Archive of Our Own

Every two months, Draco Malfoy’s condition required him to be room bound for an entire day. 

If he was lucky, that day fell on a weekend and he didn’t have to interrupt business at the firm. 

Work was very important to him. Malfoy had thrown himself into business after he’d decided—shortly after Hogwarts—that there was little hope of future joy to be gleaned from any sort of personal life. His career, now, meant everything to him. 

So being forced to separate from it because of his condition—a condition that was in no small part responsible for the doomed future of his personal life—was unpleasant to say the least.

It was just over a year that Malfoy had been diagnosed as one of the thousands of wizards in Britain with an A-Class hormone imbalance. It was a new condition, heavily stigmatized, and Malfoy kept it strictly hidden. It would not be good for business, for it to be known that the director of the firm was an alpha. 

Alphas were seen in the public eye as something between lurid and distasteful. Their reputations were most aptly characterized as aggressive, impulsive and—on occasion—dangerous. These were not desirable qualities in a business partner. And by now, Malfoy’s firm was successful enough to be in some form of partnership with most institutions in the country.

As such, Malfoy treated his own condition the same way he treated everything else in his life. With repressed, clear-eyed impartiality. He kept a sharp awareness of his own physical state, tracking his symptoms over time to make sure he was never caught unawares by the need for what was known as a release therapy appointment. 

Malfoy hated release therapy appointments.

Once every two months was bad enough. But sometimes, horribly, higher stress levels led to testosterone spikes that accelerated the need for them. And on a Wednesday afternoon, after a high-tension meeting about a failed merger with a competitor, Malfoy noticed that he was more distracted than usual. He was antsy, his pulse erratic. And his blood kept flowing lower in his body than was ordinarily expected, for a man at work.

There was an additional factor: Malfoy had happened to see Hermione Granger in Diagon Alley that morning. And a sighting of the witch he’d held a pathetic and longstanding secret torch for always triggered an inflow of… hormones.

She’d looked very nice. Her curly brown hair had been pinned up in a fetching updo, two soft, slightly frizzy strands framing her freckled face, and her brown eyes were alight with happiness. 

Until, of course, they landed on him. 

Malfoy had been walking by, trying not to make obvious the way he was staring at her. But their eyes met briefly and—immediately after, like clockwork, her expression changed. Nervous distress—awkwardness (why? Surely he was not so intolerable?) and then she broke eye contact. Looking anywhere but at him.

He should have been used to it by now. It had been almost a decade of him having to bear the unique torture of being secretly in love with a girl who he had spent most of his school years bullying. But he was twenty-six, not a hundred and six, and so still he felt like he maybe lacked some fundamental sangfroid or wisdom that would allow him to tolerate the pain of Hermione yet again avoiding his eyes. 

Every time she looked away from him, he wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and die. It got to the point that he had fantasies of her just—looking at him. 

I’ve become very successful, he wanted to yell at her, although of course, boasting about his wealth had not been a tactic that worked to impress her back in school.

I could take very good care of you. And I’m a better man than I used to be, you know. In no small part because of how much I like you, because of the work I’ve done with my Mind Healers trying to one day deserve a good person like you. And, Hermione, every time I run into you it sort of feels like cupid’s arrow is being used to scoop out my intestines, so it would mean a lot if you would at least fucking look at me now and again—

Unfortunately, seeing Hermione—that jolt of yearning romantic energy, twined with the sight of her hips in a very beautiful cinched tweed skirt—had been the last straw in a very high-stress month. 

The Healers at St. Mungo’s sent him an owl within an hour.

Remote symptom trackers show elevated A-Class hormone concentration. Release therapy appointment needed—priority: urgent. Return home immediately, further interactions with professional acquaintances not recommended.

Malfoy read this letter, his mouth twisting. But he was no longer new to the inconveniences of this condition. He had tried to ignore the Healer’s recommendations earlier on, and it had been one of the worst decisions he’d ever made.

“It’s just a rut,” he’d snapped at the Healer who had dared come to the office, ten months prior. “I’m not some fucking animal, I can keep myself from rutting for one more day.”

Reader, he had not been able to keep himself from rutting one more day.

Someone at the offices had been in contact with an omega at some point. He wasn’t sure who—maybe it was another A-Class man like himself, who had undergone release therapy recently. Or perhaps someone was friends with an omega woman. But the scent of her—trace as it had been—had been enough to send Malfoy into a frenzy.

He had been in a meeting with four advisors when his rut began. His vision went red, and his Healers had arrived to find the four advisors cowering in a corner of the room while Malfoy—shirt torn, unheeding of the blood dripping from a large cut across his chest, tore apart a colleague’s desk beam by beam, searching for the source of the omega’s scent.

Those four advisors had been generously paid out and were now on their respective vacations in various summery parts of the globe. 

And Malfoy no longer ignored his Healers’ instructions.

Now, like a good dog, he went home and waited for St. Mungo’s to send an omega to him.

Waiting was very painful, when a rut was imminent. 

He was already fully hard, and he knew from experience that any attempts at taking care of himself would only exacerbate the frustration. His breaths by now were coming fast and heavy. And as he glanced in the window and caught sight of his reflection, he saw his face flushed, his eyes full-black, dilated with arousal. He tore his gaze away, hating the sight of it.

The Floo crackled and a Healer’s face appeared.

“Where is she?” Malfoy asked.

“There’s low supply at the moment,” the Healer said, flinching when Malfoy made a furious, beastlike noise in response. “We’re doing an emergency recruitment to see if we can find someone for you. Just—try to remain calm for as long as you can.”

“Can you give me a tranquilizer until someone arrives?” Malfoy asked. “I can’t even—I can’t even fucking think. I’d rather be knocked out.”

“It’s not a good idea for you to wake up disoriented while in rut. I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy. We’ll send someone over as soon as we can.”

Malfoy sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers digging into the sheets.

He continued to wait.

He was reminded viscerally and unpleasantly of wet dreams as a teenager, of unwanted erections at pool parties. 

He let his eyes fall closed, trying to ignore the burning frustration. There was one small thing to look forward to, at least. St. Mungo’s had asked very early on if he had any physical attributes he’d prefer in his omegas. 

He had written down curly hair, wide hips, brown eyes. So sometimes, the hospital sent a woman who—when his mind was just far-gone enough—it was possible to pretend was…

The Floo crackled abruptly again and Malfoy jumped.  

“We found someone,” the Healer said, sounding near-jubilant with relief. “She’s on her way. She’ll be there in five minutes, she’s walking over. She just finished signing the non-disclosure.”

“Perfect,” Malfoy said tightly. “Tell her to use the private lift and come right upstairs.”

Malfoy’s head was aching terribly. But he clung to the knowledge that the ordeal was almost over. The omega would arrive soon, she would help him work through his rut, and then he could pretend nothing had ever happened. He would be back at work before he knew it, pretending that his isolated social life was by choice and not because he knew the woman of his dreams would be repulsed by him and his condition. 

There was a knock at his bedroom door.

“Finally,” he breathed, squeezing his fingers into the sheets. “Come in.”

A woman walked in and Malfoy felt two things.

First: excitement. St. Mungo’s had managed to send someone with a startling resemblance to Hermione Granger.

Then: plummeting horror. The resemblance was because the woman was Hermione Granger.

Malfoy froze.

He shot to his feet and walked away from her, his face flaming. He was too aware of how he must look, trousers obscenely tented, usually orderly hair mussed, eyes glassy. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice shaking. He tried in vain to adjust himself in his pants. “I’m—I’m ill. No one is supposed to see me at the moment—”

“I’m here from the hospital. I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to catch you off guard.”

His pulse rang in his ears. The sight of her had not at all helped the impending intensity of his rut. She was still in that fucking tweed skirt—

“There’s been a mistake,” Malfoy said deliriously. He felt like he was having a panic attack. He kept his back to her, as though in doing so he was keeping his dignity. “The hospital can’t have sent you. Why are you really here?”

“What?”

“What is it? Undercover exposé? Billionaire Businessman Found to be Sexual Deviant?”

“I’m here for your release therapy, Malfoy. You need to calm down—”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Malfoy snapped again, furious. “Because you’re not an omega.”

There was a silence, and then suddenly Hermione’s hand was on his shoulder. She turned him around and then they were face to face, her glaring up at him, her brown eyes bright and full of emotion.

“I am an omega, you insensitive prick,” Hermione said, her voice shaking. “It’s new for all of us, you know. And it’s quite distressing having to say it out loud like that, seeing as I’ve just barely made my peace with the fact—so if you would show a little consideration, please.”

Malfoy stared at her. 

And, finally, he realized she was telling the truth. He didn’t have to take her word for it—because he could smell her. The evidence of it was in the air all around them, the heady aroma of her pheromones hitting him right in the back of the throat. The heightened sensitivity of his olfactory senses thrummed into overdrive with the proximity of her. 

His cock throbbed once, twice.

Hermione Granger was an omega.

Hermione Granger in his bedroom. 

Hermione Granger was here, so close to him, her hand on his shoulder, and—oh, god, the sublime pleasure—she was looking right at him. She was not averting her eyes.

Maybe there was hope yet of wooing her one day. She really was an omega, which meant that—surely—she would not be repulsed by his alpha condition? Perhaps they could be together…?

But these hallucinatory wisps of hope dissipated like smoke the longer he looked at her. Her face was wan, her eyes defensive. The fact of their biology clearly did not change that it was still them. And that he was still Draco Malfoy, school bully turned Death Eater traitor. 

And she was still the Golden Girl.

“Well,” he said tightly, his throat dry. “You’re welcome to leave, now that you know it’s me. I’m sure you weren’t expecting to have to—to have to—”

Both of their gazes flickered, and he wondered if she was fighting the urge to look down at the evidence of his rut. The hard, aching line of him, straining through his trousers. His face burned.

“I’ll stay,” Hermione said, and there was a dusting of pink on her cheeks. “I—I made a commitment to help.”

A bitter taste bloomed in his mouth. He was just a charity case for her. 

“Get out,” he said dully.

Hermione flinched. 

“Right,” she said, and her voice was very thin. “No, of course. I—I did tell St. Mungo’s that you probably wouldn’t want me. Your physical type is very different—” 

His type? She paid attention to his type? 

“What are you talking about?” he asked. 

Hermione made an odd sound—a self-conscious laugh, he realized. She was usually very restrained around him (avoiding his eyes, of course, the bane of his existence—but also, in hindsight, Malfoy realized she often went quiet when he walked by. She held still, as though over-aware of her movements). 

“Um, well. I just—happened to remember, that you usually liked the very tall, thin girls in school? With straight hair, you know. I suppose—if I had to name names—Pansy and Astoria were both like that… and the most recent medical literature says that sometimes it’s not possible for alphas to release if the omega is too far removed from their usual preferences…”

Hermione knew which girls he’d been involved with?

But clearly, she had not paid enough attention to notice that Astoria had eyes the same color as hers, nor that Pansy had freckles that swept across the nose in a passable imitation, if one was enough Firewhiskies deep. And as far as tall and thin went, Malfoy wanted to say: It’s rather hard, actually, to find someone of your body type. Ask me how I know. With those fucking curves and your soft little waist, and you’re out of your mind if you think I’d prefer tall and thin to Hermione Granger.

He didn’t know what to say. It was becoming impossible to think, let alone speak. The sustained proximity to Hermione was making him dizzy. Arousal was like ether gas, choking him.

Malfoy looked down to find that the floor was swaying under his feet.

“You need to leave,” he said, catching his balance on the bedside table. As though from a distance, he heard the lamp he’d knocked over break on the floor. “Listen, could you tell them to send someone else right away? Urgently—”

“There’s no one for the rest of the week, Malfoy,” Hermione said, sounding alarmed. “They didn’t even want to send me—I’m too new. Malfoy, you don’t look good—”

His rut was beginning in earnest now, he could sense it. There was very little room for any thinking in his head; the only sensation he could focus on was the painful, straining need he felt under the belt. The urge to burn off the arousal, to get it out of his system, to empty himself again and again—

“I can help you,” Hermione said in a tight voice, when he made a choked whimpering noise and his hips began twitching of their own accord. “Please. Just pretend I’m someone else.”

Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut. Hermione was so close to him—the smell of her, oh god. The smell of her…

She touched his arm and every hair on his body stood on end.

“Fine,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. “Fine. Fuck, fine—please… ”

He heard Hermione’s quick exhale of relief. There was a spike in the concentration of her pheromones being released. Her body responding chemically to the approval from an alpha. From him.

“Where do you want me?” she asked, and he almost fainted.

“Get on the bed,” he said. “Spread your legs.”

“On my stomach?” came her voice, faraway through the haze of Malfoy’s mind. 

“No. I want to see you looking up at me.”

It was getting easier now. There was less room for tortured uncertainty, simply because Malfoy’s body had waited too long. His motions were automatic, jerky, and fueled by instinct.

Hermione took her clothes off and crawled onto his king size bed. Malfoy stared through wide, dilated eyes.

He was seeing Hermione naked. He had spent so long dreaming of this moment. He only wished he was more coherent, the better to truly be present for it. As it was, his brain operated as though through a fog. But he could see her breasts were more lovely than he’d imagined, the shape of them, the dusky hue of her nipples. Her hips were so soft…

Malfoy went to her, taking his clothes off as he walked, with the air of an animal that didn’t know or care why there were garments encasing him. He clawed at his trouser button and zipper, he kicked the fabric off, careless and urgent. 

Under the current of Malfoy’s urges there ran a single live wire that told him—insisting, blaring in his head: be careful with her, be careful with her, she is important, do not break her, do not make her sad—

Malfoy ran his palm over her stomach with aching tenderness. He leaned low to kiss between her breasts, and Hermione shuddered in response. He felt a rush of pride. He could make her feel so good, he took such good care of her, he was a good man, taking good care of his omega.

“Feels good?” he asked in her ear, dragging his knuckles over her skin.  

“Yes,” she said at once. “Yes, thank you.”

“Can I put my face against your neck?” he said. “Please…”

“You can smell me, but no teeth—that’s what St. Mungo’s says…”

Yes, he knew the drill well. There was no biting of the neck allowed, during these medical release treatments.

Malfoy carefully lifted her hair and pressed his nose and lips to her throat. He breathed in.

“Holy god,” he whispered. “You smell unbelievable. I could bottle this up and drink it…”

Hermione shuddered under the praise. Her legs inched open automatically, and he circled a hand around her thigh, squeezing. 

His thoughts had gone totally quiet. There was no more angst, no stress, no world that existed outside of this perfect sphere. Even the aching, maddening frustration of his erection was blending fuzzily into the moment. It was all just a single strand of need, of wanting, of soon-to-be-sated desire.

Malfoy drew in deep, shaking breaths, filling his lungs with the scent of her. His vision was going fuzzy. But he didn’t need to see, he had his hands and his cock and his nose and his mouth and he was going to experience every inch of her with them.

But when he licked a long, flat stripe from her neck up to her jaw, a bitter, chemically acrid taste filled his mouth.

“It’s the spray,” he heard Hermione say as he coughed, her voice nervous and bell-like. “The Healers had me spray a deterrent there, to make sure you remember not to bite.”

He nodded automatically, jerky and obedient. 

“Sorry,” he slurred, nosing at her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay—I’m just nervous I’ll forget a rule… oh…” 

He had pressed a knee between her thighs and was forcing her open now.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said. “I know what to do.”

“You do?” she asked him, arching against his touch. “Oh, good…”

Malfoy cupped his hand around her sex and Hermione let out a shaking sound of surprise at the firm contact.

“I know how to take care of you,” he said softly, dragging his thumb firmly over her clit.

Hermione’s body shook so violently that it was almost a spasm.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, her eyes wide. Her face was pink, the freckles blending into flushed skin. “I’m so sensitive—”

It had to be her first time with an A-Class. It was impossible to describe to someone who had never experienced it, just how much more active every nerve ending was when between alpha and omega. How potent the chemistry, how nearly-painful the intensity of pleasure.

He crawled down her body, then pried her legs open. He pressed his face to the soaking mess between her thighs and was rewarded by the sound of Hermione’s keening, agonized moan. 

“I can tell you what comes next,” he rasped, licking her fully from top to bottom. She smelled incredible. “I’ll go inside you. And you’ll shake like a little leaf, because it will feel so good—”

Hermione was making divine, whimpering screams. He licked at her with fastidious, urgent strokes until she was at the cusp of coming, then stopped, ignoring her plaintive begging. 

The sheets under them were soaked with her arousal. 

Shaking, Malfoy rose up to drag his cock lightly over her folds.

Hermione stared up at him with glowing eyes, her whole body trembling.

“You’re so good-looking,” she whispered, dazed. “So handsome… I’ve always thought so…”

Distantly, he fielded a pang of distress that the hormones were making her say things she plainly didn’t mean. But it was fine. He could pretend it was real.

“I want to take care of you,” he said fervently. “I’ll fuck you so perfectly, if you let me. I’ll make you come so many times you won’t know your own name…”

“Please,” she whispered. Her golden skin glimmered with the iridescence of orchid petals. “Please.”

Ecstasy filled him. 

Malfoy pushed forward. He let out a groan at the feeling of her tight entrance pressing to the blunt tip of his head. He let his eyes return to Hermione’s face to watch the series of microexpressions flash over her delicate features as he slowly applied pressure.

Her eyebrows, drawing together in desperate focus, as she tried to move her hips to encourage him to enter her faster. Her mouth, falling open as he sunk slowly into her.

And then there was the searing heat of her body, slick and wet and burning.

She was so tight and warm, sheathing down over him. His eyes rolled back in bliss. 

And Malfoy realized that, not even fully inside her, the pleasure was coalescing into release with uncontrollable rapidity.

“I’m going to come,” he said urgently. “Fuck—I need to pull out—”

“No,” Hermione said, her words honey-thick and dazed. Her eyelids were flickering and shut. “No—stay in me. Finish in me…”

Alarm bells rang in his head. She should not be encouraging him to finish in her—St. Mungo’s should have told her—

It took every ounce of willpower in Malfoy’s body to push off of her, to pull out of the satiny heat. 

Instead, Malfoy came with shuddering spurts onto her stomach. His hips rocked forward in unsteady jerks, the underside of his cock dragging each time over the soft skin of her hip. 

He needed so much more friction than this—he wanted to be shoved in her, hilt-deep—and the orgasm was both more sensitive and less satisfying for the fact that instead, he had only her hip to rock against. 

And to spend himself on the outside of her—seeing his seed spatter uselessly on her stomach instead of feeling it pulse into her—was torture.

Hermione reached for his cock before he even finished and he gasped out, thrusting into her hand.

“In me this time,” she said, trying to put him back inside her.

“Did the Healers not tell you?” he asked, trying in vain to push her hand off him. “Fuck—Hermione, stop. I’m not allowed to finish in you—just like I’m not allowed to bite your neck.”

Those were permanent actions, things that could not easily be undone. Only the omega’s eventual forever partner was allowed to do those things. 

“Why not?” Hermione asked, her eyes shining and feverish. 

“It’s a safety concern,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I finish in you, it’ll be like marking you—and I might not let you go after—”

But Hermione was not in her right mind. She did not seem at all perturbed by the idea of Malfoy marking her as his own. 

And, after a moment of confusion, Malfoy realized what was happening. His eyes went to her throat, which was glistening with sweat.

The gland there—the little knot of tissue emitting the heady cocktail of O-Class pheromones that filled the air—was swollen and pink. Malfoy’s eyes widened. His vision zeroed in on the overly inflamed skin.

“You’re going into heat,” he said, disbelieving. The swollen gland, the dilated pupils in Hermione’s big brown eyes, the flush on her skin, the sheen of sweat. “Hermione—”

She was staring up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, the color on her cheeks rising with every passing moment. She was breathing quickly and shallowly, her sweat-shining shoulders quivering.

“They said—” she managed to say. “They said this wouldn’t happen.”

And that was the very last hope either of them had for coherent thought.

An obliterating, possessive surge of pride crashed down over Malfoy. 

He had triggered heat in his girl. He had made her feel so good, so safe, that her body had sent the signal to lower all defenses, to lower the gate, to be fully vulnerable with him. He wanted to sink his teeth into her throat and crawl on top of her and keep her warm and comfortable and full of his cock, until her heat passed.

Malfoy let out a groan of ecstasy. He kept her pinned down with his weight, parted her knees again and slid two fingers into her, shuddering with happiness when she came instantly around the intrusion. 

As she orgasmed, the pheromones in the air hit saturation point. Obeying the command writ on his DNA, Malfoy pressed his nose and mouth firmly against her neck, offering her relief from the aching of the swollen gland. Hermione gasped with relief, her fingers clawing into Malfoy’s hair, keeping his head there.

Her other hand was between her legs, where Malfoy’s fingers were still inside her. She pressed his palm tight to her clit and rocked her hips against him until she came again with a panicked, desperate whine. The orgasms came so easy, flowing like water. 

Malfoy felt he could explode without even touching himself. His cock was pressed between them, against her hip, and suddenly it was all too much.

He bit down on her neck before he realized what he was doing.

Hermione immediately let out a keening, animal wail. 

The dizzy thrill of having marked her as his was like a whirlwind. It wasn’t for a few seconds that Malfoy was able to tell what Hermione was saying, the rabbit-fast words tucked between her shaking gasps. 

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, thank you. Am I yours now? Did you do it because I was good? I’ll be good forever—”

With his teeth still clamped over her skin, Malfoy fought back a full body shudder of need.

“Can I go in you?” he whispered. “Can I push into you, darling—let me fuck you—”

“Yes,” Hermione said at once. “Please, please, put it in me…”

Malfoy dragged one of her legs up onto his shoulder. Then, with her splayed open before him, he drove into her.

She was tight and swollen and pink. His stomach cramped with the impossibly intense surge of pleasure. This—being invited into Hermione while she was in heat—was better than anything he had ever experienced. There was no way this could even be called sex, it was pleasure on an order of magnitude he hadn’t even known was possible. Perhaps it was all worth it—perhaps the agony of being an A-Class, the loneliness of yearning after Hermione for more than a decade, the unsated sexual need that came with only ever earning release during paid therapy appointments on a sterile schedule—perhaps it was all worth it so that he could have his mind blown just like this, with the decadent pleasure of thrusting into Hermione while she gazed up at him through bleary, dilated eyes. Her lips parted and red, the gland at her throat shining with his saliva.

He thrust again and again into her.

“You belong to me,” he hissed. He held her knee up in place, and when he felt her fingers slide over his, so that their hands touched as he fucked into her, he nearly came. “I feel so close to you. I want to keep you forever.”

Hermione began to orgasm again, much harder this time. He felt it before he saw any other signs. Her walls tightened around him in a quivering spasm, and a little spurt of fluid coated him. 

Malfoy bit his cheek, hard enough to draw blood, using the pain to keep him grounded so he didn’t explode in her right as she was coming.

He needed to take care of her. He needed to show how worthy he was, what a good provider and lover he would be. So that she would stay forever, build a permanent nest with him, let him lick her throat and love at her for the rest of their lives.

“Is it good?” he snarled in her ear. “Does that feel good?”

Her keening cry was answer enough. She clenched tight around him and rocked forward, burying her face into his chest and gripping his shoulders with white-knuckled hands as she fell apart.

The feeling of her pulsing around him, the sweet, damp softness of her face pressed into his chest, the way she held onto him like he was keeping her tethered to the earth, would have broken a much stronger man

“I need to come,” he said. He tried gently to push her off. “I’m sorry—I thought I could hold on longer. Hermione, let go of me for one moment—”

Hermione shook her head. She tightened her hold on his shoulders and, when Malfoy tried again to pull out of her, she wrapped her legs around his hips and dragged him close. 

“In me,” she said. “Please. I was good.”

Malfoy let out a sharp, painful breath. His vision was blacking out at the corners. The tension in his lower stomach, the feeling of her hot and soft and tight around him, against him—her lovely hands, the slender fingers digging into his muscles—

“I can’t,” he said frantically. “Hermione—you’re going to hate me tomorrow—”

“You have to,” she said. “Please, you have to.”

“Fuck. Fuck—”

His orgasm slammed into him with the force of a train. He rocked forward, his eyes squeezing shut, his hips jerking in desperate, automatic spasms. He dragged her closer to him, his hands gripping her hips, giving him leverage as he emptied into her in a series of neverending pulses. Pleasure, stimulation—his mouth was watering, his cock humming with sensation, his balls tightening again—

Hermione made a happy squirm of pride as Malfoy started to come again. 

It was the first time in his life he had ever finished twice back to back—he hadn’t even known it was physically possible. 

This second one was unbearable in its intensity. His mouth was dry, he gasped for breath, driving into her again and again, seeking desperately the relief that came with emptying himself out. He didn’t know if he could survive a third. His body was shaking, his skin clammy.

His heart rate slowly, slowly ricocheted back to its normal pace. 

“Hermione?” he whispered. “Are you alright?”

He tried to pull back to look at her, but when he did, her body was jerked back with him. She let out a little cry and he swore under his breath. He was knotted in her, they were joined until the swelling went down.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed immediately. “There, just lie down. I’ll stay still. I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her eyes closed and face glowing with contentment. “I was good, right? That’s why you bit me. That’s why you’re in me…”

He held her in shaking arms, feeling like nothing so much as a clumsy beast that had mistakenly been given the responsibility of guarding a priceless treasure. A pitbull with a Fabergé egg in its teeth.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, smoothing her hair back. His pulse raced in his ears as the ramifications of what he’d done began to trickle in. “Hermione—I can’t believe I bit you—fuck, I’m so sorry…”

But Hermione was plainly falling asleep. She seemed entirely unperturbed that he was still inside her. She made a small, sleepy noise with her lips and tucked her head against his shoulder.

Malfoy’s heart thrummed with a frenetic hope that somehow rivaled the strength of his orgasms. Maybe she was happy here with him. Maybe he had taken care of her well enough for her to want him again tomorrow…

He turned slowly, trying not to wake Hermione, to examine her neck. 

There were the teeth marks. 

A sick feeling of nausea made its home in his stomach. Seeing the mark he’d left there—no, no there was no possible way Hermione would forgive him. 

Feeling ill, Malfoy let his forehead drop to rest on her shoulder. He let himself hold her tightly to him, drawing comfort.

It was fine. At least he had had his chance to be with her. To kiss her, to give her pleasure even one time. It was more than he’d dared to hope for.

But how much better it would be, Malfoy thought with pained yearning, to keep her instead…

He kissed her cheek, knowing she was asleep and would not remember. He kissed the corner of her eye, feeling the sweep of lashes against his lips.

“I would take care of you forever,” he said in her ear, too aware of how pathetic he sounded. He still needed to say it. “If you let me. If you would ever let me. Please.”

Hermione stirred in his arms, to his shock.

“Go to sleep,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “The Healers said… you need to sleep after…”

Malfoy knew what else the Healers dictated. The omega would be gone before the alpha awoke. This was the cleanest and least embarrassing way for all parties involved.

So he could not give up this one, sole opportunity to lay his heart bare to Hermione. He waited until she stopped moving, when she was certainly asleep again, then put his lips to her ear.

“I used to fantasize that the first time we slept together would be after our fourth date,” he said softly. “I had all these big ideas of how I would win you over.”

She didn’t stir. 

“If you let me,” he said. “I would take perfect care of you. You have no idea, Hermione. I would buy you anything you want. I would take you anywhere in the world you wanted to go.”

He cradled her to his chest.

“There’s this exhibit in Paris right now,” he continued softly. “Artifacts on Magical Creature legislation in ancient societies. I saw it in the paper and I bought two tickets, if you can believe it. One for you and one for me. I told myself I might ask you out this month. I knew I wouldn’t, though. I’ve done this sort of thing before… I always donate the tickets, so they don’t go to waste. I know you’d hate for them to go to waste…”

He paused, taking slow, tight breaths.

“You have no idea,” he said finally, his voice breaking. “How destroyed I was, the day I learned about the alpha thing. I didn’t care about the stigma or anything. I just remember thinking… I’ve got no chance now, for certain. This will be too much for her. This, on top of everything else… it will be too much for her.”

She stirred and he stopped talking, waiting for her to go still before he continued. He kissed her temple, he held her hips.

“If you let me take care of you,” he said. “I wouldn’t ever be with anyone else. Even if you—if you didn’t see me that same way. I would still act like your husband. I would be faithful, Hermione. I’ve wanted no one else for so long, anyway.”

He fell asleep like that, holding her too tightly in his arms. Knowing that she would be gone in the morning. 

~

And, as expected, it was to a very cold bed that Malfoy awoke.

He remained unmoving for a few minutes, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. The sheets still smelled like her. He pressed his nose into the bed, inhaling, trying to hold onto the trace memory of their night together. 

“Draco?” came a nervous voice.

His eyes flew open.

Malfoy sat up at once. Hermione was seated in a chair by the bed, watching him nervously. She was fully clothed, her purse clutched in her hands. Only her hair—disheveled, not-quite-fully-put-back-together after a night of bedding—betrayed the nature of their evening.

“Hi,” he said, clearing his throat. He dragged the sheets over himself, hiding his nudity. “You’re not gone.”

“No—no, I wanted to wait until you woke up.”

God, she looked so beautiful. There was a vulnerability about the way she carried herself before him now. He had been given the gift of knowing what her body looked and felt like, what she sounded like when she came. How would he ever be able to act normal around her again?

He cleared his throat.

“Is everything alright?” he asked. 

“I just—I wanted to put together a new nondisclosure for you to use,” Hermione said, pushing a slightly crumpled stack of paper towards him. It appeared that she had torn out sheets of notebook paper and hand-scrawled in pen a new contract for him. 

“It’s to better protect your privacy,” she explained. “You said—you said a bunch of things last night. Very romantic things—I’m sure you didn’t mean them but, um.”

She cleared her throat. Her slim jaw worked and she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“But they were very sweet,” she said to the bedspread, not looking at him. “And I don’t think they would be good for your cutthroat business reputation. And I worry that some future woman may take advantage of you in that state. So I drafted a new addition to the privacy clause, to make sure you’re protected the next time you have one of your appointments…”

He just stared at her.

“What?” he asked stupidly.

“I see articles about you in the papers sometimes,” Hermione went on in a very odd, high voice. She was blushing—had he never noticed, at those many Ministry galas in which he agonized over her ignoring him, the way she always had a flush on her cheeks when she avoided looking at him? He was recognizing it now, the signs of her embarrassment. Her shyness. “In the business section, I mean. You look very good in the photos, by the way. In those suits…”

She blinked quickly and her fingers tightened around the paperwork. It became clear why they were so crumpled, she was clutching the paper as though for dear life.

“Anyway, I had a very nice time last night. Not that—not that it was a social call. Oh, bollocks. Um—what was I saying?”

“I have no idea.”

“That’s right, the contract!” she said with forcible brightness, still in her strained voice. “Well, here it is. Bit unprofessionally written, of course, but I wanted to make sure you had it in case you want a draft to show your lawyers.”

She stood. 

“Actually, um,” she said. Her face was very red. She still would not look at him, her eyes were pointed at a random corner of the room. “If I could give you some advice, maybe?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, terrified that she was about to leave. He wanted her to stay forever. “Yes, of course.”

“You said some very nice things last night,” she said. “And some of them were quite—quite earnest. You should be more careful about the things you say. For future appointments, I mean. It could be—easy for a girl to believe them. Get her hopes up, you know.”

He stared at her.

“I did mean them,” he said. “Hermione—you heard all that? I thought you were sleeping.”

Her cheeks turned pink and she flapped a hand, waving away the details.

“It’s just I—I never quite got over fancying you in school,” she said. “And—it’s been a bit of a harrowing journey, really, going through the O-Class changes. All of that to say… if you’re in the heat of the moment, and you’re saying things, you have a certain responsibility to be aware if a girl is in a vulnerable, hopeful state of mind—”

She did not finish her sentence, because Malfoy had gotten to his feet and was crushing his mouth to hers. Hermione let out a shocked squeak, the noise lost between their lips. 

“Your hopes should be high,” he said, holding her face in his hands. “I want them to be as high as possible. I won’t disappoint you, Hermione—I promise you, that what I want to give you is more than you could ever hope for.”

“Now see, that’s exactly the kind of thing you should be careful saying—”

Malfoy picked her up. He exhaled in relief when she twined her arms around his shoulders, when her legs wrapped around his hips. She was back in his arms, and it felt intensely soothing to be this close to her once more.

And this time, there were no pheromones, no haze to dull his emotions.

“I have tickets to that exhibit in Paris,” he said, between frantic, peppered kisses to her lips. “Do you want to go with me? I’ll take you out to dinner after. I found this amazing restaurant on the Seine. I overheard you tell someone you love mussels, and this place has the most incredible moules frites…”

“Is this still your rut?” Hermione asked, her voice torn between hope and distress.

“You beautiful idiot,” he said in disbelief, resting their foreheads together. 

Hermione laughed politely but surreptitiously touched his wrist. She was checking his pulse.

Well, that was fine. He was hardly one to talk—after all, it had taken them having medically-required sex for him to realize Hermione fancied him.

He held her until she was soft and quivery in his arms, then lay her on the bed and lay a long row of kisses down her stomach, undoing her shirt buttons as he went.

“The Healers gave instructions to stay with you until you don’t need me,” she managed to say, her breath catching. 

Malfoy kissed her, fervent and adoring.

“They should have been more careful with their wording,” he whispered. “That might be a life sentence, with me.”