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“Minister Granger!” a faceless reporter shouts from the crowd. “Who will run the Ministry while you’re on leave?”
Hermione purses her lips, annoyed. “As stated in this morning’s press release, Undersecretary Patil will be stepping in. She will do an excellent job and has all the experience and qualifications to keep things in order until I return.”
“Minister! Are you having a boy or a girl?”
Reflexively, her hand twitches toward her belly. It’s almost second nature now to smooth a hand over the little bump, but she catches herself and curls it to a fist, dropping it to her side. She’s been warned.
Act too maternal, and it’ll be seen as weakness. The press and her opponents are already having a field day with the announcement, and the last thing they need is more ammunition.
“I’m not disclosing the sex. Next question.”
“Minister! How do you respond to criticism that you’ll be unable to meet the demands of the job as a new mother?”
Well now, that is just a cheap attempt to bait her. And it works. “I would like to point out that none of the questions tonight would be asked of a father,” she replies, voice sharp. Inhaling deeply, she tries to dispel some of the tension. “I take my role as Minister very seriously, and intend to continue driving forward the policies and reform I promised Wizarding Britain when I was elected, just as I have been doing for the past four years. Becoming a mother will not change that.”
“Minister! Speaking of fathers, why won’t you disclose the identity of your child’s father?”
“No more questions.” A deep voice cuts in, and the tall, lithe frame of her Lead Auror steps to the podium. Flinty eyes bear down on the reporter. “The Minister’s had enough of your rubbish for one day.”
A smirk threatens Hermione’s lips, but years of political savvy smooths the twitch into an expression of neutral amusement. She holds up a hand and Malfoy stills, then nods stiffly and takes a step back.
“I’ll only say this once. The identity of my child’s father is, and will remain, confidential until we decide otherwise. But I can assure you—” despite her best efforts, a little smirk slips loose “—he’ll be a very good Daddy.”
Malfoy coughs suddenly, clearing his throat. She glances sidelong at him. In public, he’s notoriously stoic, so the little interruption is odd. His gaze flicks to her briefly, calm and unreadable to the untrained eye. But she sees it. The way his jaw ticks, the flash of annoyance. There and gone.
“That will be all,” she says briskly. “Any additional questions can be addressed to my press secretary.”
Hermione falls into step beside him as he clears a path with his broad shoulders and glower. Wand out, as always. He’s a storm cloud rolling into a summer sky, and reporters shrink away from him like frail dandelions.
“Feeling alright?” she says lightly, under her breath.
He snorts. “Bit much, don’t you think?”
“What is?”
His jaw ticks once more, his only tell. “A very good Daddy.” She notices with some surprise that a faint rose dusts the tops of his cheeks, but he stares resolutely forward.
She slows her gait as he opens a door and gestures her through. “Yes,” she sighs. “Well, they were pissing me off. And I was feeling… cheeky, I suppose.”
“Cheeky?” he echoes incredulously, shutting her office door. The wards are enforced with a handful of muttered spells, and then he turns to her, holstering his wand and peeling off his leather gloves. “And tell me, Minister Granger, are you still feeling cheeky now?”
He prowls closer to loom over her. Heat unfurls under her skin, and she barely notices he’s backed her up until her thighs hit the desk.
“What if I am, Draco?” she whispers slyly, tilting her head to study him. Draco moves to loosen his wand holster, but she stops him. “Leave it on.” Curling her fingers under the leather straps, she pulls him close.
He smirks. “Yes, Minister.”
He parts her thighs, slotting himself between them, the place he’s belonged for the past eighteen months. Slowly, he drags his hand up to her waist, then over her belly. Swollen with his child for the past five. Their daughter squirms under the weight of his hand, and he sucks in a breath.
“I’ll never get used to that,” he mutters.
“You know,” she muses, as he grabs her by the hips and places her on her desk. “We could tell everyone.” She undoes the buttons of her sensible blouse to reveal an impractical exercise in lace underneath. His eyes glaze over for the barest moment, until they cut to hers.
“I thought we already decided,” he says carefully. “I can’t be the reason why you’re run out of office. Your polling is down already.”
“Yes, well, it can’t get any worse then, can it?”
“It can always get worse.” His voice is flippant as his fingers trace over the lacy hem of her bra, but there’s an undercurrent of bitterness beneath.
Something in her wilts. When they had agreed to keep their relationship private all those many months ago, it had felt mutual. Like they’d wanted the same thing. Something just for them, free from the weight of public judgment and speculation.
But now, it’s different. When she puts her hand on her belly, she can see it. A future with him—with all of them—together. Draco balancing a little girl with braids on his shoulders. Bedtime stories, both of them tucking her in, whispering things like goodnight and sweet dreams. A proper family, for all to see. A love that’s too big to be kept secret.
She wants him to want that, too—rather desperately. But he seems determined to cling to their status quo, and she’s not going to beg.
“Fine,” she says.
“Fine.” He fists her hair, angling her face up to his. Lips hover for a moment until they brush together, and then everything else—the press, the politics, the secrets—melts away.
It occurs to her later, as she’s bent over with sweat-slicked skin and lust-dazed thoughts, that she should try it. Scream Daddy as she comes hard on his cock. See what he does.
Instead, she bites her lip and moans until he twists her around, kissing away the idea. She’s blissfully blank, nothing left except desire and their child in her belly.
***
Warm wind curls around her, teasing loose curls and rippling through a gauzy linen dress—one of the few things that fits her at nearly thirty-seven weeks pregnant. Hermione sighs and leans back on the lounge chair, tipping her face toward the sun of the Côte d'Azur. She wouldn’t normally have taken the extra week off before her maternity leave, but Draco had insisted. Now, sitting a thousand kilometers away from her office in London, a tiny part of her can admit it wasn’t the worst idea.
The last six or so weeks have been what she’d diplomatically termed as strenuous to the public. Less diplomatically, she supposes the best word to describe it is torturous. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her, dragging at her limbs, settling under her eyes. She moves in slow motion, thinks in slow motion. All her energy is directed to her daughter, growing in double-time in her womb.
A plate of custard creams floats onto the low table next to her, along with a tall glass of ice water.
“Thank you.” She bites into one with a happy sigh as Draco folds his limbs into the lounge chair adjacent. “Only a few more weeks until you can stop fetching these for me, I promise.”
“I don’t mind,” he hums, settling back into the chair and sliding on a pair of sunglasses. He quickly casts a sun protection spell over them both, then eyes her. “Do you need more cushions?”
“No, I’m fine.” She reaches for the water. “You’re fussing again.”
He smiles, crossing his arms as he lets his head loll back. Finally relaxed after months of trailing her; guarding her like a dragon hoarding its gold and snarling at anyone with the audacity to look at her askance.
“You’re doing the hard work,” he drawls. “Let me have this one thing.”
“I suppose you have a point.” Her hand strokes her belly, and it’s a relief to finally not think about it anymore—whether or not the press or opponents are watching, judging the gesture. Here, she can just cradle her child like a mother does.
Silence stretches, worn and familiar between them. Practiced, from days and months spent side by side—in the Ministry, in the papers. In their beds. Her, always at the forefront. Poised and polished. Him, standing by her side. Steady and stoic. Secret.
“I like seeing you like this.” His voice is a quiet murmur, and when she looks over at him, his eyes are clouded with something hard to name.
“What?” she asks, as her heart beats out a wobbly tempo.
“Soft.” He reaches over and brushes a curl behind her shoulder, fingers lingering on her collar. “Sweet.”
“I could say the same for you.”
Hermione turns to him, the weight of her belly pulling uncomfortably until she’s fully settled on her side. They face each other, two weary people who live in pretense and performance.
He rolls his eyes, and the moment flits away. “We both know I’m not soft or sweet.”
“You are for me.”
“Hmmm, don’t tell anyone.” He comes to kneel next to her. A large, warm hand joins hers upon their daughter.
“You will be, for her.”
He sighs, resigned. “I’m afraid I will.”
Hermione flips her hand so that they’re palm to palm, slotted together. A light squeeze, and his eyes meet hers.
“There’s still time,” she murmurs. “We could issue a joint statement. Tell everyone she’s a Malfoy.”
He groans. “Hermione.”
“Don’t you want the world to know she’s yours?”
Don’t you want the world to know I’m yours?
“It’s not that simple.” A weary hand scrubs over his face. “The Malfoy name is an anvil. I thought we agreed that we’d wait a bit longer. At least until you’re back in office and can regain some of the public’s favor.”
A part of her wants to press further, push against his chest with her fists and ask why he won’t claim them. But right now—a rare moment of peace—feels too precious to ruin. So instead she nods, says of course, you’re right and lets the opportunity slip silently by.
Later, they do all the things they do best and keep hidden from the world. They exchange low murmurs and soft sighs. She swims in deep pools of endless grey. Settles into him, with his arms wrapped possessively over her belly.
When her head drops to his chest, she hears his heart beat an insistent thrum that resembles the four syllables of her name.
***
“She’s got her Mum’s eyes,” the medi-witch says, leaning over to peer at the small bundle in Hermione’s arms. She says nothing about the color of Aurora’s hair, a pale blond that glows like her namesake in the low light of the birthing suite.
Draco stands stiffly by the door, and Hermione can practically feel the tension vibrating from his body from across the room. Or perhaps that’s just her nerves, frayed from fourteen hours of labor. Her exhaustion is bone-deep, and blurs her normally sharp focus to a sepia-toned smudge.
“I’ll put her in the bassinet, if you’d like to get some rest,” the witch offers, moving to take Aurora. Hermione pulls her baby closer.
“I’d like to hold her for a bit longer.”
“Of course, Madam Minister.” The medi-witch writes a few notes down onto her parchment, then sends it into a folder that sails from the room. “Summon me if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Hermione says, nodding.
The witch pointedly doesn’t look in Draco’s direction, and gives him a wide berth as she heads for the door. She must feel the shift in the air around him, too—a pressure that squeezes everything in his radius with an invisible fist.
As soon as the door clicks shut, he crosses the room with a few quick steps.
“You were incredible,” he murmurs, bending to kiss her forehead, her brow, her cheek. A soft graze on the lips. “Fearless. My brave girl.”
Hermione inhales weakly and leans into him.
He was there, of course. When the contractions began to elongate and burn, twisting her insides in agony, she crushed his hand with a white-knuckled grip. When she sobbed and said she couldn’t, it was impossible, he told her yes, she could, and braided her damp curls back from her neck.
As Minister, it goes without saying that all healers and medi-witches are held to an iron-clad non-disclosure, and if that isn’t enough to ensure privacy, Hermione has a sneaking suspicion that the Malfoy Galleons will. But still. She saw the looks exchanged by the St. Mungo’s staff. People would talk.
“Do you want to hold her?” she asks, tilting Aurora toward Draco. Small nose, small pout, small lashes, small everything. Their daughter is just so tiny. Soft and pink and peaceful—a tiny dawn she can hold in her arms.
“I—yes. Of course.” His face is pale, and there’s a slight tremble to his hand as he smooths a finger over their baby’s cheek. Apprehension creases his brow. She’s never seen him this uncertain, but he reaches for their child all the same and folds her into his arms.
Hermione sees the instant it happens—when the enormity of it all slams into him. He’s holding his daughter for the first time. Both of them, Hermione and Draco, remade into something new. A fresh start. Draco’s eyes go glassy, and his lips part to release a shaky exhale.
“There you go,” she says, smiling. “You’re a natural.”
Aurora shifts, letting out a small cry. Her hand flails against him, and his face drops.
“What did I do?” There’s a trace of panic in his voice as he looks to Hermione for reassurance. Her heart squeezes painfully at his expression. “Should I give her back?”
“No, just rock her. Talk to her.”
He swallows and nods, then begins rocking her gently. “Hello, little love,” he whispers, stroking her cheek again. She wraps a hand around Draco’s finger, and Hermione can tell it nearly breaks him.
“God, she’s perfect. I can’t believe—” He chokes back a laugh. “Is she even real?”
“I know.” Hermione smiles as she leans her head back, watching them from under heavy lids. “Look at you two. She’s already got Daddy wrapped around her finger.”
It’s the last thing she sees before sleep drags her under. Aurora nestled into Draco, content in his arms. Draco whispering sweet nothings, devotion burning bright in his eyes.
***
The evening is warm, and the sky glitters with the infinite fragments of the cosmos. Hermione walks past the large glass-paned double doors twice, searching for Draco and Aurora before realizing they’re outside, on the balcony. Quietly, she cracks the door open.
“... Cygnus, my grandfather’s named after it. Draco, that’s me. Lyra’s over there. We thought about that one for you. But I think we’ve had enough stars. Stars only exist in the dark.” Draco rocks their daughter quietly as he gazes up at the night sky. “I knew you’d be too bright for that. You’re the dawn, like your Mum. Chasing all the dark things away.”
Hermione stands, watching them. Fatherhood suits Draco. He no longer has to hide behind a lifetime of learned restraint and careful distance. He’s soft and sweet with Aurora, just like she knew he would be. Quietly she tugs the door closed, leaving them together in the night.
She wonders if he realizes yet—that it’s impossible to keep something so bright in the dark for too long.
***
“Come in,” Hermione says, adjusting Aurora in her arms. The baby is feeding again. She’s always feeding. It feels like her nipples will be chapped like this forever.
Draco steps into the nursery in joggers and a cotton shirt, running a towel over his shower-damp hair. He’s begun staying over. It’s easier that way. It’s also harder.
Despite his uncertainty at first, Draco’s a natural father. He changes nappies like he was born to do it, fixes bottles with one hand while holding their baby in the other. He’s attuned to Aurora’s needs—when she’s tired, or hungry, or needs a cuddle. He’s so capable. So fucking competent. She’s never been more attracted to him in her entire life.
Meanwhile, she’s got milk leaking out of her tits, hormones out the fucking arse, and spit up in her hair.
It’s infuriating. And she knows it’s unfair, but it makes her petty, too.
“Alright?” he asks, coming to lean over her shoulder, watching Aurora make sleepy suckling noises. Draco’s fascinated with breastfeeding, she’s found. Not that she blames him. It is objectively interesting.
“Fine,” she replies curtly. “We’re almost done. Then I’m taking her for a walk, or else I might go mad.”
“Okay.” He stands tall and scrubs the towel over his head one last time before waving it back to a distant hamper. “I’ll get my Auror robes.”
“Don’t bother. Crawley is coming from the department shortly.”
“Crawley?” Draco looks incredulously at her, lips turned down. “But I’m right here.”
Exactly, Hermione thinks bitterly. You’re right here. We’re right here.
“People are starting to talk. Secretary Kapoor had to go to great lengths for the Prophet to pull a piece speculating on… us. With a photo from our last walk.”
His face shutters. “I see.”
“People say she’s got her Daddy’s hair.”
His cheeks flush, but his gaze remains distant.
“And since it seems important to continue with our… arrangement, Crawley will be our security.”
She waits for him to say something. To protest, or change his mind, anything. Instead, he says nothing.
A distant whoosh interrupts the thick silence that follows, and they hear Crawley call from the living room. “Whenever you’re ready, Minister!”
Draco’s mouth is set in a straight line as he stalks from the room. The hairline fracture along her heart, the one that’s been growing since Aurora’s birth, cracks wider.
“Hey Malf—ow, Merlin, watch it!” Crawley yelps.
Another whoosh. Hermione can picture the green flames, sparks skittering in his wake as he leaves.
***
Hermione fights the urge to tap her fingers impatiently on her desk, willing the time to tick by a little bit faster. She knew she’d regret taking this meeting, but there’s only a few more minutes before she can make a polite excuse to Cormac McLaggen, usher him out, and Floo home to see Aurora. Draco stands by the door, tense as well, though for an altogether different reason. His glare hasn’t left the back of McLaggen’s head since the other man walked into the room.
“—because you see, once you subsidize Wolfsbane for Great Britain’s werewolf population, where does it really end?” Cormac says, in a syrupy voice that’s been honed from years of lobbying for large Potions suppliers. “Every creature in the country will be clamoring for handouts. Where’s the incentive for them to earn it by being more productive participants in Wizarding society?”
She lets out a sigh and wills herself not to hex Cormac just to get him out of the way. “I understand the Potion lobby’s stance, but on this issue, my administration stands firm,” she says, pointedly rising and shuffling away the papers on her desk. The clock strikes five. “Thank you for your time, McLaggen. I do have to be on my way home. Malfoy will see you out.”
“Busy, busy,” Cormac chuckles, draining the last of the whiskey he’d accepted earlier. “You work too hard, Minister. Tell me, do you ever get a night off?”
In the corner, she sees Draco stiffen as his hand twitches toward his wand. She meets his eye and gives him a pointed look before giving Cormac a wan smile.
“It’s a bit difficult, with an infant.”
“Well, I’d love to take you to dinner sometime.” Cormac leers at her, all smug, misguided confidence. She’d love to cut him down with a quick retort, but she’s so stunned at the sheer audacity that all she can do is blink. “Everyone needs a break sometimes. I’m sure being a single mum and Minister is trying. We can talk about your proposal to regulate Unicorn blood suppliers. Or not.” He gives her a wink that is likely intended to be charming, but all she wants to do is recoil.
“I’m flattered,” she lies. “But I’m not available.”
“Ah. I was wondering if you were involved with your child’s mysterious father.” Cormac’s gaze rakes down, lingering on her chest and hips. “Pity. If you were mine, I’d claim you in a heartbeat.”
Hermione opens her mouth, ready to abandon all decorum and tell him to fuck off when his chair scrapes loudly across the floor. Cormac is hauled up by his collar and shoved unceremoniously toward the door by Draco. His lip curls, his jaw ticks, and Hermione can tell that every muscle in his body is wound tight, ready to snap.
“That’s enough, McLaggen,” he says roughly. “Time for you to go.”
Cormac stumbles, surprise flashing across his face before he regains his composure. He looks at her Auror with barely concealed disdain. “Malfoy. There are rumors about you, you know. Though I personally find it hard to believe. Minister Granger here is a sensible woman. And you know what they say—lie with dogs, get up with fleas.” He dismisses Draco with a sniff, then turns back to Hermione. “Send me an owl if you ever change your mind. You and your daughter need a real man in your life. Aurora McLaggen sounds awfully—”
A sharp crack rends the air. Cormac’s head connects with the wall, thrown backward by Draco’s spell. Hermione watches in shocked silence as he collapses to the ground in a limp heap, barely conscious. Draco paces over, calm and deliberate. Crouching next to the injured man, he wrenches Cormac’s head back.
“Her name is Aurora Granger-Malfoy.” His tone is even, but violence drips off every syllable. “And if you ever go near my daughter, if you even think of her, I will put you in your fucking grave.”
He lets go, and Cormac’s head drops to the ground. Draco watches him moan piteously, then rises and strides over to Hermione, curling his fingers around her elbow.
“We’re leaving, Minister.”
The grisly scene fades from view as he turns and they slip away together, through the crevices between time and space.
“Draco, what the hell,” Hermione hisses, stumbling as they land in her flat. He ignores her, casting his Patronus and muttering faint instructions before the grey wolf lopes off. “That’s a big fucking mess you just left in my office—”
“I just sent word. The Auror Department will take care of it.”
“Have you gone mad?” she demands, shaking her head in disbelief. “You just assaulted someone in my office, and now you want the Auror Department to take care of it?”
His face is cold, distant. She’s seen it before. When he’s all business, handling a threat. Detached from the person he really is, a predator inhabiting his skin. It’s part of what makes him the best at his job, and it breaks her heart every time.
“It’s handled. McLaggen was out of line.”
“Yes, of course he was, but that doesn’t mean—”
“My family,” he snarls, “is not up for grabs.”
“Then claim us!” Hermione cries in frustration. Her breath is shortened from the painful squeeze that clutches her chest. “If you want us to be your family, then claim us. We’re right here, Draco.”
The mark hits home. His cold gaze splinters into something that looks resigned, and just a little devastated.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Why?” Hermione brings her hands to cradle his cheeks, expecting him to resist or turn away. The things he’s well practiced at. But instead, he exhales a ragged sigh and leans into her touch. “Aurora and I, we’re both right here,” she whispers. “I just can’t understand it anymore. Why don’t you want us?”
“Hermione.” His voice breaks on the “mi”, and the squeeze in her chest tightens. “It’s all I want. You’re both all I fucking want. But we agreed, it’s better this way. You’ve worked too hard to get here. I’ll just drag you down with me and… I don’t know.” He blinks hard, looks away. Huffs a laugh like he can’t believe he’s saying these things out loud. “Maybe one day you’ll wake up and realize I wasn’t worth it.”
She shakes her head. He still doesn’t understand, after all this time. “What good is it, being Minister?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I can’t have this—you and her, all of us, together—then what’s the use? I work my arse off for everyone else, to be denied the one thing I want?”
“I—” he hesitates, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “You want this?”
“I’ve been saying I have, haven’t I?”
“Yes, but—I thought it was more of a hypothetical,” he murmurs, disbelieving. “You know I’m a selfish fuck. But I’ve been trying not to be, for you. I thought you’d want to stick to your plan.”
“I don’t want that at all, actually,” she says, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I’d love it if you were a selfish fuck.”
He snorts a laugh, despite everything. Pulling her closer, his lips graze her ear. “If you want me to be selfish… believe me, I can do that.”
She shivers at the light tickle of his breath against her neck. Something that’s been forgotten, buried deep in the haze of the last two months, stirs to life.
Wait. Aurora. Their daughter is still with her nanny.
“We need to get the baby,” Hermione whispers in resignation, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I’ll get her.” Draco pulls away and meets her eye. She’s not imagining it—he feels it too. His eyes are darker, his gaze pierces her with a singular sort of focus. “Get in touch with the press secretary. Tell her to let everyone know I’m yours, and Aurora’s ours.”
Her mouth goes dry at his proclamation. Yours. Ours.
He does want this, too. They’re finally reaching for it, together.
“Okay,” she agrees softly.
“Excellent.”
He drops a lingering kiss to her forehead, then brushes past her, toward the nursery. The simple gesture makes her skin heat.
When was the last time he touched her? It feels impossible to recall. Certainly before Aurora was born. She’s been too tired to even remember desire, her mind cluttered with motherhood and her body in recovery. But now, the sense-memory has come rushing back, warm and inviting, at the thought of him landing soft kisses elsewhere.
Hermione smiles as she makes her way to the study. Business first. But then?
Then she’ll have to see about a Daddy.
***
“She’s asleep?”
Hermione closes the door gently behind her and nods. “For now.”
Draco’s lying on the bed in only glasses and pajama bottoms, flipping through a pile of parchment and marking up the contents with a quill. Bare-chested and relaxed, his Sectumsempra scars weave silvery patterns on his skin in the low light. That something inside her from earlier stirs again.
“I made a few suggestions,” he says, shuffling the parchment into a neat stack before charming it to float to her bedside table. “But overall, it looks fine from my end. They’ll run it in the morning?”
“If Secretary Kapoor has her way, which she always does.” Hermione eyes him, looking for any hints of doubt. “You haven’t changed your mind?”
“Have you?” He crosses his arms, expression wary, like he’s expecting the worst, but hoping for the best.
“No.” She climbs onto the bed, then onto him, straddling his hips. “I want to tell everyone about us. I want them to know.”
A small smirk appears as his hands come to her thighs. She watches as they run up her legs, tease under her shirt. Goosebumps erupt as his fingertips play over her skin, and the desire that’s pricked up its ears in interest starts to purr.
“And what do you want them to know, Minister?”
“That I’m yours. That you’re a wonderful father.”
He hums and leans forward, pressing his lips to her collarbone, and suddenly it’s so apparent—there’s heat everywhere, all at once. Her body hasn’t forgotten him.
“You think I’m a good father?”
“The best,” she breathes. “Aurora and I are so lucky that you’re her Daddy.”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” he mumbles into her neck. “I take care of my family.” He pauses, pressing another lazy kiss to her pulse point before he asks, “Am I your Daddy, too?”
Hermione grins, strangely triumphant. “I knew it.” She had suspected—all the times she’d said it, all the times he’d blushed.
“Did you?” His voice is amused as he gives her bum a sharp pinch. “Thought it was funny, to torture me like that?”
“It wasn’t entirely on purpose,” she says, pulling his glasses off and setting them on the nightstand. “But to answer your question… yes. And you’re a very, very good Daddy.”
“Is that right?” His voice is a low rumble as he makes his way to her jaw.
She can’t help feeling cheeky. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Fucking—” he chuckles, shaking his head. “C’mere.” His hand comes to her chin, cupping it, pulling her forward. When their lips meet, she dissolves into him. Lets his mouth tease her open and his teeth graze her skin. A kiss like a sunrise—soft and gentle, then blazing and bright. Steady. Over and over, again and again. She wants to kiss him as long as the sun keeps rising in the east.
“Right,” he groans after a few breathless seconds. He drops his head to her sternum. “Are you fully recovered?”
“Yes. Had my appointment two weeks ago and got the all-clear.”
“That’s good.” He nods against her chest. “Good. Well, in that case…” When he pulls his head back to study her, his eyes have gone molten and greedy. “I think I’m going to make you come, then I’m going to fuck you.”
Her cunt clenches and arousal gathers, sticky and wet, between her thighs.
“I think I’m amenable.”
“I was hoping so.” Banding a corded arm around her waist, he rolls until she's beneath him and makes short work of her clothes, peeling off layer after layer until she’s in nothing but her knickers.
A realization strikes—her body is different now. Stretched in some places, swollen in others. Surely different than the last time he’d seen her like this, when she was pregnant and fit to burst. But he’s looking at her with barely restrained desire, all the same.
“These tits,” he groans, eyes dropping hungrily to her chest, “have been driving me mad.”
He cups a breast and squeezes. Hermione gasps. The weight of his hand presses the soft, swollen flesh just a little too hard. Draco pulls back immediately, eyes creased with worry.
“Did I hurt—?”
“No.” She quickly shakes her head. “It’s okay. Perhaps a little more gentle. They’re sort of… full.”
His eyes widen and flick back to her chest, and Hermione thinks she sees a glint of dark fascination.
“Sorry, love,” he murmurs, ghosting his fingers along the undersides. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” Draco drops a soft, reverent kiss over her heart before grazing his lips across a breast. And then—oh.
A jolt of desire shoots through her as his mouth closes around a nipple, flicking the bud with his tongue. God—he’s done it a million times, and yet it’s never felt quite like this before, has it? The skin is more sensitive than normal, so sensitive that when he drags his tongue over the smooth, pink tissue again, a pulse of desire rocks through her core, and she chokes on a crazed laugh.
“Too much?” Draco pulls back once more, but she grabs the nape of his neck, threading her fingers through the fine hairs.
“No, it’s—really good,” she gasps. “I’m more sensitive.”
“Really?” His eyebrows shoot up in interest.
“Yes. Do it again.”
“Yeah?” Draco’s grin is wicked as he gives one nipple a long, slow lick, and brings his hand up to pinch the other.
“Uh-huh,” she breathes. “So good, Daddy.”
Draco hums in approval as his mouth clamps down and sucks. He thumbs the other nipple with a lazy circle-flick that shortens her breath. Every pass of his tongue is like a stroke to her clit—warm, wet pressure that she can feel everywhere. It’s winding her up, tighter and tighter. Her cunt pulses with pleasure that she hasn’t felt in months.
Fuck, she just might come like this.
That’s likely why she doesn’t notice until it’s too late: the prickle that begins in that strange, new space she’s only just discovered postpartum.
Her letdown is hard and fast, milk beading suddenly at her nipples.
Draco freezes, and Hermione is mortified, ready to shrink into the bedsheets and disappear. But then, his eyes flutter closed, and he moans, sucking again. A fresh wave of arousal courses through her.
“Oh,” is all she can think to say.
Draco breaks away and rests his head against her chest, panting heavily.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine,” Hermione says quickly. “It’s just… was that alright?”
He laughs, his breath hot against her chest. “Yeah, it’s alright. It’s actually—” he licks his lips and takes a deep inhale. “It’s really fucking hot.”
Her stomach gives a little swoop of surprise. “It is?”
He nods. His eyes are almost completely black now, breath shaky. He eyes her chest, where her milk still drips slowly down her breasts, onto her stomach.
“Yeah, it was. Can I…?” His tongue flicks out, and he runs it over her skin, lapping up a white, creamy trail. “It’s sweet, and it’s you and—” he breaks off suddenly, bringing a hand to squeeze his cock over his trousers. “Shit, this might send me over the edge.”
A disbelieving laugh bubbles up from Hermione’s chest. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head, pinching his eyes shut. “This might just be the most erotic thing in my fucking life.”
Hermione preens. The admission makes her feel strangely powerful. Draco fucking Malfoy. Brought to his knees by something so simple, so elemental.
“Daddy likes it when my tits leak?” she asks, coy.
He groans, staring hungrily at her chest. “Fuck. I’m mad for it.”
“I’ll let you have more.” She arches up, vanishes her knickers and spreads her legs wide. An offering. “But I need more, too.”
His eyes drop to her cunt, and he licks his lips. “That tastes good, too,” he mutters to himself, eyes glazing over. “Every inch of you is fucking delicious.”
A shiver rattles down her spine. She wants that. She wants it all.
“Fuck me first.” Hermione inches her thighs open a little wider. “Dessert later.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Can’t, love. Daddy’s out of practice.” He leans forward and pushes her down onto the mattress. “I’ll be cross if it’s over too soon.”
“But I—unh.” She gasps. Two thick fingers tease around her folds, gathering arousal before pushing slowly in. Draco’s palm grinds against her swollen, puffy clit, and she fights back a moan. She’s already so close, and he’s barely done anything.
Daddy doesn’t seem like he’s out of practice, not one bit.
When he hits her right there, pleasure flares through her body and she lets out another breathy unh. He does it again, curling his fingers with a “come hither”, beckoning her orgasm closer until she’s whimpering and coiled tight. A lazy grin appears as Draco shifts his focus to her chest, and then his mouth closes around a nipple, teasing it with his tongue. He sucks until she’s dripping. It’s almost unfair how he coaxes desire from her body like it’s nothing. She’s plentiful with it, all for him—a land of milk and honey.
“Making a fucking mess of you, aren’t I?” he whispers. “Messy and sweet, all for me. Can’t get enough of you like this.”
His fingers quicken their pace, strumming, slick and precise. The slide, the pressure—he knows exactly what she needs and delivers it. She’s arching up, and the sound is obscene, and his tongue laps at her breast and—
“Ohmygodimgonna—”
The orgasm tears through her, a gale force that buffets her higher and higher until she’s weightless in the stratosphere. She gasps for breath because the air is thin here, catapulted to where the stars are nearly in reach. Draco’s constellation is at her fingertips.
As pleasure peaks and then ebbs, she floats back down to earth, vaguely aware that she might have screamed something like Daddy or Draco—she’s not sure. All she knows is that she’s thoroughly undone, taken apart by his clever hands and sinful mouth.
“God,” he pants, vanishing his trousers. He fists his cock, slowly sliding his hand and smearing her arousal over the thick length. The flushed pink tip peeks through, weeping with precum as he groans, “So good for Daddy, aren’t you?”
She nods weakly, trying to form words on her tongue and failing miserably. He tuts, amused.
“Think you can take more?”
Her cunt flutters at the thought. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Good girl.”
He crawls over her, cages her in and captures her lips, kissing her hard. When she opens for him, his tongue slides against hers, and she tastes herself. Sweet, like he said. Then the fat head of his cock pushes against her entrance, and he’s filling her, stretching her open with a sharp pinch that fades into warm bliss with a few languid strokes.
It’s as good as she remembers—perhaps better. She feels every inch of him as he thrusts with a tempo that suggests he’s savoring her, how their bodies fit together, the sounds they make with shortened breaths and little sighs.
The world flips, because he’s rolled them so she’s on top, but also because she realizes this is it. Him and her. They’ve belonged together this whole time, and soon everyone will know. He wants everyone to know. It’s a heady thought. It clouds her mind, spreads a warm prickle under her skin. Makes her toes clench, makes her fingers dig into his chest as she grinds down on him.
Draco responds in kind as he sits up, pulls her closer. One arm curls around her waist, his other hand tangles in her hair, and he’s kissing her again, promising things like mine and anything you want, until forever slips past his lips.
“Really?” she gasps. A warm glow spreads as he crushes her closer and he fucks her slow, hitting deep. It’s perfect like this. She wants to fold herself up, a Hermione-shaped origami, and slip under his skin.
“Of course.” His eyes are steady, holding hers. “If you’ll have me.”
She kisses him in response, and hopes he understands that she’s already more than agreeable. She wants this—over and over, again and again. The sunrise with him, every day.
The glow that’s been building bursts over the horizon and lights her up from within. Her release is lovely and warm as she shudders around his cock, pulses radiating from her centre to her fingertips until she’s covered in it, like morning sun through a window. Draco groans and picks up his pace, fucking her through it until his hips stutter and he follows with a sharp cry.
After, when the glow has faded to a hazy gold shimmer, she lies with her body puzzle-pieced against his, finally content. Hermione watches the rise and fall of Draco’s chest, and it seems like he can breathe easier now, with the weight gone. She can, too. When the dawn breaks, it’ll be a new day.
***
She wakes to him between her thighs.
“Good morning, Minister.” He licks a long, hot stripe, his tongue dragging sinfully from her entrance to her clit.
“Draco,” she groans, throwing an arm over her face. “What are you doing?”
He mumbles “Breakfast” into her cunt.
All it takes is a few swirls of his tongue over her clit, then he closes his lips and sucks. She’s barely awake, and everything turns creamy and sweet, her orgasm flowing through her body as her milk lets down and runs onto the sheets.
“Fuck me.” Draco sits back to kneel, wiping the arousal from his mouth as his gaze lands on her breasts. “So pretty. I could keep you like this forever.”
He bends to catch the milk with his tongue, but as he reaches her nipple, she pushes him away. “Dear God,” she pants, laughing. “Leave some for the baby.”
“Fine,” he grunts. His hands wrap around her hips, tugging her closer until her bum is angled up over his thighs. He pushes her knees apart, opening her wide, lining her up with his cock. “How many do you want?”
“I don’t know. Between last night and now, I’ve come quite a lot.” A little moan escapes her as he pushes in. It’s an easy, blissful intrusion as she’s still absurdly wet and pliant from the last orgasm.
He laughs, a devious look in his eyes. “I’m not talking about orgasms, Hermione.”
“Then—”
“Children.” He pulls nearly all the way out, then thrusts back into her, hands digging possessively into her hips. Her breath hitches as sparks race up her spine. “How many will you let me give you? Two?” The number is punctuated with a smack as he slams into her again, a little harder this time. “Three?” Smack.
“Oh fuck,” she breathes. Her inner walls are squeezing tight at the thought. Him, filling her up. Another life, taking root. “It’s too soon,” she protests, her logical mind prevailing despite loving the idea of it. “We should wait.”
“Daddy can wait, for now.” Draco picks up the tempo, rocking his hips, cock sliding in and out at a patient, steady pace. “But say the word love, and I’ll put another Malfoy in you.”
“Daddy wants that?” Her breasts bounce from the momentum, each thrust more insistent, determined.
“Dying for it. Can’t wait to make you a Mum all over again.” He licks a thumb, and brings it to circle over her clit. “Keep you all round and pretty for me.”
“God,” she whines, canting her hips to find the right angle. He senses her need, and spreads his thighs to position her so that his cock drags over that perfect spot. “Two. I’ve always thought I wanted two, but—” her breath hitches as his thumb circles again “—it’s up for debate.”
“We can start with two.” He nods, thoughtful as he fucks her. “But I plan to negotiate you up to four.”
“But—that’s so many,” she whines, writhing on him. The orgasm that he’s promising her with his unrelenting rhythm comes into sharper focus, no longer a blurred shape in the distance.
“You told me to be a selfish fuck.” His voice goes low as his fingers dig in, hips snapping erratically. “This is me, being a selfish fuck.”
The tension breaks, and she’s coming again—is that four, in the past twelve hours?—and it feels endless. Like she’ll always be blooming open for him, unfurling in hues of ripe pink, a sunrise or a flower or something lovely, because Daddy wants to keep her round and pretty. His release isn’t far behind, and he fills her up, hot and pulsing, to the brim.
Their limbs tangle the bedsheets afterwards. Draco makes good on his promise to wait, muttering a contraceptive charm as he pulls out, pushing the cum back into her despite it.
“Ridiculous,” she mutters, shaking her head at his sheepish grin.
He shrugs. “Shame to waste it.”
A soft, distant whine floats through the room, and Hermione jolts upright. The whine turns to a wail, and then Aurora starts to cry. The sound blares through the room from the monitoring charm.
“Oh no.” Hermione slumps back against the headboard in defeat. It’s not that she’s upset, per se. But it would have been nice to luxuriate, just for a bit, in this dreamy, post-coital state.
“I’ve got her.” Draco climbs off the bed and summons his trousers and a shirt. “You stay here.”
Hermione sighs and sits up, finding a robe to cover herself with. It’s time to start the day, anyway. “Will you bring her here to feed?”
“Of course.” He plants a kiss on her forehead and leaves to tend to their daughter.
Aurora’s crying continues for another minute before Hermione hears the door open. Draco’s low voice fills the room with a soothing tenor, and the baby’s cries turn to coos as she hears him pick Aurora up and take her for a nappy change. She smiles, imagining him bouncing the baby, murmuring silly things against her little cheek.
He really is such a good Daddy. Maybe four isn’t a completely terrible idea.
***
An owl delivers yet another letter to the haphazard stack that grows on their windowsill. The mound of parchment is nearly ready to spill over, an avalanche of correspondence that she’s frankly quite uninterested in. The Prophet has already been buried underneath, untouched. She doesn’t need to read it—Hermione already knows what’s inside.
“Tea?” she calls from the kitchen, hovering a kettle over two empty cups.
“Yes please,” he replies.
She takes the tray to where Draco sits on the chaise with Aurora asleep against his chest. One hand cradles their baby, the other holds open a book. Wordlessly, he lifts his arm and Hermione settles underneath, so that he’s holding them both—baby and Mum—cuddled close. A little curve pulls at the corner of Draco’s lips.
This is what it feels like, she thinks. Forever. His arm around her shoulders, their child in their arms. One now, two later. More, if Daddy has his way. A proper family.
It’s a bright, new day, and the morning sun streams through their windows, bathing their skin with a lightness that’s shared.
***
MINISTER HERMIONE GRANGER REVEALS HER RELATIONSHIP WITH DRACO MALFOY
A press release was issued by Minister Granger’s cabinet early this morning, formally announcing the Minister’s relationship with none other than her Lead Auror and bodyguard, Draco Malfoy. Malfoy took on the role of Lead Auror for the Minister nearly two years ago. According to the formal statement, their relationship began shortly after.
Sources say that the couple kept their relationship private to avoid unwelcome speculation, though after the Minister’s pregnancy announcement this past winter, speculation ran rampant about the identity of the father. Their daughter, Aurora Granger-Malfoy, was born to the couple in late June.
“We feel that the time is right to come forward as a family,” Minister Granger is quoted as saying in the press release. “Draco is a supportive partner and a wonderful Daddy. Our top priority is Aurora, and we will continue in our positions as Minister and Lead Auror, respectively.”
The couple plans to be wed in December.