Chapter Text
Life after the war is much like it was before.
They wake up early, Hermione laced around him like a velvet ribbon. She washes clothes, he tends to their new garden. He brings home fish he caught in the sea, she cooks it. They visit the village market, and sometimes they pretend to be muggles, free of the war and magic and judgmental whispers.
It’s a quiet life; the loudest noises are the waves crashing outside their window.
Except Draco doesn’t pour her a cup of tea before bed anymore. Instead, he whisks her upstairs to the room they now share. And he makes love to her, gently running his fingers across her skin, kissing the tip of her nose. Murmuring sweet nothings that mean everything: I love you, I’ll take care of you, you’re it for me.
She’s felt so roughened by the war that being treated like something delicate is… well.
In the daylight, it’s wonderful and honey-sweet, easy to lose herself in the sappy feelings of first love.
In their bed, it leaves much to be desired.
“Draco, you can— Mm, a little harder, darling, I won’t break—”
She’s wide awake and staring into his kind gray eyes as he slowly thrusts inside her. It feels good and nice , but mostly it’s like reaching for something that’s so close but not quite in her grasp. She wants his body weighing her down, forcing her to experience the lushest of pleasures. Allowing her focus to pinpoint on the ache in her cunt.
Hermione briefly closes her eyes, remembering how he used to devour her as she floated between her body and her dreams, on a cloud of warm bliss—
“Like this?” He asks, his hips barely snapping against her. She jolts from her daydream.
“Uhh— okay.”
He kisses her then, softly, his lips feather-light against her own. Never uses his tongue nor his teeth. It’s sweet how he’s so afraid of being rough with her. It’s displeasing, too.
And leaves her wanting.
Hermione wonders if guilt is what’s keeping him from touching her the way he used to. But she can’t forget the warm ache his fingers used to stoke in her core, or the pleasant way her limbs were weighed down with longing and spiked tea, or her mind hazy and free from war.
Those nights awakened something desperate within her: the desire to be so irresistible and good that he can’t help but caress her cunt and suck on her nipples and bury himself inside of her.
But does her body no longer inspire those feelings within him? Now that she’s awake, is she too easy?
It’s animalistic, what she wants, and she doesn’t care. She survived the depths of hell; the least she’s owed is pleasure. Haven’t they learned that life is too short to feel guilty about what pleases them? Why is Draco acting as if he hasn’t that learned that lesson with her?
The cottage is heady with the scent of blueberry bread she’s making for Draco. The warmth of it all fills her lungs, and her eyelids droop with content drowsiness. As she readjusts her apron (left behind by Mrs. Weasley), she looks down at the frilly front of it and briefly thinks about learning how to embroider. She could stitch some pretty daisies and vines, perhaps even add her initials somewhere.
Hermione’s so happy that these are now her biggest problems: learning how to embroider, making sure she kneads bread dough correctly, waiting for Draco to come back from grocery shopping at the muggle market.
Now she finally can make this cottage— this safe house — a perfect place for her and Draco. It makes her proud that he lays on blankets she washed and dried with her own two hands, or when he eats her cooking. It makes her melt, knowing that he’s sated because of her.
Which is why it hurts so much that he doesn’t use her body anymore.
She closes her eyes and remembers one of the last times he had given her the tea. How he had helped her up the stairs with his large hand warm on her back, his forest-y cologne making her cunt wet with want. He had eased her into her bed, and she shut her eyes, hoping he’d believe she was asleep. After a few minutes, she felt him slide her pants down her hips, and she faintly smiled. I win.
She recalls the groan he made when he caressed her cunt. Fuck , he had whispered, you’re dripping for me.
Hermione had almost mewled, but she stayed quiet, knowing that any type of response would mean an end to his adoration. And she basked in his attention, and how he lifted her shirt to take her already puckered nipple into his mouth, unable to choke back his low moan—
But the beeping timer interrupts her memory.
Her eyes fling open, taking in her kitchen and drenched underwear. Droplets of sweat trickle down her forehead, and not just from the heat of the baking bread.
As she opens the oven, she smiles. The bread is golden.
Ginny takes a sip of her lemonade, then leads forward. “So, what’s it like?”
“Living here? Well, who wouldn’t love the beach—”
“Not that, Hermione, I meant the sex .”
“Ginny!” She looks out the window, where Draco tends to their garden. He looks adorable in his sun hat.
“What, can you blame me? You’re fucking Draco Malfoy!”
Hermione can’t suppress her smirk. “I am, aren’t I?”
“Oh don’t be so cheeky. So, how is it?” Ginny widens her eyes in an attempt to compel Hermione into answering.
“It’s good. Great. When… when we first started having sex, it was mind blowing. I came every time. I’d think about it all day. It’s just… now… it’s different.”
Ginny frowns. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like… he’s afraid to break me. It’s quite sweet, really. But it’s just not enough, and I miss how we used to be.”
“So… why don’t you tell him?”
“It’s just not that simple.”
Ginny snorts and rolls her eyes. “How are you supposed to get what you want if you don’t ask for it? Aren’t you Hermione Granger?”
Hermione bites her lip as she looks out the window, at her lover who is watering their rose bushes.
“I just don’t want to ruin a good thing.”