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There was always this thing his father would tell him. It never made sense to him, not something he paid much attention to, because it never applied to his life.
It would always be at random moments, whenever he was home, whenever he’d get the chance, whenever his mother wasn’t around.
He would sit down next to him, maybe grab his arm and pull him just a few inches closer, sometimes call him into his office.
The Malfoy men serve their women.
Now, what did it mean?
He hadn’t a clue, because he was only a boy, a boy without any interest outside of quidditch. Witches were out of his mind and he couldn’t care less about them.
But when Lucius died, those words never stopped ringing in his head, never stopped influencing his every action and words he ever uttered.
So when he met the first witch he’d ever truly cared about, the first witch that made him feel like he could be himself without fear of being judged, he understood what his father meant.
It started with the little things.
She’d ask for a glass of water and he’d get it for her. She’d ask him to put away his and her clothes and he’d do it for her. She’d have a stressful day at work and he’d hold and scratch her back until she’d fall asleep at the crook of his neck.
Anything she’d want he’d give it to her, anything she needed and he’d have it in her palm in seconds, anything.
Absolutely anything for her.
With time it progressed. With time he started doing things, started giving her things, even if she hadn’t asked. He would do what he thought she wanted or needed.
He served her.
Serves.
The true meaning of his fathers words finally meant something, finally were given a meaning, finally were given value.
Because when you love someone as much as Malfoy loves their witch, you’d do anything to please her, you’d do anything for her, regardless of how far it is from their reach.
The Malfoy men serve their women.
They keep them happy, love them with every bit of themselves, keep them safe, and give them the life they deserve.
“Draco.” It’s soft and etched with sleep. Her fingers stroke his cheek, soft from the lotion he massaged into her hands before they laid down. “Wake up.”
He sighs, placing his hand on the one on his face, pulling himself closer to her and nuzzling his nose into her neck. His lips press a kiss to her pulse point and he melts into her arms.
Her fingers tangle themselves into his curls, ruffled from the soft pillows and sleep, and she massages his head gently, pressing kisses to his crown.
She feels a bit guilty, feels like she should just go to bed and ignore it all, but he’d get upset with her if she does so, because he thinks it’s his responsibility to keep her happy and please her — especially since she’s carrying his baby.
But he looks so tired. And soft.
And gods she doesn’t want to do it.
“Draco,” she whispers against his hairline, pressing apologetic kisses to his head. Her hand caresses his throat, feeling as he swallows and breathes in.
He squeezes her tighter against his body, relishing in the warmth and comfort that she transfers into him. “Hm.” He burrows his face deeper into her neck, further melting into her.
“I’m hungry.” Her voice is small, and she immediately peppers kisses anywhere she can.
He breathes out a laugh, peppering kisses on her neck. Because he knows she feels guilty, but he would’ve been upset if she stayed shut.
His hand slithers to her cheek, pad of his thumb stroking her cheek, and lazily pulling her flesh against his body, being mindful of her belly.
“What time is it?” It’s breathed out against her temple, his breath gliding through the short hairs on her head, cooling her in just the slightest of ways. “I doubt anything,” a kiss to her soft lips, “anything is open.”
She wraps a messy pale curl of his around her finger, feeling as the silky strands contrast her honey skin. She’ll never be able to get over his curls, the curls he hid from her for so long.
Gods.
She loved his straight hair but fuck did the curls do something to her, especially the way he styled them with just some hair spray to set it but leaving the soft curls out for her to play with.
For the first couple of months, she’d have him lay on her thighs, would pass her fingers through his hair for hours and hours, never getting bored of the way they jumped back into place.
The envy that enveloped her; her curls never behaved like his and she touched and tugged and enjoyed his, smiling and laughing herself to pieces with him.
And he enjoyed it, giggling and enjoying the loads of attention she’d give him, feeling like he’s on top of the world, getting The Hermione Granger to be so engrossed with him.
“I just want some spaghetti,” she says, pressing a kiss to his nose, roaming her fingers through his scalp. “With red sauce.” A brush of his fingers against her waist makes her jump, hadn’t even felt him move, so entranced with him and his sleep-coated face.
He laughs aloud, ringing in her ears like a song, making her blush and heart flutter. His laugh is her favorite noise, her favorite thing to listen to when she has had a bad day.
“Okay, okay,” he whispers, as he presses one last kiss onto her temple, removing the duvet, standing up, and rubbing his eyes as he opens the door. “I’ll be back.”
It’s silent when he leaves, silent as she ponders in the dark, but it only lasts a few seconds before she decides that being with him is better than staying in a dark room with her anchor of warmth in another part of their home.
Like an invisible string, tethering each other together, she follows it without a doubt, knowing that being with him will only ever make her feel safe.
Her legs move in slow movements, careful to not trip or fall, protective of the baby in her belly.
She knows Draco will be upset because she’s climbing down stairs without any help, but she doesn’t want to be alone, doesn’t want to have to part from him even for just a second.
Her breath quickens as she walks, though she tries to control it, only slipping every once in a while, because if Draco sees her panting for breath, he’ll try to carry her back to bed.
And she can’t have that.
It’s a few minutes before she’s walking into the corridor and into the kitchen, listening as he hums a familiar tune, noodles hitting the water. His movements are sleepy, not having fully woken up just yet.
She’s sure to stay hidden, admiring her husband, the love of her life; he just looks so handsome, looks like he enjoys doing things for her.
“I know you’re there.” His eyes flit up to meet hers, a smirk splitting his lips, and just the slightest crinkles form next to his eyes. “Come, Hermione.”
Warmth envelopes her cheeks, a smile tugging at her lips, as she makes her way towards him. Flutters erupt and she realizes that even after so many years of marriage, he still makes her feel like this.
When she’s closer to him, he holds his hand out for her to take, gently pulling her to his body, swaying ever so slightly, laughing as they do so.
“Dance with me.” A boyish grin on his pink lips. “While we wait.”
“There’s no music.” It’s said breathless, shock etched onto her expression, never having heard such words leave his lips.
“We’ll make our own, Hermione.” And gods when he says her name like that, when he says it in a sentence that only makes her fall in love with him more.
She giggles like a teenager, placing her arms onto his neck, fingers twirling his curls around her fingers. His hands slither to her waist, pressing her as flesh against him as possible, without hurting her belly.
He presses his lips to her temple, holding her in his arms. He hums that familiar tune again, music to her ears, and nostalgia coursing through her as she listens.
He rests his forehead in hers, necks straining, noses grazing, and breaths colliding. His hands leave hot marks as they begin to trail up and down her waist in short strokes.
She joins in, picking up where he left on in the tune, attempting to sound as beautiful as he did, and he smiles — cheeks straining and eyes nearly closing — when he hears her.
Their wedding song will always bring a smile to his face and it will always bring flutters to her belly.
“You’re just too good to be true.” His voice comes in, filling her ears and making her feel like it’s their wedding all over again. Gods does she love this man. “Can’t take my eyes off of you.” His voice is silky and smooth, music to her ears.
She smiles widely, removing her hands from his neck and placing them on his waist, as his hands go to cup her cheeks.
She pulls him closer to, closer until she’s satisfied, closer because she needs him right here with her. Needs him closer than closer can be.
“You’d be like heaven to touch.” His lips graze hers, pressing his forehead to hers and she presses him absurdly closer to her. “I wanna hold you so much.”
She hums as he sings, relishing in the softness of his voice, making her feel like she’s on top of the world.
He loves singing this song, but most of all, he loves that he gets to sing it to her, gets to dance it with her, gets to hold her as she carries their baby.
It’s a magical moment.
A magical song.
“At long last, love has arrived.” She joins in, a beautiful smile — nearly the same as in their wedding night — graces her lips, further lighting up his early morning. “And I thank God I’m alive. You’re just too good to be true.”
Her voice isn’t as good as his, she thinks, but she knows he loves it when she sings with him, loves it when she smiles and sways with him. And she loves making him happy.
She’s so lucky to have a husband like him, to have met her match, to have met her soulmate, and gods, she doesn’t know how she managed it. She’s so lucky, so, so incredibly lucky.
“Can’t take my eyes off of you,” they say in unison, wide, cheek straining smiles stay on their lips, bodies moving together like they’ve done this many times before, just enjoying the gifts the gods have given them.
And so they dance and sing with each other, in their little bubble of bliss, in their paradise that they’ve managed to create for each other, filled and etched with love and adoration.
She doesn’t know how long they danced or sang, doesn’t know anything but his beautiful voice and pretty eyes, doesn’t know anything but his body pressed against hers and the love multiplying in her heart.
But his wand vibrating on the counter bursts their little bubble, reminding them of her pasta.
With one last look, one last smile, and one last kiss to her lips, he lets her go and places her pasta in a bowl and puts it on the counter.
He gets the red sauce from the cupboard, popping the lid off and going to pour it into the bowl, but she quickly stops him, and he cocks a brow at her.
She attempts to take the jar from his long and lithe fingers, wanting to do it herself, but he only pulls the jaw father from her reach.
“Draco.” She tries to take it from his hands again. “Draco, please, I want to do it myself.” Her brows furrow at his teasing, a smirk on his lips.
“Since when?”
“Since I like it a certain way.” Hints of irritation glitter in her voice. He’s making her wait, making her grow impatient.
“Kiss first.” He taps his lips, a smirk etched onto his lips. He puckers his lips like he did when they were younger.
She rolls her eyes, getting closer and bringing her arms around his neck, pushing him down and bringing him to her.
“Tsk, on your toes, Granger.” He’s a tease, an irritating one. His face is wicked, and he knows what he’s doing, knows that she’s growing upset.
“I can’t.” She’s desperate, stomach growling.
“You always have.”
“Not while I’m unfathomably pregnant.”
He chuckles, loud and if she didn’t love him as much as she does, she’d swat him. It rumbles in his chest, joy and mirth running through his veins.
He hands her the jar whilst he presses his lips to hers. Then he peppers kisses all over her face, soft lips pressing his love.
He’d never get tired of loving her.
She’d never get tired of loving him.
And so he watches as she makes her pasta the way she prefers, watches how her hands move clumsily and brows draw together in concentration, watches as she licks her lips and sets the jar down, watches as she sprinkles sea salt and sugar and mixes it all together.
It’s an odd combination, one he couldn’t fathom liking, but he watches anyway, because she enjoys it, and that satisfied smile on her cheeks always makes his day.
“Are there any pickles?”
He walks towards the farthest cupboard in the kitchen, takes the jar of pickles, and hands it to his wife, reveling in the way her face lights up.
His wife.
His.
The light of the sun glides through the drapes, hitting his eyelids and practically forcing him awake. It’s horrid. And for a moment he thinks to truly wake up. Instead he opts for the better option: burying his face in her neck where it’s warm and dark.
It’s his favorite thing to do, throwing his arm over her middle and cuddling in her side as much as he can, given the circumstance of her belly.
His nose nuzzles into her neck until he’s satisfied, until he’s “purring” as she puts it. But if that means he’s enjoying it, then yes, the noises of satisfaction he makes is purring.
She smells of sleep, a citrusy scent like lemon and hints of lavender that only he smells, because he’s the only one that gets to be this close. She’s his. And he is hers.
His arm possessively rests on her middle, tightening as much as he can. It’s only a bit what he can do but fuck does it make a difference.
He stays this way for long moments, long moments where he listens to the beat of her heart and counts her sleepy breaths. He hears the light snores erupt from her throat and can’t help but love her even more.
It’s odd.
The things he’d usually find irritating only makes him love her more, and he just can’t wrap his head around the fact that he continues to fall deeper in love with her.
She’s perfect.
In every way. Shape. Form.
In every aspect that exists.
“Go back to sleep,” comes her voice, hoarse and borderline a whine. She brings her fingers to his pale curls, lightly moving until she finds a comfortable spot. “I can hear how possessive you are.”
Her lips press a kiss to his head before he feels her head slowly go limp on his head, showing him that she’s falling asleep again, but now that he has her attention, he couldn’t let her go back to sleep.
It’s unfair.
“No, no, no.” His words are said in between persistent kisses. “We have somewhere to be in a few, Hermione.” Their lips meet and for a moment he forgets what he’s even doing.
So does she, only thought in her mind is how his soft lips kiss her as she melts into a puddle of nothing. She forgets about everything in this world except for the comforting fact that he is in her arms, loving her.
“Weaslette will be upset.” She forces her tongue into his mouth, effectively shutting him up and snogging him, pulling him tighter into her arms because this just isn’t enough. “… if we ditch again.”
He breaks their kiss, planting kisses to her neck, careful with her belly, but rough as his mouth etches her skin with wet, hot kisses.
“Let’s go.” He’s off of her in seconds, irritation glittering in her blood as he smirks at her. She rolls her eyes, looking away with crossed arms. “Loo, Hermione.”
His hands pull her to the edge of the bed, taking her hands in his and lifting her into a sitting position. A frown is on her lips and he presses a kiss to her lips, effectively replacing that frown with a grin.
He lifts her up one last time, places his hand on the small of her back, being sure to have a good grip on her as he walks her towards the loo.
His hands skate up her shirt, caressing her baby bump, relishing in her warm flesh. He wandlessly flicks the tap on to her preferred temperature, putting some soap and creating bubbles, and turns back to help with her clothes.
“I can take my own clothes off,” she says as she rolls her eyes, letting him take it off of her nonetheless.
A pale brow quirks up, lips pursing. “Yes, Hermione, I’m very well aware, thank you. But I like taking care of you, and you’re pregnant, so…” His brows are raised and he hooks his fingers in the hem of her shorts, pulling her closer and kissing her head.
“Yes, yes. Hurry, I'm cold.”
He pulls her shorts down along with her knickers, gently helping her into the tub and shutting the water off. She sighs as the water hits her skin, eyes fluttering shut and his hands skating up and down her thigh.
She places her hand in his, getting into the tub and he eases her in until she’s sitting. The water feels nice on her skin. She thinks it’d be better if he were in with her, but he never gets in, claiming this is for her care and not pleasure.
So she settles for watching him, tracking every move, and smirk, catching how he admires her and tits, catching how he blushes when he meets her eyes.
The boyish look on his face is comforting, reminding her of all those years ago.
“Hair up?” he asks, conjuring a thick hair tie, one that won’t break her curls. He looks so concentrated, looks so happy.
She nods, bottom lip between her teeth, as she sits up and leans in to him. His hands catch her curls gently, fingers loving how soft it feels on his fingertips. He twists her hair around, creating a knot and wrapping the hair tie around to keep it steady. Small curls leaving the bun and resting on her head and neck.
A cup is in his hand in seconds, and he begins scooping water and pouring it on her, warming her body. He’s taking care of her, taking care of their baby.
She smiles to herself as she watches how much he enjoys himself. It’s sweet. Makes her heart full.
“I love you, Draco.” It’s nearly like it burst through her lips, feeling it so intensely she couldn’t fathom not having said it in that moment.
This man. This man will be the death of her. And she couldn’t find it in her to complain.
“I love you, Hermione.” Crimson floods his cheeks, an enormous grin on his lips.
This witch. This witch will be the death of him. And he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
His fingers work on his trousers, buttoning it up and pressing down invisible wrinkles. His eyes flit to the mirror, catching his reflection, and if she were behind him, she’d glide her hands through his chest and press kisses to his shoulder.
She’d press the warmth of her belly and etch her love with her lips on him. He’d blush and turn to putty with just the slightest of caresses.
And that simple moment, or moments of the sort, brighten his day like a patronus defending him against dementors.
Where’s his witch?
He thinks that she’s nearly done, maybe on their bed waiting for him, looking beautiful as always. He can’t fathom how pretty she’ll look today, doesn’t even know what she opted to wear.
But he knows it’ll match her perfectly, match her honey skin and pretty curves, match her features and likes. Match her in every way possible.
It seems like forever by the time he has found her, crouched down, attempting to tie her laces, face red, and frustration etched into her expression.
His movements are quick, closing the space between them, kneeling before her, removing her fingers from her laces, and tying little bunny ears. He hears as she falls back against the chaise, sighing in relief and taking a gulp of breath. And he chuckles, having been able to relieve his wife from the burden of tying her trainers.
He fixes her socks, making them match in size and smoothing them down, making them look perfect, matching her already perfect self.
Her hand makes its way to his neck, massaging gently as a way of thanks, loving how he comes for her, even when she hasn’t asked. It makes her blush and feel so lucky for having been able to marry such a man.
One that loves her, cares for her, and worships her.
She watches as his fingers fold and bend the laces like bunny ears — the way she taught him and he fell in love with — proud of how well they came out on his very first try.
He reminds her of a boy, so proud to have perfected a skill. She smiles to herself, feeling all bubbly and full.
Once he finishes, he meets her eyes, smiling like an idiot, and moves to plant a kiss to her lips. He stands to his full height and cups her face in hands.
“Have you finished or will we be late?” A playful smirk graces his lips, and she pouts. She leans into his warm hands, placing a kiss to his wrist.
“My hair and then we’re good to go,” she says, flitting her eyes to his face, admiring how naturally perfect he is. “But I don’t think I have the energy to deal with that, Draco. She’s been a nightmare to deal with for months.”
The laugh that leaves his mouth is unearthly and should be embarrassing but isn’t, because he’s comfortable enough to be himself around his wife, knows that she’d never judge him.
He doesn’t think that goes for being cross with him. She looks like she’s crossed with him now.
“She?” The look of mirth in his face should upset her, should irritate her, but she just loves how he looks at this very moment. “Hermione, come on, I’ll work my magic.”
He kisses her head and guides her to turn away, facing the mirror. He sees as she eyes her unruly locks, but all he can seem to find is her beauty, nothing wrong or ugly about her curls.
He removes the hair tie from her head, watching as the hair falls down onto her shoulders and back. Knots and frizzy pieces of hair are present and he sees the grimace on her face for just a second.
There’s a spray bottle in his hands instantly, begins to spray and drown her hair until it lays wet and controlled. He combs through with a brush and notes that it’s quite easy, easier than a few weeks ago.
He peeks at the mirror and sees the slight smirk on her lips, looks so beautiful when her eyes close as he massages her scalp.
His hands make her feel relaxed, make her feel calm, so she leans into his touch, relishing in the comfort.
There’s this bottle of hair product that she wears all the time, smells like lemongrass, and he squeezes some onto his hands, applying it to her curls and scrunching them up.
It takes a few minutes for him to get all of the product worked into her curls, gauging her reaction and feeling sparkles of pride in his blood when he sees the brightest smile on her lips.
It feels amazing.
Making her happy is his only wish in life.
Wandlessly, he dries her hair. Curls coming back to life.
Then, he begins his favorite part of doing his hair: braiding.
He sections her hair into three pieces and concentrates as he starts to assemble the prettiest braid she’ll ever lay her eyes on.
His fingers work with precision as he loops a piece of hair with the other, ensuring that it’s tight and won’t dissolve as the hours pass.
Her cheeks are painted with red, smiling like an idiot, as his face contorts in concentration, ensuring the braid is perfect, that she loves it.
He’s gentle as he handles her locks.
His long, lithe fingers worked quickly and in just a few minutes he finished braiding and tied a hair tie at the very end.
The braid goes on her shoulder, and she looks over to him, giving him the biggest of smiles. “I love it, Draco. Thank you.”
They go hand in hand, letting the bright green flames encompass them, wisping them away to the Potter Residence.
As they step out of the floo, Hermione walks in front of him, leading him into Grimmauld Place and out to the back yard.
Very quickly something hits his nose, making his mouth water from the pleasant scent wafting in the air. He has never smelled something so good, so delicious before. Between sweet and spicy, a sort of savory hint to it.
He squeezes her hand, causing her to look back at him, and he gives her a hungry grin. And all she can do is laugh. Adorably sweet giggles that bubble out of her chest.
Her eyes search all around between the people, looking for a very familiar redhead or messy brown waves.
If she wasn’t so nervous about being around such a large group of people she’d probably have just made herself at home. But the Harpies are there, as are some aurors from the DMLE.
And much to her utter dismay, not one of her mates have shown up. Not any. Which completely throws her off, because she’d thought this would be an intimate sort of gathering.
A warm hand grasps her elbow, behind her a familiar giggle and arms quickly wrapping around her neck before she can even register that it’s Ginny. She squeezes her tight, peppering kisses to her cheeks. And all Hermione can do is return the affections as she hugs her best friend whom she hasn’t seen in months.
They stay in each other’s embrace not long enough in her opinion, having missed her cheeky remarks and wiggly brows.
Ginny’s smile is from ear to ear, eyes nearly closed from the intensity of it. “Mi’, you’ve changed,” she says, laugh tumbling from her lips. “Merlin, you’ve gotten so big.”
Hermione giggles, having understood her best mate’s horribly said joke. “Oh Gin.” She feels the backs of her eyes begin to sting, hands coming to her cheeks. “It’s been so long, too long.”
She nods in agreement, teeth biting at her bottom lip, and smile erupting yet again. “How’ve you been?”
“Pregnant, unfathomably so.”
“It’s what happens when you get knocked up.” She snickers, shooting her a wicked wink and Hermione tries her hardest to scowl.
Now that perks Draco’s ears, rubs him the wrong way that Ginerva worded the making of his baby in such adolescent words.
He only eyes her, holding his wife’s hand protectively in his, standing by in case her mate oversteps.
“Can I touch?” she asks, pointing at Hermione’s belly. “My future godchild.” She wiggles her carrot colored brows, and Draco’s relaxed stance immediately goes rigid.
Hermione giggles as she nods her head, puffing her belly out so Ginerva could reach it. And as he sees those unwelcomed fingers only graze his wife’s belly, he smacks her hand away, completely and utterly disturbed at the thought of having someone touch their baby, touch his wife.
No.
No, not all.
He doesn’t like that one bit.
He hears Hermione gasp and sees how her mate stares at him flatly, probably not surprised that he reacted the way he did.
It was common knowledge that he protects his witch, is possessive and all things that come with those characteristics. And that is exactly why Ginerva rolls her eyes at him instead of getting offended.
“Malfoy.” She nods in his direction, feigning annoyance, and he catches the slightest of smirks on her lips. “You haven’t changed much.”
He tips his head, making sure his irritation is etched onto his expression. “Ginerva.” His lips quirk up despite his wishes. “Still looking like a carrot, I see.”
He feels his wife’s glare, eyes burning into him, and he does his best to not look at her, knowing how upset she must be about his actions.
“Ah yes, and you still have the characteristics of a ferret.” She barks out a laugh, very Ginerva-like and he couldn’t help but let a smile out. “Tell me, Malfoy, do you still dig and chew everything up?”
He purses his lips, scowl piecing itself on his face as he remembers the time he’d gotten stuck in his animagus form.
Gods.
It was a difficult time.
While he might’ve smacked her hand, they still have always been friends… to an extent, of course. But Hermione doesn’t like it when they’re rude to each other.
He finds it quite hilarious.
So does Ginerva.
They share a look, flitting their gaze to the curly-haired witch and back to each other, attempting to conceal the utter look of mirth fighting its way to their faces.
Minutes.
They last minutes before absolutely cracking up, and doubling over in laughter, giggles and snickers filling the air.
“You both still act like children.”
“Yes, and you still love us, isn’t that right, Ferret?“
“Very factual, Carrot-top.”
Laughter rings from all three of them, and he found the care less of the all the people that stare and look at them, because he’s head having a good laugh with a good mate of his.
A mate.
His first ever so.
He quite likes that, and wonders if she considers him one too.
Ginerva offers him a grin, eyes looking him up and down, brows doing what they always are — wiggling. “Slytherin green?” She asks, brow cocking and hands planting on her hips. “When shall you grow out of your Hogwarts phase.” She feigns disappointment.”
He only rolls his eyes.
He’ll never understand how mere strangers could possibly fathom such audacity.
Truly.
Wholeheartedly.
There wasn’t a single moment that someone would approach them, offering compliments and calling his wife “momma” or fucking “mommy”.
What the fuck.
What the actual fuck.
It made his blood boil. Each word they uttered in their direction, each fucking voice change, everything, it was all so irritating.
Hermione, his love, his wife, was so kind and entertained their hospitality. She smiled so perfectly, laughed so cutely, and did everything so well. Because she’s perfect.
Each and everyone one of those ill-mannered people asked and attempted to touch her belly, touch his wife, touch their unborn baby.
And everytime they tried, he’d smack their hand out of the way, with every bit of force he could muster, always saying either show some respect or she’s mine or it’s quite disturbing to be touching a grown woman’s belly, is it not?
Words won’t be able to describe how frustrating it is. It’s as if the ones that came after the first person hadn’t learned.
And all Hermione does when he smacks yet another hand from her belly is squeeze his hand, like she’s thanking him, like she’s grateful that he’s saving her from having strangers touch her.
Blood boiling.
He holds her in his arms, large hand possessively placed on her, rubbing her belly, protectively holding her behind him as he gives every single person a glare.
His nose nuzzles at her temple, pressing a kiss, and quietly purring as he feels alright, feels that she’s now safe with him, away from the intrusive people that clearly need to be taught manners.
He holds her as close to him as he can, wanting to feel her breathe, wanting to have her leaning on him, just have her with him at all, but this just doesn’t quite do much for him.
It’s been a rather irritating day.
So stupid.
So bloody stupid he can’t even fathom it. Can’t fucking wrap it around his head.
“Oi!” Ginerva swots his shoulder and he instinctively moves Hermione away so that she doesn’t even feel the slight push. “Malfoy, why have you managed to assault nearly all of my guests?” She’s upset, evidently so, cheeks lightly flushed, brows furrowed and a near sneer curling her lips.
He holds Hermione closer to him, protectively, and only gazes down at her. He sniffs, placing his palm on Hermione’s cheek and pressing his lips to her temple once again.
Mine.
All mine.
Mine to protect.
Keep safe.
My Hermione.
My wife and baby.
They stand there in silence and he only further ignores the burning glare from the redheaded girl, not letting her wither him down as he was only protecting Hermione.
Only that.
And she knows how he is with his wife. Knows that he’d rather die than let his wife be touched and harassed.
“Malfoy.”
He sneers at her, and it comes from deep within, deep from the depths of the hate that has been boiling since they’d sat down, since the first person came and dared speak to her the way he did.
“If I’d known you’d be inviting such heathens, I would’ve stayed home.” It’s said with every ounce of disgust and irritation he could possibly fathom, hoping she truly knows how upset he is. “I mean really—“
“What’re you even—“
“Who the fuck comes up—“
“You make absolutely no sense—“
“To a pregnant lady and ask to touch her belly?”
“Such a child.”
He rolls his eyes, watching nothing and avoiding the unfathomably aggravating witch that tried to chastise him for defending Hermione.
“It’s normal for people to want to feel her baby bump.” Instinctively, he rubs a protective circle with his palm on her belly, relishing in the way she leans into him, grasping his hand and pressing it to her body.
“I don’t care.” He spits, more malice that he intended for his friend but perhaps it’s necessary. “Hermione doesn’t like it. So why would I let them do it? I don’t care for what they believe.”
She makes an indignant noise, face flushing a deeper shade of crimson. “You’re acting like a helicopter.” She shakes her head.
“A protective helicopter.” He rolls his eyes.
They both have run out of insults to say to each other. And for that he is glad. Glad to not have to yell and further disturb his pregnant wife, further insult his mate.
A beat of silence.
“Are you both done?” She is upset, so deeply upset with two of the most important people in her life. “It’s quite childish to have a screaming match over something so minuscule.” She eyes them both.
“‘Mi, you’ve seen how he’s been slapping my guests hands like children. It’s rude.”
She sighs, pursing her lips. “Gin, I don’t like being touched. Especially by people I barely know.” It’s very quiet and she softens her expression.
At that Ginny stays silent, and she sees as the guilt becomes evident in her brows and eyes. It’s slow but she sees it happening before her own eyes.
“Draco, there was no need to get physical but thank you for saying ‘no’ when I couldn’t.” She smiles slightly, placing a kiss to his cheek.
“I’m sorry, ‘Mi.”
They stayed for a while after everyone left.
She thinks everything would’ve been tense since Draco and Ginny’s argument but as she watches them now, all she sees is a couple of mates laughing and cracking jokes.
It’s almost as if it was just mere banter.
It probably was.
Knowing the pair of them, it was most definitely banter.
She loves them both. So much.
And she relishes the time they spend together.
They arrive at their house as the sun sets, showing the beautiful night sky.
She wraps her arms around his middle, placing her head to his chest. He kisses her crown and she only melts into him.
“You’re my home,” she murmurs.