Updated 14/2/19.

Beta'd by jamethiel.

Beta'd by Pidanka

Draco Malfoy was on his honeymoon. He should be ecstatic. His wife was attractive, young, and they never stopped having sex. But that was the problem. All they did was have sex.

Well, almost all.

Granger had dragged him around some medieval fortification. Draco didn't understand her fascination with the crumbling pile of bricks, or her emphatic assurance that this dusty old ruin had once been crucial to the religious-political powers of fifteenth century Spain.

She had then insisted that they visit the Picasso Museum and had proceeded to bore him stiff with the distinction between analytical and synthetic cubism. From what he could tell, there was no difference; except that the women depicted in the bronze statue Fernande looked to be in a lot of pain.

Draco was distinctly Renaissance in his views on art. He liked paintings of nude women who had all their features intact and considered that the placement of a fat cherub in the corner of the canvas to be the height of artistic sophistication. He'd expressed this opinion while gazing at Bust of a Woman with Arms Crossed Behind her Head, and Granger seemed to have missed the irony in his voice.

She'd somewhat left him alone after that and only summoned him when he was required for a tumble in the hypothetical sheets.

The first night, after that frankly awkward consummation, Draco stumbled back into their room sometime in the early hours of the morning. He found the bed, worked out which side his wife wasn't on, and promptly passed out.

When he woke, Hermione was sitting beside him. She held a vial of hangover potion in one hand. The other hand held strawberry flavoured lube. He downed the potion and had been relieved when his headache stopped so that he was able to open his eyes without wanting to die. He took the lube from her, and she rolled on her side. He'd wrapped one arm around her sternum, and the other arm was trapped below her head.

He hadn't lasted long. While the potion might have cured the hangover symptoms, he was still groggy and tired. He just wanted to fuck his wife, so he could go back to sleep.

She hadn't spoken a word when he'd finished; she just gotten out of the bed and went into the bathroom.

Draco had heard the taps running, and he'd tried to stay awake. He wanted to talk to her, see her, get any reaction from her, but he fell unconscious before she unlocked the door.

When he woke up for the second time that day, she hadn't been there. It was late afternoon, and Draco found her by the resort's pool. She was basking on a sun lounger and wearing the smallest bikini he'd ever seen. It showed off her body in a way that made him want to simultaneously drag her off and ravage her, and blind every male in a ten-meter radius.

The next afternoon, she'd gone on all fours at the edge of the bed. He'd grabbed the lube, pulled up her sundress and pushed into her.

She'd done that weird position on the bed after, the soles of her feet flat to the ceiling. He'd checked out the cover of her book as she read it. It was called 'How To Get Pregnant', which was written in bright primary colours, and below the title there was a photograph of a smiling infant.

It was enough to make a man weep, it really was.

On the fourth morning of their honeymoon, he decided to try a different tack.

Granger was awake and already reading her book; the one with the sickeningly happy baby on the front. She glanced at him before reaching over and picking up the lube. She held it out. He didn't take it. He just lay there, his eyes silently mocking, as if to say, 'You want it? Then come get it'.

Hermione sighed, and, without warning, she pulled off her sleep shorts and straddled him backwards. He heard her take the cap off the lube before dropping the tube off the bed. She shuffled back until his erection was nestled between her cheeks, and then she sank down.

Draco had made an embarrassing noise as he watched Hermione reverse ride him, her arse jiggling every time she sank onto his cock.

He'd come after approximately thirty seconds. A record he hadn't achieved since he was sixteen.

After that mortifying display, he'd not protested.

It became a routine.

Some mornings, Granger would bend over, and he would come. Some evenings, she'd grip the headboard while he knelt behind her. It was simple, uncomplicated sex, and he loathed it.

Hermione was in the pool. Draco watched her as her arms sliced through the water, propelling her from one end of the pool to the other. It was like that first night, when she'd paced the length of the hotel room, again and again, waiting and prolonging the point when she'd have to sleep with him.

He was pretending to read a book. One of her baby books. As they were in Spain, there were a limited number of English books, and he'd been forced to compromise. He was doing a lot of that this week.

In between staring at his wife, he'd actually learned a few things from the book. That sperm could last up to seven days in a woman's body. That the egg had a limited amount of time to be fertilised. That having sex every day or every other day ups a couple's chances of conceiving.

It was safe to say that the Hogwarts curriculum didn't exactly extend to sex education. To be honest, he wasn't sure which one of his professors would have been qualified to teach it. McGonagall looked like she was born to be a nun. The less thought about Dumbledore's genitalia, the better. And Snape must have died an unrequited virgin.

All thoughts of Snape were banished from Draco's mind as Hermione climbed out of the pool. Almost a week in the sun had turned her skin a golden brown, and freckles dotted her body like fairy dust. He carefully placed the open book over his crotch.

She picked up a towel and patted her arms dry. Draco could see the outline of her nipples through the clinging material of her swimsuit. It struck him that he'd been married for six days and had yet to see his wife's breasts. They looked firm and pert. Granger was petite, so her breasts would be a handful. Her nipples looked small from what he could make out through her costume. If they matched her lips then they would be pink, probably with small areolas.

"Malfoy, can you stop staring at my breasts?"

"I was just wondering what they looked like," he said frankly.

She didn't reply, and she wrapped the towel around her shoulders. She sat down on the lounger beside him, and, reaching over, she plucked the book off his lap. He hissed as the pages fanned and brushed his erection. Hermione glanced down and then back up into his face.

"Shall we go upstairs?" she asked.

Draco was usually happy to hear those words. "No. I'm going to stay by the pool." He was. He was firm in his resolve.

She stood up and tucked her book under her arm. Then she walked away. The high-rise style of her suit cut into the tanned expanse of her arse cheeks. Although he slightly hated himself, Draco got up and followed her.

She was only a little way ahead when he caught up with her.

"Granger," he called.

She turned, an eyebrow cocked in question.

"Come here."

She rolled her eyes but did as he requested. "Well?"

"The air conditioning unit is back around that corner. There's nothing behind it. Just bare wall."

"I fail to see how that matters?"

Draco leaned in so he could whisper into her ear. "You wanted to fuck, right?"

The air conditioning unit was large, and noisy, and jutted from the wall, blocking every pedestrians' view of where Draco had Hermione pressed up against the brick. Pinned between his erection and the stone.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place had never seemed more appropriate.

Draco's left arm was leaning against the wall at Hermione's eye-level while his right hand pushed aside the crotch of her suit. Her body was wet from the pool, and he reasoned that this was why her cunt was wet too.

From behind, Draco slid his hand around the front of her suit, and with thumb and forefinger he shoved the material aside. Coincidently, entirely by accident and not at all by design, the heel of his hand pressed on to Hermione's clit.

He slid into his wife. Her heat and moisture welcomed him in.

Although they were outside, Draco kept his strokes slow. He adjusted his hand so that his palm rubbed her clit. Her breath hitched.

He propped his chin on the crook of her shoulder, and she rested her head on his forearm. He didn't talk to her, or fill the silence with pretty words, but he did start making noises. With each pound of his hips, he'd groan or grunt into his wife's ear.

When she clenched around his cock, he gave a low moan.

He started moving his wrist in circular motions. Precise, small circles, like an ever-narrowing ring. He deepened his thrusts, making her rise onto her toes to meet them. His knuckles were being scraped raw by the wall, but he didn't care. Hermione's inner muscles were fluttering, and she was joining in with her own groans.

He didn't want to ruin it, but he wanted to tell her how she felt. Granted, it was a habit of his to talk while he fucked someone. But he truly felt the urge to explain to her how incredible this was. To tell her how she sheathed his cock in her silky channel, or what the plump press of her arse was like against his hip bone.

He bit his lip and concentrated on fucking Hermione to climax.

Draco kept his wrist bent and continued to rub her clit. It was slow but rewarding work, and he let himself come as Hermione's orgasm peaked. She writhed and pressed her hips back as she shattered around him. The sensation was glorious, and the sound she made was sublime. A pitched keel that turned to a sob just at the end.

He stayed there, sunk in her, as their breathing settled. Then he pulled out, removed his hand, and righted her swimsuit.

She lowered her feet back to the ground. There was a sweat patch on his arm from where her forehead had been. He didn't pass comment; instead, he picked up her towel and the book from the floor and handed them to her.

"See you tonight," he said and walked away.

She didn't follow him, and he didn't know if he was disappointed or relieved.

The next morning, he took her from the side again. Purely in the name of aiding conception.

She kicked off her shorts, and he'd settled behind her, spooning her without really touching. He grunted when he entered her, and he could tell she liked it because she spread her thighs further. His arm underneath her was firmly holding her thigh to keep her steady; his fingers digging into her flesh. His other hand slipped down to find her clit. She stilled when he openly touched her sex. She looked down, and he knew she must be watching his hand pressing her clit and his cock moving in and out of her. He kept up his pace, and she soon started to move her hips in time with his thrusts.

She didn't come.

He played with her, brought her to the edge a couple of times, but hadn't tipped her over it. She hadn't asked, and he hadn't given.

He stayed inside her after he came. He'd read that the longer he remained in her after sex, the higher her chances of conceiving were. He also really liked to feel her cunt massage the head of his cock, which was sensitive after his ejaculation. However, he thought she might prefer the first reason to the second.

She did eventually get up, and he watched her arse wiggle as she walked towards the bathroom.

He thought she might have touched herself in the shower. When she came back into the room, a small smile was playing around her lips. She perched on the bed, sitting on the place he'd fucked her in only fifteen minutes ago as she silently combed and dried her hair.

"Why is it so urgent that you become pregnant?" he asked.

They were eating breakfast in their room. They'd ordered room service their entire stay which didn't seem an unusual thing to do as they were newlyweds. Although Draco didn't think many newly married men woke up to find their wives looming over them with a grim expression, holding an egg timer.

Hermione was upping their sessions to every day. He'd already had her against the headboard. He'd gotten her close to one orgasm, but she kept telling him to focus on his own sexual climax. The one that mattered, to use her own words.

He also had to stay in her for at least two minutes afterwards. Which is why she had procured the egg timer.

"Because the sooner I get pregnant, the sooner we can get divorced." She buttered her toast and took a large bite.

Draco tried to not show his surprise. He drank some tea. "And how, dear one, have you come to that conclusion?"

"The Ministry enacted the marriage law for population reasons. Two wars have caused a dent in birth rates. Unless there is a baby boom, we are going to start noticing this lack of population growth in the next ten years." She sounded as if she'd swallowed a textbook.

"Pairing all the randy Wizards and Witches in Britain together will certainly do that." A lump was forming in his throat. He thickly swallowed his tea.

"It's a logical plan, until you consider that we're humans and not animals." Draco didn't mention that fact that she'd been treating him like a prize stallion all week. "Most couples might manage a couple of years of marriage before they seek a separation." She waved her toast in the air like it was a pointer she was using to elucidate her argument.

"Surely a separation which the Ministry will not allow."

"Perhaps not straight away. But if a couple has already had a child, then the entire purpose of the marriage is fulfilled, and there can be no reason to not grant the divorce."

"Ah, I now understand your cunning plan. You're intending to get ahead of the game and already have our brat in short trousers by the time everyone else is petitioning their divorces."

"Exactly." She sounded far too smug. Draco was sure he could change that.

"And this is why you have me mounting you like a broody mare every few hours," he commented, with chafing dryness.

"Quite." She had the courtesy to blush. "Also, you mustn't masturbate before I conceive."

Draco inhaled part of his tea. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I haven't had a chance to have a wank. Every time I get the hint of a boner, you're on me like a moth to a flame." He grinned unpleasantly. "It's doing wonders for my ego."

She gave an uppity sniff. "Only until I'm pregnant. You can…wank all you want after that."

"And why is that? Because you'll be done with my services?"

"Once I'm pregnant, we never have to sleep together again."

He barked a laugh. "You've got it all worked out, haven't you? But, no. You don't get to ride me like the latest racing broom and then discard me at the end of the season. You and I, Granger, are going to come to an arrangement."

"What will happen if we don't?" she asked and tilted her head in the way which made him want to scream at her gall.

"Because if we don't, I'll abstain from all sexual contact with you."

He prayed to Hades that she wouldn't call his bluff. Although, if she didn't, it would mean she really wanted this divorce more than anything else in the world. Even her pride.

"What are your terms?"

"Only two terms," he said. "We have sex regularly, even after you become pregnant. And you come. I don't care how. Your fingers, my fingers, my mouth, my cock, your vibrator. But you're not going to deny yourself orgasms. It's not in my nature to be a selfish lover and I've reached my limit this damned week."

She bit her lip, her white teeth burying into the plump centre. "Alright," she sighed. Only his wife would sound depressed at the prospect of regular sex and multiple orgasms.

"Good." Draco loudly pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'm going out."

She nodded, but absently. It was as if she was concentrating on something far away from this hotel room and their marriage.

Draco went for a jog along the beach. The sand dunes were difficult to run on, and his feet made an unfamiliar squeaking sound as they rhythmically hit the seashore.

He hoped there was a Muggle park or track he could run on when he moved to London. Granger had a house in somewhere called Guilford. He hadn't seen it, but he'd sent his luggage around on the morning of their wedding. With Granger blowing hot and cold with him like that air conditioning unit, he was going to need some activity which left him unable to over-think. In this instance, sex didn't count as an activity. Sex with Granger was closer to a parliamentary debate.

It had been another stipulation of the Ministry's marriage law that the couples had to live together. Apparently to encourage intermarital relations, whatever that meant.

Hermione outright refused to live at the Manor, and he hadn't pressed the subject. It was a reasonable point to concede. Not that he didn't seem to be making many unreasonable concessions anyway.

His marriage appeared to be nothing but compromise.

He'd started running not long after he'd been acquitted and freed from Azkaban.

The first run started as an accident. He'd been walking in the grounds of the Manor and surveying the damage done to the estate under Voldemort's reign and, subsequently, by the Ministry's tireless raids. It wasn't a pretty sight.

The lawns looked like they'd been ploughed. Great clods of earth had been hacked from the turf, and the grass was streaked with mud and blood. It had dyed the dirt a royal purple. The flower beds were ravaged, and the petals from rare and beautiful flowers were crushed into the soil. Where spells had hit them, the manicured hedges were black and maimed; their stems cauterized and branded with magic.

Draco had paused and stared at his mother's summerhouse. Panes of glass were broken or missing altogether, and the walls had been besmeared with blood and slurs. He'd pressed a finger to traitor and felt the bubbled paint under the scorched words.

He'd remembered how it had been, and how, on long summer days he and his mother would hide from sun and seek sanctuary in its cool embrace. They would stay there, concealed together, until the shadows had grown and crept up the walls and the sun had been swallowed by the horizon.

He'd tried to wipe them away. The words. He'd balled his robes and rubbed at them. They wouldn't come off, and they'd seemed to grow in size and darken in colour until they were all he could see. He'd felt blinded by them, and then it was like some great pressure behind his eyes had broken free, and he'd felt the dampness on his face.

He recalled turning away and stumbling towards the common. The trees were the same; their bark felt the same under his palms. He'd staggered from trunk to trunk, slapping his hands to the wood and enjoying the bite of pain. He'd increased his pace and run until only his fingertips brushed the trunks. He had started to sprint flat out, so that the vision in the corners of his eyes became blurred and warped. Brown and green merged into one steady stream until he burst out of the woods and into the farmland and downs beyond.

He'd tasted dust and smelled the sharp tang of manure. In the sun, the corn stood like erect spears: golden and glinting, and seeming to go on till the ends of the earth. Draco had known this was impossible, of course. Beyond this valley, the county rolled over onto the Roman Fosse Way which bisected the Malfoy lands like a knife through butter.

He'd waded through the field, and watched, mesmerised, as he stirred the stalks into life. They'd shaken and sounded like the flick of a thousand pages being turned. A cacophony of noise which seemed to deafen in the windless landscape.

He'd collapsed somewhere in the middle of the field. Breathless and boneless and too exhausted to think or remember.

All he'd been able to do was lie there and bask in the sun. He'd only gotten up when a rather pissed-off farmer turned up with a gun. The farmer rented the land from the Malfoys, so Draco had managed to play the Young Maister act and smooth over the trespass charges.

At the farmer's behest, Draco had retreated up the track he'd created. His feet had broken the corn, snapped the heads and threaded the stalks, and turned up the damp earth.

He'd started running every day and often followed that first random path through the trees, yet he refrained from returning to the field. Corn may not be beautiful like flower petals, but it looked the same when stamped into the mud.

The seawind struck his cheeks, and he tasted salt and copper. His heart sped up, knocking in time to his footfalls, and sent a shock of endorphins surging through his system.

Running gave him a release that sex and flying could not. With sex and flying, there were so many distracting variables: wind speed, low flying birds, the naked woman next to him. He didn't need to run to forget Azkaban anymore, but it was a very self-absorbing activity.

It was certainly a welcome diversion from the Hermione Granger shaped problem in his bed.

Sex with Granger had been...unexpected.

He imagined he'd experience what other people did when they received a brown tax envelope by owl. Increases in heart rate, sweating, and a disturbance in the balance of his mind.

He hadn't been joking with her when he'd said he was at his limit with their one-sided love making. He really could not understand her issue with orgasms. Or was her issue with him?

Of course, Granger had a problem with him on a fundamental level. To her, he was, and this was a direct quote, 'all that was wrong with men, society, and the Tories'. He'd had to ask her what a Tory was, and he'd been answered with a scathing look.

He quite liked her sharp mind and wit when they were not being directed at him, which, admittedly, was most of the time. Although the thought of being an after-thought to her didn't sit well either.

Draco was determined to not prematurely ejaculate. Not this time.

Hermione was on top of him, and her dress stretched over her arse cheeks as she straddled his hips.

She had a birthmark shaped like a crescent moon on her right shoulder blade. It peeped out from under the strap of her dress, smiling at him. He felt an urge to touch it and trace the edge with the side of his finger nail. But he kept his hands, resolutely, on her waist.

Draco stiffened when she lowered herself onto him. He wasn't sure if she'd already applied lubricant because she was wet. His erection slid in easily, and she barely needed time to readjust before she started to rock her hips.

He could feel her touching herself. Her fingers occasionally slipped of her dewy clit and brushed the base of his cock where they were joined.

Maybe she'd been aroused for a while because soon her inner muscles were undulating and her thighs trembling. When she came, he gripped her waist harder. He took over, pulling her up and down as he jerked his pelvis to his own release.

Hermione stilled as the last few shudders of pleasure shot through him. She didn't move, and his cock pulsed inside of her. He heard her whisper something.

"What?" His voice was gruff and layered with sex.

"Thirty-four, thirty-five. Nothing," she said, "I'm just counting. Thirty-six, thirty-seven…"

He understood why when she reached sixty and restarted the count. The egg timer was on the other side of the room.

The morning after, they returned to England which was as grey as Spain had been blue. Hermione had wasted no time when they arrived. She'd given him the briefest tour of her two-up-two down semi-detached house and then left for the Ministry. She would have a pile of paperwork a mile high, apparently.

"Come to my office at one o'clock," she'd instructed. She took a handful of floo powder from the flower pot beside her fireplace. "I should be able to spare ten minutes."

Before he could protest, she threw the powder into the fire and said, "The Ministry of Magic". The fire engulfed her, and Draco was left with the imprint of her silhouette burned onto his retinas.

He wanted to say he'd been strong and resisted the urge to visit his wife at the appointed time, but he failed. He was knocking on the door of her office five minutes before the clock struck one.

She raised a finger as he entered, the universal sign of 'Don't talk, I'm working'. While he waited for her to finish writing, he locked the door, closed the window blinds, and cast a Muffliato charm.

"Busy day," he commented as he undid his belt.

"Very," she said. "I take a week off, and an international disaster happens. I have a fire meeting at half one with the French Ambassador. Apparently someone has been leaving Portkeys around Wizarding London that are magicking people onto the top of the Eiffel Tower."

"Do they suspect Dark magic?" He slid his hand up her skirt and brushed her clit.

"No," she said. She clutched the side of her desk. "Just a stupid prank. They've had to obliviate hundreds of Muggles already, and confiscate every camera in the vicinity. As you can imagine, there are a lot of cameras at the top of the Eiffel Tower."

He grasped her hips and spanned his hands across her smooth skin. "A worrying matter indeed."

"I'm going to ask Harry to spare a few Aurors to go and assist the French Ministry."

"I'm sure they won't mind a holiday in Paris." He grunted as he entered her. The front of his legs slapped the back of her thighs.

"I was thinking the same thing." Her knuckles were now white where she held the desk for support.

He started a steady pace, and his fingers remained on her clit. Lazy brushes which had her bucking underneath him. "Any leads on who could be manufacturing the Portkeys?"

"Not. Yet." Her words were staccato and shot from between pants. "I haven't had time to do research." Her breath hitched as Draco deepened his thrusts. "Been up to my neck in correspondence." He pulled her hips back, and she took more of him. "My secretary can't speak French very well. Had to check his translation." She gasped and came around him.

"Try Cobbs & Webb's in Knockturn Alley." He punctuated his words with deep thrusts. "If I recall correctly, they were skilled at turning everyday items into Portkeys." He groaned with his own release. "Their speciality was door knobs."

He watched the ticking clock as he waited the mandatory two minutes. Then he pulled out and, gallantly, fixed her skirt.

"Thank you for the tip," she said. She walked over to the window and opened the blinds. The waxen winter sun filtered into the room. It dully lit her features and reflected off her curls.

He smiled at her phrasing. "You're welcome." He opened the door.