Chapter 10

let it once be me

"I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life."

—Rita Rudner

Hermione wasn't keen on weddings, but would endure many more rather than experience the chaos that followed Bill and Fleur's. The ceremony had been beautiful, a brief pocket of joy in a crumbling world. But that joy was ripped away, replaced by a tidal wave of devastation that left her reeling.

The Ministry had fallen.

Scrimgeour was dead.

Voldemort was in control now.

Those words reverberated in her mind like a death knell, echoing over and over, drowning out the sound of everything else. They were at the beginning of the end. The ultimate confirmation that the world she'd once known was gone.

The events following the announcement were a blur. The peaceful atmosphere of the wedding had dissolved into a panic—screams, people disapparating in a rush, tables overturning as everyone scattered. Hermione barely had time to process the chaos before she, Harry, and Ron were thrust into survival mode. The Burrow had become a war zone within seconds, and Death Eaters had descended like vultures, their masks glinting in the evening light, eyes filled with malice.

Hermione wondered if one of them had been Malfoy, but shook the idea clear from her mind. She tried not to dwell on his actions since leaving Hogwarts after the Battle of the Astronomy Tower.

She swallowed hard as she recalled the close call in the Muggle café. The stench of sweat and fear still clung to her skin, the acidic bite of curses seemed to linger in the air, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake the image of that Death Eater's wand aimed straight at her chest. There had been a moment—a heart-stopping moment—when she thought she wouldn't make it. When the green light of the Killing Curse illuminated the narrow space between them, all she could think was, This is it.

But instinct had taken over. Her hand had moved on its own, her wand flashing out as she twisted to the side, feeling the rush of magic sing through her veins with a ferocity she hadn't known she possessed. Her Stupefy hit its mark, sending the Death Eater crashing into a nearby table. Shattering glass echoed in her ears, but there hadn't been time to process what had happened. Not when Harry and Ron were fighting for their lives, and another wave of Death Eaters burst through the café's doors.

Now, they had arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place. Safe for the moment.

The house was as dark and foreboding as ever, its oppressive atmosphere making it hard to breathe. The musty smell of decay lingered in every corner, and the portraits of long-dead ancestors seemed to glare at them from the walls, their eyes filled with contempt.

But it was a sanctuary, however fleeting.

"BLOOD TRAITORS! FILTH! HALF-BREEDS! MUDBLOOD!"

Hermione winced as the tirade continued. Walburga Black's painted face twisted in fury, her lips curled back like a snarling dog. She'd forgotten how awful that woman was. Forgotten how her voice could cut through you, even from beyond the grave. Her head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache at the base of her skull that only seemed to intensify with each insult hurled at them.

"Home sweet home," Harry joked, though his voice had no genuine humour. His eyes were dark with exhaustion, his face drawn and pale, still rattled from the attack. He tried to manage a smile, but it fell flat.

Hermione forced a small, weary smile, though she didn't feel it. Her hands shook from the adrenaline rush, and she gripped her wand as if afraid to let it go. She couldn't recall the last time she'd found a moment for reflection or rest. They felt like they were falling into an abyss of uncertainty, as if the ground beneath them had disappeared.

"Shut up, you miserable old hag," Ron muttered, his nerves frayed, as he reached up and tried to yank the curtains closed over the portrait. Walburga screeched louder in response, her eyes bulging with rage as she spat another string of venomous insults.

Hermione glanced around the dark, dusty hallway, feeling the weight of the house close in on her. It felt colder than she remembered, the shadows more profound, more suffocating. Memories of their last stay here flitted through her mind—the Order meetings, the hushed conversations, Sirius's sombre laughter. The hope that once filled these walls was now just a lingering memory, like phantoms playing in the dust.

"Tea?" Ron offered, rummaging through his bag for a kettle and some tea leaves. It was a poor attempt at normalcy, but Hermione nodded, grateful for even the slightest comfort.

"Tea sounds good," she said. Her body felt heavy, her limbs weighted down by exhaustion and dread. She rubbed her temples, trying to ease the headache still pounding away, and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the muffled sounds of the house settle around her like a blanket.

As the three entered the kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place, the soft but unmistakable shuffle of feet and a low muttering reached their ears. Hermione tensed, her hand going to her wand. She turned, ready for an attack, but found Kreacher, the house-elf, glaring up at them with disdain and reluctance.

"Kreacher knows these... invaders," the elf hissed, his voice a gravelly whisper laced with contempt. "Filthy blood traitors and a Mudblood, tainting the Noble House of Black. Kreacher will not serve them, oh no."

Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Not this again, Kreacher," he muttered, too tired to fight. "You know I inherited this house. It's mine now. You serve me."

"Master Harry Potter," Kreacher spat the name like poison, his bulbous eyes gleaming with resentment. "Unworthy to inherit the noble and most ancient house. Kreacher served great masters, true masters. But now, Kreacher is bound to this... this half-blood wretch."

"Kreacher," Hermione spoke, kneeling to his level, hoping her gentler approach might calm the elf. "I know you're loyal to the House of Black, but we're in danger. The Dark Lord is out there, and we need your help."

The house-elf's lips twisted, his face contorting with barely contained disgust as he turned his back on Hermione. "Kreacher does not serve Mudbloods. Kreacher does not care for the affairs of unworthy witches and wizards."

Ron let out an exasperated groan, watching the elf bustling about the kitchen, banging pots and pans around, displeased with their presence.

"If we're going to stay here, you need to cut this out," Ron said. "For Merlin's sake, Kreacher, no one wants to be here. We need a place to hide, okay?"

Kreacher's muttering grew louder as he stomped around the kitchen, casting accusatory glances at the trio.

"Hide, yes. Cowards hiding in the sacred House of Black, where great wizards once ruled. Cowards and blood traitors," he added, eyeing Harry with venom.

Harry clenched his fists, torn between anger and exhaustion.

"Look, Kreacher," he snapped, his patience running thin, "we're not here to wreck your precious house. We're here because we have no choice. So either help us or at least leave us alone."

Kreacher froze, his bony fingers clutching at a saucepan. His enormous eyes darted between them, and for a moment, a flicker of something—perhaps guilt or conflict—passed over his face. He dropped the pan with a clang and shuffled closer to Harry, his voice dropping to a low growl.

"Kreacher swore to serve the Black family. Kreacher follows orders." He darkened his eyes, issuing a challenge. "But Kreacher will watch. Kreacher will see what these intruders do to this house."

"Fine," Harry replied, not wanting to drag this out any longer. "Just... stay out of the way."

Kreacher shot them one last scornful look before vanishing with a sharp crack, leaving the kitchen in an uneasy silence.

Hermione rubbed her temples, feeling the pressure build behind her eyes. "Well, that could have gone better."

Ron rolled his eyes, slumping onto the weathered dining chair. "I say we set up the wards now before he poisons us in our sleep."

Hermione couldn't suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. "I doubt Kreacher would do something like that."

"Yeah, well," Ron muttered, flicking his wand, "I'm not taking any chances."

Harry glanced at Kreacher's old nest of rags in the room's corner, now empty, before turning to Hermione. "I'll start setting up on the main floor. We'll need to be careful tonight. Who knows what could come for us next?"

"Good idea," Hermione agreed, pulling out her wand. "I'll cover the middle floors. If needed, we can work in shifts."

"Fine," Ron said, reluctantly joining Harry. "Then we can have that tea."

Ron gave the kettle another longing look before heading out of the room.

The Order abandoned the house as a base of operations after the death of Dumbledore, who had been the secret keeper. Snape defected and knew where Grimmauld Place was, so it stood to reason that Voldemort would also know now.

"Do you think You-Know-Who won't search here first?" Ron asked as they headed towards the stairs.

"We didn't have many options, Ron," Hermione replied. "And we don't have any leads yet either."

"At least the place is still intact. We may as well set up as many wards and alarms around the place as possible and then try to get some shut-eye." Harry pulled out his wand. "We'll think about it fresh in the morning."

With a resigned nod, they split up, heading to designated areas to cast protective wards and alerting spells. Hermione worked methodically, her wand movements sharp and precise, her mind swirling with incantations and exhaustion. She could still hear the boys working away on the floors above and below when she finished her section. For a moment, she stood in the hallway, listening to the muffled sounds of their spells, and felt an overwhelming wave of isolation.

She needed a moment to herself.

Hermione wandered into the room where the Order used to hold their meetings, the shadows pooling in the corners like long-forgotten memories. The room was heavy with the ghosts of voices past, the weight of lost hope hanging in the air. She stared at the tapestry outlining the lineage of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, its once-vibrant threads now faded and frayed.

Studying was too generous a word. She was staring, lost in thought, her eyes tracing the lines connecting each name. Her gaze lingered on the small, embroidered image of Malfoy, staring back at her with that familiar haughty expression. It was easy to forget sometimes that he and Sirius were cousins—blood relatives.

Cousins.

Her mind drifted back to the two-way mirror Harry had received from Sirius. Sirius had mentioned it was one of a kind, a precious Black family heirloom. Hermione's breath caught in her throat as a thought struck her like a jolt of lightning—the mirror she'd taken from Malfoy's trunk after the battle.

She reached into her beaded bag—nearly permanently affixed to her wrist now, like that awful portrait of Walburga in the hallway. Her hand disappeared into the enchanted depths, and she rummaged around until her fingers brushed against the cool surface of the mirror. She pulled it out, set it on the dusty table before her, and carefully drew out the ring she'd taken.

She stared at the items on the table, lined up like artifacts in some ancient ritual.

"Revelio," she whispered, her wand steady in her hand.

Nothing. The mirror remained still, its surface dull and unremarkable. She should have known.

She tried again, tapping the surface several times and leaning in close.

"Hello?" she murmured, almost like she was trying to coax a response from a stubborn child.

Silence.

Just her reflection staring back at her, her face drawn with fatigue.

She sighed, feeling a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. Maybe it was just a mirror. Malfoy, after all, was vain; it wouldn't surprise her if he carried one around for amusement.

Her gaze shifted to the ring, curiosity taking over. She picked it up and took a moment to inspect it, its weight heavy in her palm. It was exquisite—ancient, with craftsmanship, unlike anything she had seen before. A series of intricate vines wound around the band, tiny diamonds embedded within the delicate leaves. The ring, a centimetre tall, was weighty but not ostentatious. It was no doubt valuable.

She paused, listening. She could still hear the boys' muffled voices, their incantations echoing through the floorboards above.

Just a minute more.

Hermione slid the ring onto her finger in a moment of uncharacteristic daring, her heart pounding.

She had always prided herself on being logical and thinking before acting. But something about this ancient and alluring ring called to her in a way she couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was the connection to Draco, something he hadn't even known she had taken. Or perhaps it was the mystery of it all—the way the ring sat nestled at the bottom of his trunk. A strange thing for a teenage boy to pack away for school.

She felt a strange warmth spreading from the ring, seeping through her skin and up her arm, a tingling sensation that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She held her breath, her eyes wide, waiting for... something.

Hermione stared at the diamonds, watching as they caught the dim light, sending tiny beams flickering across the room. They were intricate and delicate, set into the band like stars in the night sky. The ring fit her as if someone had made it just for her.

What are you doing, Hermione? She scolded herself, her pulse quickening.

This was reckless, foolish even, but she couldn't deny the surge of power that ran through her when the cool metal slipped over her knuckle. The ring felt both comforting and suffocating on her finger. It held more value than just a piece of jewellery—it emanated an ancient magic, vibrating against her skin with a thrilling and dangerous energy.

Why did you put it on?

She bit her lip, her thoughts racing. She felt an inner voice urging her to satisfy her curiosity—she needed to uncover the ancient magic infused into the ring. Yet, a deeper, quieter voice suggested something more profound was at play. This was about him. About the connection, she couldn't sever, even if she wanted to.

Theo, at least, hadn't seemed concerned. He stopped her from picking up the cursed teacup, after all.

Perhaps the ring would be the key to unlocking the mirror's magic.

She hissed as something slid from the inner band of the ring and pricked her. The sting was sudden and vicious, like a needle slipping under her skin. She yanked her hand back toward her chest reflexively, her breath catching in her throat.

Merlin, she was stupid.

Her mind raced, panic rising like a tide. What if this was some ancient Black family curse? What if she fell into a cursed sleep, like some twisted, morbid Sleeping Beauty? Why would Malfoy even carry a cursed ring around in his trunk?

She hadn't thought—hadn't even considered—she panicked.

Tugging desperately at the ring, she tried to pull it off. Her fingers scrambled over the cool metal, but the band wouldn't budge. She glanced down, half-expecting to see some intricate mechanism locking it in place, but it looked simple, almost innocuous.

The pricking device had retracted back into the band, leaving no trace of its existence. The ring seemed to mock her with its simplicity, sitting snugly on her finger like it belonged there.

Fucking Blacks and their bloody sticking charms.

A small droplet of blood welled up from the tiny puncture wound beneath her knuckle, trailing down her hand. She watched it as if hypnotized, the single crimson bead sliding down her tanned skin before it fell, a dark speck on the dusty floorboards below.

Jostled back into a panic, her breath came quicker, shallow and frantic, as she continued her futile attempts to remove the band.

She nearly gave up, considering a trip to the kitchen to see if some old-fashioned butter or oil might help. She could hear Ron snickering at her in her mind—Brightest Witch of her Age, foiled by a ring. But as she turned, ready to curse Malfoy and his entire bloodline under her breath, something on the tapestry caught her eye.

A slight change. Subtle at first but there, and the sight of it sent a cold dread pooling in her stomach. Her mouth went dry as her eyes widened, and for a moment, she was sure she might be sick.

Hermione Granger. 1979.

Her name gleamed, fresh stitching etched into the ancient fabric of the Black family tapestry that hadn't been there moments before.

However, that wasn't the worst.

No, the worst part—the part that made her knees wobble and her head spin—was the new connection. A line drawn from her name.

A line that linked her to Draco Malfoy.

What the actual fuck?

She stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the involuntary gasp.

"Hermione, are you done?" Harry's voice echoed up the stairs, startling her from her frantic thoughts. She spun around, her heart hammering in her chest. She had lost track of time, lost in her panic. She needed to hide it from the boys before they came back. She couldn't let them see her name linked to Malfoy's on the tapestry.

"Hermione, are you okay?" Ron's voice followed Harry's, and she could hear their footsteps on the stairs, drawing closer.

Panic gripped her, cold and ruthless. Now was not the time for her to figure this out. She couldn't risk it. Without thinking, Hermione grabbed the mirror and shoved it back into her bag, her hands trembling, before she cast a disillusionment spell on the ring. Turning, she slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her, her heart thudding.

She fumbled with the lock, her fingers slick with sweat, and managed to secure it just as Harry and Ron's footsteps reached the landing. She stepped away from the door, trying to calm her breathing, her mind still reeling with the implications of what she had seen.

"Hermione?" Harry asked as he turned the corner, his brow furrowed with concern. "What's going on?"

She forced a shaky smile, her hands clenching the strap of her bag, her knuckles white.

"Nothing," she managed to say, her voice higher-pitched than usual. "Just... taking a minute. I'm done now."

Ron eyed her suspiciously, his gaze flicking between her and the locked door. "You look a bit off, Hermione. Are you sure—"

"I'm fine," she interrupted. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to sound more composed. "Just tired. We've had a long day."

Harry nodded, though his eyes still held a hint of doubt. "Right. Well, we've set up as many wards as we could. Time for tea and rest. We'll figure everything out tomorrow."

Though Hermione nodded, her thoughts were still racing as they turned to go back downstairs. She could still see her name stitched there on the tapestry, and she had no idea what it meant.

But she had a sickening feeling that perhaps she did.

Hermione jolted awake as a hand clamped over her mouth, her pulse spiking. Her eyes flew open, but the room was darkness and shadow, twisting in the corners like wraiths.

"Don't scream," Malfoy whispered in her ear. "It's only me. No one else. Muffliato."

His voice, smooth yet edged with urgency, stilled her. The grip on her mouth was firm but not painful, his touch deliberate, calculated. She could feel the heat of his body, close enough to hers that his presence filled the room in a way that both unnerved her and made her pulse race. Her mind scrambled to catch up, her heart thundering against her ribcage as the reality of the situation slowly sank in.

Draco.

She blinked, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps beneath his palm as the initial panic gave way to recognition. Cautiously, he removed his hand from her mouth, moving back just enough to give her space, but still looming over her, his figure barely visible in the dim light. She could see his sharp features—pale skin and silver eyes glinting in the darkness, watching her like a predator sizing up its prey.

"How—how did you...?" she stuttered, her voice a strained whisper as she pushed herself upright, still disoriented from sleep and the shock of being awoken.

He didn't move, his eyes tracking her every motion.

"What? You think Blacks can't get into their ancestral home?" His tone was laced with dry amusement, but his gaze stayed sharp, vigilant. "I'm the next male heir. I should rightfully own this place. The magic recognizes it should belong to me."

The dark room seemed to close in on them, the shadows heavy and oppressive. Hermione's thoughts whirled in a chaotic tangle—Grimmauld Place was supposed to be safe and protected. Yet Draco had slipped in undetected as if the house had bowed to his command.

If what he said was true, if the Black family magic still recognized him as the rightful heir, any Black could access Grimmauld Place—including Bellatrix.

"Relax," Malfoy said, as if reading her thoughts. "Aunt Bella has another important mission that's taken her out of the country for a while. But don't stay here long. Neither my mother nor I are interested in drawing attention to Grimmauld Place, but if Bellatrix catches your scent, none of the little alarms and wards you've put up will stop her."

Hermione's eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she could make out the contours of his face, his sharp features set in a calm mask. She tried to steady herself and grasp control of the situation.

"Wh - what are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice still shaky.

Malfoy didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes roamed over her, inspecting her from head to toe. She mirrored his actions, examining him for signs of injury, seeking any indication of his ordeal. Then his gaze dropped to her left hand, and his lips curled into a knowing smirk.

"Rummaged around in my trunk at the end of last year, did you?" he asked, his voice thick with mocking amusement.

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. She shoved her arm under the blankets, hiding the ring from view. The disillusionment spell would have long worn off while she slept.

"No," she lied.

He let out a low, dark laugh.

"I don't believe you," he said, leaning closer, his face inches from hers, lips brushing against hers as he continued, "and it's not just because you're currently wearing my Quidditch jersey, Granger."

Merlin and Morgana. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she realized her mistake. She was indeed wearing his jersey—Slytherin green with "MALFOY" emblazoned on the back. She longed to vanish, to burrow under the covers and never resurface.

"Why are you here?" she tried again, desperate to steer the conversation away from her mortifying choice of attire.

"Imagine my mother's surprise when the Black family house-elf apparated into her drawing room today, blathering about a new name appearing on the family tapestry," he began, eyeing her. "She had to put a gag-order on the creature. And imagine my own surprise when she informed me that, somehow, while I was trapped at Malfoy Manor this summer, I managed to marry Hermione Granger."

"Married? "What are you talking about, Malfoy?" Hermione's voice shook.

"Let me see your hand, Granger." His tone turned commanding.

Hermione shook her head, hiding her left hand beneath her back. Malfoy's eyebrow arched, and his face hardened. Without another word, he grabbed the duvet and yanked it off her, leaving her exposed in just her knickers and his oversized jersey. The chill of the room swept over her skin, and she shivered, both from the cold and the intensity of his gaze.

His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they took in the sight of her half-dressed beneath him. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a predatory gleam flashing across his face. The moment stretched on, tense and electric, as he drank her in. She felt the heat pool low in her belly, an instinctual response she tried desperately to ignore.

Malfoy fixated on the arm she hid behind her back.

"I love how mature we're being about this," he teased, mounting her astride to keep her legs from kicking out as he pulled her arm out. "Quite the adult newlyweds."

"We're not married," Hermione ground out, struggling against him, her muscles straining with effort. She tried to keep her left arm hidden, but he was relentless, prying her arm free from under her back with one swift motion.

"Ah, and there it is," he said, holding her hand up between them like a prized artifact. "My little thief. Now, my little wife."

"Don't call me that!" Hermione snapped, yanking her arm back. Her chest heaved with anger and exertion, her breaths coming fast and shallow.

"What? A thief or my wife? Which do you object to?" His eyes gleamed with mischief, his smirk widening. "Because neither is untrue."

"At the time, I didn't think you'd be returning to Hogwarts," Hermione shot back. "I considered your trunk an abandoned item. You can have the ring back if you want it."

"It's not as straightforward as that. I think you know that by now. I'd wager you've tried to take the ring off." Hermione's silence was all the confirmation he needed, and his smile grew. "Besides, I think it looks very pretty on your finger."

A wave of hot, liquid lust shot through her, and she felt her hips shift involuntarily beneath him. Malfoy's grin widened, his eyes alight with satisfaction as he felt her body respond to him. He was devouring her with his gaze, making her feel exposed in more ways than one.

"Putting on a stupid, enchanted ring doesn't make us married," Hermione insisted, her voice a mix of desperation and defiance. "That doesn't make any sense. It definitely can't be legal."

Malfoy's expression softened into something almost affectionate, though his amusement remained.

"Scorning anything to do with Purebloods—with old, ancient wizarding families and their magic—has really been to your detriment. If you read about us at all, you would know this is an ancient practiced custom. Then, perhaps, you wouldn't have been so keen to try on a Malfoy family heirloom."

"What ancient practice?" Hermione demanded, her frustration boiling over.

"Binding our significant others to us with heirlooms imbued with enough protective magic to take down a small army, in the Malfoy's case at least," he explained, his eyes wandering down her body again. "Other families use other items, but most of the ancient families practice it."

"The Weasleys are pure-blooded, and Bill and Fleur had a regular wedding," Hermione countered.

"Ah yes, the ancient house of Weasley," Malfoy sneered. "Tell me, did Weasley's mother give anything to the new bride on her wedding day, perhaps before the wedding? A piece of jewellery?"

Hermione frowned, trying to recall. "Well, she did let her use one of her great aunt's tiaras—but it's not permanently affixed to Fleur's head!"

Malfoy laughed, a deep, knowing sound that grated on her nerves. "Again, different familial items have different properties."

"Well, I don't want this one. Take it back." She shoved her left hand into his chest, frustration lacing her words.

"No." He caught her hand and, with a maddening slowness, pressed a kiss to the ring on her finger. His lips sent goosebumps over her skin. "I don't think I will."

"Malfoy!" Hermione protested, though her voice barely managed more than a breathy exclamation, betraying her frustration. She had meant for it to come out stronger, more commanding, but the way Malfoy loomed over her, so close, so smug, had a way of making her words falter.

"Malfoy," he echoed back, his tone dripping with mockery and satisfaction. The corner of his lips twisted into that infuriating smirk, the one that made her blood boil and her skin prickle with something else entirely. He was enjoying this far too much.

She shifted under his intense gaze, her heart pounding in her chest. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, reflecting a mixture of amusement and something darker, more primal. She hated how easily he could do this—how easily he could get under her skin. Her pulse quickened, and she cursed herself for the way her body reacted to his nearness.

"Draco, I'm serious. Please, take it off," she pleaded, her tone softening as her frustration mingled with desperation.

Her hand drifted to the ring on her finger, the cool metal pressing into her skin like a reminder of everything it represented—everything it meant.

Malfoy's expression shifted, the teasing gleam fading as a more serious look crossed his face. He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers as he examined the ring more closely.

"I can't," he admitted after a long pause, his voice quiet but firm. It's not even an option, even if I was inclined to. And I'm not so inclined."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she studied his face, searching for some sign that he was joking. But there was no mischief in his eyes now, only a solemn truth that hung between them like a heavy weight.

"The Malfoys do not divorce their spouses," he continued, his voice deep and unwavering. "In fact, we're actually known to worship our wives."

The way he said worship made her toes curl. Her mind wandered, unbidden, to all the ways he had already worshiped her, and she had to fight to keep her expression neutral. He wasn't wrong—he was good at it.

"Is there any way we can break it?" she asked as she stared at the ring, the symbol of their unintended bond.

There had to be a way out, right?

Malfoy's gaze flickered down to the ring, his thumb tracing the intricate designs along the band. He shook his head, almost regretfully.

"Blood magic is powerful. I know you know that," he said, his voice laced with a quiet resignation. "Combine that with centuries of ancient Malfoy magic, and no, I don't think there's a way to undo it. That ring," he added, his eyes locking with hers, "is worth almost as much as the manor."

Hermione swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. The full scope of what this ring meant—what it symbolized—was beginning to dawn on her, and it wasn't just about the material wealth. It was ancient, binding magic. Blood magic. And it tied her to Draco Malfoy in ways that went far beyond the surface.

Mudblood and Pureblood. Muddying the waters of the Malfoy line. She could imagine Lucius's reaction now.

Malfoy leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur as he studied her reaction.

"So, I hope you're not planning to get rid of me anytime soon, wife," he added with a wry smile. "Because it looks like you're stuck with me."

Hermione's pulse quickened, her mind racing as the reality of the situation closed in around her. Stuck with Draco Malfoy. Forever.

Godric help her.

Hermione let out a frustrated growl and threw her head back into the pillow, staring up at the cracked ceiling with an exasperated huff. This was all just her fucking luck. Of course, she'd end up accidentally married to Draco Malfoy through some convoluted, ancient magic. Her life had turned into a twisted fairy tale with the worst possible plot twist.

"Why would you have a ring like that in your trunk?" she accused, her eyes narrowing as she turned her head to look at him. "Who just keeps an enchanted marriage ring lying around like that?"

"No one in Slytherin would dare touch my things. So, I wasn't exactly expecting someone with sticky fingers at Hogwarts to filch it." He gave her a pointed look. "Secondly, the Dark Lord was in the Manor more and more often. He had other Death Eaters rummaging through our dark artifacts and ancient heirlooms. It was to ensure he didn't get his hands on it."

"Scared to end up hitched to him?" Hermione shot back, her lips twisting into a mocking smile. The image of Voldemort with a ring like that flashed in her mind, and she couldn't help but laugh.

Malfoy shivered, his face contorting in disgust.

"Don't even joke about that," he muttered, his tone serious.

"So... what does this mean?" she asked, her laughter fading, replaced by a genuine curiosity tinged with dread.

"It means that you have a protective charm on you that is ancient and powerful," Malfoy explained, his voice deepening, turning rough and husky. Hermione couldn't stop herself from drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, feeling the heat between them intensify. "It also means that you're a Malfoy now. And Malfoys always come out on top. We always protect our own, no matter what."

"I don't want to be a Malfoy. What then?"

Malfoy leaned down, his breath warm against her lips as he spoke, his grey eyes locked onto hers, intense and unyielding. "Then that's too fucking bad."

There was a moment, a split-second, where the world seemed to hang in the balance, where Hermione could feel the weight of his words settling into her bones. Then, without another thought, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down, her lips capturing his in a fierce, passionate kiss.

Malfoy groaned against her mouth, the sound low and rumbling deep within his chest, vibrating against Hermione's skin as his hands slid down to grip her thighs. His fingers dug into her flesh, firm and possessive, as he adjusted his weight above legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in place. Her thin knickers did little to stop the friction between them as their bodies pressed closer.

She could feel him, every hard line of muscle, every movement as he ground against her. His lips were demanding, but she matched him—bite for bite, kiss for kiss—letting herself get swept away in the storm of his touch. It was intoxicating, dizzying, the way he consumed her, and Hermione let herself surrender to the sensation, losing herself in him.

"Fuck," he breathed as he pulled back, his forehead resting against hers. His breath came in ragged pants, his eyes dark and stormy as he glanced toward the window, a reminder of the world outside. "Fuck. I don't have much time before my absence is noticed."

The words shattered the moment, pulling Hermione out of the haze of their passion and back into the stark reality of their situation. She studied his face, noticing the exhaustion etched into his features, the strain he was under.

"The Manor... it's become more of a prison than anything now," Malfoy admitted, his voice quieter, rougher. "The Dark Lord has my whole family on watch. I can barely breathe without someone looking over my shoulder."

"Are... are you okay?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with concern.

The thought of him trapped, constantly watched, sent a chill down her spine. She couldn't imagine what it was like for him, living under such constant scrutiny, with his family's lives hanging in the balance.

Draco's lips curled into a smirk, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Much better right now," he said, leaning down to press a teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I mean, after all, I am a newlywed."

Hermione's brow furrowed as she nudged him back, forcing him to meet her gaze.

"You're not taking this very seriously," she muttered, though her voice lacked the bite she intended.

He laughed, a rich rumble. "Says the girl I had to wrestle with just to show me her hand when I arrived."

She bit her lip, fighting back the small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Alright, maybe they were both overreacting slightly.

Despite everything—the war, the looming danger—they always seemed to find moments like this. Moments where the world outside didn't matter, where it was just the two of them, tangled in sheets and stolen kisses. Brief moments where the world's burdens seemed to vanish.

Hermione sighed, her fingers trailing up the back of his neck as she pulled him back down toward her, their lips meeting in a slower, softer kiss this time.

"How much time do you have?" She frowned.

"Not enough. Never enough."

"Hm." She hummed, her fingers edging to his belt buckle. "So, I guess we should hurry, right?"

He stilled, studying her face. "Love? What are you doing?"

"I think you know what I'm doing, Mr. Malfoy." She grinned up at him.

He growled and flipped her over on her stomach in one motion, pressing her face down and adjusting her knees to put her ass up. He trailed a hand up her spine, causing her back to arch into him.

"You're a minx, Mrs. Malfoy. You're already sopping for me." He ran a finger over her knickers, then inside of her. "Seeing you in my jersey has always been a fantasy of mine," he crooned, as he rid her of her knickers. "My name written across your back as I claim you."

He grabbed her loose hair in a tight fist, pulling it up from her back and entered her with the same motion. She cried out at the sudden intrusion in both alarm and pleasure.

"It's been a while since I had you in a bed." He grunted between thrusts.

Hermione was in near bliss as he took her, using her hair as leverage as he pounded into her in perfect time.

"Fuck," he groaned out as she started to tighten around him. He pinched a nipple. Then, his hand moved down to the nerve ending between her legs.

"Oh - oh my God. Draco," she exclaimed as she neared her peak.

"That's right, I am your god," he growled as she came in an explosion, twitching and shaking. He rode her through her aftershocks as he came, spilling inside her.

"Merlin, I've missed you," he sighed as he collapsed beside her, panting and sweating.

"Death Eaters not putting out for you?" Hermione joked, turning on her side to face him. She was fully sated, and her eyes were starting to get heavy.

Malfoy growled. "They can fuck each other all they want. The only one for me is lying right across from me, full of my cum, with my ring on her finger."

"You certainly know how to woo someone." Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled anyway,

"I'm a dragon. What can I say?" He shrugged. "I hoard treasure and kill anyone who comes near it. And you're my greatest treasure, Hermione. I would burn the world down for you."

Malfoy's intensity, though extreme, was something she'd grown accustomed to.

"Maybe I don't want you to," she whispered.

"Then don't make me have to."

Hermione sighed and curled closer into his chest, trying to absorb the reality of it all. "This is for real? I put on this ring, and suddenly, some ancient magic declared that we were married. And it's legal and binding?"

"Yes, yes, and yes."

"How do I know—"

"I brought you a few books on the subject from the Malfoy family library," he interrupted, as if he had anticipated her every question. "I set them on the small desk in the corner."

Hermione glanced over, her eyes catching the dark outlines of several thick, leather-bound volumes stacked neatly on the desk. The gesture made something flutter in her chest. He knew she'd want more proof, knew she'd want to read up on it herself, to verify every detail without her even having to ask.

She bit her lip. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me," he replied, his face turning away, almost as if he were embarrassed. "The Manor is yours now as well. The vaults too. Access to the vaults is available whenever you need it. I left a key on top of the books. However, it would be best if you avoided the Manor for now. Nothing pleasant is happening there, I promise you."

She couldn't help but frown as she imagined what might be occurring within the beautiful, haunted estate.

"Why don't you just leave? You can come with me," she offered, her eyes searching his face for a hint of hope.

He let out a short, mirthless laugh. "And join your happy trio? The other two trying to curse me when I turn around? Or, I guess, in Potter's case it was the front."

Hermione winced as a wave of memory crashed over her—of the last year at school, of finding Draco covered in blood on the floor, his life slipping away under her hands. She could still feel the stickiness of his blood on her skin, the desperate pounding of her heart as she tried to keep him alive.

He paused, catching the shift in her expression, his features softening.

"Besides," he continued with a resigned huff, "my father and I both have the Dark Mark. As long as the Dark Lord is alive, he can find us. If one or the other of us flees, my mother will be tortured and killed, and she wouldn't leave either of us behind. So, we're trapped."

"For someone who knows so little of love, he certainly knows how to exploit it in others," Hermione observed, a heavy sadness weighing down her voice.

"He can exploit it, but never understand it. Never understand the actions it can cause us to take," Draco replied, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her chest tighten. He reached out and brushed a strand of her hair back behind her ear, his touch tender. "You're a Malfoy now, Hermione. None of us will leave you behind either."

Hermione swallowed hard, his words sinking into her like a knife twisting in her gut. The depth of his promise felt like a blood oath, binding and unbreakable. And, in a way, maybe it was.

"Even though I'm a—"

He silenced her with a deep, searing kiss, his lips capturing hers with a fervour that made her toes curl. When he pulled back, his breath was hot against her mouth, and his eyes were filled with a raw, unyielding intensity. "None of that matters. Above all, you are a Malfoy."

"Maybe I'll stay a Granger," she retorted with a half-smile. "Or maybe a Granger-Malfoy."

Draco snorted, a reluctant grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Whatever you say, Hermione Malfoy."

The absurdity of the name—Hermione Malfoy—echoed between them, and she couldn't help it, a laugh bubbled up from her chest, light and fleeting despite everything weighing them down. It was ridiculous. The idea of her, Hermione Granger, carrying the Malfoy name.

Her laugh faded, but the warmth lingered as she reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead.

He leaned into her, his lips brushing her ear, as if the closeness could shield them both from the chaos outside. But even in this moment, she couldn't escape the harsh truth gnawing at her—this was temporary. Fleeting. What they had, no matter how real it felt in the quiet darkness, couldn't last.

Draco's fingers trailed along her arm, sending shivers up her spine as they lingered on the ring. Hermione could feel the weight of it, not just on her finger, but in the air between them—a thrum of reminder of the ancient magic that tied them together. The ring felt heavier than it had just minutes before, its significance growing with every passing second as she stared at him, knowing what this moment really meant.

The risk of discovery wasn't just dangerous; it was deadly. The thought gnawed at her, a persistent itch in the back of her mind, but she didn't let it linger long. The consequences were as obvious as the Dark Mark burned into Draco's arm. If the Death Eaters found out that he—Draco Malfoy—had bound himself to a Muggleborn, and not just any Muggleborn, but Hermione Granger, their fates were sealed. His life—their lives—depended on this secret staying buried. The image of Voldemort's pale, snake-like face flashed in her mind, followed by the cold, hard certainty of what would happen next.

At best, Draco would be branded a blood traitor.

At worst... She refused to even consider that possibility.

Hermione swallowed hard, fighting the tightness in her chest. It wasn't just Draco she was worried about. If the Death Eaters found out... it wouldn't end with him. His entire family—Narcissa, Lucius, even her—especially her—would pay the price. She could imagine the hunt, the way they'd track her down, relentless, like wolves scenting blood.

And Draco was right, of course they would try to capture her. To keep her as a pawn to control both Harry and Draco. A perfect little chess piece.

Her thoughts spiralled—what would Harry say if he found out? Ron? The Order? The faces of her closest friends flashed in her mind—betrayal, disgust, maybe even hatred etched into their features. She couldn't let it happen.

Would they understand? Could they?

She could already see the look of betrayal in Harry and Ron's eyes—the disbelief, the disgust, the hatred.

The Hermione they knew was loyal, brave, self-sacrificing—one of them. How could she explain this? She couldn't believe she was in love with Draco Malfoy, let alone tell them. The boy they'd despised for years, the son of one of Voldemort's most trusted followers. There would be no understanding, no forgiveness. Their view of her would be irrevocably changed.

Draco shifted, pulling her out of her whirlwind of thoughts, his forehead still pressed against hers.

"No one else can know," he murmured, almost reading her mind. His voice was low, rough, laced with the same fear and resolve that she felt coursing through her.

"I know," she whispered, her voice breaking. "But..." Her eyes searched his face, desperate, conflicted. "How long can we do this, Draco? How long can we keep hiding?"

His grip on her tightened, as though he could hold on to her, to this, forever.

"As long as we have to," he answered, his voice firm but tinged with the same uncertainty. "We don't have a choice."

She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. That was the truth, the bitter truth they both knew deep down. This was their reality now. She bit her lip, the knot of worry tightening in her stomach.

He cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing against her cheek.

Her chest tightened again, and she leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. They were stealing moments, slipping through cracks where no one could see them. Could they really keep this up? Could they live in the shadows, their love hidden away like something shameful?

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," she admitted, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. "All this stealth and deception... what will happen when they find out? What if—"

Draco cut her off with a kiss, fierce and desperate, like he was trying to silence her doubts with his touch. His lips pressed hard against hers, his hands threading into her hair as if holding on to her for dear life. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

"They won't find out," he repeated, his voice rough but resolute. "We won't let them."

"But what if—" Hermione started again, but Draco kissed her once more, gentler this time, as though to calm her fears, not erase them. His lips lingered, soft but unyielding, and for a moment, she allowed herself to get lost in it, to let the worries slip away.

"I know what's at stake," he murmured against her lips, his voice raw and low. "And I won't let anything happen to you. Not you... not us."

She forced a tight smile, the words catching in her throat. He always made it sound so simple. But they both knew better. It wasn't just about him protecting her. It was about both of them surviving this war, this dangerous dance they had become entangled in.

He pulled back, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Besides, I'm far too pretty to end up on the wrong side of Azkaban bars."

Hermione blinked, caught off guard, a surprised laugh bubbling up despite the tension in her chest. "Far too pretty?"

Draco nodded, though his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Oh, absolutely. They'd be lining up to see the Malfoy heir behind bars. I'd have to fight off autograph requests from both sides."

She swatted at him, rolling her eyes even as she smiled. "You're impossible."

"I'm serious," Draco continued, pulling back just enough to give her one of his trademark smirks. "Can you imagine it? 'Draco Malfoy: War Hero, Style Icon, and—tragically—Prison Heartthrob.' They'd write ballads about me, you know."

Hermione laughed despite herself, the sound breaking through the weight in her chest like a breath of fresh air.

"You're not understanding the gravity of this situation," she whispered, half-heartedly pushing him back, her eyes welling up with tears.

"I am," he murmured, pulling her close again. "I am, Hermione." His voice dropped, something darker lurking behind his tone. "But if I don't laugh—if I don't make it feel like a joke for just a moment—this whole thing will crush me."

She frowned, pulling him back towards her. He leaned down, pressing his lips to hers with a desperation that matched her own. It wasn't the teasing, playful kisses from earlier—it was something more, something raw and real, the weight of everything they weren't saying pressing between them. His hand slipped into her hair, tangling in the strands as he kissed her deeper, harder, as though this kiss was the only thing tethering them to reality.

Finally they broke apart, both breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together once again. Draco's hand moved to cover hers, the one with the ring still glowing faintly in the dim light.

"As long as you wear this," he said, "I'm yours. No matter what happens out there."

Her heart twisted at the words, torn between the intense desire to believe him and the suffocating reality pressing down on them both. She could feel the warmth of his hands on her skin, grounding her in the moment, in the now. They were here, together. But reality was waiting outside the door.

They couldn't hide forever.

"I'm scared, Draco."

"I am too," he admitted, the vulnerability in his voice making her heart ache. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there as though he could protect her with the sheer force of his presence. "But we'll get through this. We have to."

They stayed like that for a long moment, neither of them willing to let go, neither of them ready to face the reality waiting for them outside the safe cocoon of their stolen time.

Draco pulled back, his breath shaky as he glanced toward the window. The night was dark, but the weight of his impending departure hung heavy between them.

"I have to go," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret.

Hermione bit her lip, nodding as she fought back the urge to beg him to stay.

"I know," she whispered, though every fibre of her being wanted to hold him close and never let him go.

He took a step back, his hand lingering on hers as long as possible before slipping away.

"Be careful," he said, his voice tight, as if the words carried more than just a warning—they carried a promise.

"You too," Hermione replied, her throat tight as she watched him dress.

As he turned to Apparate, she grabbed his hand one last time, pulling him back toward her.

"Promise me," she whispered, her eyes searching his. "Promise me you'll come back."

Draco's gaze softened as he cupped her cheek once more, his thumb brushing away the tear that had escaped down her face.

"I promise," he lied to appease her. They both knew there could be no guarantees.

Then, with one last lingering kiss, he turned and Apparated in a silent swirl of darkness in the way only Death Eaters could do, leaving Hermione alone in the darkness.

As the silence settled around her, she let out a shaky breath, wrapping her arms around herself as the room felt colder, emptier without him there. The ticking clock was louder now, each second slipping away as the weight of reality settled back over her.