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“Are you here for a sire, or to surrogate?”
Hermione secured her mask—an elegant bronze and gold wolf—and stepped into a private adult club, transformed for one night into an ancient Roman bacchanal.
This was nothing like the Ministry’s boring Repopulation events. Tonight, nonconformists, unconventionalists, and the uncoupled came to comply, but on their own terms. Here, she could be anything. Nothing was forbidden. No one knew her name. The freedom of it set her skin on fire.
“A sire.”
As she spoke, a shimmering gold band wrapped around her wrist.
“Gold for those who wish to claim any children conceived,” the attendant said, “black for those who don’t.”
Hermione nodded. Had she not wanted a child herself, she might have offered to surrogate. But she did want a child. Badly.
“The rules are simple, dear,” she continued. “Masks and bands stay on outside your suite, though you may choose to remove your mask once inside. Consent to inseminate is assumed, but may be withdrawn any time by either party.”
Then she winked, pressing a vial into Hermione’s hand. “This is an arousal enhancer if you need a little extra… encouragement.”
Hermione smiled and slipped the bottle into her pocket. She didn’t need it. There was already a slow coiling heat in her belly. Besides, she had a plan. She was meeting Terry Boot. An old friend willing to satisfy the requirements of the Repopulation Act. He didn’t want children. Frankly, he didn't want her. No strings. No expectations. No romance. And for Hermione, that was fine.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want the whole bloody fantasy—love, marriage, family. She did. But she wasn’t leaving it to chance. Or to some Ministry appointed marriage, or hasty performative romance born of panic.
The Ministry could dictate her timeline, but not her method. Which meant Hermione would do this here, with Terry, and then go home alone. It also meant, regrettably, she wouldn’t be indulging in any of the bacchanal’s temptations.
Still, it was a party. And damned if Hermione wasn’t wearing a costume.
She slid off her robes. Her dress was a white pearlescent silk, the fabric loose and Romanesque in fashion, pouring over her body like liquid and falling to her ankles. A deep v plunged past her sternum, cinching at the waist with a slender tie. In the candlelight, the material shimmered.
She smoothed her hair, which was loosely drawn back and twisted into a crown of braids at the nape of her head. Hermione felt unrecognizable, which was exactly the point.
“You’re a bloody goddess in that gown, love,” murmured a tall, dark-haired wix. “I’m Willow, your steward for the evening. Shall I give you a tour?”
Hermione nodded, taking their arm.
“We’ll begin in the main hall. From there, you’ll have access to tonight’s four additional areas of play. Mind the steps.”
They passed through a heavy velvet curtain and descended into the heart of the club. The space felt transformed—less like a masquerade, more like a place where the old gods might wander among mortals.
The main hall was cavernous, lit by fire, candles, and fairy lights that wound around marble columns. A black stone bar stood at the far end, with modern chaises and low sofas arranged in pockets.
Most notable, however, was the display. Dozens of men stood on low platforms, posing like living statues. Some wore togas, tunics, or linen subligacula; others donned gladiator leathers, and a few wore nothing but masks, their skin gilded in gold paint. Witches moved freely among them, flirting, laughing, weighing each suitor’s potential. Others prowled more quietly, their eyes calculating as if playing silent, predatory games.
Several couples were already engaged in play.
Hermione’s pulse beat between her thighs. Here, want wasn’t merely allowed, it was encouraged. Here, she could be just another body, free to touch, free to take. She watched as Cleopatra lowered herself onto Antony—his fingers wrapped around her waist, both of them moaning, clinging desperately—and her ache deepened.
“The Main Hall,” Willow murmured, “is designated for open play.”
She paused before a row of men atop stone pedestals. She could feel their gazes dragging over her—hungry, appraising, curious about the kind of woman she might be.
She lifted her hand to the chest of a curly-haired Apollo. She could feel his heat, saw the subtle tremor as his abdomen tightened. His eyes raked over her, openly wanting. What would it feel like, she wondered, to take him here, in full view of the room just because she could?
She sighed, dropping her hand.
And she could… in theory. She could choose any of them. Use them anonymously. Spend the entire Bacchanal lost in sensation until she was heavy, sore, and achingly full. But not tonight. She'd already made an arrangement. And yet…
As Willow guided her through a large alcove, Hermione slowed. Hardened cocks protruded from pre-cut circles in the wall, flushed and waiting. Her stomach swooped.
“Go on, love, if you’re tempted.” Willow nudged her arm. “This area is for free use.”
Maybe it was the mask. Maybe it was the encouragement, but this time she touched. Hermione wrapped her fingers around a cock, thick and already leaking, and gave one slow, deliberate pump. A sound came from the other side of the wall. His hips jerked forward. She twisted her wrist on the upstroke, and a string of precome fell from the tip.
“Already dripping for a stranger?” she murmured loud enough for him to hear. “Pathetic.”
Another groan, and the cock in her hand throbbed violently. Hermione released him completely. A miserable, frustrated noise leaked through the partition. She grinned at Willow and walked away without any further touch.
That one small act left her feeling invigorated. She’d always enjoyed turning cocky arseholes into whimpering messes. It was the challenge, she supposed, or perhaps just the raw fact of being wanted so badly a man would abandon his pride to beg for—
Hermione sucked in a breath.
Across the alcove, a wizard stepped back, revealing a woman displayed just as openly—shoved through a hole of her own, her arse marked with the word surrogate in shimmering black letters. Her body was flushed and trembling, her entrance swollen and slick with the evidence of what had just taken place.
She watched as the next wizard in line stepped forward, stroking himself before plunging inside with a low sigh of relief. She’d never seen anything like it.
Hermione’s voice came out strained. “If she falls pregnant, how will they know who the father is?”
Willow gestured to Hermione’s wrist. “The band records magical signatures. Paternity is verified automatically, and the sire is notified.”
Willow arched a knowing brow. “You need a cooling charm, love?”
Hermione huffed a laugh. “No, I’m… fine.”
Willow smirked, and they continued onward. “Through there—beyond that curtain—is our dark room. I won’t bother taking you inside, you wouldn’t be able to see a thing. The corridor to the right of it will take you to your private suite. And over here—“ Willow guided her to the left, “these doors will take you to separate areas of the club—the exhibition theater, our fantasy play rooms, and the BDSM dungeons. Any questions, love?”
Hermione shook her head.
“I’m yours for the evening—whatever you need. Call my name to summon me. Otherwise...” Willow winked, squeezed her arm gently, and disappeared back into the crowd.
Hermione was alone.
Men watched her openly now, and she suddenly felt transparent, like the desire in her veins was just as visible as the silk clinging to her skin. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a floating tray and turned toward the main hall.
It was time to find Terry. It was still early, but if she waited any longer…
A small cluster of witches near the bar caught her attention. At first glance, they seemed to be watching her. But no. Their focus was fixed just over her shoulder.
One of them went still. Another leaned forward, nudging her friend, who paused, champagne glass halfway to her lips. Hermione felt the sudden, inexplicable urge to turn.
She did.
And gods.
Or no… just one.
Tall, broad, and pale as moonlight. A living deity lounged several feet ahead, sprawled out on a velvet armchair as though he owned it. A silver Roman parade mask concealed his face and hair, his eyes shadowed behind the dark slits. A deep crimson paludamentum draped from one shoulder, framing his bare, well-muscled chest. Black runic tattoos wound over his ribs like the pages of a book. A thick belt and leather pteruges sat low at his hips, drawing her eyes down.
There was a charge in the air around him. A gravity that tugged at her.
He was desire made flesh. The kind of man that made her ovaries sit up and behave with deeply inadvisable enthusiasm.
She watched as the firelight shifted over his skin, catching on the glow of old, white scars that cut across his torso. And his hands—long, elegant, veined—drummed a restless pattern along the arm of the chair, a black ring glinting on his middle finger. She could just make out the faint shimmer of a glamour on his forearm. A dark mark?
Her breath caught. Wait—
Was he…
Draco Malfoy?
Shock rooted Hermione to the spot.
He was alone, like her, watching other couples as they flirted and paired off. He wasn’t participating. He didn’t seem inclined to make a move on the witches that smiled at him—though he had to be here for the same reason she was. Instead, he just watched. Not predatory like the others, just… observant. He leaned back in his chair with a kind of lazy authority she recognized instantly. He was the very picture of confidence. And sex.
There was no doubt about it: this was Draco Malfoy.
And Draco Malfoy hated her.
Or, at least, she thought he did. He wasn’t the same arrogant little shit from school, though he was still, undeniably, an arrogant shit. He absolutely doted on Teddy. He even got on well enough with Harry. They orbited all the same circles, so for years she watched him. He was quiet. Observant. And when he spoke, it was almost always clever. Charming in a way that made you feel you were part of an inside joke together.
But with her?
He’d never once spoken to her. Not in boardrooms. Or lifts. Not on pub nights, or even the events they both attended. He barely looked at her at all. At most, he’d offer a polite nod, like he’d already decided there was nothing worth saying. Like she’d been weighed, measured, and found unremarkable. Most of the time, it was as if she didn’t exist.
Not that it bothered her. She hardly even noticed.
Hermione gripped her champagne glass tighter and took a sip.
She must have been staring, because once he noticed, he stilled. His head tilted, attention locking on.
Her pulse skittered. She looked away, aware of how exposed she was just standing there. She needed to move somewhere else.
She slid into a dark corner of the bar and set her glass aside. Then, unable to help herself, she glanced back.
He was still looking.
The room seemed to narrow. Sound dulled. A current pulled between them. Her pulse kicked as he rose and crossed the space, unhurried, stopping a step away.
“Well hello, little wolf,” he said. “Who might you be?”
The sound of his voice set butterflies loose inside her. There was no mistaking it. She lifted her glass, took a measured sip, then raised her chin, letting the mask steady her.
“Who do you think I am?”
Malfoy’s eyes flickered with interest. He tilted his head, studying her costume. Up close, his presence felt heavier. His gaze moved slowly, not leering, but intent as if he were taking her apart piece by piece and filing away the details.
“You could be Diana,” he murmured. “But you don’t strike me as particularly predatory... You’re no werewolf, either...”
His gaze lingered, thoughtful.
“Lupa,” he said at last. “The mother wolf to Rome. Fierce. Protective,” his voice dipped playfully. “Dangerously unmerciful.”
Warmth curled in her chest.
“And you’d do well to remember it, soldier.” She smiled, pleased he’d seen her, relieved… if not a little disappointed he hadn’t seen all of her.
His lips curved. “And who am I?”
She set her glass aside, and let her gaze travel over him. His costume was lavish. The parade helmet and the purple stripe at his shoulder marked him as imperial—someone with rank. But there was no insignia. Nothing to indicate a specific person, or anything beyond a wealthy conscript.
The irony wasn’t lost.
She slid off the stool, close enough that the fabric of her dress brushed his skin, and she could see the pale grey of his eyes. One finger slipped beneath the edge of his mask, tilting his face toward hers.
“You’re nobody,” she whispered. “Just some high ranking legate. A lackey with too much land and too much gold.”
And then, because she wanted to see what he’d do with it, she lowered her voice.
“A dominus.”
His breath hitched.
There it was. She felt the familiar spark catch—the challenge she’d always recognised in herself. The urge to test how much control someone really had.
The moment stretched. His gaze lingered, weighing her. It felt heavy like hands on her skin.
She tilted her chin.
Let him look.
He lifted a finger, tracing the line of her neck, barely touching. Heat skated through her.
“Would you like to find out, little wolf?”
The word yes surged white-hot in her throat.
“I—” She stopped herself. Gods.
This was reckless, too fast. He was Draco Malfoy. She was Hermione Granger. And Terry—she was supposed to find Terry.
“I’m not who you want.”
He leaned closer, gray eyes darkening. “Aren’t you?”
“No. I’m—”
“You’re—what?” His voice stayed smooth. “Tempted?”
His fingers drifted lower, resting briefly at her sternum. She swallowed.
No. She had a plan.
But it felt miles away. Paper-thin against the weight of his attention, against the ache curling low in her body. It wasn’t her he wanted. He wanted the wolf. That should have stopped her. Should have cooled the flush spreading slowly down her body.
It didn’t.
Because the way he looked at her—cool, confident, annoyingly smug—made her want to see how long that careful composure could last before it snapped.
If she had even a shred less restraint, she’d have him on his knees right there, against the bar. Desire pooled at the image; her skin flushed, nipples tightening beneath the silk.
He brushed his thumb across one.
She gasped. Pleasure jolted through her like lightning. She was certain he was smirking behind the mask.
That old challenge flared brighter.
Could she do it? Could she fuck Draco Malfoy? Not just fuck—let him come inside her? Raw. Unprotected. Just this once?
Another wave of desire flooded her body.
Yes.
Her thoughts dissolved. The world fell away. For the first time since she arrived, Hermione ignored the rules. Ignored the plan. Her body brushed his, and she felt him shudder at the contact.
She smacked his hand away, driving him backward until he hit the bar.
“Careful,” she warned. “I don’t make things easy.”
The pulse at his throat jumped. His hands closed firmly around her waist.
“Good.”
And with a crack, they vanished.
Hermione pressed her wand to the sensor and the door clicked open.
The hum of voices and music faded as the door shut behind them, sealing them into the silence. The room was dim, with a wide bed draped in dark linen, a fire crackling in the hearth, and large windows that looked out into the dark forest. In the quiet, there was nothing to distract her from the sudden intimacy.
Draco leaned against the entryway, masked eyes sweeping the room before settling on her. Every second that stretched made her heart pound faster.
Draco's hand closed gently around hers.
“If there’s anything you don’t want, anything that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me. We can stop, or slow down, or… whatever you need.”
Her throat tightened at the unexpected thoughtfulness. For a split second, she almost confessed, blurting the truth of who she was and why she was there. Instead, Hermione squared her shoulders and let the wolf mask steady her.
“No,” she said, dropping his hand. Her eyes dragged across his body, the heat returning to her core. “I know what I want.”
She nodded toward the bed. “Clothes off. On the bed.”
He studied her, eyes unreadable behind the mask. “As you wish, little wolf.”
He pushed off the wall, stepping to the centre of the room. Hermione stood back, hungry eyes tracing every line, drinking him in.
He unfastened his paludamentum and let it slip to the floor. Then came the buckle at his waist, the pteruges, and finally his sandals. He straightened. Hermione stopped breathing.
He looked indecently fuckable. Sharp lines, just enough muscle, and a round, biteable arse. Even his cock was a work of art—heavy, veined, and framed by dark blonde hair.
Wordlessly he strode to the bed, settling against the headboard, legs spread. His cock bobbed heavy against his stomach, the tip already flushed. The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat straight to her core.
“You like what you see, little wolf?”
The sound of his voice jolted her back.
She could hear heat in his tone, the tiniest edge of smugness beneath it. He knew exactly what he looked like. Exactly what his body was doing to her.
She’d indulged him anyway. Because, yes, she very much liked what she saw.
“You are beautiful,” she murmured, climbing into his lap. She settled her knees on either side of him. Gods, and he smelled good, too. Like amber and warm wood, so intoxicating it made her want to bury her face in his neck and simply inhale.
Her hands wandered his chest, fingernails tracing a path over one raised scar, and then another, slow enough to draw goosebumps. She traced the line of Latin inked along his ribs, pausing once her fingers reached the end.
“It’s Ovid,” he murmured. “From Metamorphoses.”
She glanced up, curious.
“Everything is changed; nothing dies,” he continued. “What happens to us doesn’t go away. It becomes part of us. We are altered by it.”
His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Marked.”
Her gaze drifted back down to the ink, to the scars beneath it. All evidence of the things he’d done. Of the things he’d survived.
She looked at him again.
“They look good on you,” she said softly. Almost too soft. Tender.
She cleared her throat. Tender was not what she was here for.
He reached for her, but she twisted away, tsking under her breath. “Patience, Dominus.”
She took him in again. “Everything about you looks good,” she deflected, fingers skimming the lines of muscle. “Not even Michelangelo could do you justice.”
That gave her an idea. With a little flick, she conjured a paintbrush—well, technically a makeup brush she never used, but it would do. She held it up. His eyes widened behind the mask.
In one languid stroke, she dragged the brush down his chest, the soft bristles whispering against his nipples.
“Do you like being tickled, Dominus?”
His eyes were locked on her hand, breath already shallower. “… I might.”
She smirked, wandering lower, tracing his navel, the sharp V of his hips, and the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. His muscles jumped, a shudder rolling through him.
“Is this all right?”
He nodded—tight. His thighs tensed, fingers dropping to the sheets.
She hovered the brush above his cock. Watching his hips twitch, anticipating contact. Then she let the bristles ghost along his length, featherlight, from base to tip.
He gasped. “Fuck.”
“You like that?” She ran it along the underside, slow circles over the frenulum.
“Wolf—“
Precome welled at the slit. She caught it with the bristles, transfixed as it stretched into a glistening thread. She clenched at the sight, her own wetness beginning to leak, pooling between them.
“Would you look at that,” she whispered, “I bet this cock comes beautifully… I’d love to see how long you could hold out before—” She broke off, remembering the vial in her dress pocket. For extra encouragement, the attendant had said.
She fished it out and held it up, her grin wicked.
“What do you think?”
His fingers wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. “I’m not going to need that.”
She let him draw her in, adjusting so their bodies were nearly flush. His cock pressed insistently against her stomach.
“It’s not about needing it. It’s about how long you can withstand it.”
“Fucking hell. Is that what you want?”
She nodded, widening her eyes, all faux innocence and guile. “I want you ruined.”
“Trust me—“ he swallowed. “I won’t need a potion.”
She tilted her head, considering. He looked earnest. More than ready. Anyone could see that. But a reckless part of her still wanted to see what would happen if she pushed him past it.
“But imagine,” she murmured sweetly, “how full you’d make me after this.”
He swore.
“Are you strong enough, Dominus?”
He exhaled, head tipping back. “You’re no wolf. You’re a fucking devil.”
She grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Hermione uncorked the vial and drizzled the glittering red liquid over his cock. It sizzled as it met his skin. They locked eyes. She stroked the brush along his length again, spreading the potion deliberately.
The effect was immediate. Draco’s whole body went taut, muscles flexing, veins standing out along his forearms and throat.
“Salazar fucking Christ.”
“Yeah?” She swirled her brush around the head. “How does it feel?”
“Like fire,” he rasped. “It’s fucking everywhere. Gods—keep doing that.” His hand gripped the base of his cock, but she swatted it away.
He groaned, cock twitching violently, jerking up to slap against his stomach.
“Gods, touch it. Touch it, please.”
She did not. She watched instead how his stomach tensed. How his thighs clenched. The way he desperately tried to keep from thrusting into the air. A thick bead of precome welled and spilled over, dripping down his shaft.
Hermione wet her lips.
He groaned again. “Oh gods, are you gonna put it in your mouth? No? Fuck. I don’t care what it is but for Salazar’s sake, I need you to do something.”
A slow, devilish smile curved her lips. That didn’t sound like a demand. It sounded like a plea.
She dropped the brush and slid two fingers between her own thighs. Hermione swiped through the heat, already agonizingly wet, and gathered her arousal in a glistening sheen. Draco tracked every movement, pupils blown wide.
Without breaking eye contact, she wrapped her fingers around his cock, slicking him from base to tip, circling the flushed crown with her thumb.
He bucked hard, hips jerking like he’d been shocked. A raw sound broke from his throat, the muscles in his thighs corded. She pulled her hand away just as his cock jerked again, another bead of precome welling at the tip. A string of curses tumbled from his lips. He collapsed back onto the headboard.
This time, she caught it on two fingers and, eyes locked on his, pushed them inside herself.
A miserable guttural sound escaped him. “Did you just—?”
“I’m greedy,” she crooned. “I don’t want to waste a single drop.”
A violent shiver coursed through him.
“Let me in,” he whispered. “You can have all of it. Please. I’m begging.”
“No. But since you asked so nicely.”
She rose to her knees, heart racing as she untied the knot at her waist. The silk loosened, parting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin.
“Touch.”
He surged up, hands trembling as he slid the dress down her shoulders. Fabric pooled at her waist. She shoved it away. His eyes devoured her—her breasts, belly, the dark curls between her thighs.
“Gods,” he breathed, drinking her in,“—you’re unreal.”
His palms slid from her breasts, thumbs sliding over her nipples until she ached, then lower, where they splayed reverently across her belly, just below her navel.
Time seemed to slow as his gaze lingered there, hungry and soft all at once.
“You’d be so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself.
He looked up, reverence written plain across his face. The reason they were here burned between them.
She’d nearly forgotten. Her chest tightened, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning.
It felt like melting. Like the steel she’d forged around herself had gone soft at the edges, desire seeping through the gaps, sliding down into the hollow of her stomach and settling, molten and aching, between her thighs.
She felt unbearably heavy, need dripping from her, pulled tighter by every sound he made. She ached for his mouth—for his lips on hers.
He reached between her thighs, fingers teasing her entrance, then sliding inside, curling just right. She gasped, hips rolling into his hand.
“Dominus—” it came out more moan than admonishment. “Did I say you could do that?”
“But baby—“ he murmured, the cool metal of his mask brushing her shoulder, “you’re soaking.”
The word baby hit like a drug—not just the word. The way he said it. Her body clenched helplessly, already craving more of it, already wanting him to say it again.
He clocked it immediately. “That’s it,” he groaned, moving his fingers faster. “You like that, don’t you, baby.”
She pulled his hand away and lined herself up. The moment her heat met his cock, he whimpered—a needy, wrecked sound torn from deep within. Instead of sinking down, she rocked forward, grinding along his length, coating him with her arousal. Every pass dragged his head over her entrance, nudged her swollen clit, making her wetter.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. “Are you ready for me?”
“Yes,” he rasped. “Yes—please, little wolf. I need to.”
“Just the tip,” she relented. “Can you do that?”
“Fucking hell.” He whined as she notched the head inside, flexing around him, teasing him with shallow pulses. His fingers dug into her hips so hard she knew there’d be bruises.
“Oh gods—you’re so wet… and hot—fuck, I don’t know how long I can last.”
His head dropped to her chest, words spilled out against her skin; how good she felt, how beautiful she was, how he couldn’t believe she was letting him have this. Each word lit her up inside.
She couldn’t wait any more, either.
Heart hammering, she sank down. Her breath caught. The stretch was exquisite—thick, hot, every ridge dragging along her sensitive walls. She paused halfway down and clenched.
A long anguished sound tore out of him.
“Don’t—don’t do that—I’ll—“
She did it anyway. His hips jerked up involuntarily, burying himself another few inches.
They both moaned.
She adjusted, taking him deeper still, until there was nothing left but the full, overwhelming length of Draco Malfoy seated deep inside her.
“Oh fuck,” he gasped. “You feel—so—”
He gripped her hips and thrust up. Wild. Hard. Once. Twice. Each thrust dragged deliciously, sending lightning up her spine.
It was too good. Far too good.
“You stay still,” she ordered, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him flush with her. “I move.”
She rolled her hips in a slow grinding rhythm, her clit rubbing against his pelvis with each pass. She tilted his chin up. Their eyes locked through their masks.
The look on his face—like she was the centre of the universe…
For one heartbeat, everything else dissolved. There was only heat, and skin, the scent of his cologne, and the way his arms tightened around her waist like he’d die if she left.
The tenderness was unbearable. For the second time that night she wished she could kiss him.
She hardened her rhythm, grinding faster, harder, clenching deliberately, milking him without mercy.
It made her feel powerful.
Power. She needed to keep her head in the game.
Her own pleasure crested, holding her right at the edge—but, as ever, she couldn’t quite surrender that last little piece.
His fingers dug into her skin, body going rigid beneath her.
“That’s it,” she gasped. “Let go for me.”
His hands slid to her hips, trying to slow her down. “Let me make you come first. Please—”
“Let me worry about that. You come when I tell you to,” she cut in, moving faster. “Be a good boy. Give me a baby.”
“But—“
“Now.”
He groaned, body locking beneath her. A few more grinding thrusts and he shattered. Spine arching, he came on a broken sob. Hot, thick pulses flooded deep inside her. His cock throbbed, giving her everything she’d demanded.
Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breathing and the crackle from the hearth. His arms closed tighter around her, holding her against him as the tremors faded.
She let out a long, shaky exhale.
She’d done it. Proved he wanted something about her. Proved it spectacularly, if she said so herself.
But the victory rang strangely hollow.
She pressed a soft kiss to the top of his helmet. “Good boy.” She slid off him, reaching across the bed for her dress.
His hands closed around her elbow and yanked her back.
“What the fuck,” he growled, crawling over her, “was that.”
“What do you mean?” He pinched her waist and she shrieked, giggling. “You did such a good job, Dominus.”
He scoffed, “Such a good job? I think not, little wolf.” He pinched her again and she shrieked again, trying to twist away.
“If you think I’m letting you leave without giving you multiple orgasms, you’re out of your mind.”
“Is that so?”
His knee nudges her apart. One hand slid between her legs, stroking slow circles that orbited her clit.
“When do you ovulate?”
“Day after tomorrow,” she gasped, hips rolling into his touch. “You keeping me hostage until then?”
“At least,” he growled.
She burst out laughing, but her giggles melted into sighs as his fingers found the perfect rhythm.
She really shouldn’t... she was already late to meet Terry.
He leaned in, and his cock, still rock hard, brushed insistently against her thigh.
She gasped. “Are you—how are you still—?”
He laughed under his breath. “I took an arousal potion straight to the dick, little wolf. But don’t worry about me.” His voice was soft. “Tell me how you like to be touched. Circles like this? Or maybe downstrokes?”
He demonstrated, teasing her.
“Or—” He shifted, sandwiching her clit between two fingers, rolling gently. She jerked, a sharp keen ripping from her throat.
“There it is. Sensitive little thing, aren’t you?”
Gods he was good. Watching her body, adjusting, and responding to her. Asking. Actually asking. A small moan sounded in her throat. Orgasms helped with conception. Right?
“Not as sensitive as your cock must be right now.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “How’s that potion feeling?”
He snorted. “Like I could fuck you for days,” his voice dropped lower. “Maybe next time I should paint you with arousal potion, tease you unmercifully. Let’s see how desperate you get.”
She gasped, the idea sounding terrible, and, well... The image sent a fresh wave of want through her, and she throbbed hard beneath his touch.
He must have felt it, because he laughed. “Oh, you like that, do you? Which part was it? The part where you’re uncontrollably needy for me?” His fingers pinched her clit and she moaned. “Or the part where I hold you down and make you take it?”
Her breath caught. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Neither,” she lied.
“Neither?” he chuckled. “Gods, you’re nothing but trouble.”
“Suvery says you like it.”
“Of course I fucking like it.”
Hermione’s heart thudded faster. Being with Draco Malfoy was… fun. Dangerous in how quickly it made her want to let go. Had he always been like this? Certainly not around her—but gods, how hadn’t anyone snatched him up already?
She groaned. His fingers never faltered, devastatingly consistent. She felt a tell-tale heat coiling tighter in her core.
“Circles, counterclockwise,” she gasped. “On and off.”
He obeyed instantly, fingers moving tight, precise circles that alternated between direct contact and teasing the hood. A perfect rhythm. Her body went taut. Heat crept up her chest. Her neck.
“Like that?”
She moaned again, nodding frantically. The world blurred at the edges. Heat flooded her body and she tipped toward the edge—
“That’s it, Draco,” she gasped. “Oh my god—don’t stop—”
His fingers stilled.
Then they vanished altogether. The air went cold, as if she’d been plunged into water.
Her eyes flew open. “What—?”
He was sitting ramrod straight, every muscle tight, eyes blank with shock. Why was he—
Her heart stopped.
No. No, no, no… Her throat went dry, stomach dropping through the floor. She didn’t. She couldn’t have.
“What did you say?”
The words came out low. Frighteningly measured. The room was suddenly too cold, too quiet. Her heart thudded so loud she was sure he could hear it.
“Do you… know who I am?”
She tried to answer, but her throat was too tight.
His eyes locked on hers. “Take off your mask.”
She edged back, shaking her head.
“Take it off.” His voice was lower now, desperate.
“I can’t—”
He tore off his own helmet. His blonde hair was mussed, cheeks flushed, gray eyes wide and so vulnerable that her heart twisted.
He felt more real now than he had before.
“Take off the bloody mask.”
She wanted to disappear, crawl back into ten seconds ago, cling to the last shreds of anonymity. But it was over. There was nowhere left to hide.
With trembling fingers, she lifted the mask and let it drop. The air felt sharp and cold on her face.
He stared at her.
“Granger?”
Shock. Disbelief. A riot of emotion flickered through his eyes. For a long, echoing moment, there was only silence.
“How long? How long did you know?”
She swallowed hard, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“The moment I saw you.”
The silence stretched.
She sucked in a ragged breath and squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for anger, for vitriol, for a slam of the door or whatever humiliation was to come.
“I should have fucking known.”
Her eyes snapped open.
Wait, was that… a smirk?
“Clever. Devious. A filthy fucking tease…” he shook his head. “How did I not see it?”
Her lips parted in protest as he closed the space between them.
“What was it, Granger?” She edged back. “Had an itch only I could scratch? Or…” He leaned in, voice almost cruel. “…are you just horny for Death Eater cock?”
Her jaw dropped in a scoff. “Maybe I just enjoyed the irony.”
He let out a soft laugh.
“Oh, fuck you, Granger.”
A cool, defiant calm settled over her. She was suddenly aware of his spend leaking out of her, still warm and slick. Without breaking eye contact, she parted her legs.
“You already did,” she replied. “See?”
His gaze dropped, then darkened. Seconds ticked as he stared. Then he moved—pressed his fingers to her skin, and pushed it all back in.
She gasped.
“Did I say you could let that out?” His voice was guttural, dangerous. “You keep it the fuck inside you, do you understand?”
A whimper slipped past her lips before she could stop it. The silver of his eyes burned molten. A living flame. His fingers slid up to circle her clit once. Liquid heat pumped through her veins as her body answered.
“Yes or no?”
“Yes,” she croaked.
He hummed, satisfied. “And in case you forgot, you fucked me, Granger. You’re about to learn the difference.”
His eyes flicked down her body. “But first things first.”
He slipped down between her thighs, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and in one smooth, unexpected motion, lifted her hips clean off the bed.
She yelped, flipped upside down, back pressed to his stomach, legs high in the air. His arms notched tightly above her hip bones, holding her firm. Helpless.
Her heart hammered. Breath came in wild pants. She scrambled for anything to hold—finding his hips, and dug in.
“I need every drop back inside you,” he said, his warm breath teasing her cunt. “As deep as it’ll go. We don’t want to waste any of it, do we, Granger?”
“Oh my god.” Her legs shook—not from fear, but from the unbearable throb of arousal, the way he held her so open. It was absurd, but fucking hell, it was working. “Malfoy—”
“Draco,” he growled, lips brushing her thigh, “or Dominus. I liked that too.”
Then he licked her. One slow drag from entrance to clit.
A moan ripped from her throat. Holy shit.
“Gods,” he groaned, “There’s no way you taste this good.” He licked her again, hungrier. “Fuck, Granger.”
His tongue followed the same devastating pattern his fingers had. Lazy circles around her clit, dipping inside occasionally to lap at the mess he’d made, then flattening to drag over her in broad, relentless strokes.
Her instinct was to move, but she was trapped: she couldn't arch, couldn't grind, she could only take whatever he gave. Every pass sent sparks ricocheting through her nerves. The angle let him reach deeper, filthy places. Wet, hungry sounds filled the room.
His cock stood rigid, untouched at the back of her neck. She tried reaching for it, but he growled. The vibrations ran straight down her spine.
Her climax rose unbelievably fast. His tongue circled her clit, then he pulled it between his lips, sucking gently.
Pleasure slammed into her like a wave.
She came almost immediately—walls fluttered, thighs clamped tighter around his head.
His name tore from her. Heat flooded her chest, her limbs, as release rolled through in long, shuddering waves. For the first time all night, she felt relief.
When the tremors eased, she looked up. He was grinning like a devil from between her thighs.
He kissed her clit, almost tender, his fingers brushing softly along her calves.
The world flipped again.
One second she was floating in the afterglow, the next she was face down on the sheets. Hermione pushed up onto her hands and knees, ready to crawl forward and collapse on the pillows, when his hands caught her hips, pulling her back toward the edge.
“I’m not done with you.” He nudged open her knees. “Wider.”
She obeyed, spreading them wider. He slapped her arse, the shock radiated to her core.
“All the way.”
She whimpered, parting further until she was fully open, presented to him in what felt like the lewdest possible manner. Cool air kissed the wet, swollen parts of her. Like they could feel his gaze, those parts throbbed with anticipation.
The silky head of Draco’s cock nudged her entrance, then sank in one long, wet thrust. He let out a groan so deep it echoed in her core.
She collapsed onto her forearms, her cheek pressed to the sheets. A broken sound slipped free.
His cock throbbed. Or maybe it was her. Either way, she closed her eyes… let herself sink into it: the stretch, the wet slide of him inside her, the way her body fluttered in answer. Skin slapped softly as he gave one slow thrust.
She couldn’t help it. She arched deeper, pushed back to meet him.
“Oh fuck—that’s—so good, little wolf. Holy shit.”
The power rush was intoxicating—knowing she could unravel him like this. She let herself melt further into the mattress, turning to look up at him through her lashes.
“Oh, Draco,” she purred. “You feel so good inside me.”
His eyes snapped to hers. She lifted her hair from her neck, tracing her nape and watched his eyes follow the movement
“You’re gonna make me come so hard. I want to be so full of you that it drips for days.”
He pulled out, almost all the way, then slammed back in, dragging hard against her front wall deliciously. Pleasure shot through her.
“I know what you’re doing,” he growled.
“Yeah?” she rocked back to meet his next thrust. “Is it working?”
“Of course it is,” another deep drive. “But—fuck. It was working regardless.”
Hermione slowed, breath ragged. “What does that mean?”
He slowed too. One hand slid up her spine, until his palm gripped the back of her neck.
“It means I’m already a mess.” His voice was gravel. “I can hardly control myself as it is.”
She laughed. “Oh, poor Dominus. Is that the potion talking?”
“No.” He leaned over her, chest to her back, lips brushing her ear. “It's you.”
Butterflies erupted in her stomach. She wanted to believe it. Desperately. But this was temporary. He didn’t even like her.
He felt her tense.
His hand slid to her jaw, turning her face gently to meet his eyes. “Look at me.”
She did.
“You don’t have to perform.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “You don’t have to say filthy things, or move any certain way, or do anything unless it makes you feel good. I’m already here.” He rolled his hips, slow and deep, stretching her open again until she gasped. “I already want you.”
The words landed heavy in her chest. Hermione’s eyes burned. She blinked hard.
If he noticed, he didn’t comment. Instead, he hooked an arm around her middle and drew her back to sit against him, back flush to his chest, his heartbeat slamming into her spine. Warm breath ghosted her neck, his arms banded around her tight.
He kissed her shoulder, then started moving again. Slow at first. Every thrust angled to hit that spot that made thought near impossible.
“Feel that?” Draco murmured against her ear. “That’s me wanting you, Granger. Not the wolf. You.”
He picked up the pace, harder now. One hand slipped down to circle her clit, the other still anchored her firmly against him, palm splayed over her racing heart.
“What if I like making it hard for you?” she managed.
He huffed a breathless laugh. “Oh you do. The way you look at me—those siren eyes. I can’t even look at you half the time without wanting to drop to my knees.”
Hermione’s breath caught.
“And tonight,” he continued, voice edged with amusement, “when you called me a nobody lackey with too much gold—”
He thrust up, hard, making her gasp.
“You had me. Right then. And that you said it, knowing exactly who I was. That makes it so much better.”
The hand at her stomach lifted, cupping her breast. Kneading. She moaned, arching into him.
“The fact that you picked me,” he added softly, “You—the most brilliant person I’ve ever known, who knows every worst thing about me—all my failures, all my sins—and you still chose me? I don’t bloody deserve it.”
Hermione’s heart pounded so violently she felt it in her throat. He nipped her neck, sucking bruises into her skin. She tilted her head, reaching back, fingers threading into her hair, pulling him down harder until his mouth marked her deep. He groaned.
Her free hand fell between them, fingers forming a V around his cock where they were joined, stroking his length as he drove in and out.
“I want you,” he rasped. “All of you. Whatever you’re guarding—whatever you’re holding back—I want that, too.”
Wildfire surged through her veins, her entire body flushing hot, core clenching hard at his words. Hairline fractures threaded through her armour, through walls she hadn’t even known she built.
“It—it wasn’t a performance,” she murmured, voice shaking. “I mean… it started as one. Like a challenge. But—” she dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t lie. Everything I said, I meant.”
A low sound slipped from his throat. “So… you think my cock feels good inside you?”
She shuddered. “So good.”
“And you want me to give you every drop of come I have? Until you’re overfilled and dripping?”
Holy gods. “Yes.”
“And you don’t want me to hold you down, tease you, and force you to come?”
Hermione groaned. Fuck. “That—that was a lie.”
“Oh, thank the fucking gods.”
They crashed forward. He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head against the sheets. His weight settled over her, fucking into her unmercifully; deep, powerful thrusts that knocked the air from her lungs. She could hardly catch her breath.
Pleasure coiled so tight it hurt, a white-hot knot low in her belly. But the final release only hovered, holding her at the brink.
“Go on,” he panted. “Let go for me. Let yourself feel it.”
“I—I don’t know if I can,” she gasped, the words tumbling out between thrusts. “Or how long it’ll take. Are you gonna be able to—”
“Let me worry about that.” His free hand slid under her hip, tilting her just enough to hit deeper. “Be a good girl, baby. Let me in.”
Let me in.
The words cut through her. He wasn’t asking for her body—he already had that. He was asking for her. The real parts she kept behind walls. She wasn’t sure she’d ever let anyone in. Not like that. But maybe… maybe she could try.
Hermione closed her eyes. Stopped trying to control the moment and let herself feel. Let herself be exactly where she was, with him, and believe—at least for right now—it was real. That she was what he wanted.
She threaded her fingers through his, pulling his arm tight against her chest.
Orgasm crashed through her, harder than before. It rolled in waves. Her cries were muffled by the sheets. Heat flooded every nerve; tears slipped free this time.
He groaned low, thrusts turning erratic. His hand came up to brush her cheek. “Oh—good fucking girl—that’s it, Hermione—”
His hips jerked once, twice, and on the third he came with her—deep, pulsing, flooding her again. Hot spurts that triggered aftershocks. His arms wrapped tight around her waist, holding her through it.
They collapsed together, sweaty and trembling, still joined.
His lips found her shoulder again.
Hermione rolled onto her back, completely boneless, and Draco followed, climbing over her. He gathered her knees and pressed them toward her chest, rolling her hips up until her arse rested against his stomach. Two pillows were shoved beneath her back and arse to keep her elevated.
Her heart raced at the implication—at what he was trying to do. And as if she hadn’t just came, her core pulsed again. Then once more.
“To help it stick,” he murmured.
She groaned, flinging her arm over her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked softly. “Are you uncomfortable?”
Her cheeks burned. “Er—no. It’s just an… unbelievable turn on.”
His voice dropped. “Oh, is it?”
Hermione let her arm fall away. Their eyes locked. His eyes were hooded, his expression dark. She wet her lips, his eyes tracked the movement. Her body responded immediately, heat coiling again. His cock stirred against her back.
“And what about it turns you on?” he asked quietly.
Fucking hell.
“It's… the idea of come,” she admitted, slowly. “The result of your pleasure. But mostly…” she met his eyes, “That it’s you. Your come inside me. That Draco Malfoy wants to put his baby in me.”
His eyes fluttered shut, jaw tightening as he exhaled sharply through his nose. The length of him now pressed impossibly hard against her.
He kissed behind her knees, and slowly down her thighs, before easing her hips gently onto the pillow and positioning himself at her entrance.
“I’m gonna need one more from you, Granger,” he murmured, his voice rough with want. “One more, and I’ll let you rest.”
She groaned as he entered her, slow, inch by inch, penetrating her deep. Until his head kissed her cervix.
It was incredible to watch his face as he slid in. The way his eyes nearly closed. The way his lips parted. If his expression was anything to go by, it felt like bliss.
He rocked—gentle, shallow rolls, nudging the deepest, most sensitive spot. Testing. Searching. At this angle it was completely devastating.
“Tell me when I find it,” he breathed. “Once I do, you’re going to come. Then I will. Right here, as deep as I can go.”
She grew even more wet at the image: him pulsing, spilling straight into her cervix; her walls contracting, drawing him in. Pulling every drop further.
He dropped his full weight onto her, skin to skin. Their hearts raced in time. Every slow roll dragged his pelvis against her clit, each thrust pressing on her cervix, sending sparks up her spine.
His head dipped to her neck. Lips brushed her ear.
“I’m going to get you pregnant, Hermione Granger,” he murmured. “You are going to have my baby.”
Her lips parted on a guttural moan. Oh fucking hell. Fresh desire surged. She clamped hard around him.
His mouth moved, soft brushes along her ear, her jaw, her neck. She arched, fingers threading into his hair, drawing him closer, offering more access.
“I can’t get over how beautiful you are,” he said against her collarbone. His lips drifted lower, closing around one nipple, sucking gently. She moaned.
“Gods,” he lamented, switching to the other. “Even the sounds you make are beautiful. And the way you taste—it’s like sugar on lemon.”
It was all almost too much. His voice, the words, the way they pressed on her chest until the question she’d been holding burst out.
“I thought you hated me,” she whispered.
His movements slowed. He lifted his head, eyes finding hers. “I don’t hate you.”
“You…” she swallowed, gathering her courage, “never talk to me.”
A moment passed.
“I figured that’s what you’d want,” he said. “After… everything.”
She considered it. The years of distance. The polite nods. The way his silence had always felt like a dismissal. Ignoring her had never felt neutral. It felt like rejection.
She shook her head. “I think your friendship would feel far more satisfying.”
His eyes turned soft. “Would it?” A playful grin flickered on his lips. “Or is it more satisfying to hold me down, paint me with potion, and watch me crawl out of my skin for you?”
Hermione barked a laugh. “You’re right. That’s far better.”
His expression sobered. He rocked back into her. “I would like to be your friend, Hermione.”
Her lips parted. The casual use of her name... it landed soft in her chest.
And just then, he nudged that perfect spot. Warmth bloomed outward, like a low belly swoop turned liquid, spreading from her fingertips to her toes.
“There—Draco—” she gasped.
“There?” he groaned, feeling her flutter around him. “Good. That’s good, little wolf.”
He kept the rhythm, gentle and slow, coaxing that deep warmth higher.
“You are perfect,” he whispered against her neck. “Made for this. Taking me. Growing whatever we make together. I'm so fucking glad the wolf was you.”
Her breath caught. Maybe it was his open expression. Or the tender way he touched her. Maybe it was the two shattering orgasms he’d given her—more than any partner had managed without her interference.
Maybe it was the impossible intimacy of what they were doing—creating life. Together.
Whatever it was, the last wall inside her crumbled.
He rocked into that spot again, never pulling away, and the heat built, crawling up her spine and down her limbs. Inevitable. Small sounds, needy sounds spilled from her lips.
He kissed up her neck, then lifted his head. Their eyes met. Hair fell across his forehead; his eyes were wide, brows drawn tight, his expression unguarded. That perfect bow of his mouth was swollen, wet, parted.
He looked devastating. Desperate.
Not for release—but for… her.
That look was somehow exactly what she’d always been craving. She didn't even know it existed. A total kind of ruin she hadn’t realised she needed until she saw it written so plainly on his face.
A surge of emotion—hers, his, she really couldn’t tell—flooded the hollow places inside, filling her to the brim.
His gaze flicked to her mouth. He leaned closer, breath mingling with hers. There were no masks this time. No excuses. Just pure, aching need. His eyes searched hers—an unspoken question.
She lifted her chin, brushing against him in answer.
He closed the distance.
The first kiss was soft. Chaste. Almost reverent. He tasted like mint, champagne, and the faintest hint of her. He pulled back. Whatever he saw in her face made his pupils blow wide.
He kissed her again.
This time it was electric. Lips collided, tongues meeting in slow, desperate slides. Tiny shockwaves of feeling raced through her, lighting her up like a live wire. Heat burst behind her eyes.
His hands roamed—cupping her jaw, squeezing her breast, thumb circling her nipple— as if he couldn’t touch her enough. And she matched him instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his shoulders, palms framing his face. Closer. She needed him closer.
It was the most sensual experience she’d ever had. She’d never felt so seen. So desired. Every moan he pulled from her earned a groan in return. Every touch from him sent fresh heat coiling low in her belly.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d wanted to ruin him—wipe that smirk away.
…well, she supposed she had.
But somewhere along the way, he’d ruined her right back. Now they were both unraveling, falling to pieces together. She broke away, panting against his lips.
“Draco, I’m close—”
He was shaking. Fighting to keep the gentle rhythm, holding back.
“Is this fast enough—“ she gasped. “Can you—”
“Yes,” he kissed her again. “Trust me—yes. Just keep kissing me and I will.”
Could he come from kissing her? That—yeah. That was working.
“Draco—” she whimpered. “Come. Right here inside me. God, please. I need your beautiful blonde babies.”
“Fucking hell,” he gasped. “Blonde babies with you curls—”
“And your charm—”
“Your brains—”
“Oh god-–”
The orgasm didn’t peak, it detonated. A full-body eruption. Liquid heat surged from her core outward. Waves rolled through every limb, every fingertip, every toe. Walls spasmed hard around him, milking, pulling. It was a cervical pulse so deep it felt like her entire being had split opened. More tears rolled down her cheeks. Overwhelm. Pleasure. Surrender.
He groaned, broken, thrusts losing their rhythm. “Hermione—”
His head fell to her neck. He came with her—deep, pumping into her with hot spurts that seemed endless. She felt deliciously overfilled, swollen with the molten weight of every release he’d poured into her that night.
Aftershocks rippled through them both, his cock still twitching inside her.
He kissed her chest as they caught their breath.
Minutes passed before either of them could speak.
“Holy shit,” Draco rasped.
Hermione started giggling, high with dopamine and pure euphoria. He looked up at her, a boyish grin on his face. It was pretty fucking adorable, she had to admit. It made her heart unexpectedly soft.
He withdrew, but before she could catch her breath, he caught her hips, lifting her legs into the air again, holding her up as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She squealed, wrapping her legs around his neck.
“Don’t tell me again how much this turns you on,” he warned, “or I might be tempted to have another go.”
She smirked up at him. “That’s not the threat you think it is.”
He groaned, forehead falling to the inside of her knee.
“I feel absurd. Is this strange for you?”
Draco shook his head. “I want to make sure it stays.”
Hermione was struck by it—the easy intimacy. Maybe the position felt odd, but doing it with Draco Malfoy… wasn’t. In fact, it was the most herself she’d felt with a partner in… a long time. Maybe ever.
He trailed his mouth down her thigh, over her mound, pausing to breathe her in. She felt him murmur something against her centre. Warmth bloomed in its wake. A cleansing charm, perhaps.
Minutes later, he eased her legs down and pressed a kiss to her belly. She slid her fingers into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He groaned, melting against her, cheek pressed to her stomach.
“You’re a goddess,” he murmured into her skin. “For doing this.”
She laughed. “What, scratching your head?”
“Yes,” he said, then softer, “and… the rest of it.”
The tenderness of it warmed her. Draco Malfoy was more gentle, more attentive than she’d ever imagined. Something in her ached at the knowledge this was only for tonight. She’d never had anything like it before, and she realized, with a pang, that she would miss it.
He kissed up her belly to her mouth, kissing her slowly, reverently. Hermione felt herself go soft and pliant all over. They shifted, rolling to their sides to face each other. For a long moment, they just looked. It was nice just looking at him, unrestricted, no masks.
His thumb brushed her jaw, her lips, traced beneath her eyes. She was exhausted. Parched. And as if he’d heard her thoughts, he summoned two glasses and filled them, handing one to her. She drained it in one long gulp.
“Thank you, Draco,” she whispered.
He smoothed her hair back. “No. Thank you, little wolf. You have no idea what this means to me.”
That was… sincere. It caught her off guard. Maybe this really had taken a weight off his shoulders.
Though, he'd have made a wonderful father, she thought. The thought stung.
“I could say the same thing,” she managed.
He nodded, but his eyes flickered, something uncertain and odd in them. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, voice barely above a whisper.
“This is embarrassing to say, but… I honestly never thought this would happen for me. After everything.” He hesitated. “I’m not exactly… popular.”
Hermione nodded slowly, not sure where this was going.
“And having a family,” he continued, “that’s always been my dream. I know what everyone says, but my childhood, before… was happy. We were happy. I just wanted a little of that for myself. Even if I have to do it alone.”
A cold knot formed in her gut.
Oh no.
She sat up. Draco sat up too, reaching for her hand. “I don’t want you to feel pressured,” he said quickly. “I know there are no guarantees—”
He squeezed her hand, brow furrowing at her expression. “But you choosing me for this, I meant it when I said—it’s… What’s wrong?”
She couldn’t speak. Her vision blurred. But she forced herself to look at him, at their wrists.
She lifted his to hers.
Gold.
Draco Malfoy wanted a baby.
Her stomach fell.
Draco went very still. “Oh.”
His thumb brushed over her band, just once. The ache in her chest swelled.
Draco’s eyes closed.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. When he opened his eyes again, they were empty.
He took her hand and squeezed. “I won’t make this difficult,” he said. “Or get in your way.”
Her chest tightened. “Draco—”
A knock sounded at the door. They both froze.
Draco’s jaw flexed. He glanced at the door, then back at her. Something unguarded flickered across his face.
Another knock, firmer this time.
Hermione scrambled for her dress, clumsily tugging the silk over her shoulders and tying the waist. She crossed the room and cracked the door open.
“Terry,” she said, breathless. “Hi—I, er—I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Can you give me two more minutes?”
“Oh,” his eyes widened. “Of course. Sorry.”
She closed the door and took a breath. When she turned back, Draco was already dressed. His hair was still mussed, but expression carefully neutral, like all of his emotion had been covered up along with his skin. He picked up his mask, but hesitated before putting it on.
“Did you mean what you said?” he asked. “About being friends?”
Her chest tightened. She nodded.
A small smile curved his lips. “Good,” he said. “I’d like that.”
He opened the door, pausing just long enough to glance at her once more.
Terry stood there, shifting his weight, eyes darting between them.
“Malfoy?”
Draco inclined his head.
“Boot.”
Draco looked back at Hermione. “Bye, little wolf.”
He slid his mask back into place, and then he was gone.
The room felt colder. Hermione cleared her throat, pushing the door wider as Terry stepped in.
“Was that really—”
“Er—yeah. Let me just… I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
She turned away, the ache of Draco’s absence settling in her chest. With a pang, she noticed he’d refreshed the room for her. The bed was made, the air smelled faintly of clean linen. It was as if nothing had happened at all.
She slipped into the en-suite and closed the door. For a moment, she just leaned against it, heart pounding in her chest. What the hell just happened? The last hour spun through her mind like a fever-dream. Playful, filthy, attentive—Draco Malfoy was nothing like she’d imagined. He wasn’t cruel. Nor was he dismissive. And, Merlin and Morgana, everything he’d said to her…
But.
She scrubbed a hand down her face.
The bands.
Truthfully, she hadn’t thought to look for his at all.
She shook out her limbs, as if she could physically shed the excess energy buzzing through her nerves, and crossed to the sink. Wetting a towel, she pressed it to her forehead, then the back of her neck, letting the coolness cut through the heat in her skin. Out of habit, she reached between her thighs to clean his mess. But there was… nothing.
A jolt went through her. Had he vanished it?
Frowning, she reached inside—felt the warm telltale wetness. Too much, too thick to be hers alone, yet when she withdrew her fingers, they came away clean.
I want to make sure it stays, he’d said.
Her breath caught. He hadn’t cleansed her. He’d bloody charmed it. Deliberately. To stick exactly where he’d wanted.
And that was…
It was…
Gods help her—it was hot. So fucking hot. A throb of arousal rolled through her. She dropped her face to her hands and groaned. This went far beyond a breeding kink.
Draco Malfoy wanted a child. And he’d chosen her for it.
Twice.
And the unsettling truth was… she had chosen him right back.
Hermione swallowed. Forced herself to breathe. Not that any of that mattered. Terry was out there waiting. She’d made a promise. He was depending on her. And following through with their plan was still the best course of action. …Objectively.
A quick smooth of her dress, one last steadying breath, and she stepped back into the room.
Terry stood near the hearth, fiddling with the clasp of his costume—a white-linen Roman tunic, the gold rim slightly askew, and a mask painted over his eyes. He looked nondescript, but nice.
He looked at her expectantly, brows raised. When she said nothing, he cleared his throat.
“So… I had an idea.” He summoned six small vials from his bag, each glowing faintly under a stasis charm. He offered them to her with an awkward, apologetic smile. Hermione took them, the glass cool in her hands.
“What’s this?”
“Oh,” he coughed. “It’s, erm, my semen.”
Hermione’s eyes went wide. She nearly dropped the vials. “Your—what?”
He shrugged. “I figured you could just, you know, use these instead? I put them under a stasis charm straightaway, so they should be… fresh.”
Hermione blinked down at the vials. It was a logical solution. Cleaner than their original plan, given she wouldn’t have to touch him.
It was… perfect.
Hermione dragged her eyes toward the en-suite. “All right… I suppose I’ll just...”
Yet her feet refused to budge, knees pressed together as if both were actively resisting her brain. She squirmed, the milky substance sloshed inside. The thought of mixing Terry’s semen with Draco’s, or worse, replacing it entirely…
She curled her fingers tighter around the glass.
This is what you wanted, she told herself. This is the easiest solution. Stop being ridiculous.
Unless… maybe she didn’t want something simple anymore. Or detached.
She liked how it had been with Draco—how personal it felt. How intimate. She hadn’t thought it would cost her anything to give that up. But maybe intimacy was the variable that she couldn’t sacrifice.
“Terry, I—”
He saw her hesitation and rushed to fill the silence. “Or not! It’s all right. I understand. I—I see this wasn’t the course of action you’d expected. If you’d rather, we can, er—” his face twisted in pure misery, “—perform coitus.”
Oh gods. If at all possible, that sounded worse.
Hermione lifted a hand. “I’m going to stop you there. Thank you, Terry. This is… thoughtful. Clever, actually.” Her voice softened. “But… I—I don’t think I can do this…”
Terry stared for a moment, blinking. “Really?”
Hermione nodded. “I’m so sorry.”
Then he let out a long exhale, his whole body sagging with relief. “Thank Merlin,” he muttered, sinking into a chair. “Honestly, I’ve been having second thoughts all week… you were so sure I thought...”
Hermione released a breath.
“I was sure,” she murmured. “It’s just, now I think I might want…” She trailed off, the word intimacy stuck useless on her tongue. Terry had just offered her something more intimate—though with all the enthusiasm of Severus Snape on wash day.
So that wasn't the problem.
But… it had to be.
Hell, if Draco had offered her vials of his semen—
A shiver raced up her spine.
Oh.
Oh.
Intimacy wasn't the variable that undid the plan.
Draco Malfoy was.
The thought alone sent sparks through her. What was she supposed to do about that? She couldn’t have a baby with him. Together. On purpose. That would be completely mad.
And yet, her mind betrayed her.
She thought of his palm, warm against the curve of her belly. Except this time her belly was round, and his thumb traced slow, reverent circles, like it belonged there.
Him half asleep in the small hours of the morning, crawling back into bed with her.
A tiny hand fisting his collar, sticky fingers rumpling the expensive fabric.
Oh bloody hell. Mad or not, once the images took hold, she couldn’t let them go.
“Is this about Malfoy?”
Her head snapped up.
“I saw him here and thought maybe… something happened?”
A slow smile spread across Hermione’s face. Terry’s eyes widened, a matching grin blooming on his. “Seriously? With Draco Malfoy?”
Hermione nodded, biting her lip. “He… surprised me. Is it mad if I want to do this differently now?” Her voice fell. “Maybe even with him?”
Terry leaned in, conspiratorial. “Babe—he’s fit. He’s rich as fuck. And apparently,” his gaze flicked over her, knowing, “he’s good in bed. Hell, I’d have his babies.”
Hermione laughed, but the laughter died quickly as reality swept in.
Terry's smile softened. “And if he treated you well, and you think he’s a good man on top of all that—frankly I’m not sure why you’re still standing here.”
Her gaze dropped. “What if he doesn’t want a partner? What if he wants to go it alone? Like I did.”
“You won’t know unless you ask.”
She sighed. “What are you going to do? About the law?”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s time I told everyone the truth. File for the exemption.” Hermione frowned. He waved away her concern. “Don’t worry, babes. I think I’m ready. What about you?”
Hermione shook her head. “I need to talk to him.”
He glanced at the door and shrugged. “Have you any idea where he went? This place is massive.”
Hermione shook her head, already running through the fastest way to search the building. She needed more help—someone discreet. Someone who’d been here before. Someone with access—
An idea struck.
“Willow!”
Terry’s eyes went wide as the steward appeared before them.
“Oh—hello, love, how can I—” Willow broke off mid-sentence. “Hermione Granger?”
Hermione winced, only now realising she’d forgotten her mask. But maybe that was for the best. Sometimes being a war hero had its perks. “Er, yes. Hello, Willow, I—”
Willow’s gaze sharpened, taking her in properly. “What’s happened, love?”
Hermione glanced at Terry, but he was staring at Willow, openly transfixed.
“I—“ Hermione swallowed. “I need your help locating someone. Draco Malfoy. I was with him earlier and… I need to find him.”
Willow's jaw dropped. “Draco Malfoy? You were with—” They stiffened, voice turning cold. “He didn’t do anything to hurt you, did he?”
Hermione’s heart clenched. “No! No, nothing like that.”
Willow didn’t look convinced.
Hermione exhaled, smoothing the loose curls from her eyes. “Well, I had plans, but I, erm, saw Malfoy and we ended up—well.” She cleared her throat. “It was… perfect, actually. Which was a surprise given our history. We didn’t realise until after that we were both wearing gold bands.”
Terry’s breath hitched. Willow’s eyes softened.
“And then?” Willow prompted.
“He was kind about it,” Hermione murmured. “He acquiesced... But now I think I’ve made a terrible mistake letting him leave.”
The silence stretched.
“Can you help me?”
Willow exhaled slowly. “I can’t, love. It’s against club rules—anonymity and all that.”
Hermione’s heart sank.
Willow’s jaw worked. They glanced once at Terry.
“Oh sod it.”
They stepped forward and cupped Hermione’s cheeks. “This is because I adore you, Ms. Granger. And because I’m an absolute sucker for happy endings.” A wicked smile curved their mouth. “Pun intended.”
Willow’s dark eyes flicked between her and Terry. “Now—you cannot tell anyone, do I have your word?”
Both nodded immediately, murmuring their promises.
Willow straightened. “Right. Your band—am I right in assuming it’s recorded his magical signature?”
Hermione flushed. “Yes.”
“Anyone else on it?” Willow asked, glancing at Terry.
“No.”
Willow nodded and lifted their wand. Beautiful, silvery magic bloomed from the band, into the air. It was luminous, like smoke caught in the moonlight.
“That’s his signature.”
A location charm was cast over it, and the magic shifted, forming into the shape of a room.
“There,” Willow said, “He’s in the lobby.”
Hermione’s heart lurched. Draco was leaving. She shoved all of Terry’s vials into his hand.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Willow smiled, already stepping back. “Go on. Get your wizard.”
Terry finally dragged his awestruck gaze away from Willow. “Wait—your mask—” He tossed it to her. Hermione caught it.
“Oh, Willow—” Hermione said, slipping the bronze and gold wolf onto her face. “Have you met Terry Boot? He’s an excellent friend. Terry—this is Willow.”
“Hello.” Terry turned crimson.
Willow arched a brow. “Well—hello yourself.”
Hermione grinned.
And without wasting another second—
She ran.
Hermione darted through the club, her feet carrying her as fast as they could through the winding corridors, and growing crowds. Bodies pressed close everywhere—drinking, laughing, tangled together on velvet sofas and behind gauzy curtains. The revelry had swollen into something riotous.
She slowed only when she reached the lobby.
There he was.
Draco stood near cloak check, waiting his turn behind the line of new arrivals. He was still in that crimson paludamentum, tall, handsome as ever, silver mask catching the candlelight. The sight of him pulled at her, as though an invisible thread had hooked behind her ribs and was reeling her forward whether she wanted it or not.
Hermione skidded to a halt as a witch approached him.
A living Venus, completely nude, with waist-length strawberry blonde waves spilling over her breasts, a pearlescent shell cupping her sex and arse—Bottecelli’s masterpiece made flesh. She leaned in close, fingers grazing Draco’s forearm as she murmured something that Hermione couldn’t hear.
The witch lifted her wrist, displaying her black band.
Hermione’s heart lodged painfully in her throat. A brief, fiery urge to hex the woman burned through her, before Hermione smothered it. Though, her grip on her wand tightened anyway.
The witch’s hand drifted lower. Draco stepped back at once. He shook his head, declining her offer, and turned away.
Air rushed back into Hermione’s lungs so fast, her knees nearly buckled.
“Dominus!”
The word rang out louder than she intended. Several eyes turned her way.
Draco froze.
Slowly, he turned.
Even masked, she felt the moment his attention locked onto her—like a physical touch dragging across her skin. Pinning her in place. Even now, Hermione couldn’t get over how it felt to be looked at by Draco Malfoy. She crossed the room before she could second guess herself.
“Did I say you could leave?” she asked, breathless, stopping right in front of him.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “What are you doing here?”
Hermione swallowed. She caught his wrist and pulled him toward a shadowed alcove half-hidden by a marble column.
“I want you to stay.”
He searched her face. “Didn’t I leave you with Boot?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “But nothing happened. I’m not interested in him. He’s not interested in me, either.”
His fingers brushed a loose curl at her neck. “I don’t know how that’s possible.”
She stepped in closer, and gently caught his hand, guiding it to the curve of her waist. His fingers settled there instinctively, thumb stroking slow, absent circles over the silk as though he couldn’t help himself.
She looked up at him through her lashes. “Does that mean you are?”
A low groan rumbled in Draco’s throat.
“I want to stay. Merlin knows I do. But I can’t.” He exhaled slowly. “I want a family, too. Surely you see the problem.”
She did.
Reckless hope fluttered in her chest, tangling with knots of nerves already twisting there. Whatever came out of her mouth next had to be real. No teasing. No games. Just the open kind of honesty he’d quietly demanded from her all night.
Hermione nodded once, then lifted her chin. “What if we did it… together?”
He went still. “Together?”
Hermione’s heart thundered so loud she felt it in her throat. “Make a baby together,” she whispered. “And raised it together. On purpose.”
Draco’s breath hitched. His hand tightened on her waist.
“I’m not proposing marriage or anything—” Her cheeks burned. “We can be just friends. Co-parents. Whatever works.”
The silence stretched. Impossibly long. Maybe she’d made a mistake, read him all wrong. Maybe this was way too much, way too soon.
Heart lurching, she took half a step backward, but he caught her elbow. Kept her there.
“Why?” His voice was rough. “Why me?”
She met his gaze. Half a dozen easy answers rose: You’d be a good father. The sex is hot. I might actually like you.
But none of those were enough. She knew he wasn’t simply asking. He wanted to know why she’d choose him, knowing everything, over everyone—over doing it herself.
She took a breath.
“Raising a child isn’t easy,” she murmured. “There are too many variables. Too many risks. It’s exhausting. Which is precisely why I planned to do it alone.”
Draco’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.
She went on.
“I try to avoid making myself vulnerable to… or dependent on other people. I’m more than capable of handling most things on my own, so I usually do.”
She looked up at him, into the swirling gray of his eyes that were latched desperately onto hers.
“But tonight,” she swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “You made those things feel like something else.”
His hand tightened on her hip.
“You made vulnerability feel like… partnership. I—I’ve never experienced anything like that before. And I suppose…”
Her gaze dropped to his tattoo. She traced lines over the ink. “…that it left a mark of its own.”
She felt his heart race beneath her fingers—wild, matching hers.
“I could give you other reasons too,” she whispered, “but if you want to know why I changed my mind, and why I’m choosing you—there it is.”
For another long moment he said nothing. Just held her gaze. Then his fingers closed around hers, holding them tight at his chest.
“And,” she rushed on, before the silence swallowed her courage, “I realize this probably isn’t the family you pictured. And one night of, well, spectacular sex doesn’t generally qualify as a good reason. So take your time—”
“No,” he cut in, pulling her into his arms. “I know what I want.”
A slow, relieved smile spread across her face at the callback.
“I’m quite interested in hearing more about this spectacular sex,” he grinned. “But I have some conditions.”
Her heart skipped. “Such as?”
“Exclusivity. I… thought I could chance it with a stranger. Make it a one-time thing, but I can’t.” He tilted her chin up. “I’ll be the only man coming inside you. No one else. Just me—again and again, as long as it takes.”
Hermione shuddered, a molten rush of heat surged between her legs. She clenched on instinct, as she pictured taking more of him, letting his release spill over, until she was overfilled and dripping with him.
“And—” he continued, almost hesitant. “The bit about being just friends? I’d like that left open for discussion.”
Her lips parted.
All her small, unguarded fantasies of him—of them—flashed behind her eyes. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been holding herself back from wanting them.
He reached up. Slowly removed his mask. She registered the full weight of emotion on his face. There was hope. Fear. Want. Hermione’s breath caught. Her heart beat wildly.
“I can accept those conditions.”
His eyes turned serious. “Are you sure?”
“Very.”
A smile curved his lips, a touch of smug twinkled in his eyes. It was just a small bit, but the desire to challenge it lit within her all the same. She pressed her body to his—ground against his rapidly hardening length. Smiling back, she lifted to her toes, lips brushing his ear.
“I have conditions of my own, Dominus,” she purred, “I need to be fucked and filled in the next sixty seconds.”
He snorted. “That’s not the threat you think it is, little wolf.”
She smiled, removing her mask as well.
“Well, there’s also this glory hole for women I’d like you to put me in and—”
“Fuck,” he groaned, fingers threading into the hair, tilted her head. His lips brushed hers. “Anything you want, baby. But first things first…”
He leaned in, and kissed her.
