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“Before we go in there,” says Lucius Malfoy,
pulling his son aside, “let me advise you, Draco,
one last time, to see sense. There are loopholes in this law,
and I can still put things right, if you will just—”
“No, father,” Draco hisses. “I want
her!”
His father sighs. “Then, at least, leave the talking to
me.”
“Talking, father?” He waves the roll of parchment he’s
carrying. “There won’t be any talking. I have everything
prepared.”
“But there are certain matters that you have wilfully ignored,
Draco. Certain financial matters.”
“Financial...” Draco quickly reviews his proposal—half
a million galleons (non-returnable) when she signs the Marriage
Law Ledger; a further one and a half million on their wedding
day; ten thousand galleons per year for her clothing and books;
and ten million settled on their son at birth—all, naturally,
from his own personal fortune.
He’s forgotten nothing.
Unless...
“You can’t expect me to ask her parents for a dowry,
father!”
“Their daughter and grandchild will be Malfoys,” says
Lucius, “and the child’s muddy blood will be diluted
by yours. It is important that they acknowledge their good fortune.”
Draco knows that he has to take control.
He’s not going to whine and sulk until he gets his own way,
because he isn’t a child any more—and, anyway, there
just isn’t time—so he draws himself up to his full height—all
Malfoy men are tall—and growls, “Don’t think for
one moment, father, that I can’t see what you’re doing.
You think that by insulting her you’ll make her reject me.
Well, I want her, and I shall have her. And if you mention a dowry,
I shall make it perfectly clear that I have no idea what you’re
talking about.”
He’s pretty sure his father won’t risk a Malfoy versus
Malfoy shouting match in front of the Secretary for the Regulation
of Magical Marriages, and when he hears his father sigh—as
only Lucius can sigh—he assumes he’s won.
This round, at least.
...
It’s been more than five years since he last saw her—shortly
after the Battle of Hogwarts—when, despite everything that
had stood between them, she’d been the only one with the
balls to ask him whether he or his parents needed food, or water,
or a healer.
He’d accepted her help because his mother had needed
it, but had secretly despised her for her charity until his mother
had revealed the truth to him: “Your Miss Granger, Draco,”
she had said, “is showing exceptionally good breeding...”
...
The double-doors of the new Office for the Regulation of Magical
Marriages open to admit the Malfoys, and Draco squares his shoulders,
and walks inside.
As he crosses the marble floor, the Secretary rises and, leaning
across his massive desk, offers his hand. “Good morning,
Mr Malfoy—Mr Malfoy senior—please, be seated.”
Four chairs are arranged in pairs in front of the Secretary’s
desk. Granger’s brought Old Weasley with her, and they’re
sitting on the pair to the left. (The private investigator Draco
pays to keep a discreet watch on Granger has told him that her
parents are living in Australia, and appear to be estranged from
her, though he cannot ascertain why).
Draco takes the chair to her right, straightening his tie and—unconsciously—running
his hand through his hair as he sits.
Granger’s hair is spectacularly bushy, sitting atop
her head like great furry helmet and, when he allows himself a
quick look at her, he notices that her robes look suspiciously
like a school uniform, and her little shoes are those sensible,
flat things that make her walk like she’s furious.
...
It was the memory of Granger’s frank brown eyes, gazing
at him across the Great Hall, that had sustained Draco through
the months of uncertainty that followed Voldemort’s defeat,
when he and his father were waiting (separately) in Azkaban for
the Wizengamot to determine their fate.
During those long, lonely days he’d carefully recalled
every one of their childhood encounters, searching for any evidence
of affection on her part; in his dreams, the seeds of hope he’d
found during the day would blossom and, when he awoke the following
morning, he would try desperately to hold on to the feelings that
dream-Granger had aroused in him.
...
Something twists, low in his body, because she’s even lovelier
than he’d remembered.
He’s already hired a personal stylist who’ll help her
dress for the functions she’ll attend with him, but he realises
that he’ll have to give the woman some pretty detailed instructions,
because there’s no way he wants her turned into one of those
stick-thin clothes horses, like the Greengrass sisters.
Impulsively, he reaches out, and grasps her hand.
Her head jerks round, and she stares at him.
...
When the Malfoys were released, and their fortunes restored,
and Draco had come into his own inheritance, he’d hired the
private investigator and used his funds (and the contacts his
father was re-establishing) to grease the odd wheel or two and
smooth the progress of Granger’s career.
He’d never approached her personally; he might never
have seen her again had the Wizengamot not decided to pass
a Marriage Law.
But, the moment he’d heard of the forthcoming legislation,
Draco had begun to lay his plans and, after receiving an encouraging
report on Granger’s (lack of) love life from his private
eye, and after consulting his lawyer, he’d drawn up a formal
proposal, and had owled it to her the day the bill became law.
...
He smiles.
She doesn’t smile back—she looks down at their joined
hands, and frowns, but she doesn’t pull her hand away.
“Mr Malfoy—Miss Granger,” begins the Secretary,
“it’s a great pleasure to welcome you both here—the
first of our young couples to register a betrothal under the new
law.” He beams at them in turn. “I have your documents
here, duly copied and notarised,”—he points his wand
at two rolls of parchment—“Mr Malfoy’s proposal,
and Miss Granger’s acceptance. All that remains is for you
to reach an agreement on one or two small areas of concern, make
your verbal declarations, and sign the Ledger.”
Draco sees Granger nod, and smiles, because he knows she’ll
be following every word of the proceedings. He squeezes her hand,
and he thinks he feels a slight answering pressure.
“Miss Granger,” says the Secretary, “perhaps you’ll
explain your reservations to Mr Malfoy.”
Granger nods again. “Mr Malfoy,” she says, and he loves
how erotic it sounds, “you propose to settle a certain sum,”—it’s
obvious that she doesn’t care how much—“on your
son, at birth, but you don’t say what will happen if the
child should be a girl.” She turns to him, and raises her
eyebrows, and...
Her expression is so much more confident than he’d
expected.
He’s surprised and, before he can begin to answer—
“The Malfoys,” says his father, coldly, “have
not produced a legitimate daughter for over six generations.”
“Father,” Draco hisses, then turns back to Granger:
“A daughter would, of course, have exactly the same standing
as a son,”—he smiles—“Miss Granger.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Her gratitude does something entirely unexpected to his body.
He squeezes her hand again. “Anything else?”
“I have a career,” she says, and she leans towards
him, which makes matters—well, not worse, exactly,
but certainly more noticeable—“and I shall want
to continue working.”
“I understand that.” He takes her other hand. (He’s
actually intending to offer her a job himself, because the Malfoys
need someone with her skills, but he knows that now is not the
time to mention it, to Granger or to his father).
“Then I’m ready to proceed,” she says. To him.
“Good,” he says.
He’s struck by an intense desire to raise her hand to his
lips and kiss it, and he suddenly wonders whether Granger has
cast some sort of charm on him—
“Mr Malfoy?” prompts the Secretary, clearly
expecting an answer from him.
“I’m sorry...?”
“I said, I believe you have a number of concerns?”
“I...” Draco frowns. “No, I—”
“My son fears,” says his father and, for Draco, the
interruption—thankfully—is like having a bucket of iced
water dumped over his head, “that Miss Granger, having been
been raised in somewhat different circumstances, might
experience difficulties adjusting to a less impoverished
lifestyle.”
“I should confess,” says Draco, smoothly (though a
little louder than he’d intended), “that I’ve neglected
to tell my father that any concerns I might once have had on that
score,”—he glances at Lucius—“have already
been settled between Miss Granger and myself.”
“Good,” says the Secretary, smiling. “Very good!
Then let us proceed to the declarations.”
“One further thing,” says Lucius. His manner’s
imperious, but Draco can hear a hint desperation in his voice.
“My son will, of course, require independent confirmation
that Miss Granger is still virgo intacta.”
The syllables seem to echo around the chamber.
Old Weasley gasps; the Secretary turns puce; Granger is looking
poisoned daggers at his father and—Draco cannot help noticing—her
little hands have grown sweaty.
...
Draco had kept his proposal secret, but Pansy Parkinson had
very nearly given him away.
“Of course,” she’d opined, loudly, “this
new law’s just made for you, Draco. Did you know that, at
one point, the Weasleys were running a book on when you and a
certain Miss Gryff-in-dor,”—she’d mouthed
the last word—“would do the dirty, and I wagered twenty
galleons on the Yule Ball.”
“I took you to the Yule Ball, Pansy,” he’d
hissed.
“I know,” she’d hissed back.
He’d never seriously considered that Granger might turn
him down, but the speed with which she’d accepted him had
taken him by surprise. He’d immediately broken the news to
his parents, and had paid for it, for Lucius Malfoy did not need
a Cruciatus curse to squeeze his son’s heart within his chest.
...
“That won’t be necessary, father,” says Draco,
and his voice, though slightly off-key, is rock solid. “I
would not reveal this under any other circumstances,” he
says to the Secretary, “but, in this chamber, I feel I can
admit that Miss Granger and I have already slept together.”
He squeezes Granger’s hands quite hard, and his heart lurches
when he sees the confusion on her face, but then her eyes meet
his, and they hold each other’s gaze, and he is certain
that he feels her fingers press his, in solidarity.
“We’re both ready to make those declarations,”
he says, firmly.
...
Pansy had been right about one thing.
He would have shagged Granger at the Yule Ball, had
he been given half a chance.
Years later, in the misery of Azkaban, he would imagine being
in some deserted corner of Hogwarts with her—her in those
ravishing pink robes, with snowflakes sparkling in her hair and
on her smooth, bare arms, her head flung back against the wall,
her legs wrapped around his waist—and him fucking her
out of her mind...
Merlin!
But Granger had gone to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum, and
even Draco hadn’t had that much confidence.
...
Granger agrees to a Yuletide wedding and also—which is something
of a surprise—to moving into the Manor immediately, so that
his mother can help her prepare for her future as a Malfoy.
Old Weasley’s worried that she’ll be cutting herself
off from her friends, and he’s trying, in his bumbling way,
to dissuade her—and Draco’s surprised to feel himself
developing a vague affection for the man, with his determination
to protect anything and anyone that comes within an arm’s
length of him—but Granger somehow convinces him that she’ll
be perfectly happy with her new family.
All this time, Draco’s been holding her hand but, as they
leave the Ministry, he releases her, and draws his father away,
to give her the chance to say farewell to her friend in private.
He watches her throw her arms around the man’s neck and
hug him tightly, and from some deep, seldom-used place inside
himself, he feels a silly smile bubble up, and make its way to
his face.
She’s exactly what he’s always wanted, and—
“Do hurry your future wife, Draco,” says his father.
...
Lucius had made him feel foolish, perverted, and traitorous,
in turns, but—with his mother’s help—Draco had
held out, somehow sure that his entire future rode upon this chance
to marry Granger.
The struggle had been every bit as formative as his miserable
war and his stay in Azkaban and, when his father had finally capitulated,
he’d emerged from the ordeal a stronger, braver man.
...
“It costs nothing to let her say a proper good bye, father.”
“On the contrary, Draco, it could cost us both a good deal;
I’m already late for my meeting with the Cartel.”
“Then you go, father,” says Draco. “And Granger
and I will make our own way home, in the carriage.”
He watches his father apparate away, and sighs with relief. He
knows that the next few hours are going to be important, and he
expects them to require a great deal of concentration.
...
He’d offered her an annual book allowance hoping
that she’d recognise it for what it was: a private message,
meaning, I know you; I understand your hopes and dreams,
and I will not stop you pursuing them.
With all the Weasleys and Longbottom already spoken for, he’d
been reasonably sure that—despite their past differences—she’d
find him the best candidate available. But he’d also known
that, for her, this would still be a forced marriage, and he’d
prepared himself for some resistance—for tears, yes; sulks,
probably; and hexes, maybe.
...
Draco sinks back into the leather seat and smiles at Granger,
who’s sitting on the opposite side of the carriage. For some
reason, he’s feeling far more nervous than he’d expected.
“I thought we might need some time to ourselves,” he
says, “to break the ice.”
Granger nods, calmly pulling off her gloves, and there’s
a slight crease on her forehead, which suggests she’s thinking.
Suddenly, her eyes narrow, and she says, “Why did you lie
to your father about us having sex?”
“I didn’t.”
“We have never had sex, Malfoy.”
“I didn’t say that we had. I just said that we’d
slept together. And we have slept together, on the Hogwarts Express,
that time after the Easter Holidays when we had to sit in the
same carriage, and we both fell asleep.”
“Your father didn’t believe you.”
“No, but the Secretary did, and Weasley did, and my father
wouldn’t lower himself to argue in front of them, so...”
“It was clever,” she says.
He hopes that’s a compliment. “Clever’s my middle
name,” he replies.
“I thought it was Abraxas.”
He hadn’t expected her to know that, and he wonders whether
she’s been studying his family history—it would be just
like her to make sure that she’s fully prepared. “You’re
right,” he says. “Draco Abraxas Clever Malfoy,”
and he’s pleased to see the ghost of a smile flit across
her face.
“You still haven’t explained why you did it,”
she says.
He shrugs. “You were upset.”
“Well... I can’t think of many things more demeaning,
than being treated like a brood mare.”
“And I didn’t want some quack putting his hand up my
future wife’s...” At the moment he can’t think
of any word for it that isn’t likely to offend her and wreck
what they seem to be building, so he waves his hand. “I think
we both got what we wanted.”
She looks out of the window. “I’m not,” she says,
quietly.
“Not what?”
“Virgo intacta.”
“Oh...”
...
His plan had been to wait, stony-faced, until she’d cried
herself—or, possibly, duelled herself—to exhaustion,
and then to woo her—not with the diamonds and furs that might
have swayed an ordinary woman, but with certain little gifts he
was sure a bookworm would appreciate—and then, when she’d
begun to warm to him, to play the ace up his sleeve, and seduce
her, because he was absolutely certain that all would come right
once they’d had sex.
...
He can’t believe how much it hurts.
He knows that she’s twenty-three, and beautiful, so it really
shouldn’t have been a surprise, but he’s wanted her
for so long, and he’s dropped his guard with her, and her
words have slammed into his gut—his groin, actually—like
a rogue bludger. “Was it Weasley?”
She shakes her head.
“Potter?”
“No! Of course not!” She blushes. “It was Viktor.
I’ve only ever been with Viktor.”
“Viktor? Oh, Krum.” Draco lets out a deep sigh
of relief, because—although the man’s a quidditch legend—he
seriously doubts that Krum knows how to pleasure a woman, and
that means that, although he won’t be Granger’s first,
he can still be her best.
Besides...
“I’m not a virgin either,” he says, somewhat belatedly.
Granger laughs. “I know that, Malfoy. Your women always
liked to boast.” Then, twisting her fingers together, and
staring at the floor of the carriage, she says, “Malfoy...
I’ve been thinking. Can we get it over with?”
“Get what over with?”
“The sex. I know that, technically, we’re supposed
to wait until after the wedding ceremony but I don’t think
I could bear having it hang over me until Yule. I mean, we’re
going to marry, aren’t we, so why don’t we just do it
now?”
“Now?” He can’t believe it! “You want
to...? Do it in here?”
“Is there time?”
“Time?”
He rakes his fingers through his hair, thoroughly confused. On
the one hand, he has been gagging for it (with her) since
Azkaban. On the other hand, he doesn’t want their first time
to be nothing more than a quick shag... On the third hand, a solution
quickly presents itself. “Yes,” he says, “yes,
if I tell the thestrals to circle the Manor until we’re finished.”
“Do that, then,” she says.
...
He’s had a reputation for being good in bed since his
father hired a prostitute to ‘show him the ropes’ on
the day he came of age.
At school, the girls had called him the Slytherin Sex God.
...
He conjures one of the seats, making it broad enough for both
of them, and turns the travel rugs into cushions and a silken
throw.
Granger settles herself on the bed, and watches him take off
his shirt. “How many women have you had, Malfoy?” she
asks.
She’s such a strange combination of shyness and boldness,
of naivety and the thirst for knowledge, he’s not sure how
to deal with her.
He shrugs.
“So many...”
“Well, I there’s nothing I can do about it now,”
he says, because he sees no reason to be ashamed of his nature.
“I need sex, Granger. But I haven’t been with anyone
since I proposed to you, and I would have waited for you as long
as you’d wanted. I don’t intend to be unfaithful to
you.”
He unbuttons his fly, and steps out of his trousers.
“You don’t intend?”
“Obviously, should you ever refuse to sleep with me, I’ll
have to find someone else who will.”
He slips out of his shorts.
“Oh, Merlin,” she gasps.
“What?”
“I never believed the rumours.”
He smiles—Viktor Krum must be seriously lacking in
that department.
He can see that she wants to reach out and touch it, and wonders
why she doesn’t. Is she too shy? Too lady-like? He picks
up her hand and brings it to his erection, and watches her turn
her full attention to it—running her fingers up its length,
curling them around its girth, brushing her thumb around and over
its head.
Her touch takes him by surprise.
It’s like a blade—like a fine edge of beaten gold—and
it seems to be slicing through every nerve in his body—it’s
making him tremble, making his knees give way and, unable to keep
himself upright, he drops onto the bed, and scoops her up, and
buries his face in all that ridiculous hair.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. “I mean,
you’re beautiful.”
“You can think of it as ‘it’ if you like,”
he says, hoarsely. “I do.”
He finds her hand again, and slips it between his thighs and,
when she cups his balls and supports their weight in her palm,
he focusses on the sensation until it makes him dizzy.
“Make love to me, Draco,” she whispers.
Clumsy with desire, he unbuttons her shirt. She’s wearing
the sexiest brassiere he’s ever seen, a skimpy Muggle thing
in pale pink satin trimmed with black lace and—when he pushes
her skirt up—he finds that her tiny briefs match her bra,
and the little belt holding up her black stockings completes the
set.
In all the years he’s known her, in all the fantasies he’s
had about her—in Azkaban and since—he’s never imagined
her in anything other than plain white cotton.
“Did you wear these for me?” he asks, looking
up at her.
She blushes adorably, and nods, “Of course.”
He kisses her mouth, feeling hot and light-headed, but she quickly
breaks the kiss and, pressing her forehead to his, she whispers,
“I want you inside me, Draco.”
He summons his wand, and vanishes her skirt and shirt, then slips
the tip between her legs and—hand shaking—draws it gently
along her slit, splitting the crotch of her sexy little briefs.
She gasps, arching her back and pushing her hips forward, pressing
herself onto his wand and into his magic and, enthralled, he strokes
her again and again, letting little bursts of warmth—tangible
fragments of his own need—spill into her.
“Oh, Draco,” she moans, “oh, Draco... Draco...”
...
From his nameless prostitute he learned to take his time;
thanks to her, he’s always—even at school—enjoyed
the foreplay—the touching, the tonguing—always loved
that look of satisfaction that spreads over a woman’s face
when, at last, she has him inside her...
...
He loses it the moment he enters her—which has never
happened to him before—but he puts it down to his long obsession
with Granger, and to his recent bout of abstinence.
Granger accepts it with good grace and, since it never takes
him long to recover, he soon makes it up to her, getting her close
and keeping her there, holding her on the very edge, winding her
up, tighter, and tighter, and—
“Oh fuck,” she cries.
Too tight.
“Fuck! Oh, Malfoy! Oh,”—her body arches—“OH,”—and
her shout turns into a long and petulant wail—“fuuuuuuck!”
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