Chapter Text
The sex used to be good.
She thought absently as he plunged in and out of her. His breath was steadily panting into her curls at her forehead.
Once upon a time, when the war had ended, they never wanted to sleep alone again.
His groan was subtle as he switched angles, moving her knees to her chest.
It used to be tangled limbs, beading sweat, and orgasms. God, it had to be ages since he had given her an orgasm. Maybe two months ago? Every now and again, when she rides, she can find completion before he finishes.
Today is not one of those days. No, today she would fake an orgasm in 30 seconds so he would feel accomplished and like he had done his job. Then she would wait for him to fall asleep and finish herself off with her fingers.
And it's not like he didn't try. He usually always went down on her beforehand, and she would have one or two fake orgasms then, too.
She didn't know when she started having fake orgasms for the benefit of her husband's ego. Maybe three years ago? Time gets so sticky when you get older. Merlin, she was 32, but she felt like she was still 22: going into pubs with her friends every weekend while they tried to out-drink therapy.
It didn't work, of course- oh right, she was supposed to be having a fake orgasm.
"Oh, Ron. Right-! Ah!" And with a squeeze of her inner walls and the bending of her back, she was done with her task for the day.
He groaned, his pace becoming unsteady before he spilled inside of her. God, it used to be so erotic, him filling her up. Now it was just a thought that she would have to throw a cleaning spell down there.
He kissed her forehead, rolling over and pulling the blankets up to his bare chest.
"Night," He muttered, nuzzling into his pillow as he caught his breath.
She wanted to scream, cry, and thrash about. Instead, she stared at the ceiling. There was a small crack across the plaster where the cottage settled incorrectly. She focused on it, unseeing.
"Night."
-------
She was running late — not unusual, but still frustrating. Hermione always meant to be on time.
She walked out of their bedroom, securing her earring blindly while she looked for her purse.
"Ron, have you seen my purse?"
With the earring finally secured, she lifted the throw blanket off the couch, her purse still not in sight.
"You lose that damn thing every day," he grumbled from the kitchen. "Why don't you just put it in the same spot?"
"Because I love to hunt every morning." Sarcasm dripped from her.
"Well then, hunt."
She rolled her eyes and continued scanning the living room.
Admittedly, the place wasn’t the tidiest. Lavender and Parvati used to complain about how much of a slob she was at Hogwarts — but compared to Ron, she was practically a neat freak. She had no idea how Molly kept up with him and all his siblings. Just thinking about it made her want to start casting cleaning charms again. Ron? She doubted he’d cast one in the last five years.
Snorting at her own internal monologue, she made her way into the kitchen — and there it was. Her purse was sitting on the table, plain as day. Ron was head-deep in the fridge.
"Really Ron? You couldn't have done just a quick scan of your environment?" She groused, slinging it on her shoulder.
He stuck his head out, looking quickly at the offending item.
"Well, if my lunch was packed, I would have the time to look for your items in the morning."
"Top left, you git. Turkey and cheese. Crisps are in the pantry."
He turned around and grimaced as if smelling something foul, "A turkey and cheese toasty? You couldn't make me something?"
She rolled her eyes again — a well-worn reflex by now. "I did make you something. Just because it's not your mum's level of cooking doesn't mean I didn't take the time to make you something."
He plucked the sandwich from the shelf like a sulking teenager. She thought she heard him mutter something under his breath — “Yeah, loads of effort” — but she didn’t have the energy to start that argument again. She was already late.
"Your appreciation is astounding. I'll see you tonight," She saw a flippant wave of his hand as he stuffed the sandwich into his lunch pail.
She flooed into the Ministry’s main atrium, the wide, open space a welcome change from the cramped chaos of this morning’s exchange.
Her work was demanding—but surprisingly refreshing. Most people she knew who worked at the Ministry found their jobs soul-sucking. But for Hermione, it gave her life. She loved her little office—even if it had once been a broom closet. The desk was far too large for the space, but she’d squeezed in a single bookshelf and managed to wedge a visitor’s chair across from her own.
And on that overstuffed desk, she had everything she needed: mountains of parchment, her polished, high-end quill pot, and a framed Muggle photo of her and Ron on holiday in Aruba when they were twenty-three. He was grinning down at her, unreasonably fit, with the sun-drenched beach and crystal-clear water behind them.
She looked at the photo, getting lost in the cut of Ron's muscles. He quit being an Auror a year later. He works with George now, running the joke shop- no more training three times a week or high-intensity fieldwork.
She sighed, running the tip of her quill over Photo Ron's abs.
"Sentimental?" She jumped at the voice in her open doorway. Closing it always made her feel claustrophobic.
“Malfoy,” she said, composing herself. “No, just daydreaming about how badly I need a holiday.”
“I keep telling you—you can use any of my six houses across Europe.” Draco smirked as he crossed the room and set another stack of parchment on her desk.
She knew. Oh, how she’d begged Ron when Draco had first offered.
'I don't know Mione. That feels too strange.'
'What's strange about a practically free vacation. All we would have to pay for would be the portkey and any food while we were there. Just imagine summer on the Amalfi Coast.' She grabbed his arm where it rested between them on the couch.
'Yeah, but Malfoy has slept in those beds. Plus, it makes us look like we're poor.'
‘We are poor,’ she’d deadpanned—sparking a fight that turned into a lecture about how hard he worked.
“Ah, but where would you store that massive ego of yours?” she asked now, taking the new papers from Draco.
“I think five mansions can handle it just fine,” he said with an elegant shrug, collapsing into her guest chair with a grace no man should have.
Well—collapsed was a strong word. Draco didn’t collapse. Every movement he made seemed purpose-built by some elite etiquette tutor. Even years past his pure-blood pedestal, the posture stuck.
“Mmm,” she murmured, scanning the case file.
“Did you cut your hair?”
Her eyes flicked up. His tone was casual, but his gaze was… attentive.
“Yeah. Saturday,” she said, self-consciously twirling a springy curl around her finger.
“It looks good. Springier.”
She flushed, cheeks warming in spite of herself. Trust Draco to notice the details. Ron hadn’t mentioned the haircut—even after she told him she had an appointment.
She scolded herself for the comparison. It wasn’t fair. And yet…
“You’re just trying to butter me up so I’ll sign off on your report without reading it?”
"Ya know, Granger, it's almost as if you're the mind reader."
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.
Her job was to review anomalies in the Auror department. Anytime a protocol wasn’t followed, it came to her desk. Most saw her as a final, annoying checkbox—but her role was deeper. She’d been placed there to detect patterns—signs of corruption, of power slipping again toward something darker.
After the war, the Ministry had decided they needed more oversight. Kingsley had personally offered her the position. At first, she’d taken it to stay close to Harry and Ron. They were both Aurors then, and while she didn’t want to chase dark wizards through alleyways, she liked knowing she was helping catch them.
Then Harry left to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. And Ron left a year later, taking George up on a business offer. Now she was the only one left. But she didn’t mind.
She liked the rhythm. The 9-to-5. The coffee breaks and strange coworkers. The normalcy of it all made her feel like she lived in a silly little sitcom.
And like every sitcom, she had her quirky co-star: Draco Malfoy.
Once the enemy, now… her best friend.
He’d joined the Ministry on a conditional basis post-war. Her supervisor even asked her to watch him. That changed when they discovered he was a natural Legilimens. Suddenly, his usefulness outweighed their suspicion. The Department leaned on his skill constantly. And with him being a regular fixture at her desk, it hadn’t taken long for icy professionalism to thaw into shared sarcasm… and eventually, something like real friendship.
"Ugh! He trafficked poached centaur hooves?" She said in outrage, reading the man's arrest report.
"I knew that would get you all in a tizzy." He smirked, "Yes, he set traps in forests that would signal him when they were triggered. He would immediately appear there and bring it to another location before the herd could find them."
"That-! Ugh! What a- What a lowlife!" She huffed in anger, signing off her approval.
"Aww, I was hoping that would have gotten a level 2 curse word out of you." He pouted, folding his arms over his—yes, fine—very defined chest.
"Sorry to disappoint. Would it make it better if I called him a tosspot?"
"A level 1 insult?" He scoffed, "Save your breathe,"
He was nearly out the door when she called after him.
"Oh, what are we doing for lunch?"
"I was thinking about Magianos." He smirked, resuming his position leaning against her door jam.
"I can't," She groaned.
His smile fell from his face. "Why not? That's your favorite."
"I know, but the gala is next week and I need to watch my waistline."
She went out of her way to buy a new dress for the occasion, and it was slightly more revealing than what she would normally wear. But she had come from mimosas with Ginny and was feeling herself.
He scoffed, "Okay, in that case, we are definitely going to Magianos."
"Draco!"
"No, Hermione, you can eat a bowl of pasta once a week and be perfectly healthy."
"But-"
"No buts," he raised an index finger. "Am I clear?"
"Yes, Daddy,"
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
The air changed instantly. Tightened.
His jaw flexed. His eyes gleamed. He looked her over slowly—appraising, deliberate.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. Then he was gone.
It happened occasionally. Moments like that—careless, loaded, forbidden.
A joke. A glance. A word that stuck a little too long.
And then they would just move on as if it never happened because it couldn't happen. She was married, and he was... Draco Malfoy. Read to mean: completely out of her league, even if she was single and he was interested.
Which she wasn’t.
And he wasn’t.
Probably.
He just liked to flirt. She reminded herself for the hundredth time. But that same train of thought didn't stop her from crossing her legs to appease the burning there.
-
She loved getting ready, despite popular belief.
People always assumed she was too practical, too bookish, too uninterested in appearance to enjoy the process. But she did. It reminded her of her mum—sitting at her vanity, letting Hermione clumsily smear eyeshadow on her lids and clack around the house in heels far too big.
She didn’t wear makeup every day—mostly because she was a shameless late sleeper. She liked to stretch the morning to its last possible second before getting up, always racing the clock. But on nights like this, when she had time to slow down, she enjoyed it.
She clasped her necklace and stood straight, appraising herself in the mirror. The plum silk gown skimmed the floor and dipped low in the front. It hugged her hips, flaring slightly before tapering back in around her legs. Black lace traced along the hem and neckline—just enough detail to feel elegant without being fussy.
It wasn’t something she’d normally wear. But it wasn’t tight, and it didn’t scream look at me. For a Ministry gala, she’d reasoned, it walked the line just fine.
She ran her hands down her sides, smoothing the fabric.
Behind her, Ron's voice cut into the moment.
“What are you wearing?”
She turned toward him, catching his frown in the mirror.
“I bought it,” she said, smiling. “What do you think?” She gave him a twirl, the skirt flaring gently.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t you think it’s a little… much?”
The smile faltered.
“Much?”
“I mean, yeah, Mione. Practically your whole boob is out.”
She blinked. The dress was low, sure—but she’d worn far riskier things in their younger days. Things he used to love, if she recalled correctly. Mini skirts and open backs and dresses that had made his eyes go wide in bars.
“I mean, it’s a little low, but—”
“And don’t you think it’s kind of unflattering?” he added. “You know… around the belly?”
That one landed.
Hard.
Her breath caught in her throat. She turned slowly to the side, catching the soft curve just beneath the dress. A pooch, maybe. A bit of extra softness that had appeared over the last few years and refused to leave. She’d called it her “Greek goddess body” at her birthday party last year. Rounder hips. Softer thighs. Curves she’d grown into.
Ron had laughed back then and kissed her forehead, telling her he’d love her no matter what she looked like.
Now, it felt like a lie.
She blinked fast, refusing to let tears take the win.
“Well, your belly isn’t the most flattering these days either, is it?” she snapped before she could stop herself.
“Oi! Sorry I’m not running sixteen miles a day anymore,” he shot back.
“Whatever.” Her tone flattened. She turned back to the mirror, eyes landing on the curve again. Her hand hovered near her stomach, then dropped. She wasn’t changing. Not tonight.
“Let’s go.”
She grabbed her bag, heading for the Floo without checking to see if he was following.
“Malfoy Manor,” she called out clearly, stepping into the green flames.
The Malfoys had been hosting nearly every Ministry gala for the past few years, ever since Narcissa generously offered her sprawling estate as a venue—free of charge. Hermione had been by the manor plenty of times, especially during the quieter weeks when she and Draco found time to hang out. Though, lately, those visits were fewer than she’d like.
As soon as she arrived, she was scanning the glittering ballroom, offering polite smiles to anyone who caught her gaze, though her focus was singular—she was looking for him.
When her eyes finally landed on the unmistakable platinum blond hair, she exhaled in quiet relief.
“Hello, stranger.”
He turned toward her, no doubt with a snarky comment already forming. But whatever he was going to say died on his lips. His smile faltered the moment he took her in.
She drank in the stunned appreciation on his face, and it soothed something raw inside her.
“Well, fuck me,” he said slowly, eyes dark with admiration. “Don’t you look good, Granger.”
“And you, as always,” she replied, giving him a quick once-over. He cut a devastating figure in a black suit that had to be tailored within an inch of its life.
“Now,” she continued breezily, “I need to get so drunk that I forget the last thirty minutes, but not so drunk that I can't Floo home. If you wouldn’t mind.”
She swept past him toward the bar, knowing he would follow—and he did.
“What did the prat do now?”
Usually, she’d reprimand him for talking about Ron like that. It wasn’t a good look to have your best friend trash your husband. But tonight, she didn’t care. Hell, she hadn’t even checked to see if Ron had arrived after her.
“Guess.” She threw him a spiteful smile while trying to flag down the bartender.
“He told you the dress was too revealing.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “Ah, and circle hits the square.”
“Did he try to make you change?”
“No,” she said, her smile sharp, “that fucker told me the dress was… unflattering. Particularly around my midsection.”
She pointed a finger at him. “And it’s your bloody fault, because I told you I didn’t want to go to Magianos.”
She had meant it as a joke. Truly. But the last words caught like splinters in her throat, emotion threatening to spill over.
She leaned forward, bracing her palms against the bar, breathing in through her nose.
“Come with me,” Draco said suddenly, and her head snapped toward him.
“What?”
“Did I stutter?” he asked, raising a brow as he held out his hand.
She hesitated—but only for a second—before placing her hand in his. A heartbeat later, the world twisted in a rush of air and color as they Apparated away.
They landed softly, and she barely had time to register a spacious bedroom before she spun on him.
“What the hell, Malfoy?!”
“Turn around.”
She scowled but did as he said, her eyes catching on the full-length mirror across the room.
“You bought this dress because you liked it. So what did you like about it?”
“Draco—” she started, turning her head.
But he was already there, stepping behind her, pressing his chest gently to her back. He reached up and guided her gaze forward with a soft but firm touch under her chin.
“No. Tell me, Hermione. What did you like about the dress?”
She took a calming breath. He let go, but didn’t step away.
Her fingers smoothed down the silk. “I liked the color. I thought it brought out my eyes.”
“It does. It also shows off all your little freckles.” His smile flickered soft for a moment, then faded into something more intense. “What else?”
“I liked the cut,” she murmured, her hand skimming over her hip. “I guess—I—”
“Say it.”
Her voice trembled. “I thought I looked pretty in it.”
“You do.”
“And I know my tits aren’t as perky as they used to be, but I thought they looked good.”
“They look incredible.”
Her throat closed again. “And I thought my belly looked fine. I mean, I know it’s a little tight, but—”
“But nothing, Hermione. This dress is stunning. You are stunning in it.”
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could catch it. She wiped at it quickly.
“You think so?”
“Witch,” he growled softly against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine, “you make everyone downstairs look like Dolores Umbridge in a clown costume.”
She laughed, the sound bursting out despite herself.
He smiled in response—warm, quiet, real.
She turned to face him, her hand resting gently on his forearm.
“Thank you, Draco.”
But he was looking down at her with an expression that made her heart stop in her throat. She waited for it to pass. These moments always did—these overheated seconds charged with unspoken emotion. But then his hand came up to cradle her jaw.
And that was new.
They never touched during these moments. Their tension usually stayed at a safe distance—smoldering stares, clenched stomachs, skimming past lines they both refused to cross.
"Hermione," He said her name like a prayer.
Oh no.
Her heart galloped painfully. Alarm bells screamed in her head.
"Draco-"
"Why are you with him?" Her heart beat painfully against her chest, the bell was right.
"I- I love him, Draco."
She expected him to recoil, but he merely shook his head.
"That's not love."
"You don't know anything about our relationship." she snapped, irritation slicing through the emotion. She pulled her head away from his hand, but he only sighed, as if exhausted by years of holding something in.
"I know everything about your relationship, Hermione. We have been best friends for eight years. I know that he leaves his toothbrush on the vanity and not in the cup. I know he hasn't cooked you dinner in the last ten years. I know that he won't get a new owl since his bloody rat was Peter Pettigrew, so you have to send all your owls through the Ministry Owlery."
"Those are small things," She snipped, suddenly feeling exposed. Like all the vulnerabilities she had shared with him over the years were being picked at like worms after a rainstorm.
"Yes, those are small things, but they culminate in big things. Like him never wanting to leave the shop to go on Holiday or find your parents. Or him quitting being an Auror without even telling you-"
"We were engaged then-"
"It doesn't matter!" His voice finally rose, sharp and furious "It doesn't matter because there are hundreds of things I could bring up. I have lists and lists of useless knowledge about how much of an absolute git Ron Weasley is, about how he mistreats you."
"He does not-"
"Hermione, look where we are for two bloody seconds." Her brows furrowed as she looked around.
There was a giant four-poster bed with silk black sheets. A pile of books on the nightstand, most pertaining to potions. His reading glasses, which she secretly thought made him look even sexier, rested on top.
"Your bedroom?"
"Yes, we are in my bedroom. During a Ministry Gala. Because your tosspot of a husband made you feel bad about how you look tonight."
"That is neither here nor there."
He steeled his resolve. She knew this look. It was the same one he wore as her childhood bully. She braced herself for impact.
"How's the sex?"
"Wha- What?" She sputtered. She would have lost her footing if she were doing anything but standing still.
"Is it good? Does it leave you satisfied?"
"I- How dare-"
"I know it doesn't." He stalked closer to her, and she retreated backwards. His eyes were burning into her. "You want to know how I know it doesn't?"
"Draco..."
Her back hit the cold full-length mirror making her lift her back quickly to avoid the surface while Draco blazed forward in front of her.
"Because you sit and flirt with me. I call you my good girl, and you shiver. I look at you for too long, and you cross your legs, thinking I won’t notice. Trust me, Hermione, I notice." He leaned a hand behind her, leaning into her.
"I-" she fumbled. They weren’t supposed to talk about this. It was always there—unspoken, quietly acknowledged, and always, always avoided. "I am- sorry if I gave you the wrong impression-"
He let out a sharp, bitter laugh, pulling away.
"Stop acting like I'm stupid. I may not have had your top marks, but I was only a little behind." He ran a hand through his hair, turning toward the lit fire.
A tense silence fell.
Fear coursed through her veins. Was this the end of their friendship? No, surely not. They were stronger than that. She just needed to put him back comfortably in the friend zone. No more flirting or unintentional longing glances.
"I understand you don't approve of my marriage." He scoffed, "But it is that- my marriage. And I do love him, Draco. I appreciate you being my friend and trying to... stick up for me. But really, I'm fine, we just bicker a lot. Married couples bicker."
He turned back to the fire, jaw clenched. “Your husband putting you down constantly, never accommodating your needs, needing you to mother him—that’s not bickering.”
Then he turned sharply.
“It’s me or him.”
Her chest cracked open.
“Wha-”
"You can't see how toxic your marriage is- fine. Then we will see how you fare when I'm not there to pick up the pieces."
She felt tears prickling at her eyes in a wave of emotion she experienced as quickly as a tsunami.
“Draco—” She rushed toward him, hands rising to cup his face. “Please, I’m sorry if I—”
But he gently pulled her hands down, holding them in his.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said softly. “But I’m done loving you from a distance.”
Her heart stuttered at that word. Love.
“I’m done watching you shrink yourself to stay at his level. You deserve so much more.”
Tears streamed freely down her cheeks. “Please—please don’t do this to me.”
He wiped a tear with his thumb.
“I love you, Hermione Granger.”
She sobbed. “Don’t—don’t say that.”
“I love you too much to watch you stay in this. If you were happy—if he deserved you—I would’ve loved you from afar forever. But this? This has to stop.”
“No,” she whispered, her forehead pressed to his chest. “Please, you’re my best friend.”
"And you're mine," he held her close to him, hugging her as if he wasn't inflicting the sharp stabbing sensation in her chest. "But you need to be pushed, Hermione. You need to take the blindfold off."
Anger ignited in her gut. She shoved him back, voice rising.
"And you think that's your right? You get to dismantle either my marriage or my closest friendship."
"I'm more than just your friend." He said calmly, putting his hands in his trousers. "I'm your filler."
She scoffed, her hands finding her hips.
"You want stimulating conversation? You come to my cubicle. You want to bounce around a case or need support? You scheduled our lunch at a wizarding establishment instead of a Muggle one, so we can talk about it. You need someone's shoulder to cry on? You come to Malfoy Manor anytime that is convenient."
"Well, I am sorry to have inconvenienced you so much throughout the years." She snipped, tears in her eyes from where it felt like a lance was going through her chest.
He advanced on her slowly, not acknowledging her words.
"You want attention? You wear heels and that navy skirt and sit on my desk, knowing I won't be able to tear my eyes away from your legs. You want a compliment? You wear makeup or a new blouse and bring me coffee in the morning to ensure I see you." Her back hit the mirror again, a gasp leaving her at the cold sensation against her heated skin. "'You want to flirt? You give me those looks under your lashes or wink at me with those cheeky little comments. You want a heavy hand?" His palm lightly enclosed her throat, her eyes fluttering at the sensation but she held his gaze. "You ‘accidentally’ call me sir or daddy. Hell, do you remember that one time you called me master?"
She did. He was being bossy, and it just slipped past her lips.
"Merlin, I was late to a meeting because I had to get my excitement tamped down before I walked in with tented trousers."
"Draco..."
"You know what you're doing." He cut off. "You are the most intelligent person I know. You know that you are dating me and going home at night to him." His thumb stroked her pulse affectionately.
She had never thought of it that way. She had never thought that she was seeking so much from him. But she did know that she would talk to him in ways she would never even consider talking to Harry. But she boiled it down to Draco being such a natural flirt. It was never meant to harm him. It was never meant to be spoken out loud.
"I have to choose him." she whispered, tears slipping fast now. "You know I have to choose him."
"No," he lifted her chin. "You have to choose yourself. I'll give you a month." Another sputtered cry fell from her lips, "Think it over."
He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingered for a second, then stepped back—leaving her standing there, broken.