Chapter 2

She absolutely loved it when she was in control, not just in the casual, everyday sense of having the last word or dictating the course of a conversation, but in the deep, primal, satisfying way that came from wielding the kind of subtle power that made people squirm without ever touching them, that intoxicating feeling of being the one pulling the strings while pretending not to notice the tangled mess left in her wake—a sensation she had craved for so long, especially now, when life had so thoroughly spiraled beyond her control and dropped her into the absurd, surreal nightmare of being magically, politically, and irrevocably bound in marriage to him , of all people, a situation so ludicrous it still made her jaw tighten when she thought too long about it, but if she couldn't undo the law or escape the confines of the manor, then at the very least she could own something—and this, this delicate balance of tension and flirtation and psychological warfare, was hers.

The last three weeks had been a study in restraint, a slow-burning test of patience wrapped in suffocating silence and bitter civility, every day spent navigating the cold, cavernous halls of Malfoy Manor like it was a tomb full of ghosts neither of them wanted to name, but with the memory of the rooftop encounter still vivid and freshly replaying in her mind like her favorite scene in a film, she felt something shift—a spark of mischief, of challenge, of thrilling possibility—igniting inside her like a secret flame.

The very next day, she noticed a marked difference in his behavior, subtle but unmistakable, as if some unseen line had been crossed between them—he was no longer hiding in the depths of the manor like some brooding recluse with a superiority complex and a penchant for isolation, no, he was roaming now, lingering in corridors and sitting in rooms she just happened to be passing through, as though he were trying, and failing, to avoid her while still staying within her orbit, and the contradiction of it, the delicious push and pull, made her grin when no one was watching; his presence, once an annoyance, had become a kind of fuel, an electric current that hummed under her skin and made every encounter feel like part of a carefully choreographed game she hadn't realized she'd been waiting to play.

There was something wickedly delightful about watching him falter—about seeing him enter a room with that signature Malfoy detachment, only for his steps to falter the instant his eyes landed on her, his expression tightening as he tried not to react, tried not to let her see just how much she was getting under his skin, and the power in that, in knowing she could rattle him , was more potent than any spell; she had never expected this strange marriage to offer her any kind of agency, and yet here it was, handed to her on a silver platter of awkward silences and lingering glances, and she had no intention of wasting it.

From that moment forward, Hermione made it her unspoken mission to make his life a symphony of exquisite discomfort, to turn every glance, every encounter, into a subtle act of rebellion, a reclamation of autonomy in a world that had stripped her of it, and it thrilled her in a way nothing else had since the war ended.

She began simply, choosing to embrace the warmth of the late summer sun—both as a balm and a weapon—slipping into a light, flowing sundress the next morning, one that clung to her curves in just the right way and fluttered playfully in the breeze like an invitation she never intended to deliver; as she moved through the manor, she made no effort to conceal the way her hips swayed, her chin held high, and every so often, out of the corner of her eye, she would catch a flash of him—standing too still in a hallway, pretending to read a book in the drawing room, scowling into a teacup—his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched, and his eyes doing that thing they always did now: flicking to her like he couldn't help himself, like she was the sun and he was trying not to burn.

She began to play with it, testing the boundaries of the invisible tension between them, walking a little slower when she knew he was behind her, brushing past him in narrow corridors with a murmured "excuse me" that made his breath catch just slightly, and their interactions, though sparse, became deliciously charged with something she refused to name—something wild and heavy and electric—and while neither of them said it aloud, she could feel it in every moment they shared the same air.

He tried to feign indifference, of course—he was Malfoy , after all, master of sneers and scorn—but the flickers of truth were there, in the way his eyes lingered a beat too long, in the faint pink that dusted his cheeks when she caught him staring, in the stiffness of his posture when she leaned too close or said his name a certain way, and she loved those moments, hoarded them like treasures, every twitch and stumble proof that beneath all his icy composure, she had gotten to him.

One lazy afternoon, with the sun warming her skin and the hum of bees in the background, she sprawled across a garden chair in a bikini top and soft cotton shorts, stretched out like she had no cares in the world, and from the edge of her vision, she spotted him—leaning against the doorframe of the study, arms crossed, jaw set, a scowl carved into his features like he was trying to convince himself he wasn't looking at her the way she knew he was.

With a deliberately slow stretch and a smile that curled at the corners of her mouth, she turned her head just enough to catch his gaze and called out, voice laced with false sweetness and unmistakable amusement, "Is there something you need, Malfoy?"

His eyes widened just slightly, and he blinked, caught off guard like a boy caught sneaking a peek through a keyhole. "No. Obviously," he said, but his voice was tight, strained, every syllable dragging over the tension in his throat.

"Then stop staring," she teased, letting the smile widen as he shifted on his feet, clearly flustered and trying not to show it.

"I—uh—apologize," he stammered, eyes darting to the floor. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

And Merlin, did she love this , this version of him she could fluster and unseat with a single look or a casually spoken word—it was addictive, the way his mask would crack under her attention, the way he became the one unsteady and uncertain.

"Oh, don't worry about it," she replied with an exaggerated wave of her hand, her tone syrupy with fake reassurance. "I'm just enjoying the sun."

As the days passed and melted into one another in the timeless haze that was life inside Malfoy Manor, she found new and increasingly creative ways to press his buttons, to test the limits of his resolve, to see just how much of her he could handle before something—anything—snapped.

One particularly satisfying moment came the following evening, when she decided to take a long, luxurious bath, the kind that turned her limbs to silk and her thoughts to mischief, and when she emerged from the water, cheeks flushed, skin dewy, she left the door cracked just enough to offer a glimpse—not enough to be scandalous, but more than enough to ignite curiosity if he happened to be walking by.

And of course, because the universe was nothing if not poetic, he did —she heard the soft tread of his footsteps approaching, that particular hesitation in his stride that always gave him away when he wasn't sure if he should run or stay, and then he paused , right outside, just long enough for her heart to stutter with exhilaration.

She didn't move, didn't speak, just waited , sensing him there, knowing he was watching, torn between decency and desire, and when he finally walked away—quickly, almost guiltily, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing down the corridor—she let a wicked grin spread across her face, triumphant and utterly delighted.

The power of his discomfort, his barely contained attraction, was more potent than any spell she had ever cast, and she reveled in it, in the control she had seized back from a situation that had once made her feel helpless.

It was a game now—and every day, with every flushed glance and stammered excuse, it became clearer.

She was winning.

The day after that particularly satisfying encounter, Hermione selected her outfit with calculated precision, slipping into a sundress so small and delicately crafted that it felt like wearing a whisper of fabric, the material impossibly light and impossibly soft, clinging to her in the places she wanted it to and drifting around her thighs like petals with every step she took; it was perfect for a warm day spent wandering through sunlit corridors and lounging in the garden, but more importantly, she had chosen it intentionally , knowing exactly the kind of reaction it would provoke from him , and the thought alone sent a thrill down her spine as she adjusted the hem, checked her reflection, and prepared to step into the day like it was a battlefield she was born to win.

She moved through the manor with confidence that practically shimmered off her skin, a quiet but unmistakable assurance in the sway of her hips and the tilt of her chin, her bare shoulders glowing with the faint touch of morning light as she paraded from room to room with no particular destination, merely existing within his line of sight because she could , because the control she held over him was beginning to feel as intoxicating as it was effortless; and true to form, he was more visible than ever that day, his pale figure appearing and disappearing in doorways and hallways with unnatural frequency, as though he were both avoiding her with everything in him and simultaneously ensuring that he was always nearby, like a moth orbiting the flame that had already scorched his wings.

"Good morning, Malfoy," she chirped with mock innocence as she strolled into the kitchen, her voice light and deliberately cheerful, the skirt of her dress fluttering around her legs with each graceful step, and she didn't miss the way his entire body tensed the moment he caught sight of her, didn't miss the sharp, involuntary clench of his jaw or the flash of something hot and unspoken in his eyes before he could smother it beneath a familiar scowl.

"Morning," he muttered tightly, barely glancing at her, but she caught the way his gaze betrayed him, sweeping over her frame in a fleeting sweep that lingered far too long on the curve of her hips and the line of her collarbone before snapping back to the countertop like she hadn't just caught him red-handed.

"I'm thinking about sunbathing later," she said with studied nonchalance as she poured herself a glass of juice, her tone light and conversational, like they were just two normal people discussing weekend plans and not two emotionally repressed enemies playing an increasingly dangerous game of sexual chicken. "You should join me."

He scoffed almost immediately, his hands tightening on the edge of the counter as if bracing against a sudden wind, the sound sharp and defensive. "I'd rather not," he snapped, but the way his voice cracked ever so slightly betrayed him, the words too quick, too forced, like he was trying to convince himself more than her.

"Suit yourself," she replied breezily, lifting the glass to her lips and giving a casual shrug that was anything but casual, her smile all playful defiance and barely concealed amusement, because she could practically feel the way he was fighting with himself, already spiraling, already mentally calculating whether it was safer to stay in the kitchen and pretend he wasn't affected or make a hasty, flustered retreat before he gave too much away.

~~~

The following week unfolded with an almost hypnotic, intoxicating rhythm of golden sunlight, bare skin, and slow, deliberate provocations that danced just beneath the surface of civility, and Hermione embraced every moment of it like it was her own private rebellion, a way to reclaim power in a situation that had once made her feel small, helpless, stripped of control—because now, with each passing day, she had learned to turn the manor itself into a stage and her body into a weapon, and the game she was playing with him had taken on a delicious momentum of its own, laced with charged silence and electric glances that made her blood hum beneath her skin.

She spent her days reclining lazily in the garden, stretched out across sun-warmed lounges in the softest fabrics, the warmth of the afternoon soaking into her bones as she allowed herself to melt into the moment, the sun kissing her skin and gilding her in light, but none of that compared to the thrill she felt every time she caught the telltale flicker of pale blond hair just at the edge of her vision, every time she sensed that familiar presence lingering just far enough away to be deniable—he was always watching now, not openly, not confidently, but like a moth circling too close to a flame, and it thrilled her to no end that he couldn't seem to stop himself, couldn't resist the compulsion to see her, as though the mere act of her existence had become something he needed to witness in order to stay sane.

Pathetic little boy, she thought often with a mixture of sharp amusement and dark satisfaction, the words echoing in her mind like a private mantra, and gods, wasn't it just too easy—every time their eyes met, every time he looked too long or flushed too fast, she felt that rush again, that spark of wicked glee that bubbled up inside her like champagne, effervescent and wild, and she would smile at him sweetly, all false innocence and deliberate softness, like she hadn't just caught him imagining what her skin might feel like under his hands.

One particularly scorching afternoon, she was lounging across a sunbed, her limbs lazy and golden from the heat, the fabric of her bikini barely concealing her curves as she soaked in the rays with her eyes half-lidded and a smirk playing at her lips, and through the glass panes of the study windows, she saw him—standing stiffly in the library, trying desperately to appear absorbed in whatever book he was holding, but his eyes betrayed him, dark and hungry and fixed on her like she was some forbidden spell he didn't dare utter aloud, and his lips were drawn in a frown that might have fooled anyone else, but she knew him now, knew that it was tension, not judgment, that had his jaw clenched so tight.

" Malfoy! " she called, her voice lilting and teasing as she stretched languidly, knowing the sight of her would rattle him further. "Are you going to keep staring like a creep, or are you finally going to come outside and suffer in the sun with me?"

His reaction was instant, like a struck match—his entire body snapped taut as his eyes narrowed, his mouth pressing into a flat line as he slammed the book shut with more force than necessary and snapped, "You're impossible, Granger," the words rough with irritation, as if he hated how easily she could get under his skin.

"Impossible?" she echoed with a feigned pout, tilting her head as her fingers lazily traced a circle along the edge of her chair. "Or just irresistible ?"

He opened his mouth, likely to deliver one of his trademark sarcastic retorts, but instead, silence followed—a charged, heavy pause where he simply stood there, visibly flustered and furious and completely without a comeback, before he abruptly turned and stormed away down the hall, shoulders rigid and fists clenched, leaving her with nothing but the fading echo of his boots and the smug satisfaction of knowing she had, once again, unraveled him with nothing but a few well-placed words and the way her bikini tied low at her hips.

Hermione laughed then—an unrestrained, bright sound that rang out across the garden like a chime of pure delight, her body shaking with mirth as she closed her eyes and basked in the victory, because there was nothing quite like watching Draco Malfoy lose his composure, nothing quite like being the reason he faltered, and with each day that passed, she felt more alive than she had in weeks, more in control, more powerful, more herself, as though this game they had begun—this slow, simmering battle of wills and want—was finally giving her something she hadn't even realized she'd been missing.

She thrived in this tension, fed on it like nectar, and every little reaction from him—every glance, every clenched jaw, every half-swallowed curse—only emboldened her further, made her bolder in her provocations and more inventive in the way she toyed with him, and as the days blurred together in a golden haze of sun and strategy, she began to realize that this wasn't just about irritation or revenge anymore.

Every evening, after long hours spent luring him in and watching him struggle not to drown, she would retreat inside with a secretive smile tugging at her lips, her skin still warm from the sun and her mind alight with all the ways she had managed to push his buttons that day; she would peel off her bikini, slip into her softest pajamas, and sit by the window, watching the last rays of sunlight spill across the manor grounds while replaying every stolen look and flustered expression, unable to stop the way her heart quickened at the memory.

Because the way he looked at her now—gaze heavy with want and denial, full of heat and frustration—was not something she could ignore, not anymore, and beneath all of his barbed words and biting sarcasm, she could feel it, that thrum of attraction they were both too proud to name, something deeper than irritation, more dangerous than curiosity, and far more thrilling than she'd ever anticipated.

And though the thought of it unsettled her, made her pulse skip and her breath catch in a way she hadn't expected, she wasn't ready to stop—not yet.

For now, she would continue to toy with him, to blur the lines between tension and temptation, to explore the boundaries of this strange and volatile bond they were beginning to forge in silence and glances and heat, because this game—this slow, tantalizing unraveling of control—was no longer just about power or payback.

It was about discovery, about what ifs , about how far they could push each other before the space between them burned away completely.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the manor in soft gold and lavender shadows, Hermione closed her eyes with a contented sigh, her lips curling in anticipation.

The game was nowhere near over.

And she was just getting started.

~~~

Today was the kind of day that Hermione lived for—one of those gloriously petty, sun-drenched days where the air practically whispered, be a menace , and Merlin, did she listen. It was, as far as she was concerned, the perfect day to lean into her most chaotic, brattiest self, and she had dressed the part with intention so flagrant it could've been considered an act of war. Clad in nothing but her barely-there black bikini, the kind that left little to the imagination and a whole lot to Draco Malfoy's rapidly collapsing self-control, she strutted through the hallowed halls of Malfoy Manor as though she were on the bloody runway, the sunlight from the towering windows catching the glint of her skin and casting long, sensual shadows across the marble floor, her hair cascading in soft, artful waves like she'd just stepped out of a Veela daydream.

As she passed by the dining room, she caught sight of him— him —Draco Malfoy, dressed like a well-pressed warning label, sitting rigidly at the head of the obscenely long table like he was the star of a cursed Pureblood breakfast commercial. He had been mid-chew, fork halfway to his annoyingly perfect mouth, when he noticed her— really noticed her—and his reaction was instantaneous: the fork slipped through his fingers like treason, clattering against the porcelain plate with a noise that sounded far too loud in the tension-thick silence that followed. His jaw dropped, and his face went the color of fresh salmon tartare—pale with a spectacular flush blooming across his cheeks—and Hermione had to bite her inner cheek hard to stop from bursting into laughter right then and there.

"Oh, did I interrupt your breakfast, Malfoy ?" she asked sweetly, drawing out his name like it tasted better than anything on his stupidly ornate plate, her tone dipped in sugar and sarcasm so thick it could've drowned a Kneazle.

She didn't wait for him to recover—she knew he wouldn't, not without dropping another piece of cutlery or combusting entirely—so she sauntered past him with practiced ease, her walk slow and deliberately exaggerated, hips swaying in time with her internal glee, knowing exactly how he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching, and today, oh , today she was determined to drive him absolutely feral.

And yet, just when she thought she'd successfully reduced him to a mute, sputtering mess with nothing but two triangles of fabric and a wicked grin, she heard it—that unmistakable sound of angry footfalls and righteous exasperation echoing behind her, and then came the voice, strangled by pride and possessiveness and something very close to desperation: " Granger, this has to stop! "

The dramatic irony of it all nearly made her laugh again. As if she were going to stop now.

But just as she spun around to deliver her next bit of theatrical torment, the flames of chaos were further fanned by the sudden, breezy arrival of Theodore Nott , who stepped out of the fireplace with the grace of a man who knew he looked good and had no plans of pretending otherwise. Dressed in a casually rumpled button-down and that perpetual smirk that made half the manor's portraits sigh, he took one look at Hermione in her scandalous swimwear, his eyes trailing appreciatively down her form, and grinned like Christmas had come early.

"Oh, Granger, what a stunning welcome," he said with exaggerated reverence, his tone positively sinful. "Is this—" he gestured lazily at her bikini with a waggle of his brows "— for me? "

Hermione's lips curled into a smile, her heart beating just a little faster—not from any real interest in Theo, but from the sheer perfection of timing, the artistry of it all. "It could be," she replied smoothly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "If you ask nicely."

Behind her, Draco's entire body language shifted into a level of apocalyptic tension usually reserved for murderers and Weasley twins. His chair screeched back— violently —and his voice came out tight and sharp, all pretense gone, like a man moments away from hexing someone into next week. "Stop it, Theodore. Immediately. "

Theo, unbothered and entirely too pleased with himself, simply leaned against the doorframe like a smug bastard who'd just poked a sleeping Hungarian Horntail. "Why should I?" he asked innocently, then tossed Hermione a wink. "She looks fit ."

It was instantaneous. Draco's expression darkened like stormclouds rolling in over a battlefield, his jaw tightening so hard she half-expected it to crack. "Do not talk about my wife like that ever again," he growled, low and possessive, like a dragon staking a claim on its hoard, every syllable weighted with the kind of fury that made the air itself crackle.

Hermione, meanwhile, was positively glowing from the inside out.

Unable to resist adding fuel to the already blazing fire, she stepped closer to Theo—just a half step, just enough to feel the static tension behind her sharpen like a blade—and placed a soft, affectionate kiss on his cheek, her lips lingering for the briefest moment. "It's good to see you, Theo. Cheers," she whispered, her voice light and lilting, enjoying the feel of Draco's emotional breakdown building behind her like a symphony of jealous rage.

Theo laughed, delighted. "Next time, wear nothing . Saves time."

She turned, eyes glittering, and answered without hesitation, "Anything for you, Theodore."

That was the moment Draco exploded—not metaphorically, but vocally , physically , cosmically —his voice booming off the manor walls like he was summoning the wrath of every Malfoy ancestor. " STOP IT. IMMEDIATELY, THEODORE. " His voice cracked, actually cracked, with the intensity of his fury, and Hermione could practically hear his blood pressure breaking into a sprint.

With a victorious grin tugging at her lips and a satisfied sigh, she turned with slow, measured grace and sauntered toward the garden, the sunlight beckoning her like applause at the end of a performance. She didn't look back, because she didn't need to—she could feel his gaze burning into her back like wildfire, his frustration thick and possessive, wrapping around her like the world's most ridiculous blanket of unspoken longing, and she adored it.

Every second of it.

She was sun-kissed, smug, and wholly unstoppable.

And Draco Malfoy?

He was one breath away from either kissing her or committing a murder. Possibly both.

Outside, the garden looked like something straight out of a pretentious landscape painting—almost too serene, with its perfectly sculpted hedges and its smug little roses showing off in full bloom, petals blushing in shades of crimson and pink like they knew they were the main characters. The bees buzzed about like they paid rent, all busy and self-important, while a gentle breeze stirred through the flower beds as if nature itself was whispering, ah yes, another lovely day in paradise . It was, without a doubt, a sanctuary—a place of peace and distance, a space Hermione had carved out for herself where the oppressive gloom of Malfoy Manor couldn't quite reach her. It was hers, sacred and sun-soaked and blissfully quiet in ways Draco would never understand because he treated the outdoors like it was trying to assassinate him.

But of course, her peace was tragically short-lived.

She reclined on her sunbed like the embodiment of smug satisfaction, stretched out like a goddess on holiday, warm and glowing from the sun, her barely-there bikini clinging in places designed by the gods of chaos and thirst. A slow, victorious grin tugged at her lips as she replayed the earlier encounter with Theodore, every reaction from Draco etched into her mind like a treasured painting she could hang in her mental art gallery of "Malfoy Losing His Shit." His voice, all clipped and tight and deeply unhinged, still echoed sweetly in her ears. The entire scene had played out exactly the way she wanted—maybe even better.

And then came the sound. Heavy, aggressive, stomping footfalls cutting across the quiet of the garden like a battle march through a flower show.

Hermione didn't flinch. Didn't open her eyes. She kept her breathing even, her face tilted to the sun like nothing at all was wrong in the world, while the thudding steps grew louder and louder until the earth practically vibrated beneath her.

" GRANGER! "

Malfoy's voice cracked across the peaceful air like a thunderclap, dramatic and furious and wildly unnecessary, as if he thought yelling her surname like a war general would somehow undo her sunbathing. Hermione didn't react. She just smiled wider to herself, eyes still closed, soaking up the sheer satisfaction of knowing she had set him off .

He was storming through the garden like a man on a mission, all fury and righteous indignation, the loose gravel scattering under his boots and the flowers probably wilting out of fear. In his blind fury, he nearly clotheslined one of the manor's prized peacocks, which let out a shriek of pure offense before fleeing into the bushes like it knew better than to get involved in Draco Malfoy's emotional spiral.

He came to a halt just a few feet from her, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides like he was one second away from throwing a tantrum or possibly a chair.

"What do you think you're doing?" he barked, voice climbing toward hysteria. "Kissing Theo on the cheek ? Are you mad ?!"

Hermione, still lounging, still infuriatingly calm, opened one eye with the slow, smug grace of a cat awakened from a nap. She let the silence hang for a beat, watching him seethe, before answering with the sweetest venom she could muster. "Are you jealous?" she asked innocently, sitting up just enough for her bikini top to shift in a way that made his throat bob violently.

Draco made a sound that could only be described as a strangled what the fuck , his cheeks already turning a spectacular shade of pink. "That's— that's not the point! " he spluttered, gesturing vaguely at the air like it was also to blame. "You can't just—just taunt him like that! Theo is a flirt, Hermione, he flirts with everyone ! He has no boundaries! He would flirt with my houseplants if left unsupervised!"

She took her time standing up, slow and deliberate, as if each movement had been choreographed to torment him further. Her bare feet touched the grass, soft and cool beneath her, and she walked toward him with languid grace, her every step slicing away at his composure like a knife made of glitter and malice. He visibly tensed, his breath hitching with each inch she closed between them, and by the time she stood toe-to-toe with him, Draco looked like a man on the verge of either passing out or proposing marriage.

She didn't speak. She just leaned in, impossibly close, and pressed a kiss to his cheek—soft, slow, deliberately unhurried—and lingered there, long enough to feel the sharp inhale he tried to suppress, long enough to make him forget what words were.

"Now you're equal," she whispered, her breath tickling his skin, her voice a melody of sin and amusement.

Draco blinked, mouth slightly ajar like he had just witnessed a holy miracle and was short-circuiting under the weight of it. For a few seconds, he couldn't even find the ground beneath him. Then, in a desperate bid to reassert some version of control, he gestured wildly at her bikini with the panicked energy of a man begging gravity not to fail him.

"You need to stop this," he said, but his voice had lost its bite, softer now, almost pleading. "Immediately. You are not allowed to—" he waved vaguely again, "—to wear that anymore. Not around Theo. Not around anyone . Not around me , honestly. This whole situation is deeply unfair and entirely out of my hands."

Hermione tilted her head at him, eyes gleaming with wicked delight as she gave him a sugar-sweet smile that could've been dipped in arsenic. "As you wish," she said with mock obedience, her tone light and utterly insincere, and then—just to twist the knife—she turned and walked away with the same sinfully slow, hips-swaying pace that left him absolutely wrecked.

Draco remained where he stood, frozen, helpless, utterly obsessed, his eyes glued to the retreating line of her back, the dip of her waist, the elegant defiance in every movement. He didn't breathe. He didn't blink. He was a man possessed by regret, rage, and inconvenient arousal.

She reclined once more on the sunbed, resuming her previous position like she hadn't just detonated him with one sentence and a kiss on the cheek. The sun warmed her skin, the garden resumed its tranquil hum, and somewhere behind her, Draco Malfoy stood twitching like a Victorian man scandalized by an exposed ankle.

She smiled, basking not just in sunlight, but in victory.

The game wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

And if Draco Malfoy thought he was possessive now ?

Well.

She hadn't even started .

~~~

Malfoy's week—if you could even still call it a week and not a slow, psychological unraveling dressed in tailored robes—had taken a spectacular nosedive, and instead of leveling out like a normal spiral might, it was plunging headfirst into something more akin to a full-blown existential crisis, complete with internal screaming, misplaced rage, and the overwhelming urge to punch a wall just to feel something . He was no stranger to irritation; Merlin knew he'd perfected the art of eye-rolling and disdain after years of dealing with Gryffindors, and Granger had always been at the top of the list of People Who Deserved It Most. Her relentless intellect, her weaponized sarcasm, her smug little smirks—he could handle all of it. He had handled all of it. But this? This eerie, infuriating silence? This total vanishing act that had her ghosting through the manor like she'd evaporated into thin air? No teasing. No sundresses. No sunbathing with her legs on display like temptation incarnate. No smug quips designed solely to unravel his already frayed sanity?

It was unnatural. Wrong. Unacceptable.

For days now, she hadn't emerged from her room. No flirtatious banter in the hallways, no brush of her arm as she passed, no maddening glance thrown over her shoulder like she knew exactly how deep she'd embedded herself in his thoughts and intended to twist the knife a little deeper just for sport. The manor—already a place soaked in shadows and silence—felt emptier than ever. Lifeless. Like it had been drained of its only source of color and chaos. And for a man who claimed to value peace and quiet, Draco was horrified to discover that it now felt more like being trapped in a museum curated by his worst emotional impulses.

At first, he'd told himself it was a blessing. A godsend. Finally, some bloody space . No more dangerous curves framed in sunbeams. No more impromptu striptease disguised as 'just wearing something light because it's warm out.' No more dangerously addictive arguments where her voice got breathy when she was irritated and he wanted to kiss her just to shut her up.

He should have been thrilled .

He was not thrilled.

He was, in fact, slowly losing his mind.

The stillness in the house began to feel oppressive. Every time he passed her wing of the manor, a quiet panic would twist low in his gut. What if she was sick? What if something had happened? What if she'd figured out that she'd crawled under his skin and was now removing herself from his vicinity purely to punish him with absence? Every time he walked near her door, his steps would slow without permission, his breath catching in his throat as he strained to hear anything —a rustle of movement, the creak of floorboards, the sound of her humming that damned Muggle tune again. But there was nothing. No sound. No Granger.

And gods, he missed her.

The thought hit him like a bat to the skull. He actually stumbled in the middle of the corridor, blinking in horror like someone had just accused him of being charitable. He missed Granger. Not in the "I miss having someone to insult" sort of way, but in the actual , emotional, terrifyingly real way that made his stomach flip and his palms sweat and made him wonder if he'd finally gone round the twist. He missed her presence, her voice, her chaos. The energy she dragged into every room. The way she filled the silence like she was born to undo it.

"What the actual fuck is wrong with me," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face and catching sight of his reflection in the tall, decorative mirror at the end of the hallway—a mirror that now mocked him with its unforgiving honesty. His expression was a portrait of confusion, annoyance, and something else he wasn't ready to name, not even internally. He looked like a man haunted. By sundresses.

He'd always prided himself on being emotionally detached, cold when needed, excellent at compartmentalizing. But this? This creeping unease, this restless energy, this aching gap left behind by the absence of one curly-haired menace—it was throwing off his equilibrium. He couldn't concentrate. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop wondering if she was lying in bed on purpose, knowing he was losing his grip one agonizing minute at a time.

He started pacing the halls like a lunatic, hoping movement would kill the thoughts. It didn't. Instead, they multiplied. Was she sick? Was she crying? Was she avoiding him? Was she scheming? Had she finally grown bored of their game? Had he pushed too far? Should he have kissed her when she leaned in last time? Should he not have stared at her like a starving man every time she walked past in that bikini?

He found himself outside her door again, for the fifth time that day alone, and this time, he stood there longer. Hand hovering in midair, fingers inches from the knob, breath shallow like the space between them could collapse if he wasn't careful. He wanted— needed —to hear her voice. To see her. To confirm she was still real and not some fever dream cooked up by his increasingly fragile mental state.

But what could he say? "Hello, just checking to make sure you're still alive and still capable of ruining my day. Fancy a duel or a slow, humiliating flirtation?"

Get a grip, you bloody idiot.

He dropped his hand like it had betrayed him, stepping back with a scowl so intense it could've peeled wallpaper. What the hell was he doing? This was Granger . She was probably playing a long con. Letting him stew. Letting his own thoughts devour him from the inside out. And worst of all? It was working . She'd become a part of his daily rhythm, a complication he looked forward to, and now that she was gone, he felt… unmoored.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd missed someone. Not like this. Not enough to feel it in the walls. Not enough to hear her laugh when she wasn't there. Not enough to argue with her ghost in his head.

He tried to distract himself. He reorganized the library. Twice. Tried to read, only to realize every female character somehow had wild brown curls and an annoying tendency to outsmart everyone. He snapped at a house-elf. Apologized immediately after. Then spent an hour sulking in the garden like a child denied pudding.

Finally, the tension reached a breaking point. His sanity snapped somewhere between the fourth imagined sigh and the third phantom echo of her laugh. With a muttered curse and the emotional self-control of a very dramatic cat, he straightened his robes, squared his shoulders, and stormed toward her part of the manor like a man going into battle.

He would demand answers. He would force her to admit she was doing this to get to him. He would confront her with all the righteous indignation of a man who absolutely, positively did not want her attention while also being starved for even a single look.

This game she was playing? It was over.

Or at least… he was done playing defense.

As he stalked down the hallway toward her wing of the manor, fueled more by pent-up frustration than any coherent plan, Draco became aware of something strange drifting through the air—music, but not anything remotely civilized, not the dignified strains of classical orchestras or the soothing hum of pureblood-approved melodies. No, this was something loud and chaotic and utterly incomprehensible, full of bass drops and warbling vocals that sounded like someone trying to sing through a tin can while simultaneously being electrocuted. He paused mid-stride, eyes narrowing as he tilted his head toward the noise like it might make more sense if he concentrated hard enough. What in Merlin's name was she listening to? Had she finally lost her mind in there?

The music pulsed through the thick oak door in obnoxious, thumping waves, and as he drew closer, he could feel it reverberating in his chest, each beat syncing far too perfectly with the irritation pounding beneath his ribs. He knocked—firm and precise, expecting immediate obedience. Nothing. He scowled and knocked again, this time louder, with the edge of his fist. Still nothing. The music continued on, blaring like an offensive declaration of war against his sanity. His jaw clenched so tightly he could hear his molars protest. Was she ignoring him? She had the audacity— the audacity —to ignore him ?

He began pacing outside her door like a man unspooling at the seams, torn between storming away in a fit of righteous fury and the unrelenting, gnawing compulsion to see her . That same maddening feeling that had been stalking him all week—the sense of something unfinished, unresolved, unbearably absent —dug into him again. He couldn't leave. Not yet. Not without knowing what the hell she was doing in there. Not without seeing her face, hearing her voice, confirming she wasn't lying in bed plotting new ways to undo him with a glance.

Finally, after far too many seconds of internal monologue that sounded suspiciously like panic, he snapped.

Manners be damned.

He shoved the door open with dramatic, offended flair—and immediately regretted it.

The scene before him was not at all what he had expected. It wasn't darkness or grief or some calculated plan to drive him mad with silence.

It was Hermione Granger, bouncing up and down on her bed like a hyperactive pixie high on sugar and spite, clad in loose, rumpled pajamas that clung in all the wrong—or right—places, hair an untamed halo around her face as she sang into a hairbrush with the kind of reckless abandon only someone who truly, truly didn't care about dignity could manage. Her voice was terrible. Truly, offensively bad. Like kneazles fighting in a blender bad. And yet… she looked like she was having the time of her life.

And the worst part? She didn't stop. She didn't even flinch . Didn't blush, didn't stammer, didn't apologize for the fact that she was putting on a concert fit for drunk trolls.

She just kept going, her body moving to the beat, hair bouncing with every jump, her off-key screeching continuing like he hadn't just burst in on her one-woman Muggle rave.

" Granger, what in the actual fuck are you doing? " he sputtered, staring at her like she'd grown a second head and painted it neon pink.

She paused just long enough to glance at him with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, then shouted back over the music, "What are you doing here?" as if he were the one being unreasonable for interrupting her private Britney Spears breakdown.

He gaped, utterly unprepared. "What am I—what— what are you doing?! Is this some sort of... ritual?!" he demanded, gesturing wildly to the madness. "Do I need to worry about you summoning a demonic Muggle boy band?"

She grinned, hopping in place with a little less energy now but still fully committed to the scene. "I'm having fun, Malfoy. You know, that thing you purebloods fear like the plague? Smiling? Dancing? Living?"

He blinked. "I know how to have fun!" he blurted defensively, as if she had just accused him of being allergic to joy. "I'm fun ! I've… I've done fun things!"

She tilted her head, one brow arching in a way that made him feel like a child being told he couldn't sit at the adult table. "Oh, really ? Because all I've seen you do is glower and scold me about my clothes like some constipated Victorian uncle."

His face went scarlet. "I wasn't scolding you! I was just—just suggesting you wear something more appropriate!"

Her eyes glinted with something wicked. "Suggesting?" she echoed, walking toward him with slow, taunting steps. "You mean telling me to cover up because you can't handle looking, hmm?" Her voice dropped, teasing and syrupy, and before he could stop her, she stepped off the bed and crossed the room in three graceful strides.

Then, with a devilish smirk, she leaned in close and murmured, "Want me to take it off then?"

His entire brain combusted.

His throat dried up instantly, every thought short-circuiting into white noise. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words came out. None. Just air and panic and the faint sound of his last shred of control sobbing in the distance.

"You—you need to stop this," he said finally, voice strangled, his posture stiff as a board. "You like pushing my buttons, but I'm not falling for it. I'm onto you."

She laughed—loud, delighted, utterly infuriating. "Onto me? Darling, you've already tripped and fallen face-first."

He gnashed his teeth, flailing for dignity. "Good day, Granger. Your performance is atrocious , by the way."

Her grin widened. "Bye now, your highness. " She gave him an exaggerated curtsy, mocking him with the kind of regal sarcasm that made him want to hex a pillow into oblivion.

He turned on his heel and marched out with as much dignity as a man with a full-body blush could muster, but her laughter followed him like a curse, echoing through the hall and settling into his bones like wildfire.

This woman. Fucking Granger.

She was utterly deranged. She was chaos personified. She was insufferable, infuriating, reckless, ridiculous—and somehow, impossibly, undeniably, the only person in the world who had ever managed to get under his skin with nothing but a smile and a song.

And the worst part was…

He liked it .

And yet, despite everything, despite how she infuriated him, Draco couldn't stop thinking about her.

It wasn't just the way she teased him. It was her confidence, the way she held her ground, the fire in her eyes. She was relentless, unyielding, and completely unapologetic. She made him feel things he didn't want to admit—frustration, sure, but also something else. Something deeper, something he wasn't quite ready to face.

As he stormed down the hall, he couldn't shake the image of her, laughing and carefree, as if she didn't have a care in the world. As if nothing he said or did could ever rattle her.

And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy didn't know what to do.

Because no matter how hard he tried to push her away, no matter how many times he told himself that she was just a nuisance, an annoyance, he couldn't deny the truth gnawing at the back of his mind.

Hermione Granger was getting to him.

And he hated it.

~~~

It was the first month of their so-called "wedding" anniversary, a title that felt more like a curse than a celebration, a grim marker of time rather than any symbol of love or devotion, and unsurprisingly, neither of them had dared acknowledge it in any kind of formal or sentimental way; there were no flowers, no dinner reservations, no hushed conversations by candlelight—only the cold, unspoken mutual agreement to ignore the date entirely and continue pretending that their entire farce of a union hadn't reached this quietly momentous milestone. And yet, as the day crept forward, Hermione—who had spent the last four weeks oscillating between irritation and delicious, self-indulgent chaos—decided with gleaming defiance in her eyes and fire in her veins that she wasn't about to let the day pass by without leaving a mark. If Draco Malfoy had dared believe that she had grown tired of her provocations, if he thought for even a second that she had run out of ways to crawl under his skin and flip his world upside down with a single look, then oh, he was in for a very rude awakening.

Her grand finale—her pièce de résistance , the crescendo of her relentless campaign to unravel him—was bold, brazen, and so outrageously unthinkable that it made her stomach twist with gleeful anticipation. She'd grown weary of the delicate provocations, the subtle flirtations, the sundresses that fluttered just a little too high on the thigh, the glances that lingered a beat too long, the double entendres that always left him glaring after her like a man teetering on the edge of something dangerously carnal. No, today, she was done playing small. Today, she was going to push Draco Malfoy so far past his meticulously composed limits that he'd forget where the line had ever existed at all.

With slow, deliberate movements, she stood in the center of her bedroom and slipped out of her silk robe, letting it fall into a soft, forgotten heap on the floor, the fabric pooling at her feet like surrender—but this was anything but . The air of the manor, always cold and tinged with something ancient, prickled against her now-bared skin, raising goosebumps and igniting every nerve ending as though the very house could sense her intent. Naked, unashamed, and humming with the thrill of it all, she began her walk, unhurried and unapologetic, her bare feet whispering across the polished marble floor as she stepped into the corridor with the grace of someone who belonged there—someone who owned it.

The manor, with all its opulent detail and suffocating grandeur, suddenly felt like a stage set just for her, every chandelier and ancestral portrait a witness to the scandal she embodied, her audacity echoing through the space like thunder. She passed the house-elves without so much as a blink, utterly unconcerned by their slack-jawed stares or the scandalized squeaks they barely managed to suppress. Let them look. Let them report . She wanted him to see— needed him to see. She wanted to ignite that frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks, to feel the tension of his restraint snap beneath the weight of her recklessness.

And the gods answered her wish.

She entered the grand living room, the sun slanting through the tall windows and casting golden light across the space like a spotlight, and there he was— Draco Malfoy , lounging on the sofa in his usual posture of bored elegance, a book open in his lap, his expression distracted as though he were pretending to read, though everyone with eyes and a shred of sense could tell his mind was elsewhere, probably brooding over her latest misdeed.

He didn't even look up at first. Not until she crossed the threshold in silence and stood there, radiant and bare and utterly composed.

Then he saw her.

And the transformation was instantaneous.

The book slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a dull, forgotten thud, but he didn't even flinch. His eyes—wide and stunned—drank her in with something between horror and unfiltered desire, his lips parting like he was about to speak but couldn't quite remember how words worked. His spine straightened, his body tensed like a predator scenting blood, and the carefully curated layers of his composure disintegrated right in front of her.

And then he moved .

Fast. Controlled. Dangerous. He was on his feet and closing the distance in mere seconds, every step purposeful, every movement sharp with intent, and before she could revel in the victory of it all, he grabbed her—one hand clamping around her arm and spinning her with stunning precision, pressing her against the cold stone wall with a force that left her breathless.

She gasped at the contact, the cool surface shocking against her overheated skin, but the surprise was short-lived, quickly replaced by a surge of exhilaration so fierce it made her stomach flip. This— this —was what she'd been waiting for. To see him lose control. To see the glint of fury and hunger in his eyes. To feel the power crackling between them like a live wire.

He loomed over her, his body crowding hers, one hand anchoring her to the wall by her hip while the other moved to her throat—not threatening, not hurting, just there , firm and possessive, the pressure a reminder that he could shatter her control just as easily as she shattered his. Their faces were inches apart, their breaths mingling in the charged air between them, and his eyes were molten silver, furious and dark with the weight of everything he refused to admit.

"I told you to stop," he growled, his voice low and trembling with the strain of restraint, with the sharp edge of something dangerous . "I told you to act like a normal human being. Put on some bloody clothes, Granger."

But she didn't flinch. Didn't so much as blink. Her lips curled into a slow, wicked smile, and her gaze dropped—purposefully, provocatively—to his mouth, tracing the shape of it as though she were already imagining what it would feel like on her skin. Her defiance was a siren's call, and she wielded it like a blade.

His grip on her throat tightened ever so slightly, a warning, a plea, a desperate attempt to hold on to a control he was already losing, and his eyes—oh, his eyes—burned with frustration and want, wide with disbelief that she could still be teasing him, mocking him, playing this game when he was so close to snapping.

"Did you hear what I just said?" he asked again, his voice more insistent now, cracking at the seams with something he didn't want to name.

But she saw it. She saw the tremble in his restraint, the fraying edges of composure, the way his breath stuttered against her cheek.

She leaned in, brushing her lips close to his ear, and whispered, "Oh, I heard you… but I don't think you heard me ."

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of disbelief mingling with the fire already threatening to consume him, and his thumb brushed along her pulse, the tiniest movement, but one that carried the weight of every thought he wasn't saying. She was daring him. Tempting him. Breaking him, and he knew it. She knew it.

But she wasn't done yet.

Her gaze never left his face, her smile never faded, and in that moment, as he stood there with his hands on her bare skin and fury in his eyes, she knew— knew —that she had him exactly where she wanted him.

"You need to stop this," he said again, but the repetition came out differently this time—no longer the crisp bark of command he'd mastered since childhood, but something trembling on the knife's edge between demand and desperation, his voice low, raw, uneven in places like it couldn't quite decide whether it wanted to scold her or beg. "This… this game of yours, Granger. You're walking around naked in my house— my house—parading yourself in front of me like you've forgotten I'm a man, like you don't know what you're doing to me, like you don't expect me to eventually lose whatever's left of my self-control and actually do something about it."

Hermione tilted her head slowly, like she was examining a particularly amusing puzzle, and her lips curved into a smile that was equal parts daring, mockery, and subtle invitation—maddening in how calm it was, in how utterly unfazed she remained in the face of his unraveling. "Then why don't you?" she murmured, the words soft as silk, her voice laced with the kind of dangerous temptation that made his spine lock and his fists clench at his sides. Her gaze burned with amusement, but beneath the glint was a challenge, a dare flaring bright and sharp— Do it. Break. Take that final step and shatter the wall he'd spent years building around himself, a wall that had been splintering, cracking, threatening to collapse since the moment the Ministry bound their names together in ink and magic.

He inhaled sharply, the breath shaky and uneven, and she saw it—the way his body trembled ever so slightly, that tension roiling under his skin like something feral trying to claw its way out. He looked like a man fighting not just her but himself, like he couldn't decide whether to drag her back to the wall and devour her whole or disappear entirely until he remembered how to breathe again. His hand tightened around her hip, his fingers digging into her flesh as if anchoring himself, as if she was the only real thing keeping him grounded and simultaneously the very thing unmooring him.

"Granger," he ground out, and this time it came with a low growl buried under his breath, warning and plea wrapped together in velvet and gravel. "Don't test me."

But there was no venom in the words anymore, no bite. Just a shaking edge of surrender, of something darker, something not quite anger and not quite lust but teetering somewhere violently in between.

Hermione's grin widened, slow and victorious, as she leaned in with the grace of a woman who already knew she had won. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, and her breath against his skin made him shudder. "I'm not testing you, Malfoy," she whispered, her voice syrupy and rich with wickedness, "I'm giving you an opportunity."

And there it was—that final, devastating blow to his restraint. She felt it in the way his grip faltered for a single heartbeat, in the way his breath caught like something had lodged itself in his throat, in the way the space between them suddenly felt too loud, too hot, too heavy with the weight of everything they refused to name.

But she wasn't finished—not yet.

With deliberate slowness, she pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, her smirk never fading, never softening. She wanted him to remember this moment, to feel the echo of it in his bones long after she left the room. "Now," she said, her tone shifting to something deceptively sweet, tinged with sarcasm sharp enough to slice skin, "if you don't mind, I believe I'll return to my little stroll."

And then, with a flick of her hair and the kind of saunter that should've been illegal, she slipped effortlessly out of his grasp, untethered and unconcerned, her bare figure moving through the room with such languid grace it felt like an insult. She walked away from him—completely and utterly naked—as if they hadn't just teetered on the precipice of something unholy, as if his hands hadn't been on her skin, as if he wasn't now seconds away from combusting where he stood.

Draco didn't move. Couldn't. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven bursts as he stared at the space she'd just occupied, her retreating form burned into his vision like an afterimage from staring too long at the sun. Every part of him ached—his fists, still clenched at his sides; his throat, raw from swallowing the words he didn't dare say; his jaw, tight with the force of holding it all in.

And his heart—fuck, his heart—was pounding with something he couldn't even begin to categorize.

With a strangled growl of frustration, he turned and slammed his fist against the wall, the dull crack echoing through the room like a threat, or maybe a surrender. She was gone—around the corner, out of sight—but her scent lingered in the air, and her words echoed like ghosts, tormenting him with everything he couldn't bring himself to do.

She was going to destroy him.

There was no doubt about it now. Hermione Granger—with her defiance, her insolence, her smile that made his blood boil and his bones sing—was going to be the death of him. And the sick, twisted part of him that had always chased danger, that craved control just so he could feel it unravel, wanted it . Wanted her . Wanted to burn and burn and burn until there was nothing left of the cold, precise man he had always pretended to be.

She was playing with fire. With him . And one day soon—very soon—they would both have to face what came after the match was struck.

Because he wouldn't be able to hold back forever.

And when he finally snapped?

He wasn't sure if he'd kiss her, curse her…

Or ruin them both completely.