade. He dropped his mouth to them, greedy and unrestrained.
Hermione groaned, loud and breathless, her hands falling instinctively to the crown of his head, threading through his unruly red hair. It smelled of smoke and something sweet, something warm. A scent that wrapped around her and made her feel nineteen again, and also somehow like a goddess reborn.
Draco, never one to be left idle, slipped his hands up her back, slow and deliberate. He found the knot of her pinned-up curls and loosened them with a single, fluid motion. Her hair spilled like silk, tumbling into his hands. He scraped his fingers along her scalp with exquisite precision, and her head fell back against his shoulder, lips parted in awe.
She didn’t even need to speak. The way she gasped told him everything.
“You’re breathtaking,” Draco whispered against her temple. “Look how bloody beautiful you are, Granger.”
Hermione opened her eyes and gasped.
Before her, where there had been nothing but firelight and the towering shelves full of books, a mirror now stood, conjured without her notice, the size of the wall, ornate and glinting with magic. Her reflection stared back, wide-eyed and bare, sandwiched between two men who looked like they had been carved from myth.
Ron, all fire and grit and hunger, starved for her like he might never get another morsel.
Draco, refined and cold-blooded and unshakably calm, rooting her to this moment that was slipping into something impossible.
And in the mirror, she saw it, she saw herself as the center of it all, desired and powerful.
“Draco,” she breathed, her voice low and tremulous, one hand reaching back to curl around the nape of her husband’s neck, grounding herself in his calm. The other remained tangled in Ron’s hair, clutching it like a lifeline.
Draco’s laugh was quiet and devastating; a velvet sound full of dark amusement.
“Darling,” he purred, brushing a kiss to the shell of her ear, “I know what your body needs. Weasley does not. You’ll have to tell him.”
Ron’s head lifted, lips slick, eyes searing. That blue - so familiar, yet sharper now, bolder - held hers in a gaze so intense it made her legs quiver. And there, on the backs of his hands, were black-inked tattoos - elegant lines and runes she couldn’t decipher in the moment, not with her pulse thudding in her ears.
“I need skin,” she whispered, not pleading but assertive.
Ron grinned, crooked and wicked, but didn’t speak. He simply obeyed.
It was his shirt first, quickly tugged over his head with swift efficiency. Once gone, it revealed a body she hadn’t expected, though maybe she should have. Hard and lean, carved like something out of a sculptor’s fantasy, all long muscle and taut sinew. His chest, firm and dusted with copper hair, bore more ink—symbols that curled along his collarbone, the edge of a stag just visible across his ribs, something sharp and sacred along his hipbone.
Trousers followed, kicked off in one smooth movement.
And there he stood.
Ron Weasley - tall, freckled, and gloriously unashamed.
His body was golden and fierce, dusted with sun. His legs were strong, his stomach cut from effort and years of work, and his cock, thick, heavy, and so fucking eager, hung heavy between his legs.
He looked like temptation dressed in firelight.
Hermione swallowed, her breath catching as Draco’s lips brushed her shoulder.
“Does this please you, wife?”
She nodded, eyes never leaving Ron’s.
“Tell me what you want, Mione.”
His gaze fell to her thighs, taking in the way they were softer now, weightier. Malfoy had obviously been taking very good care of her.
Although granted, the last time he’d seen her undressed, they’d been barely a few months removed from the aftermath of war. She’d been so small and underfed.
So impossibly small…
“Fucking hell,” he whispered. Admiring the soft patch of dark curls at a perfect triangle between her legs. His mouth watered at the way her hips jutted out, at the gleam of her healthy skin, and the subtle swell of her belly…
Somehow, he didn’t really know, but somehow he grew harder. The weight and strain of it painful. He fought the urge to tell her to ‘come here’.
Merlin, the way he wanted to tear her apart. It was so easy to recall the tight heat he’d once been familiar with, the quick pound he’d been allowed to experience with her petite body.
It took all of his control to wait.
“Kneel,” Hermione ordered, voice sharp with need.
Ron obeyed instantly.
The air between them pulsed, familiar, and electric. He looked up at her, eyes blazing, and smiled like he knew exactly what came next.
She tilted her head; a silent command, and he didn’t hesitate.
His hands gripped her hips hard, dragging her forward with a growl low in his chest. He buried his face against her, breathing her in like salvation, and it shattered whatever restraint he had left. One hand slid beneath her thigh, lifting her leg over his shoulder.
Then he proceeded to devour her.
Hermione gasped, nearly collapsing back into Draco’s chest as Ron’s tongue found her with maddening precision. It was hunger, worship, and apology, all in one.
His mouth was relentless.
Draco’s arms tightened around her, grounding her. “That’s it, darling,” he murmured against her skin, lips brushing her jaw. “Let go.”
She could barely breathe.
All she could feel was Ron’s mouth, Draco’s hands, and the wildfire racing beneath her skin.
And still, still - she needed more.
Her husband knew this - knew the complex woman trying not to collapse needed more - but he’d agreed to let her set the pace…
Had they been alone, he would have bent her over already and begun taking her to within an inch of her fucking sanity. But this was about her - making her claim what she wanted - making her see how fucking brilliant she was and still being unafraid to claim it.
“Come on, love,” Draco cooed, bearing more of her weight as Weasley continued devouring her cunt, causing her to lose her balance. “Show him, show him how well you can let go.”
It was like her entire existence remained bound in the tiny bundle of nerves currently being lapped at by her ex-boyfriend.
Ron pressed his face harder into her harder, following the urging of her tightening fingers in his hair. His lips locked around her perfect little clit as the warm surge of arousal seeped from her core.
He was going to pull every ounce he could from her.
Without breaking the rhythm he’d set, he dug his fingers into the backs of her thighs and pulled her hips forward, forcing her cunt to tilt slightly upwards.
Draco held her tighter to his chest, his hands dropping from her shoulders and wrapping about her torso.
Hermione began to quiver and shake as Ron’s tongue struck out to swipe along the plump, warm lips of her cunt. The taste of her, the scent of her…
He’d never done this to her, not when she’d belonged to him, but that thought spurred him on to suck harder and drink deeper.
She’d never belonged to him - she was singular and res nullius.
Nobody’s thing…
“Ron,” she cried out - one of her hands slapped against his still clenching against the fleshy part of her inner thigh. “Oh Gods!”
He glanced up through his lashes, unwilling to break away from her until he felt another gush of her pleasure leak from her body.
Her skin was flushed, and her hair wild. Malfoy’s arms were wound around her waist, causing her tits to rest on his arms.
He fisted his cock, only once, at the sight. At the beautiful fucking sight of her coming apart on his tongue alone.
And it was in that moment—kneeling before her, tasting her unravel in his mouth, feeling her shake against his tongue—that Ron knew.
He couldn’t be held at bay.
Not anymore.
Her cries, the way her body buckled, the way her hand clutched at his hair like she couldn’t bear to let go, it lit something in him that refused to be dimmed. Her release soaked through him like fire, like truth, like everything he’d ever needed to remember.
Malfoy’s words echoed, low and biting in his mind, from weeks ago when he’d first brought the subject to Ron: She’s forgotten who she is. She needs to see how inimitable she’s become - not how limited they want her to be.
Ron hadn’t understood, not really, until now.
Until he saw her lose herself like this. Until he felt her fall apart on his mouth and realized she was still holding back. She was still diminishing herself.
And maybe he was supposed to follow her pace.
He’d agreed.
But maybe she also deserved to be chased… She deserved to see the inspiration she stirred for one to be reckless and destructive. She deserved to be taken.
His mouth slowed, but didn’t leave her, the taste of her made his cock ache with unbearable urgency. She was intoxicating, and he was past pretending otherwise.
Did she deserve restraint? Or did she deserve the truth?
The truth was this: he couldn’t hold back . And Draco, for all his calm and patience, was just as tightly wound. They were both staring down the same storm. They were both starving.
And maybe she needed to see it.
To see them.
Hermione sagged against her husband as Ron leaned back on his heels, watching them.
“Do you trust me, Mione?” His earnestness, the force of his heaving chest… Hermione looked him over, his lips red and raw from feasting on her, his hands kneading against her tingling flesh.
Of course, she trusted him.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Ron smiled a devilish smile - and stood again to his full height. He snapped his fingers, causing a small golden ball to zoom from the pile of discarded clothes at their feet.
“Hey, I said-”
“Do you trust me or not?” Ron asked again - his eyes darkening as she found her footing.
He could see the play of emotions across her face, but he caught sight of Malfoy’s undignified smirk and knew it mirrored his own.
“Help me out, mate?” And Draco, without hesitation, reached for his wife’s body, wrapping an arm around one of her legs while the other went around her torso. Hermione automatically responded by wrapping an arm around his neck and watching helplessly as she was hoisted up and secured firmly to her husband’s chest.
“Very good,” Ron murmured, taking in the spread of her legs, the way her cunny glistened from the aftermath of her orgasm. “How perfect you look like this,” he said with his focus steadfast on her cunt before glancing up to meet her gaze.
A fringe of dark red hair hung over his forehead, obscuring half his face, and Hermione tried to clench, realizing she was unable to as Draco had her spread wide.
Ron pulled the golden ball to his lips and whispered something against the cool metal. It looked small and familiar in his hand, but she couldn’t make out what exactly it was. Then he passed the cool metal toward Draco, allowing him to whisper into the metal as well.
That’s when she realized what it was.
It was a snitch.
The little golden ball of energy began to buzz and Ron ran the surface of it down her heated chest, over the swell of her breast, and across her belly.
“I said ‘no magic.’” she whispered.
“I believe you said ‘no wands’,” Draco groaned, his warm cock pressing against her bum. Her eyes rolled slowly at the familiar feeling of his skin against hers.
She didn’t know when he’d disrobed - but a glance at the mirror showed that he was preparing to take her - he was perfectly ready and in position.
“Now breathe out,” he growled in her ear. She was barely hanging on, she didn’t know what they’d planned - but it had been out of her realm of direction, and -
“I see you trying to figure it out, Mione,” Ron said, the terrible tenor of his voice melting against her sanity. “I will be forced to make you stop, should you continue… Do you understand?”
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut - this wasn’t happening. This was - this was a fever dream - this was…
She let out a shaking breath, and the exact moment the air escaped her lips, the warm, quivering metal in his hand was being pressed gently against her clit.
“Fuck,” she jerked against her husband’s chest as the vibrating metal sent jolts of pleasure through her body.
“Mmm, yes, just like that,” Ron breathed, leaning against her. He lowered his mouth to her chest again, to lap at a hardened nipple just begging to be consumed.
“Oh, gods be damned,” Draco groaned, bucking his hips against the empty air, searching for relief for his bulging erection.
Ron sensed his need and reached forward to take hold of Hermione’s other leg, dangling between their bodies. He took a firm grip of her thigh, the weight of it made his skin warm, and wrapped her leg around his waist.
“Take her, mate,” he directed softly. Draco heard the command and reached for his cock with his free hand. He bent slightly at the knee to bear more of her weight and pressed his length against her warm, wet heat.
“Gods, Granger,” the sound coming from Draco’s mouth did something to Hermione’s insides. It was rare - hearing his voice drop into that cadence, that desperate tone, that unbearable, uncontrollable neediness… It was so delicious and beautiful. “You’re so fucking wet…”
He pulled his cock away, having sufficiently coated it in her arousal, then pressed it against her arse.
“Draco, Gods…” Hermione gasped at the feeling of him there, both familiar and exciting. “Please,” she groaned.
He pushed in, savoring the tight heat of her, losing his mind at the perfect clench… It was something they had worked up to for years, and not something that ever seemed an easy feat, but bloody fucking hell had her body been trained well enough to allow him entrance.
“Oh my god, yes,” he whined. “Yes,” he pushed further. “Fuck yes,” he choked against her cheek. His lips pressed against her skin as she fanned her fingers across his face. She stared down at him from her perch in his arms, gazing at the molten mercury of his eyes.
The dangerous pull of his lips and the ache visible in his flushed cheeks… The way his words cut out, it relayed the uncontrollable hunger consuming him as her body allowed him entry.
He was so fucking beautiful - and he was hers.
“So good, Draco.” She praised him. “So unbearably beautiful,” she breathed as he continued slipping into her until there was no more room.
“Don’t move,” Ronald whispered, his face hovering near theirs, slightly jealous of the way they had remained entranced with one another, even after all these years. But despite his inner jealousy stirring to life, he marveled at the way Malfoy obeyed, letting his cock stretch her little arse-hole. Letting her soft body act as a sleeve for him.
The snitch continued to buzz against her clit, and the sound of her breathing intensified. Between her husband’s want for her and the little vibrations, she was due to come again at any moment.
She was beginning to grind, but he reached out with a hand to still her hips.
“No,” he ordered, and was pleased to hear a broken sob escape her lips.
The need was building harder within her - she couldn’t bear it much longer. The size of her husband inside her, the stretch of her body around him, the endless loop of vibrations against her clit…
She was - she was going to come and -
Ron snatched away the little tool and replaced his hand with his own impressive length.
She hadn’t been prepared… She was lost in the sudden emptiness where her orgasm should have been.
But before she could fight - before she could scold, he was pushing his cock deep inside her.
“Bloody fucking hell, Hermione!” Ron shouted, bottoming out in a swift moment that left her completely breathless and mentally despondent.
He’d not felt anything like it - not in his entire fucking life.
“Holy shit! ” he growled between gritted teeth. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn’t. She was so tight - so God damn, unbearably, fucking tight. He had been swallowed by her warmth and fuck…
Draco, likewise, lost all sense in his mind as the tightness of her body wrapped around him went from intense to consuming. His jaw went slack at the precise moment her head fell to the side against his.
Hermione’s fingers instinctively went to the crown of Draco’s head and clung to a fistful of his beautiful white locks.
“Move against me,” Draco said slowly, enunciating clearly to his formal rival.
And with all the control he could muster, Ron began to slip out slowly, forcing himself to withdraw.
The sensation was not one he was familiar with… He’d been with other couples before, but never a man and woman, and never in the state he currently found himself.
The thin, soft membrane separating his cock from Malfoy’s left little to imagination. He could feel when Malfoy began to withdraw. It was with great effort that he made his mind obey Malfoy’s direction and slipped slowly back into her.
And thus it continued until the pace quickened…
Until her other arm wrapped loosely around Ron’s neck without thinking, solely to keep herself balanced between them.
Until her body began to hum with excess energy and her cunt began to quake from the abuse.
“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,” she choked out as they fucked her. Both Draco and Ron, ravaging her in tandem.
“Fuck, that’s it, Weasley, fuck her - like that - don’t, don’t stop,” Draco snapped as they sped their pace. It was like a well-oiled machine, the back and forth, the in and out, the fucking drag of their cocks in against one another, and still both inside her body.
This hadn’t been and still wasn’t about their own pleasures, but neither man could deny the sensation of it now. The feeling of the changing tightness and the uneven grooves now present in a body they shared between them.
It was maddening.
And Hermione was losing her mind.
The words sputtering from her lips utter nonsense. She wasn’t even a person at this point - the way they rocked in and out of her, each one trying to quicken the pace, trying to chase the sensation engulfing them in flames.
Perhaps there was a slight edge to their shared frenzy - perhaps the two men who’d once upon a time hated each other were each trying to outdo and therefore outlast one another.
Whatever it was - whatever the maddening pace and the forced curses spewing from their lips as they beat themselves into her warm, tight heat, it only added to the building of feeling - the unbearable accumulation of pleasure flooding her system.
Her husband fucked her as he’d done countless times - knowing exactly the way to hold her, exactly the way to whisper against her ear how fucking perfect she was - how utterly mesmerizing she was.
And then there was Ron - his bruising grip digging into her body, groaning and moaning expletives that rarely fell from Draco’s lips. It was so naughty how she enjoyed the anger in his words and the choked, half-sob in his pleas.
It built and built until -
“OH MY FUCKING GOD!” she shouted, summoning all her strength to jerk herself off the pair of cocks buried deep in her body…
Her grip around their necks tightened, bringing their faces together as she let out a guttural scream. Her body, sweaty and taut, spasmed as her orgasm took control.
Draco and Ron watched, transfixed and in pure awe, as she shattered.
She came - she came so fucking hard.
She shattered between them - sudden, gasping and uncontrollable. Her body continued to seize; legs trembling where Ron held one cocked over his forearm while her back arched hard into Draco’s chest. And then she gushed.
It hit Ron’s abdomen in a hot, shocking splash, slick and shameless, soaking his skin. His breath caught, fascinated, by the sight. Draco groaned behind her, his hands gripped her hips tighter, knuckles pale with restraint as he looked down over her shoulder to watch the mess she made on Weasley.
“Fucking hell, Mione,” Ron rasped, staring at her like she was holy and filthy in the same breath.
Draco bent to her ear, his voice dark silk. “Glorious. Absolutely fucking divine.”
Hermione could barely breathe, her thighs twitching, her lips parted in shock as the tremors continued to wrack through her.
Ron ran a hand down his abdomen, fingers gliding through the glistening sheen she’d left on his skin. His breath hitched - part awe, part hunger - before he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked it clean. Slow and deliberate.
“Bloody perfect,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers.
Draco, still braced behind her, cradled her face in one hand, guiding her lolling head upright as if she were a precious, breakable doll. Her cheeks flushed, and her breath shook. Her skin was dewy from exertion, and she’d never looked more beautiful. Undone and spent as she was…
“Look at that,” he whispered, his voice like smoke. “See how good you must taste.” He tilted her chin toward Ron’s glistening lips. “My filthy little wife.”
She blushed fiercely, caught between pride and wicked delight. Her eyes flicked to Ron, who grinned like sin.
Then she turned into Draco’s palm, surrendering the weight of her head to his hand, and kissed him.
It was slow and consuming, a languid claiming that tasted of salt and heat and something deeper. Her mouth molded to his, coaxing, teasing, drawing him in with the same inexorable gravity that had undone them both the very first time she claimed his lips. His other hand threaded into her hair, anchoring her to him as their tongues moved in a rhythm that promised no escape.
Draco groaned low in his throat, pulling her closer - needing more, always more. Behind them, Ron’s breath had gone shallow again.
They could make out the movement behind them, as Ron summoned and extended the chaise lounge.
He sat for a moment, his cock hard and aching against his stomach, and watched the way Hermione twisted in her husband’s arms to lose herself in their kiss.
Ron settled back, breathing slowly as he watched the two of them, cock in hand, squeezing gently.
Hermione had turned into Draco's touch with instinctive ease, her mouth soft against his. They weren’t kissing in any traditional sense. Their lips moved languidly over each other, as if mapping familiar terrain, not seeking urgency but savoring contact. Their tongues met in a slow, sensual rhythm, the kind of intimacy born from years of trust and practice. It felt unhurried yet intense, a physical exchange that spoke of more than desire. This was the kind of closeness that came from having chosen one another over and over again, from knowing that want could survive even after the edge had dulled.
Watching it stirred something in Ron.
It wasn’t regret. He knew that what he and Hermione had shared had run its course long ago. And it wasn’t heartbreak either. But something inside him clenched all the same. Perhaps it was a quiet sort of envy, the kind that didn’t make sense even as it burned low in his chest. He didn’t want to replace Draco, and he didn’t wish for what they had. Still, the sight of it unsettled him.
He had changed since Hogwarts. He’d grown into a man who could understand his own feelings without being ruled by them. Yet the old reflex, the flicker of competition or longing or whatever it was that made him feel left out of something sacred, still stirred. Not because he needed it. Because he remembered what it was like to want it.
He dragged his palm across his stomach, smearing the wet heat that lingered there. Her scent was still on him.
He marveled at her body - the lovely curve of her arse, the way it sloped into her back, the tone tension in the muscle beneath her flesh.
He needed more - he needed to…
Ron shook his head, clearing out the thought - this wasn’t about him or his wants.
But fuck…
He watched the way one of her legs straightened, her toes touching the ground to keep herself steady in her husband’s arms, the hue of her skin, the length of her toned leg… the curve of her fucking thigh.
Draco pulled back from her mouth, letting her lips continue their unhurried descent down the length of his throat. Her breath was hot against his skin, her kiss slack with surrender.
And over her shoulder, Draco caught Weasley's gaze.
The redhead’s fist curled loosely around his cock, half-forgotten, but heavy in his hand. He wasn’t even trying to hide the way he watched - hungrily, devoutly, as if what he saw was something forbidden and beautiful and more magnificent than anything he’d obtained thus far in life.
And then the thought came, wicked, utterly unacceptable…
And so fucking delicious.
Draco felt it coil within him like the snake he was.
The rules had been clear. Hermione had set them herself, but Weasley’s eyes told him everything - he wouldn't stop if asked. And Draco didn’t want him to.
His mind was made up.
“Darling,” he purred, tilting her chin up, smiling at the dreamy slack of her face. Her pupils were blown wide, her focus scattered. She looked barely tethered, all thought and cleverness unraveled into nothing but sensation.
Exactly as he wanted.
He turned her gently in his arms, her back once more to his chest. Her breath caught as she felt the shift.
“We’ve neglected our guest,” he murmured, his voice low and indulgent against her temple.
Hermione blinked slowly, her lips parted, and followed Draco’s line of sight to Ron.
Who hadn’t moved.
Who hadn’t looked away.
And who now rose to his knees, cock twitching with anticipation, like a man summoned.
And like a niffler after the scent of gold, Hermione moved forward to Ron’s kneeling posture on the chaise. Without a word, she slid onto the seat, on her hands and knees. Draco’s mouth ran dry as she flipped her mane over her shoulder and focused her attention on the weight of Weasley’s cock.
There was a hiss of emotion escaping Ron’s mouth as Hermione took him slowly between her lips. The warmth of him, the salty scent of herself still lingering on him, the vein curving down the marvelous length of him.
She squeezed her thighs together, the feeling almost unbearable - she was so sensitive, so incredibly raw, but it didn’t stop the new flood of arousal coating her at the taste of him in her mouth.
“Holy fuck, Hermione,” Ron said, muddled and trepidatious. She was running her tongue and lips over him, back and forth, setting a decent pace. And after only a few moments of her perfect, pouty lips working him, Draco was rewarded with the sight of one large, tattooed hand going to the back of her head, taking a fistful of curls.
It was something she’d wanted Draco to do - many times, but he’d never been able to enjoy the moment fully without thinking he was going too far.
Weasley was all feeling - very little restraint.
Draco marveled in wonder at the way she took his thick length,
…then rose to stand behind her.
He watched the way her arousal began to glisten down the inside of her thigh. Her perfect, poor little body, always needing more, always ready to take more.
Of all the things he was proud of, and they were many, it was her hunger that undid him most. The way she responded to pleasure. The way she unraveled beneath his hands, and now Weasley’s. The sheer, exquisite filth of her.
His hand lifted, fingers flicking to summon the charmed snitch Weasley had brought, still fluttering lazily midair like a voyeur. When it landed neatly in his palm, Draco brought it to his mouth, murmured low and slow against the cool golden casing.
A single command.
He glanced up just as Ron began to shift pace, gently tugging Hermione's mouth lower, deeper. Her throat swallowed him greedily, the wet sounds nearly pushing Draco to his knees.
And then, Draco crouched behind her, guided the little golden ball to the slick entrance of her cunt, and slowly pressed it inside.
She gasped around Ron’s cock, body jolting, hands curling around Ron’s thighs for balance.
Draco placed tender, reverent kisses along the curve of her arse, murmuring nothing in particular, just praise and filth and pleasure. His hand stayed between her legs, cupping her, holding the fluttering sphere right against that perfect inner spot - the one that made her lose herself entirely.
The one that made her break.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “Let it wreck you.”
He ran his tongue along her seam, slow and deliberate, savoring the way her quivering clit responded to the barest touch. Her whole body twitched.
She was unbearably sensitive now, he could feel it in the fine-tuned balance of tension still coiled within muscles that had otherwise gone soft, spent, and oh so pliant.
But he didn’t lap at her to coax more pleasure, not yet.
He just wanted to be close. To feel her. To indulge in the taste of her arousal and the warmth of her skin. To give her space to be adored.
Hermione had carried the weight of others’ needs for so long, years of relentless responsibility, of always being the one with answers, the one in control. Draco had made it his mission to short-circuit that brilliant mind of hers since the beginning. To drag her out of her head and into her body. To remind her, she was allowed to want.
But this, this was something else.
A gift. A reward. A reckoning.
Because if there was anything he loved more than Hermione, it was pleasing Hermione . Watching her unravel. Knowing he’d done that. Knowing that for once, she wasn’t holding anything back, because she simply couldn’t.
Her body jerked again, sharp, sudden, and desperate, as the enchanted snitch buzzed erratically inside her. Draco could see the tremors ripple through her thighs, her spine arching with every unpredictable flutter against the spot he’d aimed for.
Ron’s grip on her hair tightened. His knuckles blanched, and his head fell back, jaw slack and panting like he’d just surfaced from deep water.
“Malfoy,” he gasped, ragged and unmoored, “Malfoy, fuck her, mate, do it.”
Draco’s breath caught. He looked down at her - his wife, a bloody masterpiece of his making - hips bucking, searching, chasing a rhythm that didn’t quite exist. Her back glistened with sweat, her mouth still working Ron with exquisite fervor, hands pumping where her lips couldn’t reach. She pulled off for just a breath, lips wet and raw.
“Draco,” she whined, her voice fractured, throat rough. “Draco, please, please…”
Her eyes met his over her shoulder, and something about the look, dazed, flushed, and absolutely undone, nearly shattered his resolve.
Before he could move, Ron took control again, his fist curling in her curls and guiding her mouth back down. Her moan around him vibrated through the air, a visceral, helpless sound that left Draco reeling.
He moved behind her then, pressing his palm to the curve of her back, steadying her as her body writhed. He bent down to murmur into the flushed shell of her ear, voice like silk dragged over flame.
“You filthy little miracle,” he breathed. “Look at you. Ruined, and we’ve barely started.”
He lined himself up, dragging his hand down the length of her spine, fingers pausing to trace a bruise blooming near her hipbone.
Then, slowly and purposefully, he pushed into her velvety heat - the warmth and ease with which he was able to slide in, nearly causing him to explode in that moment.
Her whole body jolted.
A strangled gasp escaped her, and Draco hissed as her walls fluttered violently around him, the magic of the snitch still alive, still singing. He barely held himself back from losing it right then.
Ron groaned, loud and primal, watching the moment unfold beneath him. “Fuck,” he gritted. “She’s - bloody hell - she’s squeezing…”
Draco pressed forward, deeper, anchoring himself with a hand on her waist. His other hand came to her shoulder, possessive and tender all at once.
“Hold on, darling,” he murmured, lips brushing her skin. “We’ve got you.”
Draco looked up at Ron. Their eyes met. One sharp nod passed between them like a lit fuse.
They moved in tandem, wordless and deliberate, falling into a rhythm that felt more like a ritual than coincidence. Ron gripped her head in both hands now, angling her exactly where he needed her, while Draco’s hands dug into the soft flesh of her hips, dragging her back to meet him again and again.
Her body jolted forward each time he slammed into her from behind, her moan caught around Ron’s cock.
She took him deeper, jaw straining to accommodate, throat stretched tight and eager.
There was no hesitation. She didn’t flinch. She swallowed him like she’d been waiting for it.
“Holy fuck,” Ron hissed, voice rough and dangerous. “She’s swallowing it. Malfoy, there’s no gag, oh fucking Helga… You feel her back here? She’s soaked, isn’t she? Absolutely dripping.”
Draco could barely breathe.
Her cunt clenched around him like she was trying to trap him inside. He could feel the snitch, relentless and precise, fluttering against the spot that always made her fall apart. His cock throbbed from the pressure of her heat, from the obscene wetness, from the vibrations that made his spine feel like it might snap.
“She’s fucking made for this,” Ron growled, his hips jerking forward as his head fell back. “For both of - ahh... For this. Look - Look at the state of her. Filthy little thing.”
Draco’s response came out low and desperate. “Mine,” he said. “Mine.”
Ron barked a laugh, breathless. “That’s right, mate… Yours - so fuck her like it… Perhaps she won’t be able to walk after this?”
“She won’t need to,” Draco murmured, imagining her body soft and swollen with life that she had said was too soon to be creating.
Fuck, how he wanted to…
They kept going.
Ron pulled her down harder onto his cock. Draco slammed into her from behind with a rhythm that was starting to unravel into something primal. The sounds were filthy. Her body was slick and perfect. The wet slap of skin. The thick, choking groans. Her whimpers. His name, half-formed and barely audible, crushed between Ron’s length and the pleasure tearing her apart from the inside.
Draco leaned over her, lips brushing the sweat-slicked skin of her spine. He whispered against her shoulder, “Good girl. So fucking good. Taking us both. Just like you were meant to.”
Her hips bucked again, desperate. Uncoordinated. She was close. He could feel it. So could Ron, who was hissing curses now, ragged and full of awe.
“Gods, Hermione,” Ron panted. “You’re fucking perfect like this. You’re gonna make me come—shit—you want that, don’t you? You want to choke on it while he fills your pussy, don’t you?”
She whimpered in answer, thighs trembling, and Draco swore viciously. It was too much. Too good. Too fucking real…
Ron came with a snarl.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t planned. It was primal.
His hand tightened in her curls, his head tipping back, throat bared, as he spilled into her mouth with a guttural, half-formed curse that fractured in his chest. His hips twitched, sharp and helpless, before he managed to still them, teeth gritted against the wave that overtook him.
But she didn’t pull away. She held him there, obedient and devastating, swallowing every last drop with her eyes half-closed and her lashes damp. The sight of her like that, so undone and yet so composed, stole whatever breath Ron had left.
He staggered back a fraction, dizzy, lips parted in something like reverence. Then dropped to his knees beside her, cupping her jaw, thumb brushing the wet heat of her cheek.
“You—bloody hell,” he murmured, voice frayed, “You’re—”
But words abandoned him. Instead, he kissed her, stunned and grateful and aching. It wasn’t hunger that drove him now, but awe.
Behind her, Draco hadn’t stopped.
He was still driving into her, relentless, precise, and absolutely feral. Every motion was etched with the kind of control that belied just how close he was to breaking. His hands gripped her hips like they were the only things tethering him to sanity.
Hermione let out a sharp cry, shaking. Her arms gave, and Ron caught her easily, pulling her against his chest. Her body trembled, caught between pleasure and collapse.
“Look,” Ron whispered, lips brushing her temple. “Look at what you’ve done to him.”
She blinked, dazed, and twisted her neck to see.
Draco looked possessed. Silvery-white hair damp, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the point where their bodies met. He was pounding into her with a punishing rhythm, each thrust brutal and exact, but it wasn’t cruelty - it was worship in motion. It was hunger, restrained and then shattered. It was Draco Malfoy, ruined.
“He’s gone,” Ron murmured, dragging his knuckles along her cheek. “Completely unmade. And it’s because of you.”
Hermione whimpered, forehead pressed to Ron’s collarbone. “I can’t…”
“Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, you can. You have to. Show him, Mione. Show him how good he’s been to you. Give it to him. Let him have it. All of it.”
Draco let out a strangled sound, half growl, half plea.
His hand slid around to press flat against her lower belly, holding her steady, pushing her deeper onto him. His breath was ragged, his rhythm unhinged now, veering into something wild and feral.
“I’ve got to - got to fill you up,” he panted, more to himself than to her. “So full you’ll feel me for days… fuck—Granger—”
Her body seized.
The third orgasm hit her like a detonation, her scream muffled against Ron’s throat. Her walls clamped down around Draco, and he choked on a curse, losing all semblance of rhythm as her cunt milked him in relentless, fluttering waves.
Draco came undone with a grating growl.
“Mine,” he growled, over and over. “ Mine. Mine - fuck…”
Deeper he went, harder he pushed, tighter he squeezed.
“Hermione,” he growled, causing Ron’s eyes to narrow - impressed. “Fucking mine… ”
“Yeah, she is,” Weasley whispered under his breath, watching his once upon a time rival descend into something undignified and unbecoming of a man of his breeding.
Draco buried himself to the hilt, shaking, filling her with deep, surging pulses that refused to end. It poured out of him like a spell broken open, like a dam torn loose, his hips trembling, his voice cracked and thick.
Hermione could hardly breathe. She was splayed between them, thoroughly used, thoroughly worshipped, and floating somewhere outside of language.
When he reached what she thought was the end of his orgasm, she collapsed fully against Ron’s chest, boneless and gasping.
But Draco…
The pride he had for her, for how fucking well she took it all, and the spurring on by Weasley… The unbearable need to fill her so full that it had to take despite the contraceptive potions she was on…
He’d come, filling her full of his seed, but he was still unbearably hard.
Hermione Granger was his wife.
And she was tired and weak, trembling against Weasley’s chest… And this had been his goal, for her to know, in both body and soul, how desired and powerful she was… but he was so deep in her still, feeling her walls clenching him tight - taking all he had and somehow she continued massaging his cock with her walls.
Her body, clearly, wanting more…
And he was mindless… All he knew, all he could think, was that if she had given her all, he had to give her his too. So his hips began to move again, a bit slower now, a bit harsher this time, a bit more direct.
Still hard.
Still aching.
“That’s it, get her,” Weasley whispered, holding a quivering Hermione against his chest, a dark smile overtaking his lips as he watched.
Get it, get it, get it…
Own the fuck out of her, Ron thought. Enjoying the way Hermione whimpered, unable to control the way her body responded to the way it continued to be devastated by Malfoy.
The snitch was still vibrating, unforgiving, and unstoppable. There was nothing in her mind anymore - nothing but feeling - nothing but the almost painful draw of his cock in and out.
But she was spent - and he was just taking.
And Gods - she wanted him to take it all… They’d somehow passed into a different dimension and all their bodies could do was exist until there was nothing left to give.
Until there was nothing left to take.
“Look how he drowns in that pussy, Mione,” Ron whispered against her cheek, slowly fisting his half-hard cock, once again stirring to life at the scene playing out before him.
“Come on, help him…” he murmured, lowering his hands to her hips and gently pushing her back and forth to meet each one of Draco’s thrusts.
She cried out in need, in want, in pain, in pleasure… It was all mixed together now - all the sensation.
And Ron didn’t stop - he helped her fuck her husband at the slow, languid pace he’d set. The overwhelming wetness slipping and dripping from her cunt making each thrust lewd, making each movement indecent and nasty.
Hermione turned her face into Ron’s shoulder, trembling, dazed, and overcome. She blinked at their reflection in the mirror, at herself suspended between the two men who knew her best.
Ron held her hand with unexpected tenderness, grounding her. There was nothing salacious in the way he looked at her now, only awe and a quiet, reverent focus. He wasn’t pushing her to give more, he was simply steady, bracing her, letting her fall apart and stay held at once.
The slow, rolling thrusts behind her never stopped.
Draco’s hands framed her hips with sculptor's intent, holding her like she was something sacred… some priceless art to be touched only by the worthy.
But his face.
Gods… his face.
It was twisted in something close to pain, overcome by the sheer intensity of his need for her. His pupils were blown wide, sweat glistening at his brow, mouth slack with effort.
This wasn’t the Draco who read her the Prophet in bed or smirked over toast. This wasn’t the polished man who wore pressed shirts and sent her flowers just because. This was someone else, something else.
The boy she’d once watched stalk through corridors with a hex on his tongue and danger in his shadow. This was the feral thing that had survived a war and learned to want.
This was the Death Eater he'd buried deep.
And she had brought it out of him.
She clenched around him on instinct, and his breath hitched - a sharp, broken sound that sent a thrill skittering up her spine.
She began to rock her hips again, small movements at first, slow and steady, meeting each of his thrusts with soft, yielding give. The sound of it was maddening, wet and low and steady, a rhythm so intimate it bordered on unbearable.
“I want…” her voice cracked.
“What, sweetheart?” Ron murmured, brushing damp curls from her temple.
Her lashes fluttered. “Stop the snitch. Please. I want… I want to finish with him.”
Ron’s gaze met hers, open and understanding. His fingers gently unwound from her hips and found hers again.
“Finite,” he whispered, and the low hum that had become the backdrop of her body fell silent.
Draco groaned behind her. His hands flexed on her hips as her body tightened in the absence of that relentless stimulation. And yet she remained open—tender, ready. Wanting.
“Leverage,” Ron said softly, lifting her hands with his to give her something to press against. She smiled faintly, then looked back at Draco.
“Come on, love,” she said, voice shaking. “I want you to finish it.”
His breath came out in a shudder. “Granger…”
He leaned over her, a long line of heat and tension, his mouth trailing along her shoulder blade, whispering something raw and unfiltered, so low she could barely catch it - only feel the weight of it in her chest.
“I’m going to -”
“So full,” he rasped, his grip bruising, his body bearing down on hers with slow, deliberate force. “Going to keep it all in you, fuck, so full…”
Her vision blurred.
Every part of her was trembling, undone, alight.
Ron whispered something else in her ear, but she couldn’t make it out—not over the rising, hungry sound of Draco’s breathing, not over the deep, shaking pulse of his body inside her.
And then he came again.
With a growl, with a hissed string of half-formed words; her name, a curse, a claim. His body trembled above hers, pouring everything into her in one final, staggering act of devotion.
Hermione cried out, lost again, slipping out of consciousness for a brief moment.
She collapsed into Ron’s chest, Draco still buried deep, and for a long time none of them moved.
They breathed, lost in the heat and scent still lingering in the air.
They let the moment linger.
And when it passed, when language returned and the world gently righted itself around them, it was Ron who kissed her first. Not lustful. Not hungry.
Just soft.
Grateful.
And Draco, eyes still dark, fingers still trembling, pressed his lips to the curve of her neck.
“You’re limitless, Granger,” Draco whispered.
Followed quickly by the devilish growl of Ron. “Fuck anyone who says otherwise.”
Hermione smiled, her expression glowing with warmth, but something else too, something deeper. There was a shyness to her smile, a softness that contradicted how thoroughly she'd been ruined, but also a spark of triumph. She felt wrecked in the best possible way and completely, unapologetically powerful.
She stretched, languid and content, trying to pull herself up, but the moment she shifted her weight onto her legs, they gave out beneath her. A small frown gathered between her brows as she tried again, only to falter once more.
The smile began to slide from her features.
She turned her head slowly and narrowed her eyes at both of them. “And I’d set the rules, right…?” she said, voice calm but pointed.
Draco feigned confusion. Ron grinned without remorse.
Hermione pushed herself upright with deliberate care, ignoring the slow, unmistakable slide of warmth between her legs. Her body was tender in places she’d forgotten could ache, and though her voice was steady, her limbs betrayed the aftermath of being so thoroughly fucked and adored.
“I said no magic,” she added. “I said I was setting the pace. And both of you” she paused, glaring as she smacked them lightly, one after the other, the back of her hands sharp enough to sting, but not quite punish. “Both of you broke every single rule.”
They looked at her, perfectly unrepentant.
Ron barked a laugh first and leaned forward to get Draco’s attention. “Is she always like this? Right after being thoroughly fucked?”
Draco let out a sigh and leaned back onto the chaise, letting his head hang over the edge. “You’ve no idea, Weasley.” He laughed, the sound full of levity and light. “Absolutely no idea.”
The two of them continued laughing, unafraid of her and the fact they broke her rules.
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms even as her posture betrayed the effort it took to stay upright. Beneath her irritation, pleasure still pulsed low in her belly, and the memory of their hands and mouths and voices was a flush on her skin that hadn’t yet faded.
She didn’t bother to pretend it hadn’t been worth it.
But that didn’t mean she would let them off easily.
She was, after all, still in charge.
She smiled to herself, lips curling with quiet mischief, knowing precisely what lingered unspoken between them. There was still one question neither of them had dared voice, though it hung in the air with all the weight of expectation.
“So,” she murmured, glancing between them with exaggerated innocence, “I suppose this is the part where I take another shot of Veritaserum… hmm?” Her fingers trailed lightly along the edge of a nearby cushion. “To tell you whose cock is the most beautiful? The most glorious? Is that right?”
Their laughter cut off at once.
She adjusted herself slowly on the couch, nestling into the plush cushions with the satisfied grace of a woman who knew exactly how desirable she was. She tucked her legs beneath her, body soft and loose, utterly spent and yet somehow still radiant.
“I must admit,” she said, her voice light, almost contemplative, though her smile betrayed her, “I’m not entirely convinced one way or the other.”
There was a beat of silence - charged and anticipatory.
She leaned back a little farther, eyelids heavy but glittering with amusement. “We might need to… experiment a bit more. For clarity’s sake.”
Draco groaned under his breath. Ron made an inhuman sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a laugh.
“I mean, I’m nothing if not thorough,” she added, her tone syrup-smooth. “Wouldn’t you both agree?”
The only answer was the look in their eyes, hungry, adoring, and undone all over again.
And Hermione, with the smug serenity of a queen who had already won, simply exhaled and let the moment settle.
There would be time for answers, but first, there would be more questions, and more ways to ask them.