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Miss Granger,
You have been afforded an opportunity that we are in no position to decline. It is our duty to rebuild wizarding society after all the war has taken from us, and your union with the Duke of Wiltshire will grant us the compliance we seek from members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
I would not have asked this of you if I did not believe you capable. Though these past weeks may have convinced you otherwise, do not think me cruel as to not address the concerns you have shared prior. You will find that the marriage contract has been well-stipulated to ensure you live a full, happy life.
Lord Potter will accompany you on your journey to discuss further details that would be best heard personally.
Yours faithfully,
Lord Shacklebolt
Happy.
There was something about the word that would have had Hermione’s heart sinking to her stomach had it not already settled there.
Was Lord Shacklebolt truly blind to the fact that her intended regarded her as though she were the bane of his existence? That Fiendfyre burned as cold as ice compared to the way he branded her, his loathing scorching her skin whenever she dared to get near? How anyone could have believed this match to be a successful one, let alone a happy one, was beyond her.
“This arrangement could have been considerably worse,” Harry had said during the carriage ride. “I know you have your doubts, but I implore you to keep an open mind. The Duke is not who you knew him to be at Hogwarts…”
He’d gone to say more, but the ivy-clad façade of her inescapable future loomed on the horizon, and she was being shown to her room before he could finish.
She was encouraged to rest—a farfetched accomplishment given that her mind was racing and her limbs were yearning to be stretched after hours confined in a cramped carriage. Besides, the Duke was out on business until later that evening, according to the head house-elf. It gave her ample opportunity to explore her new abode without risk of stumbling across the steely scrutiny she’d find herself under for the rest of her life. An opportunity she would welcome with open arms.
Instinct guided her to the manor’s library in less than twenty minutes. It was magnificent; a two-story sanctuary of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves abundant with countless leather-bound volumes that gleamed with gold leaf titles and intricate embossing.
On the upper levels’ balcony, she found an alcove lined with shelves accessible by a rolling ladder that glided smoothly along a brass rail. A wingback chair and a large, emerald-green velvet chaise longue were positioned to create a private, cosy retreat—the perfect hideaway.
Or so she thought.
“Your habits remain unchanged, I see.”
The low drawl startled her from her perusal with a gasp. She turned to the familiar voice, dropping to a curtsey and lowering her eyes before she could meet his gaze.
“I remember catching this exact scene back in Hogwarts,” the Duke continued. His footsteps echoed around her, each one louder than the last. “Nestled in a corner of the library, nose tucked in a book. Completely oblivious to the world around you. In truth, I don’t know why I expected anything less.”
His voice carried a humoured tone that had her skin prickling. “I apologise, Your Grace,” she said to the parquet flooring. “I took the opportunity to get acquainted with my new surroundings whilst you were away. But now you have returned, I shall see myself back to my quarters to allow you your peace.”
With a dip of her chin, she excused herself.
“Miss Granger, wait.”
She made it nary a step when a tug at her elbow brought her to an abrupt stop. Long, pale fingers gripped her with a surprising gentleness. She stared down at them with brows pulled together, attention drawn to the signet ring that adorned his little finger; a simple band of pure silver, its only embellishment an ornate M delicately inscribed at its centre.
The Duke snatched back his hand from her as quickly as he had reached out and cleared his throat. “There are some things we need to discuss.”
Hermione looked up then but could not decide where to look. Her eyes roamed everywhere, for they had never once stood so near. The usual distance between them gave the impression of someone severe. Handsome, undeniably so, but powerful. And yet, up close…
She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. “If that is what you wish.”
“What I wish is for you to feel comfortable looking at me.”
Hermione stiffened, her gaze having cut back to the floor the moment heat rose to her cheeks. But she was not in a position to deny him.
Inch by inch, she took him in. Snug-fitting breeches in a shade of charcoal grey were tucked into polished dragonhide boots that reached just below his knee. His waistcoat, subtly patterned silver brocade with a row of mother-of-pearl buttons, over a crisp, white linen shirt with a high, starched collar. The shirt itself was unfastened to reveal the strong column of his throat.
His platinum hair fell in artful disarray around features that appeared to have been carved from marble. And his eyes; pools of molten silver, fixed firmly on hers with an emotion she could not quite fathom.
“I also wish for you to be happy.”
There was that word again, spoken with such flippancy it was as if it held no meaning. Was he as blind to their circumstances as Lord Shacklebolt? “Happy?” she bristled. “You wish for me to be happy? When we are but a means for the Ministry to steer society in the direction they wish for it to travel? When I have been asked to renounce all I hold dear, all that makes me who I am, on the altar of societal expectation?”
“You believe it an impossibility?” the Duke asked, cocking his head to the side.
She pointedly ignored the way his fringe delicately fell over his eyes. “I know it to be one.”
He considered her for a moment. “What did you and Mr Potter discuss on your journey here?”
“I do not see how that is of any relevance—”
They exchanged a look. Hermione’s lips were still parted and both eyebrows were high on her forehead. The Duke simply lifted one of his own in challenge.
“Trivial matters, for the most part,” she finally acquiesced. “The weather. A dinner we attended week last. He also made mention of his betrothal to Miss Weasley.”
Hermione watched as the Duke rubbed his jaw, his lips pressed in a thin line. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and sighed deeply. “Our circumstance was indeed brought about because the Ministry wishes to see change, and I shall not deny I have taken advantage of the opportunity it presents to atone for the sins of my father. But there is a far more selfish reason for my agreeing to any of this. You.”
The alcove was becoming increasingly warm. “Me?”
“You.” He took a step towards her. “I have been drawn to you for quite some time. Your intellect, your passion, the way you challenge everything around you—it captivates me. This may seem inconceivable given our past, yet what Mr Potter failed to inform you is that I approached Lord Shacklebolt to ask for your hand specifically.
“I’ll admit it was improper of me not to declare myself to you directly. Cowardly, in fact. But I assure you, my intentions are beyond mere duty or obligation. This contract, as much as it serves the Ministry’s aims, serves my own as well. I desire to know you, to be near you, to—”
“Stop.” She forced the order out, her heart having lodged itself in her throat. Butterflies swarmed in her belly like a pack of stampeding hippogriffs. “You are cruel to talk of affection when you have regarded me with nothing more than contempt for years!”
The Duke stepped forward again, forcing Hermione against the bookshelf. He towered over her, so close that she could see his eyes were dilated to the point that there was only the smallest slither of silver encircling them. His next words came out low and husky—a mere rumbling breath of admission that fanned over her cheeks. “It is with anything but contempt that I regard you.”
Hermione could scarcely cry out in surprise before he closed the hairsbreadth of space between them. His arm wrapped around her waist as he pulled her flush against him, a steadying palm cupping her cheek.
The kiss was passionate yet tender, a brush of his lips against hers that conveyed his emotions with more eloquence than any poem she’d ever read. Hermione’s eyelids fluttered closed and she leaned into it—the reaction so natural it was not in her to question it. Instead, she gripped the collar of his waistcoat and tugged him closer still.
He moved easily, his knee coming to rest between hers. The realisation of their intimacy dawned on her when she rolled her hips and a guttural moan rumbled through to her very core. Heat pooled low in her abdomen, her body set aflame in a way she’d never known. And it was all because of him.
It was as incomprehensible as it was fierce, perplexing as it was assuring. It was… not enough.
Like he could discern her thoughts, he deepened the kiss with a swipe of his tongue. She yielded obediently, parting and moving her lips with a fervour that he just as eagerly met. For seconds, maybe hours, their bodies writhed together in perfect harmony.
The hand that cupped her cheek lowered with a featherlight touch; down her jaw and across her décolletage, plucking at the neckline of her dress and tracing the lace down to her thigh.
Her head was spinning, her mind devoid of any coherent thought or protestation she might have had, had he not felt so good.
A whine rose from the back of her throat as he pulled away, mourning the loss of his lips. He didn’t withdraw far, only enough to press his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses barely grazing.
“Tell me to stop,” he panted. “Gods, I can’t… Tell me to stop.”
Hermione gnawed on her bottom lip, sensitive and kiss-swollen. She should—oh, how she should. It was improper of her to have let it get this far. He had played her into a marriage contract for his own greed, for Godric’s sake. Yet here she was, falling into his embrace like a naïve debutante, which she most certainly was not.
Yet… there was something about the way he poured himself into his actions, as though he knew his words would do no justice. Their embrace was absent of his confessed selfishness, instead full of reverence and sincerity that she could not overlook.
Perhaps his wish for her happiness was more viable than she thought.
There was but one way to find out. “Please… do not stop, Your Grace—”
He cursed, then, “Call me Draco.”
His lips slanted over hers without pause, insistent and demanding. He swallowed her answering groan like a parched traveller gulping down a glass of water as he rucked her skirts and chemise between them. Her skin pebbled against the cooler air as his hand covered the expanse of her exposed thigh.
The dull thud of Hermione’s head knocking against the shelves reverberated throughout the alcove. Her knuckles blanched white, her grip on his waistcoat tightening as she rocked herself against the teasing hand climbing higher up the inside of her thigh.
The Duke—Draco—trailed a string of soft kisses across her jaw, his teeth scraping a sensitive spot by her ear at the same time he dragged a finger along her slit. “You’re so fucking wet,” he mused. “Tell me, Miss Granger, have you ever touched yourself?”
Hermione should have found the question abhorrent—no gentleman would ever think to question a lady’s virtue. “Once,” she breathed through heightened arousal. “I wanted… I wanted to, oh—”
His slick-soaked finger wound small, light circles around her clit. She stared up at him through her lashes, all vocabulary having abandoned her. Her eyes shuttered with every pass he made. Hot pleasure quickly threatened to burst from her. Whether she was unused to such a feeling or he was already skilled in the art of playing her, she found herself at the precipice.
Draco’s eyes, dark and glazed with hunger, broke away from where they were fixed between her thighs and met hers with a slow blink. There was a question in his expression, in the crease of his brows, the gentle parting of his lips and the flare of his nostrils. One she answered with a nod.
Neither wavered as he moved his hand to her entrance until the tip of his finger barely stretched her. Her chest heaved with quickened breaths at the intrusion and he stilled his hand. “Draco,” she begged with a roll of her hips, “please.”
He acceded with a hiss, sinking into her with an aching slowness. She fluttered around him, a low whimper escaping when he added a second and crooked them, touching a spot she had not reached herself. Her arms wrapped around his neck for leverage as he slowly pumped his fingers into her, his eyes unmoving as he watched her every reaction.
It was all so heady. Her every nerve ending was buzzing, her entire body alight with desire as she thrust against him.
So close… She was so close…
A shock of cold rubbed against her clit and her breath hitched in her throat. His signet ring, she realised. The contrasting temperature and additional stimulation had her clenching around Draco’s fingers. “Fuck, you are exquisite. Let go. That’s it, let go for me, Hermione.”
With a ragged moan, she did. It was a free fall like she’d never known—the pulsing of her walls around his digits, waves of pleasure washing over her again and again. He let her ride through the last throes of pleasure, only removing his fingers when her twitches slowed and her breathing steadied.
Her head eventually lolled forward, limply resting on the hard pane of his chest. She did not move until long fingers reverently gripped her chin and tilted her head back. Beneath heavy eyelids, she caught a glimpse of the wary glance he cast over her. “Hermione? Are you well?”
She sighed, a soft smile lifting at the corners of her lips. She rose to her toes to kiss him again, quick and delicate. He was smirking at her when they parted, and it kindled something in her chest that had her smile widening. “I’m perfectly happy.”