Updates will continue to be slow! My main focus right now is Strange Mercy, and my writing schedule has slowed down recently. For all updates and other information, please feel free to peruse my new blog! You can find the link in my profile.
Reviews are always welcome and encouraged!
Three.
Draco stretched and pulled the sheets from his body, relishing the cool air of the bedroom washing over him. Light streamed in from the half-covered windows, and it illuminated the witch's figure beside him most favorably. He admired it for a moment, before reaching out and hooking an arm around her waist and settling in closer to her until they were pressed together.
She slept on, oblivious. Draco brushed her hair from her face and pushed it away from her neck, trailing his lips over her soft, heated skin. She shifted, but didn't wake. Her breathing was still deep.
"Good morning," he murmured softly, and kissed her neck.
Her eyes opened at last. She sighed.
He was so fortunate, to have his wife. He couldn't imagine not being with her. Had he left her alone, she would have married Potter. And they would have their children and live their happy, sad little lives together. The thought filled him with contempt. Potter would have always been unhappy, searching for what he had already lost. Hermione would have been wasted with him. He couldn't let that happen. Here, she had everything she could ever want. A beautiful son, a powerful husband, wealth beyond what she was used to.
And I have her.
Nothing else mattered.
But the power does help.
He kissed her neck again, trailing them up to her cheek. Hermione stared at the wall.
"Good morning."
Draco ran his hands over her form, groping now and then playfully, but stopped abruptly, and rose from the bed to dress.
When he emerged from the shower she had sat up and dressed as well, slipping on the gown he had set out for her the night before. It was black and with a long skirt, plain enough that she wasn't immediately uncomfortable when putting it on, but the neckline still bared more than she would have liked to show.
He watched her as she pulled her hair into a knot at the back of her head, staring into the mirror, studiously ignoring him.
"No," he said. "Leave it down."
He watched as her jaw clenched ever so slightly, and after a pause, she let it all down again.
He came up behind her, half-dressed, holding his robes. Hermione turned, and helped him into them.
He kissed her. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, my Lord."
He motioned for her to turn, and she did obediently, watching their reflections as he swept her hair back from her chest and shoulders and pulled it to the side.
"Do you know what day it is today?" he asked, staring at her through the mirror. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders.
She nodded. His fingers traced her clavicle slowly.
"I have a surprise for you," he said into her ear. She shivered.
"What is it?" she asked, sounding more wary than curious.
"You'll see."
She watched with growing distaste as he drew his finger across her neck slowly. In its wake, a thin chain of small, brilliant emeralds formed a choker around her neck. She felt it clasp snugly at the back of her neck and turned to face him.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"You know I don't like necklaces," she said carefully. Already, she was too aware of how close it fit around her neck, how the edges of the stones might dig into her flesh.
Draco kissed her forehead. "Indulge me, sweetheart."
Hermione wrapped her arms around him reluctantly. "Thank you. Happy birthday, Draco."
He smiled, and kissed her.
Lucio joined them for breakfast, cheerful as ever, babbling about a frog he had found outside his window that morning. He played with banging his spoon against his plate as he spoke, and Hermione listened patiently. Draco continued to eat, making sympathetic noises as his son occasionally engaged him with his story.
"Darling, don't bang your spoon like that," Hermione said, placing her hand on Lucio's arm. "It hurts my ears."
Lucio released the spoon and set it down by his water.
"Sorry, mummy."
"It's alright, my love. Now finish your fruit."
She could feel Draco's stare on her.
"I don't like grapefruit," Lucio said, frowning.
"It's good for you," Draco said, as he ate a piece of it from his own plate. "See? Mm."
Lucio giggled, but remained fast.
"I don't want to eat it, daddy."
Draco wiped his mouth with a napkin. "If you don't eat it, you can't play outside with your broom today."
Lucio stared glumly at the slices of grapefruit on his plate for a moment. Then he turned to Hermione.
"But I don't like how it tastes!"
Hermione could sense Draco's impatience rising, and hurried to resolve the situation.
"Look," she said, and took one of the slices. "I'll eat one, and you eat the other, okay? But that means later you'll have more vegetables on your plate."
Lucio, relieved to have evaded the detested grapefruit, at least, saw no problem with this.
"Okay," he said cheerfully, and ate the remaining slice, making a face at its taste. "Can I go outside now?"
"Not until you've said happy birthday to daddy," Hermione reminded him, and Lucio ran dutifully to his father and threw his arms around him.
"Happy birthday, daddy!" he said, giggling as Draco picked him up off his feet and threw him into the air.
Hermione forced herself to watch. How normal a family they looked on the surface. Sometimes, she found herself wishing it was all real, that it was better than living out the reality.
"Thank you, love," Draco said, grinning as he put him back down. "Pansy," he called. She appeared at the door almost instantly. "He'll be playing outside. Watch over him, and make sure he puts on a jumper when it gets colder."
"Yes, my Lord." Pansy smiled at Lucio and held out her hand. Lucio ran over to her, took it, and they left the room.
Draco waved a hand at the table, and its contents vanished. Hermione was getting up too, about to inquire whether he had any business to attend to that morning, to gauge whether she would be able to spend her day alone, which she very much wanted.
Draco approached her, and held out his arm.
"Are you ready for your surprise?"
Hermione frowned. Her hand touched her new choker. "I thought this was it."
Draco took her around the waist. "That's only part of it, sweetheart. Come with me."
Draco's arm around her waist was restrictive, not allowing for much movement other than walking. Hermione wanted to pull it away and leave, as she was sure he wouldn't like what he was going to show her, judging by the choker.
They came up to the library, and he led her inside.
Hermione's eyes caught on a thin, brown-haired man standing by the largest windows. He was not one of Draco's followers, she could tell by his lack of gilded robes. There was a rather large suitcase standing on the floor beside him. He bowed as she and Draco neared.
"My Lord," he said.
Draco acknowledged the bow with a nod of his head.
"Falkner. I'm glad you could make it so early."
The man was tall, but not as tall as Draco. He had a pleasant, square-shaped face and tired, restless brown eyes. His hair was short and a shadow of a beard ran long his jaw. Hermione could sense his uncertainty.
He frequently looked towards Hermione, even as he addressed Draco. Hermione saw he wore plain clothes underneath his robe, and appeared exceedingly nervous.
"I am honored to be of service to you, my Lord—most honored."
Draco presented Hermione to him.
"This is Hermione, my wife."
Still, that smugness in his words. Would it ever go away? Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.
Hermione held out her hand, as Draco had taught her to do, fighting the self-loathing that filled her upon acting. Falkner bent low, took it, and kissed it.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lady."
"May I ask how you know my husband?" Hermione asked.
Falkner began to answer, but Draco cut him off.
"A friend of a friend," he said dismissively. "We met about a month ago, out hunting."
Falkner had gone pale, but nodded. Hermione watched it all keenly, knowing Draco was lying.
"You go hunting so often," she said to Draco with a small smile. "One day, I'll go with you."
"You saw the scar I got," he reminded her. "I won't let you put yourself in harm's way." He turned to Falkner and gestured towards his suitcase. "Set up your things. Let me know if there's anything you need."
Falkner gave a hurried bow. "Of course, of course." He went to the suitcase and opened it, hunched low so that Hermione couldn't see what lay inside.
"What's happening?" she asked Draco.
He cupped her face and kissed her. "He's going to paint your likeness for me. I've commissioned him, you see."
"Oh." She didn't like the thought of that at all.
"There'll be one of each of us individually," he continued. "You, Lucio, and I." He brushed her lower lip with his thumb. "One of us, together. And one of all three of us."
Hermione was staring at Falkner, still rummaging in his suitcase. "I hope you're paying him well."
Draco grinned. "He certainly won't starve."
Falkner had stood and assembled a tall wooden easel by the window, in front and to the side of Hermione's favorite chaise.
Draco had gone over to look at his paints. He was frowning.
"This is what you've been using?" he asked.
Falkner had brought out a stretched canvas from within a satchel Hermione had not seen, and restored to its regular size. It was almost as tall as him. That explained why the easel looked much bulkier compared to ones she'd seen in the past.
"Yes, my Lord. It is the best I can afford, but I'm confident I can deliver a beautiful portrait to your liking."
Draco raised a brow. "Really."
"I have won awards in the past for my work, my Lord," he said, settling the heavy oversized canvas onto the easel. "And those works were made with these very same paints."
"I have no doubt of your skill, as I've seen it myself," Draco replied. "But I want nothing but the best for these." He snapped his fingers, and their only House Elf, Toffee, appeared. She wore a plain pillowcase that was old, but well cared for.
Toffee bowed low. "Yes, Master?"
"Go to Diagon Alley, and find an art supply shop," Draco said. "Get an associate to help you pick out the best quality paint. Money is no issue. Have them send me a bill." He looked to Falkner, who appeared utterly taken aback. "Did you need anything else?"
"My Lord, please don't trouble yourself—"
Draco sighed and took a long look at his suitcase. "Bring brushes, too. All the usual materials required for painting with oils. I want only the best. Bring them back as quickly as possible."
"Right away, Master," Toffee said, and disappeared with a CRACK.
"That gives us about twenty minutes," Draco said, and held up a hand towards Falkner, who was about to speak. "If you can deliver me faithful portraits I'll consider it an investment. I'm sure other members of my…court would be eager to hire you on, once I've finished with you."
Falkner bowed again. "You're most generous, my Lord. Thank you."
"Do you have any samples of your work?" Hermione asked. She couldn't stop looking at that huge blank canvas. Why such a large scale? It would look so imposing when on a wall.
That's probably what Draco's after.
Falkner shook his head. "I'm afraid not, my Lady, but tomorrow I'll remember to bring some."
Draco, too, was staring at the canvas.
"Your friend John never mentioned you are a painter," he said. "I'll confess I was impressed with your work. I've always appreciated art but don't know much beyond looking at it."
"John is more of an acquaintance, my Lord. We met at a wedding." Falkner dropped a tube of paint and hurried to pick it back up.
"Did you study art in school?" Hermione asked.
Falkner was holding some of his old brushes in his hand.
"Yes, my Lady. Beauxbatons has many classes dedicated to teaching art and I took as many as I could, to the point that my grades in others suffered. I took classes in the muggle world, as well, every summer."
There was a knock at the door of the library, and they turned to see Pansy enter.
"My Lord, Nott is here to see you."
"Take him to the sitting room," Draco said. "I'll see him in a minute."
Pansy nodded, and disappeared.
Draco turned back to them. "Continue setting up," he ordered Falkner. "Hermione, sit at the chair and he'll direct you to an appropriate pose for the painting. I'll be back."
When the door had closed behind him, Hermione remained standing, but approached the now designated painting area. Falkner continued to hold tightly to his brushes.
"The carpet here is so fine," Falkner said, almost timidly, "I wouldn't want to ruin it with paint drippings, my Lady. Perhaps we could move to an area with no carpet?"
"I wouldn't care at all if they got ruined," Hermione admitted. "But you're right. Pansy," she called.
Pansy appeared behind her.
"Yes, my Lady?"
Hermione gestured to the carpet. "Could you cover this area with a plastic sheet or something to protect the carpet?"
"Of course. I'll see if we have some in the kitchen." Pansy Apparated away.
Falkner was staring at her curiously. He tried to switch expressions when Hermione looked at him, but was too slow, and she had already caught him.
"Did you have a question?" she asked.
"No—pardon me, my Lady, I didn't mean to upset you."
"What's your first name?" she asked.
"Martin, my Lady." He bowed again.
There was a loud rustling sound, and they looked down to find that a long plastic sheet now covered the area they were standing on.
"Wouldn't an Impervius have worked just as well?" Martin asked, and then flinched. "Apologies, my Lady. I didn't mean to—it's just that I usually use an Impervius charm to cover ground when I paint."
"It's alright," Hermione said gently.
This was something else she would never get used to. The way everyone treated her now, as if she might strike them down merely for sneezing in her presence, it broke her heart. "An Impervius could have worked, but the spell has such a small radius I'd grow tired of casting it over and over again, considering the space you're working in."
"I might have done it myself, I wasn't thinking," Martin said. "Forgive me."
"It's really alright," she said, smiling. Fear or not, it was always refreshing to speak to someone who didn't mean her harm. There were some exceptions, of course—Pansy definitely would never hurt her, but if Draco ordered her to, she'd have no choice. "Shall I sit now?"
"Yes, please, my Lady." Martin was picking palette knives out of the disorganized mess of his suitcase. Hermione sat on the chaise and watched him. He was young—couldn't have been older than herself and Draco. But he had lines on his face and a bent posture that suggested he spent more time awake than asleep, and indoors, at that. Probably working on other paintings, or on his studies. Hermione felt a pang of jealousy.
Another loud CRACK signaled Toffee's arrival. She bowed to Hermione and snapped her fingers.
A rather large pile of boxes appeared beside Martin's easel. He scrambled backward, taken aback by the size of it.
"Does Mistress Hermione require anything?" Toffee asked Hermione.
"No. Thank you, Toffee."
Toffee Apparated away again, and Martin put his hands on his hips, surveying the boxes with a bewildered look.
"I can't accept all of this," he muttered, shaking his head. "This is too much, my Lady."
His voice almost echoed in the large library.
"Take it," Hermione insisted. "My husband isn't always so kind."
Martin nodded absently. "Yes, I've heard stories…" He glanced nervously at her and said no more.
Hermione knew that look too well.
"If anything, it means he likes you," she said. But they both knew it was a lie.
Rather, he sees you can be useful to him.
"Good, it's all here."
Draco had entered the library. He joined them quickly. Martin began to open a few of the boxes and had unearthed many sets of paint and brown bottles filled with mediums.
"I expect that'll be enough."
"It's more than enough," Martin said, and bowed again. "I am extremely grateful, my Lord."
"I expect you to put it to good use." Draco went to Hermione. She met his eye and saw his frown.
"What's wrong?"
Draco covered her from Martin's view with his body, and waved his hand over her. Hermione looked down to find he'd changed out her dress for his favorite green one. She hadn't worn it since he'd fucked her against the wall weeks ago, when he'd returned home.
Draco held her chin in his hand, tilted her head upwards to meet his eye.
"I had to have you preserved forever in this dress," he said, and then stepped away.
Suddenly cold, Hermione rubbed at her arms. Martin had finished unboxing everything and had put on a new smock. He vanished the boxes by pointing his wand at them, and now held a piece of charcoal in his hand.
"I've got further business to attend to, if you're ready to begin," Draco said to Martin. He looked at Hermione. "Call Toffee or Pansy if you need anything. I'll be dropping in to check progress."
Hermione nodded.
Draco looked at Martin closely. "Heed my warnings and you'll have no need to worry."
The hairs on Hermione's arms prickled. "What warnings?"
"He can look all he wants to paint the picture," Draco said, his cold eyes smoldering as he watched her. "But you are mine, and if he touches you he'll lose both hands so he can't ever paint again."
Martin had gone white. Hermione had gone rigid in the chair, her cheeks both cold and hot with indignation. A vicious reply was poised on her lips and she had to clench her jaw tight to hold it within, or risk igniting Draco's wrath.
Draco, aware of both their reactions, continued without remorse. "But if you obey me and nothing goes amiss, I'll see to it your career as an artist will be wanting for nothing. Understand?"
"Of course, my Lord," Martin said, and bowed again. "I would never presume to act unfavorably towards my Lady."
Draco's look of haughtiness begged for Hermione's fist to plow into it. "See to it you don't."
Draco left the room.
Hermione finally remembered to unclench her jaw. Martin was watching her nervously, and she hid the wavering of her expression by rubbing at her forehead.
"My Lord is very protective of you," he said, and she knew he had seen her resentment towards her husband.
Hermione shook her head.
"He doesn't like it when his things are tampered with," she said quietly. She smoothed the silk on her thigh. Her fingers were trembling.
Martin looked as though he wanted to say something else but had changed his mind after a glance at the door revealed it was propped open. It had not been that way, before. He stepped behind his canvas and cleared his throat.
"Could you turn and face the window, my Lady?"
Hermione shifted on the chair awkwardly.
"You may take any pose as long as it's comfortable, my Lady," he said, watching, and the timid look of his eye had turned assessing. More confident. It was interesting to see. Hermione could see wheels turning in his head.
"You don't always have to say that," she said. She sat stiffly in the chair, not knowing what would make a proper pose. Draco would insist she hold her head high and square her shoulders, to look commanding. All things that didn't feel like her.
"Pardon, my Lady?"
"That," she said, fighting the internal cringe at the title. "I'd prefer if you didn't use it so often."
"Oh…of course, my—" he caught himself and nodded. "Of course. If that's what you want."
Hermione gave him a small smile. "Thank you. You can use it as much as you like when Draco is present, since that's what he wants to hear. I prefer being called by my name."
Martin looked unsure. "Of course." He stepped back towards the canvas. "Could you move your left arm to the left?"
An hour later, Martin had finished a rudimentary sketch. He asked Hermione what she thought of it, and she stood, stretched, and went to see it.
The sketch was minimal, with some shading but enough structure to find herself seated at the chair, the splendid library around her. Her drawn self sat with her feet on the ground, as if she were seated in a regular chair, mostly supported with her left arm while her right sat in her lap.
"Do you approve?" Martin asked. His hands were grey and blackened with charcoal. He kept at least three feet of space between them.
Hermione, who'd never had much skill in the arts, thought it was good enough to frame and hang there and then. She told him so, and he smiled.
"The pose is wrong."
Draco approached them from behind, frowning at the canvas.
"How so, my Lord?" Martin asked, his face pale again.
"She looks too stiff. You're supposed to lie back on the chaise, my love," he said, turning to look at Hermione. "Or at least rest against it."
"I'd have fallen asleep," Hermione said, trying to smile. Martin looked as if he expected to be executed on the spot.
"That's alright, so long as you don't move, my Lady," Martin replied, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
Draco held his hand out to Hermione. "Come."
She met his eye angrily. He stared at her, blank-faced, expectant.
Fuck you.
Hermione ignored him and went to the chair. She could sense Draco's temper spike and felt her stomach drop, but didn't care. She would not allow him to lead her around like some sort of trained pet. She detested it more than anything, and it was always ten times worse when he chose to do it in front of someone else.
He reached the chaise before she did, and moved it so that it faced the canvas at a forty-five degree angle rather than head on from the front. He stared hard at her, his eyes alight with that look that promised retribution. He was holding back a smile. She could sense it more than see it.
His unspoken command hung in the air between them. She would have liked nothing more than to leave the room and leave him there with that stupid cold look in his eyes, but what would she do when he inevitably came after her and punished her?
Nothing.
Always, that answer. She was sick of it.
He always loves it when you fight back. It just means he gets to break you all over again.
Hate raised gooseflesh all along her arms. She fought a shudder.
She sat down stiffly, unable to meet Martin's ashen expression.
From behind, Draco grabbed her by the nape of her neck and her waist. She could feel his hot breath against her skin. Her heart pounded.
"Lie back," he said, and she obeyed, coming to rest against the wall of the chaise. "On your side."
"Bring your legs up and bend them."
She obeyed. Her teeth were set so tightly together, she would not be surprised if they shattered.
He took her arm and bent it, set it down by her front so her palm was pressed against the leather. Her breasts were pressed together, and through the deep neckline and thin fabric, left little to the imagination.
A tear broke free of her restraint and slid down her cheek. He grabbed her by the ankle and pulled gently on her leg so it was slightly more extended than the other. Her skirt, trapped beneath her, stayed put so that most of her leg and half of the other were exposed.
Her hair was in his hands, and he pulled most of it behind her back, arranged some of it to fan over her body, but not in a manner that obstructed too much from view.
He stepped in front of her now, and crouched. Now, his anger was apparent. She met his gaze defiantly, and he reached out, grabbed her by the throat and brought her forward until she was perilously close to falling off entirely, and crushed his lips against hers.
"You know it only excites me every time you defy me," he murmured. He gave her bottom lip a sharp bite and she gasped, but it was muffled quickly by his tongue sliding into her mouth. His hand was squeezing her breast, hard enough to make her arch away.
His tongue tracked along her lip and he kissed her again like he wanted to imprint his own lips onto hers, his mouth moving feverishly, as if he couldn't get enough.
When he finally let her go she coughed, her face crimson, her lips ravaged, tender and swollen.
He stood again and turned to Martin, who looked as though he wished he could Apparate away that second.
"I want you to capture her exactly as she looks now," Draco said. "Even if she cries."
He turned to Hermione again and met her eye calmly. His own lips were flushed, wet with her taste.
He didn't have to say anything. She understood. Hermione righted herself and assumed the pose he had put her in, rage boiling her blood.
Draco left immediately, and she fixed her eyes on the wall on the far side of the room.
Martin stood there, frozen, for a second or two, and when the shock and distaste had sunk in, along with the apparent realization there was nothing he could do, he pointed his wand at his canvas, muttered an Evanesco, took his charcoal, and began to draw anew.
Hermione kept her eyes open until her eyes had gone dry.
Dinner was almost completely silent. Lucio had fashioned himself a wand out of a stick he'd found outside. It lay beside his plate and he pushed around his vegetables, frowning.
Hermione caught his eye, smiled, and gave the broccoli a pointed look. His frown turned deeper.
Draco wouldn't even look at her. He stared straight ahead, eating silently. He had taken off his robes and underneath, wore a regular suit. He'd taken the jacket off to eat, and rolled up the sleeves. Hermione watched him cut his meat out of her peripheral vision; tense, waiting for when he would decide to speak.
"Daddy told me you're making a painting," Lucio said. "I didn't know you could paint."
Draco put down his knife and smiled. "Neither of us can. Well, I wouldn't be surprised if your mother could. She would learn instantly, I think. I hired a man to paint a picture of your mother."
"I want to learn how to paint," Lucio announced. "I want to paint you, too."
Hermione laughed and held his hand. "Of course, you can, sweetheart."
Draco wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Your time is better spent focusing on your schoolwork."
Lucio's sweet little face looked lost. "But I'm not in school, father."
"Soon, you will be. It's important that you learn as much as you can, now, so you'll be more advanced than the others. You can worry about painting later."
Lucio's crestfallen expression stirred Hermione's heart.
She looked at Draco. "He has plenty of time to learn now," she said.
Draco didn't look at her. "He'll learn what I say he can learn."
Unhappy, Lucio stared down at his plate. Hermione put her fork down. A headache was building behind her temples.
"Eat your vegetables, Lucio," Draco said. "You promised your mother you would this morning."
Still upset, Lucio banged his fork against his plate. "But I don't like them!"
"I don't want to hear you whine," Draco said coldly. "I want to see you eat."
Lucio rubbed at his eye with a little fist. He took one piece of broccoli and ate it, his face miserable.
Hermione squeezed his hand. "It might not taste good, but it's good for you. They'll help you grow strong and healthy."
"Do I have to eat them all?"
"Yes," Draco said.
Lucio sniffed and ate the last two together, swallowing hastily.
"Can I go now?"
Hermione stood and went to him, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
"Get ready for bed, okay?"
"Ok, mummy."
Draco summoned Pansy, who took Lucio upstairs to ready for bed.
Draco was still seated at the table. His eyes were on her now, but he hadn't said anything. Hermione, unwilling to bear his silence further, decided it was time to leave.
As she neared the door, Draco spoke.
"Come here, Hermione."
She stopped short. She could sense what was coming; could sense the malice reaching out towards her from him like tendrils.
"I won't say it again."
She went to him.
Draco pushed his hair back and stood.
"I'd wondered if you were having trouble hearing," he said. "I see there's no issue."
She crossed her arms. "You know I hate the way you treat me, like I'm there to do your bidding. I'm not a dog who'll follow your every damn order."
"Would you rather I had grabbed you without saying anything and led you to the chair?"
"It's the same, either way," Hermione snapped. "I never have a choice."
Draco stepped closer. "It's your choice how much you'll allow yourself to be humiliated. I wouldn't have ordered you like that if you'd come to me in the first place."
Hermione scoffed.
"Do you have any idea how it feels to be called a lady and treated the way you have them treat me like I'm royalty, and then have them all watch when you treat me like I'm nothing better than a slave? Every time I hear them say it, it's like they're mocking me."
"They wouldn't dare mock you," he said. "They know you answer only to me." He grabbed her arms and pulled her close. "A powerful witch, at my side, in my bed. I'd have no one else."
"I'm no better than a bowtruckle here," she replied angrily. "You want them to respect me. How can they, when I can't even use magic?"
"You don't need it," he said. He led her to the table and bent her over it. Luckily, it had already been cleared, or Hermione would have found herself elbow-deep in the remnants of their dinner.
She was still wearing the green gown. Draco pushed the skirt up, running his hands over her legs. She heard the zip of his fly. Hermione braced herself on the table. His fingers stroked her labia, but it wasn't enough. He muttered a spell to add lubrication.
"I'm all you need," Draco said, and pushed inside her, pushing her body into the table. Hermione winced.
"I need my magic back," Hermione said. "You don't get to decide what's good for me. Were you planning on keeping me without it until I die?"
"I was waiting for you to prove you deserved it back," he said, groaning softly. His hand pushed at her thigh. "Spread your legs."
She went tense underneath him. "I'm supposed to earn it?"
He gave a hard thrust. Hermione bit back a whimper. "If you hadn't kept running away you'd have got it back a while ago."
"Liar."
He smiled. "If you continue to behave and not provoke me like this, you might get it back sooner."
The table scraped against the floor loudly under the force of his thrusts. Hermione clenched her jaw.
"I wasn't trying to provoke anything. I was angry. You can't just treat me the way you do every day and expect me to not feel about it in some form or other."
"You promised you would adapt," he reminded her coolly. His hands dug into her hips.
"I'm not a machine, Draco, I'm not like you!"
He slowed, ran his hand along her back, his hand entwining gently in her hair.
"No," he admitted, his voice quiet. "You're not. I forget, sometimes. You're still soft."
Hermione said nothing, gripping the side of the table.
He resumed thrusting, almost thoughtfully, and when he finally finished, he spelled away his mess and helped her stand. Face red, Hermione shoved her skirt back down. He tucked himself back into his trousers.
"If you'll be patient with me, I'll be patient with you," he said. "I don't want you to feel lesser to me."
"I always will, so long as I'm kept here against my will." She said, fighting the urge to glare at him. "You know that, and you know what the solution is."
His eyes were cold, inscrutable. "I do. I've told you before and I'll tell you again: I'm not letting you free."
Hermione had expected this reply. She had lost count of how many times he had told her that, by now. The sting had faded long ago, but morphed into resentment and hate.
"If having your magic back will help ease your mind, then you'll have it," he said, reaching forward to wrap her in his arms. "You're right—you are my wife—you should be as feared as I am."
"I don't want anybody to fear me," she said, frowning.
"They do, regardless, when they see you at my side. They know you aren't just some ordinary witch."
Hermione looked at him doubtfully. "You don't think I'm ordinary."
His hand came up to smooth her hair. "I've always known you weren't, just like you knew that about me, sweetheart."
I always knew you were an immeasurable, egotistical prick.
"When will I get my magic back?"
Draco smiled again. His hands had come up to cup her neck between them. His thumbs idly played with the gems nestled there. "Once you prove yourself as obedient as you promised me you'd be when you spared Longbottom's life. You know I don't mind when you show me your fire. When you defy me in front of the ones I command, however, is where I have a problem."
"When you remember to treat me like an actual human being, and your wife, rather than some slave who happens to wear your ring,I'll do my best to curtsy and smile and act like a good hostess," Hermione snapped.
"They bow to you, Hermione," he said sharply. "Never forget that."
"I don't want anyone to bow to me!"
"Did you want your magic back, or not?" he asked, impatient. "I'm not asking for much, Hermione. I could have just Imperiused you and denied you the possibility of getting it back, altogether, but you don't want that, do you?"
Hermione's blood ran cold.
"No."
"Then you'll do as I say, or I won't be interested in having this conversation again."
He kissed her cheek, and left. Cold and furious, Hermione stood there for a moment, her mind already buzzing with a hundred and one thoughts on the first thing she might do when she got her magic back.
So he wanted to play it his way. Fine. She was used to it. She didn't like it, but she would play. She knew without a doubt that he would use this to his advantage to get what he wanted, even humiliate her a little further, but she didn't care. If there was even the slightest possibility that she could use magic again, she would take it.
And I'll win.