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“Is Althea asleep?” Draco asked.

Hermione nodded and waved her hand at the candles on their dresser, extinguishing them as she yawned and removed her robe. She was tired, and deservedly so. Their daughter was a six months old now and just starting to sleep through the night. Hermione felt like she hadn’t slept in years some days, even if Draco insisted that he take a turn with a midnight feeding – grabbing a bottle of her milk from the ice box and warming it with a quick charm.

It was worth it. Althea was the best thing she’d ever created.

It had started out innocently enough. Draco was completed intrigued with every aspect of her pregnancy from the moment the charm glowed positive over her abdomen. Every book, either Muggle or Wizard, he devoured as quickly as she did.

When Hermione decided to breastfeed their daughter, she had endured a number of startled glances from the women she knew, Narcissa included.

Witches don’t do that, she was told numerous times. Even Molly Weasley had groaned, telling her she would be ‘no better than a cow’.

Draco came to her defense, every time, telling them, “Only the best, for a Malfoy.”

He’d watched her from the start, encouraging her when her nipples ached and when her milk had refused to come in. Water, tissues, pillows – anything she needed and he was there, wand in hand and ready to help.

It was a role he enjoyed. Even in the early days of their relationship, after the War had changed them, Draco took the part of her biggest supporter. He was completely awed by her, and a little intimidated by her intelligence and quick cleverness. Sometimes it crossed Hermione’s mind that he may love her more than she did him.

But not often.

The first time they made love after the baby was born, when her orgasm had painfully raced through her body, her breasts let down a little, the milk running down the curve of her breasts while she cried out in pleasure. Hermione wasn’t even aware it had happened until she saw Draco staring, working his lower lip between his teeth as he stopped thrusting. She blushed deeply, reaching for a blanket to dry her skin.

“Don’t!” Draco gasped, sliding from her even though he hadn’t finished. When he began to lap at the trails of milk, Hermione helplessly came again.

It was only licking in those days, followed by a tender cuddle between them before Draco would thrust back into her and finish.

When Althea began to sleep through the night, leaving Hermione worried about her milk production to the point of waking up to use her breast pump, Draco made a suggestion. He looked nervous when he proposed it, as though she might say no.

“If you don’t want to, I’ll understand,” he’d sighed. “You probably think I’m completely cracked.”

She didn’t. In fact, later Hermione often wondered if she hadn’t wanted it all along, since that first time.

When Draco latched on, his grey eyes very soft and vague like Althea’s were when she drank her fill, Hermione couldn’t help but ruffle his hair a little and hum a soft tune.

He had never shared moments like this with his mother, of course. She’d often heard how a house-elf fed him and changed him before bringing Draco to his parents to play.

Not that Lucius and Narcissa didn’t love him completely – they did to point of complete obsession. It was just how things were done in the Malfoy family, and most any other old Wizarding family.

Before now.

At night, when his lips insistently worked her breasts, Hermione felt more connected to her husband than she’d felt in their entire marriage.

Cradling him to her, singing to him, talking softly to him about her day … the time was magical, even more so than her time with their daughter. With his mouth full, Draco let his eyes respond to everything she said – brows lifting, sly winking, small twitches when something she said didn’t sound right to him.

When they were out, their friends commented that they had the kind of relationship they wanted with their spouses. The closeness.

They made love every night just after his first feeding. Draco always left just enough milk so that Hermione would leak with her orgasm, sometimes spraying him with a small stream as she spasmed around him. He would lick her from her breasts to her core, until he was satisfied that she was completely clean. Then he would roll on his back, letting her ride him as he latched on, sucking deeply as he came within her, her slick walls milking him as he drank her dry.

It was an exquisite, complete wholeness that they felt in each other’s arms.

Althea weaned from Hermione’s breast at eighteen months of age.

Draco never did, nor did Hermione want him to. She took herbs and bought the lot of the potions and Muggle medications that would keep her milk supply intact. The pump came in handy during the day while she worked, the results of which were donated to a hospital that didn’t ask many questions.

Every night, shortly after their daughter went to bed, Draco would come to her, listening to Hermione’s thoughts about the day as he nursed from her breast. Theirs was a bond that no one could sever.