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Her first weeks at the royal court had proven to be everything but what she had actually imagined. Before she left her family’s humble yet beautiful castle and town, her mother made sure to warn her about literally everything bad that can happen to a person, royal court or not. They had a long conversation about the dangers lurking in the shadows, ready to attack especially since she was such an innocent and silly girl.
It was clear as day that her mother didn’t trust neither her future husband, Lord Nott, nor King Draco I, who was actually the one requesting her presence at the court at her earliest convenience.
And her earliest convenience had to, obviously, be no longer than two weeks from the day they received the letter with a royal seal. She had expected this would happen sooner or later, considering the fact her parents agreed (how could they not?) to wed their only daughter and only child to a member of the Royal Family.
She had heard tales and stories about Lord—Theo Nott, one of the most skilled swordsmen in the entire country, who was not only King’s closest relative but also his right hand man. Despite his relatively young age, he was known for his diplomatic skills that supposedly saved England from the war more than once.
But what he was probably most known for, was his charm. If every woman dreamt of marrying the great King Draco, every girl dreamt of marrying Theodore Nott. His chivalrous smile and ice-blue eyes that could look into your soul were quite a legend, repeated by every girl she knew. None of her friends had actually ever seen him, and neither had Hermione, but both Ginny and Pansy were often found at the town market, waiting for any merchants who could tell them anything about the man.
Hermione would lie if she said she wasn’t excited to marry him–well, to meet him, first of all. Even if she wasn’t as interested in the whispers and gossip about Theo as her friends, she couldn’t say it didn’t make her feel a little better. Knowing that she was not going to spend the rest of her life with some old, miserable nobleman, who would only care for procuring an heir and enslaving his wife.
Naturally, she didn’t know what kind of person Theodore was. Stories told by stupid teenage girls were one thing, while the truth was usually different. Uglier. That’s what her mother had tried to explain to her over and over again.
Do not trust him, she’d warned.
Do not let the handsome face deceive you, she’d whisper in her ear. You need to look out for yourself and for your friends.
Royal court is full of snakes, my sweet child. You are a lioness, do not forget about it.
Sometimes Mary, her mother, went on and on with her warnings and advice, making Hermione repeat every single word she had said. To some extent, she understood it. She knew Lady Granger did only because she was worried about her, mostly because of her problematic childhood.
Hermione spent the first fifteen years of her life ill and fragile. Every time her health condition improved, another malady would come, stealing yet another month or a year of her life. She was lucky enough to have money, she knew it, but it didn’t change the fact that for most of her life she was convinced she would never leave her chambers, let alone the little port town.
By the time she had turned fourteen, her parents lost two children and Hermione wasn’t even aware of her mother’s miscarriages. It pained her to look them in the eyes, when they asked, full of hope, if she was feeling better. She rarely was.
Until one day, she did. She woke up with no pain in her chest, no aching bones and new energy resources she never knew she had. It was the same day the letter signed and sealed by Theodore Nott arrived at their castle.
She was sixteen and the most popular man in the entire kingdom asked her father permission to marry her. The frail and sick Lady Granger. A girl no one had ever heard of. And somehow, she was going to get married. She was going to have a real family, even if it meant leaving her parents behind.
It felt like she got a second chance to live—a new life. Something she never anticipated, especially not after she reached a certain age. Even her parents were convinced no marriage proposal would ever come. When it finally did, the whole town celebrated. A feast has been thrown in their family castle, with an all-night party in the gardens.
Her mother, however, was still reluctant. She knew declining was not an option but she tried prolonging Hermione’s departure for as long as possible. She excused the delays with her poor health, even though she felt as good as a person could, and unfavourable weather conditions even though there was neither snow nor wind she described.
But when she turned eighteen, there was no more prolonging. No more excuses. No more delays. Lady Hermione Granger was about to leave her family home forever, along with three of her closest friends, and meet her husband-to-be. And, of course, the King of England. She wasn’t sure what was more exciting, she’d heard stories about both of the men, and she was genuinely happy that she was going to marry Theodore but there was something about King Draco that drew her in.
Whether it was the promise of power or sheer curiosity, she couldn’t tell.
Unfortunately, when she arrived neither Theodore nor Draco were there to welcome her. Instead, their carriage was met by Queen Mother, Narcissa Malfoy, and some other noblemen Hermione couldn’t remember names of. She was briefly informed that her betrothed was sent to Italy to negotiate some kind of a business deal for the country, while King Draco was, as usual, spending the summer in one of his French estates.
Hence, her first months were no different to her old, normal life in Dover. The only difference was the fact that her parents weren’t with her, though that quickly turned out to be a good thing. She could do whatever she wanted and whenever she wanted, no one scolded her when she stayed up all night reading books or when Ginny was telling her about her shenanigans with Harry when she was supposed to take archery or sewing classes.
She would lie if she said she wasn’t a little jealous of her friend’s love life but Hermione was sure her husband was worth the wait. She’d finally gotten to see portraits of him and listen to stories about him from people who knew him in real life, and truthfully, he seemed even more perfect than he did before. Charming, smart, handsome. Everyone said half of the books in the castle’s library were either his or brought here on his personal request, and if there was any way to Hermione’s heart, it would be books.
Since Theo was King’s right hand, he was spending most of his time at court and had an entire wing of the castle just for himself. Several chambers were arranged appropriately prior to her arrival, so that she wouldn’t have to move after the wedding.
Her maids told her that the King’s main chambers were relatively close, and that somehow made an aggressive shade of pink creep up onto her neck and cheeks. She couldn’t enter any of the rooms that weren’t dedicated to her—she couldn’t even have a peek at her future husband’s chambers, but whenever she would pass by Draco’s bedroom, her heart would beat faster.
More often than not, she would walk around the castle and its gardens alone, memorising every passage, every stair and every secret entrance and passage she could find. There were plenty of rooms with heavy chains on the doorknobs and she suspected at least some of them belonged to the late Queen Astoria, who had died just a few years ago.
She also suspected that the room she was currently in, by accident of course, was not a place she should ever enter. It was a relatively small chamber, with empty walls and only one rounded carpet on the otherwise cold, cobblestone floor. There was no fireplace, which made it extremely cold, even in the middle of the summer.
There was just one glass case in the middle of the room. Hermione hesitated before she took a few tentative steps forward, her flat shoes clicking quietly against the stones. Nervous, she looked around a few times but left the doors slightly ajar, in case she would have to pretend she got inside by accident.
The beautiful crown was looming in the otherwise dim room, the silver polished to perfection. She’d noticed a few emeralds in the centre of it, and somehow, she felt drawn to come closer, to touch it.
No one will know, she told herself as her skin came in contact with the cold metal. It was a bone-chilling sensation, but instead of putting it back into its velvet box, she felt like the crown begged her to hold it for a little longer, to give away some of her warmth.
Maybe to place it on her head.
“I see someone here has ambitions to become a Queen,” she heard a low voice coming from behind her and nearly dropped the heavy crown.
Hermione was too terrified to turn around, frozen in place with the jewel in her hands. She felt heavy steps nearing and a rustle of something that seemed to be a heavy coat. She wasn’t sure who had just entered the room, but she had a certain suspicion.
The mysterious man circled her slowly, as if he was considering something, before he stopped directly in front of her, their bodies divided only with the glass cabinet. Stressed and shy, she dared herself to glance up and her breath caught in her throat the moment her eyes landed on him.
He was—he was massive. But not in a bad way, no, he looked like a knight rather than a king. His white, shoulder-length hair was dishevelled, some of the soft curls falling on his forehead and cheeks. And his eyes, God, they must have been the closest things to the stars she’d ever seen. They glistened brighter than Sirius during a cloudless night, brighter than the crown resting in her hands.
And damn him, but he did not look as if he was almost forty at all. He didn’t look as if he had fought and won two wars—with all the death that must have surrounded him on the ruthless battlefields, he looked rather calm.
He roamed her body, his pupils dilating ever so slightly. “Ah, you must be Lady Granger, am I right?” he asked, though she gathered it was a rthethorial question. How did he know that, however, was a mystery to her, “My nephew has told me all about you.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” she stuttered, attempting probably the worst curtsy in the history of curtsies.
He chuckled, his eyes not leaving her face even for a split second. “You look way older than in that painting your parents have sent us.”
She smiled nervously, her thick lashes fluttering as she blinked over and over again. Years of training and lessons about court etiquette, only to forget how to behave in front of an actual bloody king. Her mother will have her flayed alive if she ever finds out about this.
Yet, instead of apologising, she asked, “Have you seen them? The paintings?”
“Naturally,” he answered, closing the door behind him with a kick of his booted heel, “it’s a King’s duty to make sure his family is entering satisfying contracts and unions.”
Hermione could have sworn her heart skipped a beat when he walked closer again, his presence taking control over the entire room, over her thoughts and body. There was something more about him than simply being the King of one of the most powerful countries in the world. There was something mysterious and hypnotising about him, something that told her to stay away and and as close as possible at the same time.
“And is it, Your Majesty?” She whispered, though she had hoped her voice would be more stern. She stumbled over her own feet as she tried to take a step back, clutching the royal tiara in her hands. “A satisfying union?” She clarified when he tilted his head to the side, raising an eyebrow in question.
The smirk that crept up on his lips made her cheeks burn.
“Oh, yes. I would say so.”
The depth of his voice made her feel something she was not used to feeling, not unless she was alone in her chambers—that warmth spreading in her lower abdomen and her most intimate parts. It was the same kind of thing she would feel when Pansy or Ginny were bragging about their boyfriends and what they did when no one looked.
But the difference was, King Draco was not doing anything to her. And yet it was driving her insane—his low and husky voice, the sharp line of his jaw covered in a light stubble that just begged for her to scratch it with her nails.
Not to mention his eyes, the beautiful silver eyes that made her weak in the knees.
He cleared his throat, his features softening when he noticed the deep blush spreading all the way on her neck and decolletage.
“I had one of my servants send the painting to Italy, so that Theo could see it too.” Draco informed her, slowly closing the distance between them. “But I suspect we should have a new one painted, considering how much you have changed. He’s in for a pleasant surprise, I must admit.”
“The paintings are indeed a little outdated,” she agreed, trying to control her voice to sound as normal as possible. “My parents couldn’t find a proper artist because of the storms for quite some time.”
He seemed to be considering something, his eyes roaming her body in a way that she wasn’t sure could be described as decent. They stopped for a little longer than appropriate on her chest, the yellow corset pushing her otherwise small breasts up.
“How old are you now?”
“Eighteen.”
The King looked surprised, as if he didn’t really know anything about her. Because from the rumours she had heard about herself, everyone at court knew her name and her age. But she assumed it wasn’t something someone as important as a monarch would care about.
Although, when his gaze returned to her face, there was something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Curiosity, perhaps. Later, when she will be alone in her chambers, with her hand under her nightgown, she will tell herself it was desire.
She straightened her shoulders, unintentionally pushing her breasts even more up, and released the breath she was holding for way too long.
“That’s quite old for your first marriage,” the blonde stated, though from his tone itself she couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be a good or a bad thing.
“I was in poor health my whole childhood. The doctors say it’s a miracle I have survived this long, hence marriage wasn’t really an option for me.”
“Mhm,” he hummed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “We’re glad to have you here, then. My nephew will be thrilled.”
There was an odd bitterness to his voice as he nearly spat the last sentence out. It told her that the King didn’t seem to be too thrilled with her presence, even if she had no idea why.
Yet again, her curiosity won the battle about self preservation, and she took a tentative step forward, glancing up at him and asking, “Are you thrilled, Your Majesty?”
Somewhat unfazed, he chuckled, darting his tongue out to wet his lips. Hermione nearly fell, her legs betraying her.
“Careful, Lady Granger,” he muttered in a husky voice, purposefully ignoring her question. “You don’t want to drop the crown now, do you?”
Hermione was nearly certain that the warning in his tone, that command of his, did not refer to the crown she was clutching to. But she didn’t dare to challenge him this time. Pick your battles, her father used to say.
She would play the role he wanted her to, “N-no, of course not, I just wanted to—”
The blush on her cheeks intensified, her breasts moving up and down as he carefully took his late wife’s crown out of her hands, accidentally grazing her palm with his knuckles.
“It’s alright, but next time ask me to show it to you, instead of coming here alone. My wife might be gone but her ghost would never stop haunting me if I let anything happen to this. Understood?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Good girl,” he murmured and Hermione felt blood rushing to her stomach, heat spreading between her thighs. His low baritone rumbled in her chest, setting every cell in her body in motion.
Not really sure how to react to such a comment, she brushed a loose curl away from her face and tucked it behind her ear, her eyes following his movements when he took a step back and placed the tiara back to where it belonged. She couldn’t help but wonder how the crown would look on her head, though considering its weight and size, it would probably snap her neck or, if she were lucky, make her look ridiculous, rather than regal.
Draco sent her a somewhat playful look, the corners of his mouth curling up.
“Welcome to the royal court, Lady Granger,” he said, still smiling, as he retreated and held the doors open for her. She sneaked next to him, her hip brushing his leather-covered thigh. Accidentally, of course.
And as she was about to run back to her chambers, he added with a wink, “I’m sure we’re going to have plenty of time to get to know each other. Perhaps you’ll get to see the real crown jewels soon.”
• • • Draco • • •
He left Astoria’s old room sooner than he wanted to, but had he stayed any longer, he would have bent her over the glass cabinet and pounded into her sweet, little cunt without a second thought. The bulge in his trousers was probably showing up already, though she didn’t seem to be interested in that particular part of his body. Not yet at least.
“The real crown jewels,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples as he strode back to his room. “Really mature, Draco, really fucking mature.”
Ignoring all his subjects and counsellors reminding him about the Small Council meeting later this afternoon, he returned to his chambers at once. He asked his guards to not let anyone into his room, unless they were threatened with a fucking war. Maybe not even then.
He got rid of his linen shirt with one swift movement and unfastened his leather trousers, tugging them down. The second the fabric pooled at his ankles, he took his cock in his hand, giving himself a few quick strokes.
The Granger girl was all he could think about as he fucked his own fist, eyes already rolling to the back of his head. She was so young, hardly over eighteen, yet there was something in her eyes that made her seem more mature than any of the women on his court. She was an ideal mixture of innocence and bravery.
He thought of her tits, bouncing up and down in the tight corset as she breathed heavily. He suspected they were rather small and perky, and hell, if he didn’t want to suck on them. Her skin shimmered in the dark room, more than any jewel in the world.
He leaned back against one of the four bed posts and closed his eyes in a bliss, his thoughts flooded with the sweet, sweet girl and the blush of innocence on her soft skin. He thought about her petite hands holding Astoria’s crown, her eyes widening when she was caught red handed by none other but the King himself.
And he couldn’t help but imagine how the crown would look on her head.
How the emerald pieces would contrast with her amber eyes, how the silver arch would be enveloped by her brown curls. It would have to be modified for her, maybe he would even order a smaller one for her, considering her… proportions.
He wouldn’t want her neck to hurt from too heavy jewellry.
No, instead he would give her a matching silver necklace, to wrap it around the tiny neck of hers. Nothing too extravagant, no. Not something Astoria used to wear.
Quite the contrary. He’d think about something delicate and subtle, just like the girl from his memory was. It would be silver, that’s sure, to honour his House colours. Perhaps he’d agree on ruby instead of emeralds, just this once. If he remembered correctly, her coat of arms was red. Red and golden.
Couldn’t be more different than his, really, but it was a good thing. If he had wanted another Astoria, he would have asked Daphne Greengrass to be his wife, even if it was considered bad luck—to marry your dead spouse's sibling. The thing was, he didn’t want that again.
He wanted Lady Hermione Jean Granger, with her pouted cherry lips and flushed cheeks, he wanted the girl with all the innocence and inexperience that came with her. He wanted to take care of her and teach her everything—mould her into the powerful woman she had the ambitions to be. He saw that in her eyes, even if she was trying to hide her real intentions. More than anything at this moment though, he wanted to feel how her tight cunt would stretch and clench around him.
The only problem was that she wasn’t his.
But what was the privilege of being a King, if he couldn’t get whatever he wanted? Even if it came at the expense of his family, his own blood. As he squeezed the base of his cock one last time, the muscles in his lower abdomen tensing, he thought of a way to make this little…obstacle disappear.
Because if coming to the mere memory of her felt so good, he had to taste her cunt before she is out of his reach forever.
• • • Hermione • • •
Ever since King Draco had returned to the Court, she could feel his presence close to her all the time. Whether she’d only notice his blonde hair somewhere in the crowd, or whether she’d bump into him on her way to breakfast, he was always there.
They didn’t spend any time in private yet, not since their first encounter in Queen Astoria’s room, mostly because she was a bloody coward. He invited her to join him for breakfast, lunches and dinners every other day, yet she would always find an excuse to dismiss his invitation.
Whenever she saw him and his guards walking towards her in the hallway, she would return to her room, hoping he didn’t see her. Until one morning, she couldn’t escape anymore.
The loud knock made her jump in front of her vanity, as she was combing her hair. Even without opening the doors, she knew who was on the other side. Legs wobbling, she walked over her chamber and tentatively opened the doors, swallowing loudly when she saw the King himself.
“Lady Granger,” he greeted her, a ghost of a smirk already creeping up on his lips. When she didn't say anything, his fingers tapped some slow rhythm on her door before he continued, “I was wondering if you would like to join me for breakfast outside? The weather is marvellous and I heard the strawberries taste exquisite at this time of the year.”
She cleared her throat, grabbing the sides of her dress to finally bow, but he gripped her chin, forcing her to stand upright. “None of that, darling,” the last word was nothing more than a whisper, so quiet only she could hear it. "Shall we?"
“I—I need to change my clothes, then—”
His eyes roamed her body up and down, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re—I think they’re showing too much,” she stammered over her own words, not sure how to explain to him what she meant. She was never a follower of the dumb rules established by the society, but if she were to marry Theodore, she couldn’t look like a harlot.
With a genuine smile on his lips, Draco reached out to unbutton his white, linen shirt, leaving half of the buttons done. He rolled the sleeves of the shirt up, exposing toned forearms, muscles flexing as he leaned casually against the doorframe.
“I can always take it entirely off, if you feel uncomfortable with people looking at you,” he winked, his fingers ghosting over the remaining buttons. “So?”
Even though she suspected he knew this was not what she meant, she nodded, biting on her lower lip. And as much as she wanted him to fully unbutton the shirt, she muttered, “It’s alright. Let me just grab my fan, Your Ma—”
As she turned around, he stopped her with his arm shielding her from entering the room back. “Draco. My name is Draco.”
“I know. But you’re my King—”
“And as your King, I want you to call me by my name when we’re alone, not those pompous titles. Can you do that?”
She hesitated, avoiding his piercing gaze, but nodded eventually. “Yes, Draco.”
It felt foreign on her lips, to use only his given name, but if that meant seeing that smile on his lips again, she would do it over and over again. She didn’t know why he was so persistent to have breakfast with her, but considering her lack of company recently, she was actually grateful he made her leave her room for once.
He guided her outside, keeping safe distance from her, though his fingers brushed her back and shoulders every now and then, when he was sure no one was looking. She breathed heavily when the wave of heat hit her in the gardens, the merciless sun burning her skin.
The breakfast, which looked like it could feed an army, was prepared for them in a secluded part of the gardens, with the shadow of a massive willow tree giving them a chance to breathe and hide from the heat.
“So, are you going to tell me why you avoided me?” He asked, grabbing a bowl of fresh fruit and a teapot. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Um, coffee, please,” she smiled, handing him her cup. “And I wasn’t avoiding you, I was just—”
“Do you think your King is stupid?”
She wasn’t expecting him to be this blunt, and the saucer she held fell out of her hands, down on the grass. Besides, she wasn’t really good at hiding the fact that she was avoiding him. Not when she would run from him and his guards like a doe.
“Of course not!” Her words were too rushed, her voice too high.
“Then tell me, why were you avoiding me?” He cocked an eyebrow and pushed his chair closer to her, their shoulders only inches away from each other now. She felt her cheeks burn and her heartbeat intensify when he added, “It’s a crime to lie to your King, I’m sure you know that.”
“You asked me not to call you a King.”
“Smart girl,” he whispered, leaning closer to her. “But I won’t let you leave until you answer my question, Hermione.”
She knew he wasn’t kidding.
She wasn’t sure though, if she wanted to leave at all.
“I was scared you’d punish me,” she blurted out, looking away from him and focusing on the peonies in the distance. What a ridiculous excuse, Hermione, she scolded herself in her head, hoping he wouldn’t guess the real reason behind her behaviour.
Draco chuckled, dragging his fingers down her exposed arm. A shiver ran down her spine, and another when he entwined his fingers with hers. “Why would I do that?” She couldn’t force herself to answer, well aware that whatever she was about to say, would blow her not-so-good cover. But then, he lowered his voice, lowered his head next to her, and whispered, “Were you a bad girl?”
She was positive her undergarments were damp, if not soaked, by now.
“N-no, but after you found me snooping in that room, I was—”
“If I wanted to punish people for getting lost, I wouldn’t have too many subjects left. Besides, I thought I made it clear to you last time that I wasn’t angry at you.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know if you were serious. My mother warned me from trusting anyone here.”
“If you can’t trust your King, then who can you trust?” He asked, breathing softly against her exposed neck.
She clenched her legs, feeling the arousal pooling in her knickers, and reminded herself that she was to marry Draco’s nephew soon, not Draco. Her not-so-subtle movement hadn’t gone unnoticed by him and soon she felt his arm squeezing her knee and pulling it slightly to the side, spreading her legs. She should’ve stopped him, she knew, but it felt so good to be touched by him, so good to have him so close to her.
“Your parents are pushing for the wedding,” he said, placing a featherlight kiss on her neck, his lips so soft she could have sworn she’d melted. “But Theodore won’t be back at least for another six months.”
“I know,” was all she could say, with his lips still attached to her neck, his hand sliding up her thigh. “I—”
“Relax, darling,” he whispered in her ear, drawing circles on her inner thigh.. “I agreed to arrange a ceremony for someone to marry you in absentia.”
Hermione’s brows furrowed when she tried to focus on remembering the term Draco just mentioned, which turned out to be nearly impossible with his hands and mouth all over her. She closed her eyes, going through her Latin classes with her tutor Minerva, and though it took her longer than she wanted to admit, she finally remembered.
“Who?”
She felt Draco smile against her decolletage. “Dare to venture a guess?”
“Is that allowed?”
“Who’s going to say no to me?” He mused, tracing her lips with a strawberry she didn’t even notice he grabbed. “Your parents were thrilled. Such an honour to have the King stand in the altar with their only daughter. Such. An. Honour,” he punctuated his last words, smiling when she opened her lips to him and snatched the strawberry from his fingers.
“An honour indeed,” swallowing the fruit, she darted her tongue out to lick the sweet juices dripping from the corners of her mouth, but once again he was faster. He crashed his lips against hers, catching her lower lip between his teeth, and she moaned into his mouth, unsure what to do with her hands or legs or—anything really.
“Sorry,” he muttered, breaking the kiss. “I wanted to taste this strawberry, too.”
She felt his eyes lingering on her chest when she looked at the table and found another bowl full of strawberries within the reach of his hand. She was sure her face had the same shade of red as the fruit, when her quiet panting wouldn't cease. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the armrests and even if she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was grinning like all the teenage boys in the village.
Their small moment of silence and intimacy was soon destroyed by Draco’s guard, Adrian Pucey, rushing to them in his full armour. “Your Majesty,” he rasped, bowing slightly, “My Lady.”
“What is it, Adrian?” Draco asked, perhaps a little too harsh.
“It’s—”
“You can speak freely in Lady Granger’s presence.”
The tall man nodded. “It’s the French border.”
Draco immediately straightened in his chair, his deft fingers rushing to button his shirt. “What about it?” He sneered through gritted teeth, his eyes melting into a somewhat lethal combination of silver and onyx.
“There is—there is some turmoil.”
“There is always turmoil on the French border, Adrian. Either give me more specifics, or let me have my breakfast in peace.”
Adrian cleared his throat, beams of sweat collecting on his temples, which was enough to plant the seed of anxiety in Hermione. Draco, however, seemed unphased by his guard’s stammering, not until he said, “Twelve of our men were found dead last night. Massacred.”
The content of her stomach turned when Adrian’s words hit her and she saw Draco’s jaw clenching momentarily as he slammed his flat palms against the small, breakfast table. She’d seen him angry in the courtroom a few times, watching him from a distance, but this wasn’t just anger.
He was furious.
“Prepare my horse.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Prepare my horse or I’ll cut your head off,” It wasn’t Draco who threatened his most trusted man, it was King Draco I. The ruthless and brutal man she’d heard so many stories about. “I’ll be in the stables in an hour.”
“Yes, My King,” the young man responded, gracing her with a curt nod as he left, “My Lady.”
“Not a word about this to anyone, do you understand?” He demanded, as he rose up to his feet and adjusted his trousers that were too tight to cover the growing bulge. “I have to go, but I’ll leave all the details to your maidens.”
“Details?” She asked, trying to ignore his erection and the growing anxiety inside her.
“About the wedding,” he clarified. “It’s in a week. We need to make your parents happy, don’t we?”
In a week?!, she thought, her confusion clearly painted all over her face.
“You’re going to get a real one, once Theo is back home,” he added, somewhat bitter. “This is just a small ceremony. To finalise the union.”
She nodded nervously, watching him change from the soft and gentle Draco to the King of England, his shoulders tensing and features sharpening at once.
“Be safe,” she said quietly.
“Of course,” he smirked. “I have to come back to my bride, eh?”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the massive gardens. Her heart was thudding in her chest, whether it was from the kiss or the news about the French border, she couldn’t tell.
She felt bad for letting him kiss her, touch her, mark her. Because it was bad.
But why did it feel so good, then?
There wasn’t much to prepare for the wedding ceremony, not much that was left for her, that is. From what her maidens had said, Draco demanded a small ceremony, only with the two of them and a bishop present. Letters have been sent to her parents and to Theodore, to inform them of the ceremony, but obviously none of them would be able to come. Not on such short notice.
Draco let her choose the dress—ordered her to choose one, actually. She thought she wasn’t expected to wear one, considering the wedding was just for her parents’ peace of mind. And since she had less than a week to have anything made for her, she went for one of the simplest options given to her by the tailor, deciding on a soft, silk dress with translucent veil embroidered with stars.
It was supposed to be a short, formal ceremony.
She wasn’t expecting her heart to skip a beat when she entered the small chapel in the castle and noticed Draco—her King leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his trousers. He wore a white shirt, as usual, his shoulders and back covered with a heavy cape—probably for the formalities of a wedding.
He gestured to her to come closer, his eyes seizing her body up and down as she walked slowly on the soft carpet. When she reached the altar, he smiled gently and squeezed her hands, giving her all the courage she needed.
Everything that had happened later was nothing more than a blur to her. The archbishop’s words and prayers, Draco pulling her veil up and revealing her face, covering her shoulder with his—Theo’s cloak. She only vaguely remembered the soft kiss he had pressed to her lips, as instructed by the bishop, and the gentle squeeze of her shoulders.
Soon, Draco dismissed the priest and asked her if she wanted to join him in his chambers for a glass of wine. Even though she shouldn’t, she agreed, blood pounding in her head.
They both knew she agreed to more than just a glass of wine.
But her feet moved on their own volition, as he guided her through the secret tunnels in the castle, his palm pressed to her lower back. He handled her like a woman, not like the little girl her parents would say she was.
In this short period of time, he treated her like an equal, not once using the position of power he was in, and that’s when she knew she was going to give him whatever he asked of her tonight.
• • • Draco • • •
He wasn’t going to waste any more time.
Not when Hermione seemed eager to be with him. Alone.
His lips curled into a smirk. “Have you ever been touched before?”
“No,” she confessed, nervously squeezing the soft material of her dress, though she wasn’t as surprised by his question as he thought she would be, “there weren't many…occasions. Besides, a woman has to be pure for her husband.”
Her voice trembled with the last sentence, and he could have sworn there was a glimpse of humour behind her eyes, telling him she didn’t mean those words at all. Not when she was here, in his chambers, wearing nothing but a thin, see-through dress. Quite a bold choice for a wedding gown, he thought.
He fought the urge to roll his eyes at her, at the same time feeling his cock twitch in his trousers, growing painfully hard with each of the words leaving her pretty mouth. He never cared about the religious customs and stupid rules woman were made to obey to please God and their husbands.
But Hermione’s innocence, whether it was real or not, made him feel certain things—things he couldn't ignore when she was so close, her small thigh brushing against his, the humble gown hugging her like the clouds on a summer sky.
She was nothing but beautiful.
And she was still not his to touch, to please.
He was determined to change it, though.
He agreed—proposed in fact, to stand with her on the altar because he didn’t want any other man to see her like this. Her parents were pushing for the marriage to happen, worried about their little girl’s future and wellbeing. They feared she wasn’t taken care of and protected.
Oh, if only he could tell them that the King himself tended to her…happiness.
But he didn’t want another noble family to rebel against him, especially not a family responsible for England’s most important port. Dover. A beautiful county full of beautiful women. So, as the King, he had agreed to rush the wedding, just a small ceremony in front of a bishop and God.
It was impossible to tell when Theo would be back, considering the war that has just started in Italy and the French being French, making it nearly impossible for his nephew to cross their borders and the sea. It was safer for him to stay in Florence, rather than risking a dangerous way back home.
With the Grangers becoming more and more impatient, he had no other choice than to marry her—in absentia, for Theodore and the union between their families.
Inviting her to his chambers was not a part of the custom, though she didn’t seem to mind when he dismissed the bishop and took her small hand in his, showing her one of his favourite secret passages in the castle, one that led from the chapel to his bedroom. Had she shown any sign of hesitation, he would have sent her back to her private rooms, but the moment the doors closed behind them, she relaxed instantly.
He knew she wanted this as much as he did.
“You didn’t seem to mind the purity when you let me kiss you in the gardens, Hermione,” he teased, pouring her a glass of sweet wine. “Did your mother teach you to repeat that bullshit whenever a man looks at you?”
She took the goblet without hesitation, downing most of it in one ago. “It was just a kiss, then. I shouldn’t—”
“You know you can always say no to me, right? You can always say no and leave and I will not do anything to stop you,” he cut in, filling her glass again, this time with a weaker type of wine. “One word, sweetheart.”
The girl considered his words, biting her lower lip, which made him even more aroused, and he hoped—he really hoped she would stay. He wasn’t sure if he could put up with another wank, not when she was so close to him.
“I don’t want to go,” she said finally, her eyes determined. “I’m done pretending.”
“Good,” he replied, her words filling him with a victory bigger than any battle would have. “Tell me then, have you ever touched yourself?”
There was no time for more lies and games, no more pretending, as she beautifully said herself.
“N-no… I would I would never—”
He chuckled, opening his palm to her and waiting for her to place her small hand in his. She reached out a tentative hand, her eyes flickering to the flames raging in the large fireplace opposite his bed. “Good girls don’t lie to their king, hmm? You didn’t touch yourself after our breakfast last week? Because let me tell you,” he paused, licking his lips, “I didn’t need an hour to get ready for the trip to the borders.”
Ah, there it is, he thought when her trademark blush came back to adorn her beautiful face.
“I-I… maybe once or twice,” she stumbled over her own words, never looking away from the fireplace. As if she was trying to convince herself the warmth she’s feeling comes from fire she’s so desperately focused on.
What a great actress she was.
There was a small voice in his head telling him that this is a bad idea, that she would never agree to what he is going to offer her—even if she had just proved him otherwise. She was still so young, so innocent. Was he really willing to sacrifice that purity for his own pleasure?
“See, it wasn’t that hard.” He laughed, placing their hands on his thigh, gently brushing her bare ankle with his. And he watched her—her face, her eyes, her reaction to what he was doing.
She didn’t seem to mind, quite the opposite—her tiny fingers tried to grab his leg through the leather trousers he was wearing, and he noticed her eyes focusing on the same spot now.
“Show me,” he ordered, moving her hand a little higher, “show me how you touch yourself.”
“I—what?”
“Don’t be shy, Hermione,” her eyes snapped back to him when the last word left his mouth. It’s the first time he’d called her that and it feels so familiar on his tongue. As if he was born only to call her that, “unless you want to leave? I will not do anything you don’t give me permission to.”
“I’ve never shown it to anyone.”
“Would you do it in front of your husband?”
She nodded, her cheeks burning an angrier shade of red.
“Tonight I am your husband,” he said in a low, husky voice, leaning down to gather her hair into his fist, tugging at it gently, “if you want me to, I will do my best to give you the pleasure you are so desperate to feel. I will drive you insane with my hands, my tongue, my cock—anything you want from me tonight will be yours. I will worship you like the goddess you are and I will make all men pray to you, if that’s what it takes for you to shed these wedding gowns and join me.”
“But Draco,” she whispered, squeezing his hand and guiding it up her thigh. She batted her eyelashes at him and he knew she was his, he knew she was just playing with him now, the same way he played with her. “It’s adultery—”
Chuckling darkly, he cut in, his lips crashing against hers, teeth colliding painfully.
“Such a smart girl, you have surely heard of ius primae noctis. Right of the first night. I am your king, my little dove, it surely gives me the right to taste you first.”
She shot him a surprised glance, pushing him away just to look at his face, her hungry eyes looking for something he wasn’t sure he could give her.
“No one has triggered that particular clause in centuries,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt with her small, soft fingers.
“I see you’ve been paying attention during your history classes.”
“I always pay attention,” she bit back.
“Do you?” Without warning, he shoved her back onto the bed, grabbing her by the ankles and spreading her legs, the thin dress torn in half. “Then pay attention to what I’m telling you now. Get rid of those awfully plain knickers, and touch yourself.”
“No one will know?” She asked one last time, as if still scared someone would surprisingly enter his chambers, in the middle of the night. “Not even Theo?”
He laughed, thinking how funny she was for being loyal to a man she’d never met.
“If I hear one rumour, I’ll cut every servant’s tongue out,” he meant it.
“You’re so brutal, Draco…” she mumbled, rolling her underwear down her legs. The dress was already torn to pieces, whether it was his or her actions, he wasn’t sure. “Are you going to cut my tongue out too, if I say anything?”
What a little tease, he thought, blood rushing to his cock.
“I’ll find a better use for this bratty mouth of yours, darling, but for now” he cooed, “keep going. Push two fingers inside when you’re wet enough.”
When the first loud moan left her throat, he rose up to his feet and walked across his chambers to make sure the door was properly closed, pushing it slightly ajar first and dismissing every member of his royal guard but Adrian Pucey, the commander.
“Whatever you think you hear tonight, it didn’t happen.” He said quietly, winking at the tall man.
With no hesitation, the tall knight nodded,“Aye, my King.”
When he returned to his bed, Hermione was already naked and sprawled on the bed sheets, her back arching and toes curling. Fuck, he could have come just to the sight of it, to her fingers slipping in and out of her tight cunt, smearing her arousal everywhere, to her closed eyes and the sweetest, loveliest moans coming from the bottom of her chest.
“Enough,” he said, against his better judgement, grabbing her wrist. “If you want to come, you need to work for it.”
“But—I-I was so close!” she protested, her chest heaving.
“Oh, I know,” he smirked, letting his trousers pool at his ankles before he kicked them off. “But you shouldn’t forget about your husband’s pleasure, hmm?”
“No.”
For a moment, he considered pushing her back on the bed and fucking her into oblivion, with his cock painfully hard. But he knew she was inexperienced—a virgin. He had to take his time with her, to make the first time as bearable for her as possible. He had to show her what he can do, only so she would come back to him tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow.
“Do you want to please your king?”
She whimpered under his gaze, the piercing eyes burning a hole through her thin skin. “Yes, your majesty.”
“What did I tell you to call me?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
He tapped her knee appreciatively, the rings on his fingers gently grazing her soft skin. “Good girl. Now, get on your knees.”
Her eyes glanced between her knees and his face, unsure of whether he was being serious. For a second, he thought that maybe he is being too rough with her, too demanding. But when her eyes met his, hungry and clouded with arousal, it became clear she wanted to play this game with him.
So, he played along, “Do I need to repeat myself?”
She shook her head and slowly sank to her knees, the soft carpet warm against her bare skin. Her hair was still tied up, from the wedding ceremony, and he contemplated keeping it this way but then he remembered the unruly curls sticking to her cheeks and neck in the morning and couldn’t help himself but to reach out to pull out all of the pins and jewellery from her soft, brown hair.
Good lord, even this part of her felt like heaven.
“Open your mouth and stick your tongue out,” he ordered and she obeyed, staring at him sheepishly through her lashes. “Have you ever sucked a man’s cock before?”
Of course she hasn’t. He knew it, but he wanted her to blush, to admit she was as inexperienced as he thought she was. He slid his hand into her hair, massaging her scalp with calloused fingers and watching her expression falter.
She shook her head, though there was no shame in her eyes—rather, a challenge.
“Relax your jaw and try not to bite. If something’s wrong, tap my knee three times, alright?”
He hoped nothing would be, though. He dreamt of his moment ever since he first saw her, and he wouldn’t let anything ruin it. She gave him a curt nod, darting her tongue further, her golden eyes travelling hungrily down the length of his cock.
Leaning back in the archamir, he tangled his fingers in her hair, tugging at it gently and feeding her with his cock the moment her mouth was within his reach. She squeezed his thighs, breathing slowly and adjusting to the feeling of having her mouth full, before she took him deeper, instinctively hollowing her cheeks.
“Fuck—” he cursed, the small mouth enveloping him, her fingers sinking into his skin. He was so close to pulling out and fucking her throat the way he wanted to, but he knew it would only scare her, so he let her experiment and play and suck, pushing her head a little further when she seemed to relax her palate. She was getting sloppy, trying to work her tongue with her mouth stuffed, and he moaned loudly, gripping her hair. “Again—suck again.”
And she did, her eyes snapping back to him, as if asking if whatever she was doing made him feel good. He wanted to tell her—to tell her everything, how divine the confines of her mouth felt, how he would order the church to write prayers just for her. Or the bards to sing serenades of this moment, of her glazed eyes and red lips, or her throat accommodating him as if she was born to please him.
But then she pulled out, a string of saliva connecting the tip with her lips. Before he had the chance to protest, she swirled her tongue around the head of his cock and dragged her tongue down the throbbing vein underside.
“Never sucked a cock, eh?” He rasped, his breathing uneven, as he gathered her hair in a makeshift ponytail and pulled her up, forcing her to straddle his lap.
She batted her eyelashes, licking a dollop of his come off her lips.. “My friend told me what to do—”
“Remind me to send a gift basket to that friend of yours,” he murmured, kneading her small breasts. “What else did she teach you?”
“Just some—oh!” she yelped, when his fingers found her clit, rubbing it so fast a wave of her arousal coated his thigh.
She started grinding against his leg, her hips moving back and forth as he continued to tease her, his fingers sliding through her slick folds. He wanted to know how it feels to be inside her, he wanted her cunt to clench around him, but they had to be patient.
There was time for everything.
“So wet from sucking my cock? Come for me, Hermione,” he whispered, pressing his signets and rings to the hot bundle of nerves, watching her chest move up and down, up and down—until she couldn’t control it any longer, her eyes squeezing shut. Her legs shook, clenching around his thigh, and he smirked, memorising this moment, before he ordered, “Let go—now.”
She moaned loudly, screaming his name, her head falling backwards, and if he could, he would have paid any money to have this particular moment painted, to have her release imprinted not only in his brain, but also on a canvas.
When she was done, she returned his focus to him, her eyes hooded with arousal, legs trembling. “Time to please my king,” she teased, wrapping her hand around his cock and stroking him with such certainty, he began to doubt it was her first time. Her fingers felt so soft around him, like his personal heaven.
Again, as though she wanted to tease him even more, she bit her lower lip, focused on nothing more but his cock. She was a little too gentle for his liking, but he’d teach her later how exactly he wanted her to do it. This time, he let her explore his body, the same way he was planning on exploring hers; to savour and worship her, just as he had promised.
He didn’t need much to finish, having been already hard for almost an hour or so, and soon after she squeezed the base of his cock, he painted her chest white, his come dripping down her nipples. She jumped, surprised by the hot sensation on her chest but he held her in place, his hands gripping her hips.
Oh, how he wished he could come inside her cunt, watch his seed gushing out of her as she came down from chasing her own pleasure. Breed her with his heir—their heir, if only she were his.
It was off-limits, he was aware. But his cock twitched again at the mere thought of it.
“Was it good?” She asked after a while, somewhat worried. “Was I good?”
“Perfect, Hermione. You were perfect.”
When she didn’t seem to believe his words, he pulled her further onto his lap and kissed her again, his hands roaming her body, already slick with sweat. She relaxed momentarily, granting his tongue entry to her mouth, her hands squeezing his shoulders.
After a while, she asked shyly, “Are we—are we going to?”
The mere fact that she even considered it made him lose any shred of clarity he still had, with the most beautiful woman naked on his lap, asking him if he was going to fuck her. Not in those words, obviously, but it was clear what she meant.
“Only if you want to,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl away from her face, holding her gaze as she surveyed his face. “But don’t feel pressured to say yes.”
“I want it,” she replied, her voice devoid of hesitation. “It’s just—”
“I know. I’ll be gentle.”
She nodded and then smiled, and fuck, if it wasn’t the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. He instructed her to wrap her arms and legs around him while he stood up from the chair, moving her back to his bed.
His cock throbbed when she spread her legs without him having to tell her to, her cunt glistening with the recent orgasm. Certainly not her last one. Kneeling at the bottom of the bed, he grabbed her ankles and pulled her closer to him, using both his hands to pin her legs to the mattress.
“What are you doing?” She asked, propping herself on her elbows and peering down at him. “I thought we were—”
A smirk was all the answer she needed, but he told her anyway, “I’m going to eat you out, Hermione. You see, these activities of ours,” a theatrical pause, and another smirk, “made me rather hungry. Ravenous, if you will.”
She tried to clamp her thighs at his words but his hands held them steadily in place. Sweet, little girl. He couldn’t wait to taste her, to bury his tongue in her cunt and make her scream his name, and his name only, for the rest of the night.
His nose brushed her inner thighs and he alternated sending waves of hot and cold air, before he dipped his head lower, finding her clit with his eyes fixed on her tits. The white streaks of his seed had already dried and yet, she didn’t seem to mind at all, when she brought her hand to her chest and pinched her nipple.
Fuck. Fuck.
He was going to come from that gesture alone, and then he imagined she was his—his wife. Even if it was just for the night, for a few hours they were allowed together.
Parting her with one hand, he dragged his tongue up and down her slit, slowly and passionately, learning every inch of her. Her toes curled and she fisted the sheets when he slid his tongue into her, curling it inside.
She arched her back, moaning and whimpering, the soft yet throaty words almost like a prayer to him, and he continued the delicious assault on her cunt, lapping and sucking and licking. Drinking in her juices, breathing in the musky scent.
His hand moved from her thigh to her stomach, stilling her, as he flicked his tongue again and again, her legs already trembling. He dared to slide one finger inside and she bucked her hips immediately, meeting his slow, agonising thrusts.
Judging by her blissful expression, he knew she was close.
Judging by her cunt clenching around his finger and another wave of hot, salty arousal gushing out of her, he knew she was ready.
She was perfect every second.
But she was ethereal when she came.
He might not have been the most religious person, but he’d get on his knees to pray before her.
When he was done, she was dripping on his sheets, on his chin. Her heavy breathing and loud heartbeat filled the otherwise silent room and he allowed her a few moments to gather her thoughts, before he caressed her hips with such delicacy it surprised even him. He wasn’t a brute, but he wouldn’t say he was gentle, either.
Maybe it was time to change it.
“Did you enjoy it, little dove?” He asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You make the sweetest noises when you come, did you know?”
Hermione took him in, her gaze sultry and somewhat impatient. “I want you.”
He shook his head, drumming his fingers on her knee. “Answer my question first.”
“Which one? You asked two.”
A brat, indeed.
“If I were you, I would lose that attitude,” he warned, his hand wrapped around her calf.
“Or what?” She dared to challenge.
“Or I won’t fuck you at all.”
“Oh but my King,” she mocked and he would have lied if he said her bluntness wasn’t making him even hornier. “One of your subjects is really unhappy…shouldn’t you take care of them?”
“Do you want to spend all night on your knees? Or tied to my bed, while I watch you squirm and soak my sheets? Do you—”
“Please, just fuck me,” she cut in, giving him those fuck-me-eyes he couldn’t resist. Would never be able to resist after tonight. “Please, Draco.”
The way she said his name, barely a whisper on her tongue, was his undoing. The beginning and end of it. The way she drawed the two syllables, so slow yet not slow enough for him, made the world shatter around him; and there was nothing else but her, sprawled on his bed, and him, already stroking his cock.
“I’m going to ruin Theodore for you,” he muttered under his nose, locking his arms on each side of her head as he leaned to brush her lips with a chaste kiss. “He's a child, so inexperienced, so immature. He’ll never give you what I can—”
She chuckled, the sound caressing his ears. “Is it wise to talk about other men when there’s a girl in your bed?”
Damn her, he thought, positioning himself between her legs. She was still wet—drenched from the work his tongue did, her body relaxed under his touch.
Without him having to ask, she nodded, pulling him closer to her.
“Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.”
She did.
His fingers sank into her flesh and she held her breath as he slowly thrusted, inch by inch, waiting for her breathing to steady. She squeezed her eyes shut, her face contorting into a grimace, and he panicked. He—the King of England, panicked. “Do you want me to stop?”
“N-no,” she breathed out, her voice ragged. “Don’t stop. I just need to get used to that feeling—your size.”
He couldn’t help himself but smile at the comment stroking his ego, and stilled inside her, letting her adjust. She was so deliciously tight he was afraid he was going to split her in half if he moved too fast.
So he waited and then pushed his cock deeper, letting her hips rest on the bed. One of his hands still held her hips, the other—caressed the sensitive skin on her stomach. He pressed his thumb above her navel and smirked, “This is how far I’ll go when you’re ready to take all of me.”
She relaxed at his words though he suspected it didn’t help much with the pain. By no means was he an expert on women anatomy, but he wasn’t stupid either. When she nodded faintly, a ghost of a smile lingering on her lips, he moved inside her again.
Even this slow, with almost no actual fucking at all, she felt divine. Her nails scratching his back, legs trembling. A few spots of the bed were now stained with blood but he didn’t care and hoped she wouldn’t too.
When she didn’t protest, he repeated his previous movement, his hips begging him to pound into her and chase his own release. His grip on her hip tightened, his senses blurred. There was a thick fog clouding his mind, and for a second—just for a teeny, tiny second he almost gave in to the temptation.
But she must have sensed this, because the moment he prepared to sink deeper, she shook her head, amber eyes pleading with him.
Fuck.
He almost lost it—almost hurt her.
“You can move,” she said quietly, “not too fast, though.”
He grinned like a Cheshire cat, bowing his head slightly as if to tell her he wanted nothing more than to obey her.
She was talking like a Queen—his Queen.
Her face returned to its normal state, though the discomfort was still visible in her features. It wasn’t something he could have made easier for her, an obstacle he could get rid of. But he insisted on making it as pleasant for her as possible.
It didn’t take him long to bring her over the edge, with her body overstimulated with the two previous orgasms. His fingers found her clit again, rubbing it softer than before and it took all his strength not to lose himself. Again.
Holy fuck, what was she doing to him?
Sensing she was close, he leaned down and kissed her. Slowly. Passionately. “Let go, Hermione,” was all he said.
And once more, she obeyed. Her body shuddered, tears running down her cheeks.
His face was ghosting above hers, his cock still buried in her.
“Draco—” she rasped out and he silenced her with another kiss.
And another—to her nose.
And another—kissing away the salty tears.
And another—soothing the swollen eyelids.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, breathing slowly. “You didn’t finish.”
“That was for you,” and it wasn’t a lie.
Perhaps for the first time ever, his focus and attention was fixed on someone else than himself. And he liked that. He liked that so much he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to give it up—give her up.
“Are you alright?”
“Mhm,” she hummed, “maybe a little sore.”
This girl was going to be his downfall, if he doesn’t play it right.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, hm? What about a bath and some French wine?”
She nodded. “You’re going to have to carry me there, husband.”
Draco blinked. Was it just fun for her—just a distraction? “Your wish is my command, wife.”
When he carried her to the bathroom, the word still lingering between them, he realised there was only one solution to the problem at hand. He hated it. He hated himself for even considering it, but how could he not—who would blame him, if they saw her perfect, petite body in the mammoth bathtub?
“Where did you go?” She asked, noticing his distant expression.
“Just thought of something really unimportant,” he lied. “Don’t worry about it.”
He was the only one who would.
For what he was about to do, was an act of war. Civil fucking war, if anyone ever finds out.
He was waiting for her.
Waiting for her since she left last night and he couldn’t tell her the news he knew she would receive the next day.
And there she was, shoving his guards aside, eyes red with tears.
Fuck.
That’s not how it was supposed to go.
“Draco, I—” she rushed into his bedroom with no regard for his guards blocking the entrance. He nodded, dismissing them with a wave of his hand and gestured her to come closer, patting his thigh with a quill.
“What happened, little dove?” He asked, concern flooding his voice. She ran across the room and fell into his arms, straddling his thigh. His heart sank in his chest when he noticed tears on her cheeks, her eyes red. “Talk to me, Hermione.”
“Theo—Theo is dead,” she stammered over her words and he put the quill and parchment down on his desk, his arms coiling around her tiny waist. It wasn’t news to him anymore, but he pulled her closer to his chest, rubbing her arms. “The letter—it ca-came today.”
Draco placed a kiss on the top of her head and pulled a handkerchief from his drawer to wipe her tears away. “I know.”
“How—”
“I am the King,” he cut her short. “Theodore was not only my nephew but also my right hand. I was informed yesterday.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
He bit back a chuckle. The situation was rather ridiculous—there was a girl on his lap, unconsciously grinding against his thigh, crying because a man she’d never met had died. Theo was her husband, yes, but it could have been anyone else, for all that mattered.
She belonged to him now.
The only obstacle on his way was gone.
Now, he could be the one to marry her, for real this time. With all the court and noblemen from the entire country present. He will invite every monarch and dignitary to show off his new wife, his little dove. He will throw the biggest and richest feast the world has ever seen.
He will finally call her his Queen.
“I wanted you to be mine and mine only, little dove. And we—Malfoys, we always get what we want,” he muttered into her hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. From the shuddering of her body he realised she understood the real meaning of his words. But he couldn’t tell if she liked it, or not. Probably not.
Waiting for a response that never came, he whispered in her ear, “There’s nothing I wouldn't do to achieve my goal.”