a/n: just a bit of dramione fluff and malfoy being selfish. M for a lot of coarse language and sexual references.

—

"Oi, give it here," Draco yelled out, jutting his hand out with his palm faced out and quirking his thin pale eyebrow up.

When neither Crabbe nor Goyle gave Draco back his maroon dragon stuffed toy, that he so generously let them borrow — or in Draco's view, let them look at while he bragged about it — for a mere moment, Draco snatched it out of Crabbe's chubby and somewhat clammy fingers, narrowing his eyes at the two in question. Draco crassly rubs his own hands on the lapel of his jacket, astonished at the smudges of dirt running down his collar from coming in contact with the boy in front of him.

He tells himself it's normal to hate some people — most people, scratch that, all people — because he sure as hell hates the boys hunching in front of Draco, impending on his stuff without properly asking. After all when his mother tugged him by the collar at his nape just three months ago to meet with this Wizarding man, who smiled with way too white and way too much teeth, almost predatorily, he introduced himself as someone who would be Draco's 'best friend'. The elderly man with silver-tipped hair starting at the middle of his head sat Draco down on a creaky, wooden stool before pressing numerous questions about his feelings and showing him these drawings — which resembled two symmetrical and devastating spills of ink on a sliver of parchment rather than 'emotions' as the man referred to them as. Yeah, that didn't go very well.

But once his mother's plea to Draco to start being mildly friendly — as opposed to his usual 'cynic' self who enjoys running around without those itchy pressed black trousers rubbing against his crotch and those navy blue turtlenecks smothering his jaw with wool and enjoys blabbering out most of the vulgar words he discovers from spying on his father's nightcap sessions with his mother in smudgy red lipstick and goldilocks curls from through barely-shut foyers and gasping giggles — he's taken to ordering around the two boys, who show up Sunday mornings at Thursday afternoons, in front of him, one extremely lanky and a bit ashen in the candlelight and one with a rotund belly protruding from underneath his two-sizes-two-small scarlet grey jumper.

"You two are absolutely moronic." Draco tucked his toy in between the crook of his arm and torso, making sure Mr. Snuggles was safe in his comfort before he unleashed his fury on the two dunderheads in his play room.

Draco thought it was decent or whatever — the play room that was crafted from brazen tears of his accentuated pouts and dignified hurls of sobs and from those crinkly, wrinkly, and creased paws of those big-eared elves. Not up to his standards, but still completely and utterly his.

"Sorry, Malfoy," Goyle sheepishly said.

"Did I ask for your apologies?" Draco rolled his eyes. They didn't notice. Not that they ever noticed anything anyways. "Gosh, sometimes I feel as though I'm the only one not a troglodyte in this acquaintanceship."

"What's a froglighte?" Crabbe asked — huffing out in an attempt to look bigger, but instead proves his place one of those fat golden birds from the water fountain in his Manor — the ones stuffed on macadamia nuts imported from the continent and the expensive bread slices with a plethora of multigrain essentials that his mother shoves down Draco's throat every morning with a side of freshly-squeezed, pulpy grapefruit juice.

"Absolute morons," Draco muttered to himself, shaking his head.

"Hey, my father said that anyone who calls me a moron has to deal with 'im," Crabbe swiftly defended, crossing his arms over his busty chest.

"Yeah, well my father said your father was a moron as well. The apple doesn't fall very far from the tree," Draco added on, moving away from his acquaintances to shuffle around his play room and set Mr. Snuggles in his cot by the window.

The blond tucks the animal into the blanket, minding the glittery wings and the iridescent scales, before swivelling on his feet, expecting them to have been gone already. Sadly, most of his expectations are rarely met.

"What tree?" Goyle asked.

"Would both of you kindly leave?" Draco mumbled, his left eyebrow twitching. "I have things to do and toys to play with."

"Hey, why won't you share your toys with us, Malfoy?" Goyle solemnly inquired, his feet shuffling — probably scratching up the freshly-polished and newly-swept and anciently tarnished floors with those bulky and dragon hide boots that must be at least three sized too big for him — as he stood by the exit.

Draco didn't even bother turning around as he began to polish his training broom that his father bought him for his seventh birthday.

"Malfoys don't share." Draco shuddered a bit when the word left his mouth. "Now, out."

.

There it was.

His reason for the entire week's worth of begging and pleading towards his father. After seven days of whining and grovelling and whinging till his mouth hurt, his father finally gave in, sending his mother and him with the appropriate amount of galleons to buy the broom in question.

The broom looked absolutely celestial, with butterscotch accents and a matte finish, shining in all its glory against the stand in the shop in Diagon Alley.

Draco sprinted in the store, ignoring his mother's furious pleas for him to stop and pretending he didn't heard the shopkeeper's shout for him to slow down.

How could he even think about slowing down? His time was too precious for that.

He's about three steps away from finally touching the object of his dreams before he's ripped back by the collar. Draco staggers back, glaring up at the person who did so, a lanky dark boy, with glimmering teeth and golden eyes, who stared back at Draco with mild interest.

"Excuse me," Draco snapped.

"Yeah, excuse you," the dark boy responds, stepping back to grasp the broom that Draco was looking at.

Draco takes a breath. One. Two. And three. Before turning to the boy with a sweet smile and snatching it right out of his palms.

"Hey!" the boy yelled. "I was holding that!"

"Yeah, and I was looking at it, big deal," Draco replies blankly, turning around to search for his mother to finally pay for it.

"Who do you think you are?" the boy said, holding back Draco's shoulder, while the blond merely shrugged him off.

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

The boy narrowed his eyes pointedly before gritting out his own name. "I'm Blaise."

"Good for you," Draco said bluntly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business that pertains to this broom."

"As if, I was the one who had it first!" the boy — Blaise — snatched it back out of Draco's hands.

"I was the one who had it first," Draco mimicked sarcastically. "Grow up and hand the broom over."

Draco stretched his palm out and rose his eyebrow.

"No." Blaise's grip tightened around the handle.

"No?"

"Yes, I said no. Good listening skills," Blaise commented off-handedly.

Draco didn't know who this boy thought he was, but he was for sure not going to let some utter savage get the best of him.

"I'll fight you for it," Draco replied calmly, stripping off his gloves to put in his coat.

"You'll fight me for this broom?"

"Yes — you and me, outside, only fists."

"And if I say no?"

"Then, you'll forever be going through life knowing you only got that broom because you were a scaredy-cat!"

Blaise gasped, shoving the broom to lean on the wall before stalking outside, obviously waiting for him to follow.

But Draco merely slipped his gloves back on, grabbed the broom, and walked up to his mother on the other end of the shop to pay for it.

By the time Blaise realised he had fooled him, Draco was already carrying said broom in his hand out the shop, smirking at a desolate boy who stood near the alley by the shop.

Draco sardonically waved to the boy before yelling, "Malfoys don't fight! See you around, Maze!"

.

"This is utter bull," Draco whispered under his breath.

His mother heard him talking over his ballroom dance instructor and gives him those eyes — the ones with paired with a click of her jaw and a poised purse of the lips. Draco eagerly looks away, tucking his hands sheepishly into the pockets of his trousers, hoping something, anything, could take him away from the misery of having to learn how to ballroom dance, for fuck's sake.

"You are thirteen, Draco," his mother had said this morning. "You are of age to start looking for your wife, and you need to start looking and acting the part of a true gentlemen."

"So that means I have to bloody dance with Daphne Greengrass all afternoon?"

His mother had tucked a lock of his hair behind his ears, before he swatted her babying hands away.

"Oh, honey, Daphne has a crush on you. Her mother told me yesterday," his mother told him mischievously. "Maybe after today, you won't have to look very far for your life partner."

She began licking her fingers and fixing up all his cowlicks while smoothing her elegant hands over his robes.

"Mother, for Merlin's sake, Greengrass is not interesting at all," Draco whined. "She has the personality of a freshly-boiled egg!"

"Draco! Be courteous. She's quite the lady."

"Can I ask the house elves to push me down the stairs so I don't have to dance?"

His mother gave him a stern look, and Draco knew to shut up then.

So, now, here he sat, listening to some olive-skinned guy with way too much chest hair and way too much energy, describe the dance that Greengrass and him were going to engage in. End him.

He rolled his eyes and looked over towards the girl beside him, who smiled nervously with tight cheeks and blushed from her neck up. Bloody girl hormones.

Draco ended up having to place one of his hands on Daphne's waist, trying to ignore how her other hand, laced with his, was clammy against his skin.

At one point, the dance instructor pushed his and her body closer ('you have to feel the music pulsing through your bodies and transfer it onto each other'), and Draco nearly vomited when Greengrass actually, no actually, smelled him.

"You smell like peaches," she whispered. "What is that?"

"It's my body wash," he mumbled.

"It's nice. What's the name of it?"

"Why?"

"No reason," she replied quickly, too quickly.

"Gods, please get me out of here," he whispered to himself.

When they finally separated and Daphne left his ballroom with a small wave and a promise to see him at Hogwarts after the summer holidays ended, Draco went straight up to his mother and threatened to never get married and have grandchildren if she didn't let him choose his own wife.

It took about less than three seconds after Draco said 'no grandchildren' for her to narrow her eyes and say she'll think about it.

And when Draco smirked and skipped up to his room, he knew his life was basically in his control.

.

It was unbelievable how much Granger got on his nerves during fifth year. Yes, she was fucking hot when she was mad, but she also made him give her a piggyback ride for the entirety of their patrols one time and ate his fizzing whizbees.

The castle was eerily quiet that night when Draco twirled his wand and whistled through the corridors, while Granger was busy mumbling Arithmancy formulas under her breath.

His strides were much longer than hers, leading him to be a good distance ahead of her, bored out of his mind from the fact that his partner was Hermione fucking Granger. The only consolation of his was being able to slip his whizbees into the pocket of his cloak, slyly sucking on them throughout the patrols.

Draco felt his eyes roll to the back of his head when he heard a squeak and a thud, glancing behind his shoulder to see her nursing her foot on the ground.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"Are you serious, Granger?" Draco snapped while pocketing his wand and walking back to the injured witch, looming over her. "Can't you keep your sideshows on your own time. I have things to do following this that don't include listening to you harp about a scraped knee."

"Excuse you. These are our patrols, not just mine. And maybe if you had walked beside me with our shared Lumos, I could've seen the chip in the stone floors."

Shared? Fucking hell, who did this witch think she was? Ordering him around — the little swot.

"Whatever. Just get up." Draco stalked off until he realised that no footsteps followed his tracks.

He swivelled on his feet, staring at her tiny body in a ball on the floor. Draco sighed and pinched his nose before walking up to her again.

"Granger, get up. Why are you huddled up like a pygmy puff? Get. Up."

Draco crossed his arms and tapped his foot, his eyebrow twitching because of all this wasted time that Granger was taking up.

And then he heard it. The small little whimper coming out of her mouth.

"What the fu—?" Draco's eyes widened when it happened again, and his heart nearly beat out of his chest. "Are you—are you crying, Granger?"

Her head whipped up from her knees, tears mingling a path down her face and eyes bloodshot red.

Oh, fuck no. This could not be happening. Granger was not on the floor. She was not crying her eyes out. And her bottom lip was not trembling as she stared up at him with clumped up lashes.

"Of course I'm c-crying, Malfoy!" Leave it to Granger to act all smart as she's sniffling her snot up. "My ankle hurts! And Ron and Harry keep making fun of Crooks! And I got an Exceeds Expectations on my DADA essay! And I'm tired! And you're yelling at me! And my ankle really hurts! I just, ugh!"

"Wait." Draco quirked an eyebrow up. "You got an E on the essay?"

"Piss off, Malfoy! I have hard days too, you know!"

Draco tilted his head back and bursted out laughing. "Holy fuck." Another merciless chortle. "What happened? You're the swottiest swot in this school and you got a—" He wiped his tears as he clutched onto his stomach, kneeling down as his laughs bubbled through the corridor. "—an E!"

Granger mumbled something underneath her breath, but Draco was too busy heaving out pants to hear it.

"I think that's quite possibly the funniest thing I've heard in my entire life." He breathed out another laugh.

"You say one word about this to anyone — anyone — I swear, Malfoy, that your line of incestuous breeding will die off with you screaming my name." She grabbed the edge of his cloak, pulling him near her face until Draco was nose to nose with her and could smell the green apple sugar quill on her breath. "You will regret it. Do you understand me?"

Draco couldn't tell if he was turned on by the way her tongue would move in synchronised harmony with the twitching of her uneven eyebrows or the fact that her lips would be touching his if he leaned in just a bit more or that he finally realised that Granger was hot as fuck when she got feisty. He didn't mind either way.

She released the fabric of his cloak, leaned back, and held her hand out as if asking 'what the fuck are you waiting for? help me up.'

Through trembling hands, Draco lifted her body up, groaning when she toppled over in his arms, and he had to steady himself by holding her elbows and allowing herself to lean her chest onto his. He let out a deep exhale and an oomph when she crumbled into his embrace, feeling a little bit more uncomfortable than he was a couple of minutes ago now that her soft breasts were flush against his chest. If he just shifted his hand from her waist a bit up. . . Bad thoughts, Draco, very bad. Extremely bad.

He resorts to the next best line to abolish his disconcertion — insulting her. "For Merlin's sake, Granger. What'd you do? Eat a cow? You're heavier than that oaf of a groundskeeper."

She ignored his jibe about Hagrid. It mildly pisses him off. "I can't walk, Malfoy. My ankle."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?"

"Go get help?"

"And leave your sorry arse here while I have to walk back and forth? No."

"Fine, get on your knees."

Draco gave her a quizzical look before smirking.

"Aren't you supposed to be the one getting on your knees, Granger?" His ego is a bit restored from his pre-pubescent thoughts on grabbing a feel of Granger when he repeats the line he's used on many — mostly resulting in a tight-winded slap or a well-placed knee to the groin. Good thing she can't move her foot.

She lifted her head, glared at him, and then pinched his neck hard enough to bruise.

"Feisty, Granger," Draco replied blankly, rubbing the injured piece of skin. "If you wanted to give me a hickey, you could've just asked. I'd be happy to lend you a canvas."

"Oh, shove off, Malfoy, and get on your knees so you can carry me to the infirmary. Unless you have another brilliant idea?"

Draco gently let go of Granger's arms, lifting his own in surrender before kneeling. He felt absolutely degraded. A Malfoy? Getting on his knees. For fuck's sake.

She limped up to him until she was leaning against his back and ordered him to wrap his arms underneath her knees.

Draco mumbled something under his breath about being used as a sack mule before standing up, with Granger leeched onto his back and leaning her head on his shoulder while her arms snaked around his neck.

They were walking in silence the infirmary, the only sound being the clicking of his shoes and Granger's abnormally loud breath near his ear.

"So… Malfoy?" Granger began, unsurely, as if she was about to ask something important.

Draco nearly scoffed, wasn't carrying this witch enough?

"I heard you got some fizzing whizbees in your pocket."

Of course she did.

"And? Your point?"

"Can I have some?" Her voice was so sickeningly sweet, Draco nearly barfed.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because they're mine."

"Can you pretty please share some with me? I'm a bit peckish. I missed dinner."

"Why, pray tell, did you miss dinner?" Draco asked, rolling his eyes as he realised she was probably hounded up somewhere in the a dusty corner of the library, working on an essay due in two weeks.

Granger cleared her throat before saying, "I was working on my Charms essay."

"The one due in two weeks?" Draco questioned for confirmation of his splendid insight.

"A week and six days, actually."

He wonders why he ever took divination after being completely right about the witch on his back — what an utter waste of time.

"Not my problem," Draco cooly dismissed.

Granger let out a humph sound of defeat before speaking up again, "If you don't give me some, I'll tell McGonagall that you pushed me and I sprained my poor, tender ankle."

Images of the old Gryffindor mogul taking away his prefect badge, sending off a strongly-worded letter to his father, and kicking him off the Quidditch team popped up in his head.

Even though he couldn't see Granger's face, he imagined her to be smirking viciously to herself.

"Fucking hell, woman. Why weren't you in Slytherin?" Draco cried out.

"Could've been. Sorting Hat gave me a choice. He said I had the qualities of all houses. But you see, when I was reading Hogwarts: A History, Slytherin was briefly described as being bias towards only people like you."

"People like me?"

"You know, snobbish, arrogant, incapable of sharing, also extremely pure-blooded. And I'm, well, a Muggle-born," she admitted the last part softly, barely above a whisper.

Draco didn't know how to reply. Okay, maybe he was a bit snobbish — and maybe arrogant — but only towards idiots like that Ravenclaw Corner or that Hufflepuff Smith and most of all towards that tosser Potter.

But he wasn't extremely pure-blooded. Whatever the hell that meant. He's a Malfoy, born and bred.

And Malfoys were loyal. As were Slytherins.

"Did you also read about how loyal Slytherins were to each other? And even if you were a Muggle-born, no one would've cared because you would've been our Muggle-born."

"You cared enough to call me that name in second year."

Draco sighed, swallowing every last shred of dignity left in his Malfoy name and praying that his ancestors didn't roll over in their graves from what he was about to say, and then whispered in a little squeaky voice, "I'm sorry."

"Hm? Didn't hear that. Could you repeat it?" The witch was taunting him. He could hear it in her smug tone.

"For fuck's sake, I'm not repeating myself."

Silence.

Granger finally said, "For what? Being a git or being called out for it?"

And then Draco gritted out through closed teeth, "The former."

He felt her smile against his shoulder. "Thanks, Malfoy, now hand over those whizbees. We don't have all day."

"So bossy, Granger."

"You like it."

Draco let out a crack of a genuine laugh and said, "Maybe."

.

To be honest, Draco only joined that whole house elf 'woe is me' thing of Granger's to get on McGonagall's good side so he was a shoo-in for Head boy next year.

But soon enough, he found himself enamoured like a fucking sap with a girl who never brushed her hair or wore her skirts above her knee.

He doesn't really know when he stopped thinking about wanting to hex Granger and started thinking about wanting to fuck her.

Sometime between carrying her to the infirmary on his back, and when she accidentally walked in on him half-naked in the prefect's bathroom and blushed like a schoolgirl with a crush as she stared at his bare chest, stuttering out an apology before scurrying away. Sometime then, he guesses, after he got unmistakably hard (and she wasn't even the one naked) and having to go deal with the issue in another shower.

It didn't help that at every meeting, Granger's oral passion about the importance of house elf rights came out in bouts of lectures and heaving chests. Her hair sizzled with fury, and he had the strange urge to run his hands through it. And her face, tipped with snowy cheeks and a cute little button nose, fuck, he just wanted to grab it and kiss her till he couldn't breathe.

He was absolutely fucked, and only three meetings in, if the raging hard-ons he hid underneath the table and with a well-placed concealment charm had anything to say about it.

Most of the time, Draco zoned out from the conversation, imagining fantasies of taking Granger over the desk in McGonagall's room, having her yell out his name till her voice ran coarse as he licked her cunt so vigorously his face would hurt from the sheer force.

Or him pulling her into an empty corridor and fucking her right there against the wall, watching her writhe in ecstasy from the sheer pleasure and asking him to take her harder and harder and harder.

Draco was mid-fantasy of Granger sucking his cock with those precious pink lips of hers as Potter and Weaselbee watched from the side when a voice — her voice — called him back to reality.

"Malfoy? What do you think?" He pouted slightly because she always says 'Draco' in his fantasies.

Oh, Merlin's balls.

"Er, there's always room for improvement," Draco said, but it came out more like a question.

Granger shot him a wicked smile before saying, "See guys, that's the proper attitude: there is always room for improvement. Don't let anyone allow you to be mediocre. Thanks, Malfoy, and see you guys next week."

Draco breathed out a sigh of relief right before Granger adjourned the house elf meeting. He was going to linger back while packing up his elf button into his bag to see if Granger wanted to walk down to lunch together, but that Meaty-hands McLaggen tosser stayed back as well, so Draco perched his ears and listened slyly.

"Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend, Granger?" McLaggen choked out — tripping himself on some unknown crack in the floor and landing face first in Granger's chest, the owner of which tossed her bushy, bushy hair over her shoulder before going back to packing up her schoolbag.

Of course the bloke wanted to go out with her; it was clear for anyone with two eyes and a sliver of intelligence. But Draco heard from Blaise, who'd been fuck buddies with the Gryffindor Patil twin long enough to know that Granger felt entirely. . . aloof about McLaggen.

"Maybe," she responds with a cluck of her tongue, still absently running through papers in a beige folder.

"Maybe I'll see you there then," he continues smoothly.

"I guess."

Draco wanted to step in and tell her that McLaggen's a prick — ever since that time he 'accidentally but not so accidentally' shoved a full-to-the-brim and sticky bowl of oats with honey drizzle in Draco's hair before the Slytherdor Quidditch match in fifth year — but instead he pretended to finally find a piece of lint off his grey jumper and flick it into the air.

"Was there something you wanted, Malfoy, or just here to pretend to be waiting for something while listening to my conversations ?" Granger petulantly said from across the classroom, swinging her bag over her shoulder and nearing his presence.

Draco cleared his throat. "He's not worth it."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were gifting me a compliment, Malfoy." Granger crossed her arms and leaned onto a nearby desk, allowing him the brief sight of her toned legs. Fuck. Fantasy number twenty-eight was already on its way.

"Well, maybe I am." Draco ran his hands down his collar, willing himself to be suave and collected in this moment.

"Cute," she said with a smirk, eyeing him up and down.

"My comment or me?" he replied swiftly.

"Hm." Granger rubbed her chin. "Ask me tomorrow and I'll tell you."

"Tomorrow?" he asked hesitantly. Tomorrow was a Saturday.

Granger nodded, exiting the classroom, but she looked back at him, asking him to follow with a quirk of her eyebrow.

"At Hogsmeade," she continued while strolling forward.

Draco was torn between grinning foolishly and pumping his fist in the air.

"That is, if you want to go with me," she added softly, and he swore that a small blush appeared on her cheeks.

"You know, if you go with me, I can't promise you'll have a terrible time," he said with feigned concern.

Granger gasped, "Oh, don't say that, Malfoy. I was planning on not enjoying myself."

"Sucks to be you then." He shrugged unapologetically.

"Not from my view." She slyly smiled before running ahead of him with a laugh.

It wasn't from Draco's view either when they ended the Hogsmeade trip with Snape giving the both of them shared detention for snogging in the carriages on the way back to the castle.

.

"Draco, get your hand off my shoulder, I feel so constricted," Granger whispered into the skin of his neck, wiggling and squirming in his embrace, as they sat in the Three Broomsticks.

Draco couldn't help it, his starving friends were eyeing her like she was a bloody gourmet meal laid out for them to feast on.

He had meant for this meeting, a month after he officially asked Granger out, for Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle to meet the girl they dubbed 'the one who got Malfoy wanking himself to exhaustion in the shower'.

It's not his fault, per say. After an entire other month prior of them just meeting up in empty classrooms past curfew to talk, he got a bit angsty — no, really, all they did was talk because who knew underneath those baggy robes and those ink-stained hands, that Granger was a closeted romantic wanting poetic discussions and wistful glances and dozens of flowers — (which he happily complied if it meant she wouldn't smack him every time he complained about choking on her hair when hugging).

Granger wanted their feelings to be pure, so for the past eight weeks, all they did was briefly kiss and hold hands and snuggle. Draco didn't mind waiting; but Granger still made him hard either ways — he was a warm-blooded male, and just seeing her mouth run off him after he did something stupid was enough. He couldn't help it.

Last weekend, Granger forced him to play nice with her dunderheaded duo friends. Draco didn't mind that much — he found Weasley to be quite funny when he stopped talking with his mouth full for once, and Potter offered his hand and a fresh slate — but he would never admit that to anyone, even if his life depended on it.

Now, as his three friends (if you could ever call them that) in question sat across from Draco and Granger at the table, smirking at the pair, Draco glared back, pulling his girlfriend into his embrace to pry her away from their eyes.

He just hoped they didn't cast the spell they discovered under a mattress in the Slytherin boys' dorm allowing the caster to see through anyone's clothes in a imagined picture of what could be. It came in use during their third year, when Draco was discovering just how alluring some older women could be. Thank Merlin himself for Gemma Farley's nice set of jugs. That was before he realised how creepy it was to look at girls' faux naked bodies; why do that, when you can just see the real thing?

But now Draco would beat them to pulp if they even made one comment about how hot she might look naked.

And the way Crabbe was glancing at her, with red cheeks and sweaty hands and a lecherous stare, made Draco want to surge over the table, past their butterbeers and pumpkin pasties, grab his collar and tackle him to the floor.

"Sorry," he softly mumbled back into her hair. "I can't help it, you look so pretty today. Did I already tell you that? Because you look fucking gorgeous."

Partial lie. He only wanted to touch her in order to simultaneously sneer at his so-called friends, but she didn't need to know that.

"Yes, you told me." She blushed and hid her face underneath her hands. "Many times."

It was absolutely factual, though. Granger asked him what she should wear on their meeting with his friends, and although, he hadn't given her a proper answer, she strolled down the stairs from Gryffindor Tower that morning in the most mouth-watering pair of robes he had ever seen her in. Draco had to restrain himself from pulling her aside and asking them to stay back at the castle because all he wanted to do was kiss her, everywhere.

"Good, because it's true."

"Would you two stop the whole cuddly thing?" Blaise drawled from across the table. "It's sickening, and some of us are trying to eat with regurgitating their food."

"Shut it, Zabini," Draco growled, pulling Granger's shoulder so she practically sat half in his lap, but the brunette next to him smiled before leaning forward to place her chin in her hands on the table.

"Tell me about yourself, Blaise," his girlfriend echoed.

Zabini's eyebrows raised as he slammed the empty mug of butterbeer on the table, most likely shocked at her outward attempt at being friendly.

"Er, I like your hair?" Blaise offered as a joke, and Draco growled again, wrapping his hands around Granger's waist.

"I fucking warned you, Zabini," Draco said with a scowl.

But Granger laughed it off. "Thanks. I grow it myself."

Blaise smirked before giving a pointed look at Draco, most likely questioning him on his choice of women.

"But I mean, tell me about you and Luna," Granger pressed.

Draco furrowed his brows, this being the first time he's heard about Lovegood and his friend in the same sentence. Blaise looked absolutely flabbergasted, his eyes widened in pure, unadulterated fear as he stared into Granger's.

"Er, w-what do you mean?" Zabini finally offered after a couple moments of silence.

"She told me about how you guys took a broom ride over the lake last week," Granger continued. "Mentioned something about how sweet you were and the glare of the sunset on your skin."

And then his girlfriend winked at his friend before leaning back into Draco's embrace fully. Crabbe and Goyle high-fived each other with a chortle when Zabini covered his face with his hands in embarrassment.

Draco had never seen his friend so astonished in his life.

Fucking hell, it had only been four weeks, but Draco was eighty-seven percent sure he was going to marry the witch sitting next to him.

.

It was fucking annoying really — all the sickeningly sweet backhanded compliments towards Granger. Most of them girls claiming that she was making Draco slum down just by dating her. As if they hadn't been dating for seven bloody months, for fuck's sake.

Granger — or Hermione as she told him to call her after two weeks of dating (not fucking likely) — came to him with an angry glint in her eyes and bloodshot red eyes after Millicent Bulstrode called her a cow.

He hugged Granger and told to Millicent to fuck off the next time he saw her in the common room snogging Terrence Higgs sloppily.

Draco was in the middle of giving Granger a prominent love bite on the side of her neck, as an apology for all the stupid tossers giving her shit, in the back of the library when she moaned slightly and pushed him back by his shoulders.

"What?" he breathed out, still holding her hands and beginning to lean in to chase her lips again.

"Can I wear it?" she whispered.

"Wear what?" He eyed her, glancing at the flush creeping up her neck.

"Your jumper," she softly continued, casting her eyes to their entangled feet.

Draco's eyebrows shot underneath his fringe because Granger hadn't wanted to wear his Quidditch jumper to any of his matches, saying it was way too possessive and archaic to have his last name all over her back. He sighed and was happy with her kissing him on the cheek and holding his hand after every match.

"Really?" Draco refrained from squealing like a juvenile from pure glee.

When Granger nodded, he kissed her swiftly, grabbing her waist and pulling her flush against his body.

He pulled back from her soft lips to whisper, "This isn't because someone's been a bitch to you, is it? Because I'll fucking—"

Granger kissed him to cut him off and shook her head to say no when she leaned back. He sighed in content, propping his forehead on her shoulder and peppering kisses on her collarbone exposed by her open blouse.

"Would you be opposed to wearing something else of mine?" he whispered against her skin.

"Hm?" she hummed, beckoning him to continue.

"My ring," he said, licking his lips and drawing back from her neck to stare at her while holding up his hand.

He told her about the signet ring his father gave him when he finally reached Hogwarts, etched with the 'M' of his surname and the Malfoy emblem and cased with silver and black entwining into a snake. She was too busy sucking on his neck during their free period to care much about his extremely sentimental childhood story, though, so she never picked up that he wanted her to wear it.

"Why?" Granger dipped her eyebrows together, and he had an urge to kiss the creased skin.

"Because. . ." Draco trailed off and looked away with pink cheeks. "It's some bull of a tradition my parents do — meaning that I plan on spending every day of my life protecting you. A promise, as you might call it."

Granger bit her lip and blushed furiously. She was so cute, it hurt — his heart and his dick.

He didn't want to mention that it also meant to any passerby that Hermione Granger was his and only his. She would've probably smacked him, hard, and told him to stop treating her like another one of his possessions.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll wear it."

He grinned and pulled the piece of jewellery off his bony finger, before thrusting it on her left ring finger and transfiguring it to fit her tiny fingers.

Draco laced her fingers into his and kissed her softly on her freckled cheeks, running his nose down the length of her face.

If only Blaise saw him now and told him how much of a soft sap he had become, and for Granger at that, Draco would've told his friend that he was one hundred percent correct.

He was too busy staring at his ring on her hand to care though.

.

The minute he turned eighteen in June, Draco wanted to stalk off to Gringott's and withdraw galleons of money in order to buy a house to finally move out of the Manor, and away from his parents' prying eyes.

His eighteenth birthday was an absolute drag. His mother sent him fruitcake via Owl, cooing about how old he had gotten. And she had been absolutely giddy that he had been dating Hermione for over a year, inquiring about her and slyly placing wedding magazines in his birthday package for him to find. Slytherin at heart, she was.

His father wrote him a lengthy note about how to properly be a Malfoy at that age, detailing his need to keep out of news' scandals or any dark magic cults — as if hearing about how his grandfather used to practically suck Voldemort's cock back in the day wasn't enough to turn him off.

And Granger gifted him with her new set of lingerie as she waited for him on his bed after his first period and an in-depth revision schedule for their NEWT studying to be commenced over the last few weeks, colour-coded and labeled, by the hour.

But all Draco wanted to do was buy the house he was dreaming about, grab his girlfriend, and ravish her all over his new silk sheets he planned to buy.

The few minutes before graduation were spent with Granger licking her fingers and helping him calm his tousled hair, courtesy of their pre-grad quickie, while he wryly smiled at his girlfriend for acting like his mother. She kept lecturing him about keeping up appearances because her parents were going to be meeting him for the second time at graduation, and she also wanted one of those Muggle photographs of them to keep in a frame without him looking like he had just been trampled by Granians.

He told Granger of his plan about his house, when she helped him do up his tie (because apparently after seven years of tying one, he still made it 'lumpy') and smooth over his ebony robes. But instead of being excited about the sex part of his idea, she berated him for wanting to buy an entire mansion before he even got a job.

"I don't need a job, Granger," he had replied. "I'm a Malfoy."

"If you think for a second that I'm going to be attached to a man who spends his time sitting at home on his pile of money, you've got something coming for you, Malfoy," she tutted, narrowing her eyes at him. "Plus, you're wasting all that talent — all that schoolwork — on sitting at home like a couch potato."

"Hey, you know I prefer the bed to couch. Especially when you're in it." She smacked his chest with the back of her hand. He really should've seen it coming, for he was dating a violent witch.

He feels as though the whole letter from St. Mungo's about her healer training starting in a week got to Granger's now cocky head. But, he didn't mind — she was so happy after she got that Owl, she sucked him off with so much fervour that night, he nearly contemplated asking St. Mungo's to give Granger her license for being a trainer right then and there due to her excellent handiwork.

Hermione gave him a pointed look, pulling on his tie extra hard.

"Fine, I'll ask Father if I can start work at the Malfoy company."

"No."

"No?"

"No, you will not lean back on your parents, like every single thing you do in life, or you can have fun Christening your new flat by yourself."

Draco was flabbergasted at her tone. "Flat? I said mansion, woman."

"You better not be thinking about buying a 7 bedroom house for one person!"

"Psh, of course not, sometimes you'll be there and my parents and other people."

She mumbled something underneath her breath that he couldn't quite make out, so he asked her to repeat herself.

"I said you better find a job yourself and a flat or you won't be getting your graduation present." Granger patted his cheek patronisingly, before flipping her dress up and showing him exactly what his present entailed.

"You're a bloody minx." He pointed his finger at his girlfriend, who merely grabbed his wrist and slowly sucked on his digit, hollowing out her cheeks and staring him straight in the eyes.

She released his finger with a pop! and said, "So job?"

He nodded vigorously and choked out, "And a flat."

Draco didn't realise then he had signed a deal with Salazar Slytherin himself.

Granger bought her own place to live, somewhere in the Muggle world, so she can use electricity or something, but Draco was having none of that since it meant she never stayed overnight.

About a month into her healer training and his internship at a Potion's lab — which slaved him out like a bloody mule — she was teaching him how to wash his dishes after a hearty chicken meal they cooked together at his flat. He had just gotten a hold of cooking, and barely understood cleaning, but all he wanted to do was go to bed after his exhausting week and be able to hold Granger in his arms.

So he put down the mug she was furiously scrubbing at, pulled her into his bedroom, and coerced her with his tongue until she listened to his argument.

"I mean, you already spend most of your free-time here, just move in with me," Draco pleaded, planting another kiss on her bare stomach.

"Stop it, that tickles," Granger reprimanded with a laugh. "I can't, Malfoy, my parents would kill me. They don't even know that we're at a point in our relationship where we're doing. . . this. You just turned eighteen, and we both have our own jobs and lives. And it'd be silly for me to move in right after I put down the money for a year's lease on my place."

Draco was peppering kisses down the side of her torso as he mumbled, "No problem, I'll pay it off, and you move in with me."

"Why do you solve everything with your money?"

"I find it's a universal problem solver."

"I just c-can't," she gasped.

He growled, nipping at her stomach, before lifting his head to look at her. "You can. I already cleared half my closet and my bathroom drawers for you."

Granger looked surprised. "You did that all for me?"

"Yes, because I fucking love you. Now move in with me."

"No, you love fucking me." The vulgar word sounded so crass coming from Hermione's mouth that Draco nearly smirked at the sound.

"True."

"You just want so much from me," Granger said with feigned solemn, placing her hand over her forehead. She really should've applied as an actress instead of a healer.

"Don't you know it," he grumbled before crawling up to hover above her and kiss her till she couldn't say no anymore.

"Yes?" he asked after he pulled out, a little breathless.

"Yes." She smiled up at him, running her thumbs down his jaw.

Boy, what a mistake that was.

Granger moved in the next week, bringing all her belongings — including, but not limited to: her Russian knickknack collection ('oh, Draco, they're so cute, just look at them') that Draco felt stared at him every time he crossed their path; her orange fluff ball ('he's just a sweetheart, wait 'til he starts purring on your lap'), who shed his fur all over Draco's hundred galleon robes; and her piles and piles of clothes ('I just need a lot of options if I'm planning on expanding my horizons'), that mostly closely resembled a librarian with her own book club and a lot of unresolved sexual tension with a nearby doorman or something.

And then her mess. Draco never expected someone so organised in the head to be so messy in real life.

She scattered all her girly bathroom essentials all over his clean white-tiled bathroom counter. And she squeezed his toothpaste from the middle of the fucking tube like some common heathen. She never closed the toilet cover — a major pet peeve of his — after getting up to pee in the middle of the night. She left all her wet towels, one for her hair and one for her body and one for her face (like, who needs three towels? seriously?), all over his flat in a sopping mess. She left piles of those trashy and quite vulgar romance novels she reads for fun on the dining table, on the kitchen counter, and in the bathroom. She never makes the bed before she leaves for work, even if he left hours earlier. She leaves traces of coffee rings on every surface because she was a bloody caffeine addict, who knew.

And also, her weird girl club gossip things, clad with mint juleps and chocolate covered strawberries, alongside Lovegood and the She-Weasley every Tuesday and Thursday night. As if it wasn't bad having a Weasley giggling in his living room about how hot some famous Quidditch star looked in Witch Weekly, now, Draco couldn't walk around his flat naked anymore. He had already made that mistake once, coming across Luna fucking Lovegood, who had no qualms about comparing his size to Blaise's — results: his was shorter yet thicker, also with a tinge of pink.

Everything that once resembled his is now looking a lot more like theirs. And Draco can't decide whether to sprint past the garnishing mint leaves on the sugar-glazed tumblers full of strawberry lemonade in—their—kitchen or burrow himself underneath the Delhi imported and suffocatingly thick and undeniably prickly eggshell comforters in—their—bed.

But the worst part — the absolute worst part of this whole ordeal — was arriving home one late Friday from poker night with Zabini and Pucey, two imbeciles with a gnawing need to con Hufflepuffs like MacMillan out his hard-earned galleons to soothe their insufferable, greedy tendencies, to find that his double trouble, chocolatey peppermint fudge, spectacular, finger-licking, orgasm-inducing ice cream tub was gone. Vanished. Like out of thin air. Right from the spot in the freezer — which was behind two wrapped frozen pumpkin pies baked by Mrs. Weasley, preserved immaculately, and an entire frosted-over mug of apple schnapps, placed in there by accident during a drunken sobbing session with Blaise.

He slammed the freezer shut, hearing the chandelier near their entrance jingle with fierce cracks of fury, before crying out, "Hermione? Where's my ice cream?"

Granger came bouncing out from his bedroom, wearing her 'I Heart the Grand Canyon' shirt, from that time her and her parents took a trip to that big hole in the ground, and his golden snitch-covered boxers, he noticed, with a guilty look on her face.

"Why're you looking at me like that?" he gritted out, not wanting to believe that his girlfriend would finish the only thing that calmed him down besides herself.

"I got a little peckish," she finally admitted.

"You got a little peckish? The entire carton was full — did you. . . did you eat the whole thing?"

She nodded half-heartedly, running her hands over her forearms, a habit she only did whenever she was nervous.

Like when she was about to tell Draco they had to cancel their reservation for a restaurant in Romania — which took about three fucking months of politely-addressed Owls to his father in order to even be on the waitlist for — because Potter got dumped by She-Weasley, and he was busy snotting up his couch and puffing his eyes out.

Or when at Potter's birthday party, Granger accidentally walked into the coat cupboard and saw Weaselbee shoving his tongue so far down Pansy's throat that she was genuinely surprised Pansy didn't have a gag reflex — and she gingerly had to tell Draco how their best friends had been shagging for a little over three months.

"Granger! You know how I feel about people taking my stuff!"

"I'm sorry, I thought you wouldn't mind." She did it again — run her silky hands all over her freckled forearms.

"You thought I wouldn't mind you eating my bloody ice cream and wearing my shirts and leaving a mess all over my place!"

"I-I thought it was our p-place?" Granger sounded so fragile in that moment, Draco nearly wanted to hug her, but instead forced himself to scowl.

"I'm sleeping on the couch tonight," Draco finally said, stalking off from the kitchen to change into his pyjamas and grab a blanket to wrap himself up in solitude as he tried not to give in to her puppy-dog honey coloured eyes.

It took him less than seven minutes (he counted) of tossing and turning on the couch for him to heave in acceptance and return to their bedroom. He just couldn't sleep without almost choking on her hair anymore.

He slipped into the dark room, and immediately felt a guilt weighing a ton hold down his stomach as he saw Granger curled up in a ball underneath comforters, sniffling herself to sleep.

Draco saw her orange sleazeball hissing at him next to her so he kicked the cat off the bed before gliding into it himself.

"Fuck, Hermione, I'm sorry for yelling," Draco whispered as he shuffled into his — no their — bed. "And I'm sorry for being an arse."

She didn't say anything, so he reached out to try and hold her. When she didn't push him away, he took it as a sign to continue.

"You know me, I'm a selfish fuck who has trouble sharing because I was the most spoilt only child in existence, probably. You should ask my mother — I used to try to fight my father when I was four every time he merely kissed her cheek."

He heard Granger breathe out a quiet laugh before she turned in his arms, facing him with clumped lashes and wet cheeks. He leaned in to kiss the tears off, feeling like an absolute fucker for being completely and utterly stupid and making the love of his life cry because she ate his ice cream.

"Draco, I'm going to move out tomorrow," she whispered up to him.

Draco tightened his grip around her waist before saying, "W-What? Why? Is this because what I said about your mess? Because I love your mess. I love every one of your messes. I'll start making messes so we can be messy together." He nodded enthusiastically, making him look somewhat between a bobblehead and a crup lacking the appropriate neck muscles.

She giggled a little bit. "No, I mean, you were right. I think we just need some space."

"Are you — are you breaking up with me?" Draco choked out, fearing the worst. "Fucking fuck, I'm so sorry, Hermione. I'll do anything—"

Her voice cut him off, "No, of course not." Granger leaned up to kiss him softly. "We just haven't been used to living with each other. Maybe in a couple months, we can revisit the possibility of moving in together."

Draco let out a sigh of relief before hugging her closely.

"Okay," he breathed out. "But you still owe me ice cream."

"I bet you can still have some."

"How? You ate the entire carton."

She laughed and kissed him fervently, pushing him on his back to straddle him. Her lips chased his with every nip, every lick, and every kiss.

Oh.

Yeah, he could work with this.

.

"He was staring at your tits, Granger!" Draco cried out, as if it was the easiest explanation.

"He was asking me for my opinion on the show!" Hermione yelled back, prodding her finger in his chest.

"Yeah, while staring at your tits."

Draco gestured to them with both hands, the sliver of skin that peeked out from her black blouse, contrasting quite delectably with her milky skin — not that Anthony Goldstein had any claim on them. They were Draco's. Well, they were on Granger's chest, but he would castrate any bloke who even looked twice at them.

Hermione placed her hands on her hips, jutting her chin out in an attempt to look taller, not that she could, anyways, and her breasts bounced with the movement. For fuck's sake.

See, this was why Goldstein was this close to getting his neck snapped.

He was fucking staring at his girlfriend's cleavage. For a second, Draco couldn't blame the tosser. Granger's were nice — really nice. Perfect size. Tender flesh. And, oh, so tasty.

But then all sense of possession came back, and Draco stalked up to the stupid Ravenclaw, shoved his chest, and proceeded to snog the living daylights out his girlfriend right in front of him before Apparating the both of them back to his flat.

"Why can't you get it through your brain that people actually want to have decent, non-sexual, conversations with me?" Hermione gritted out. "Stop being so jealous all the time, Draco. Green is not a good colour on you."

Draco clutched a hand over his chest and gasped. "Are you kidding me, woman? Have you seen my complexion? Everything is a good colour on me, for Merlin's sake. And I spent seven years with green in half of my wardrobe. Like hell it's not a good colour on me."

"It's a bloody idiom, Malfoy!"

Hermione's eyes flared a bit, and Draco smirked internally. Those crazy eyes were always a sign for another minuscule fight, and the hot, hot makeup sex that followed. He didn't mind goading her a little more if that meant she would get on her knees and show him just how much of a git he was being.

"You know I hate those Muggle phrases of yours," Draco drawled, blowing on his fingertips.

"That's because you hate everything Muggle! You barely come over to my flat because you hate how much the blender makes noise!"

"Hey, that fucking thing—"

"Blender, sweetie."

"Whatever the hell its name is — I couldn't give a shit — it has spinning blades, Granger. Spinning blades. Excuse me for being afraid of something that can cut my fucking throat while I'm trying to drink those liquified fruit in peace."

Hermione narrowed her eyes into slits, crossing her arms and accidentally pushing her breasts further up to anyone's view. Anthony fucking Goldstein.

"Fine, if that's the way you feel, maybe you should just empty your drawer at my place," Hermione mumbled, her face falling into a slight pout.

"Woah — what?" Draco stepped closer towards her. "Who said I wanted to move my stuff from your place?"

"You hate everything Muggle. You hate my blender. And my hairdryer. And my tele…" She pursed her lips and looked away.

"Not true. I like you, don't I?"

Wrong answer, Draco Malfoy. Wrong fucking answer.

Hermione whipped her head back to glare at him immediately.

"I'm a Muggle-born, Malfoy! Not a Muggle, Muggle-born! Or as you used to so elegantly call it, Mud—"

"Fuck, that came out wrong." He took two long strides to cup her elbows in his palms. "I mean, I love — fucking love — all the quirky Muggle shit in your flat. And if that means I have to sleep in your lumpy bed while listening to that thing whir while you try to concoct another one of your liquified banana drinks with way too many chunks of ice, I'll be happy to do so for the rest of my life. Because that means I get to spend it with you."

Right answer.

From the absolute adoration seeping out of Granger's gorgeous dark eyes, Draco knew he was so getting some tonight.

Hermione beamed up at him, her hands going out to wrap around his waist.

"Do you mean that?" Hermione whispered, blinking her eyes and moving closer — so close he could see down her shirt now. Fucking Goldstein didn't have anything on this view. "You want to spend the rest of your life with me?"

"Of course I do." Draco leaned down to kiss her softly on the nose.

"That was really sweet, Draco." She blushed and leaned on her tip toes to kiss him more passionately — nipping at his lips playfully — and he could feel her smirk against his mouth. The little—

Draco lifted her by the waist, carrying her to his bedroom, as she continued the path of her tongue down his neck. When he pushed her onto his mattress, kicking off his shoes and climbing to hover above her, Draco slid his hand up her blouse and palmed her breasts, relishing in the moan she let out as he swallowed the sound with his mouth.

He was right.

Those tits were so fucking his.

.

Draco had been lying in bed, stomach down and back up, with his head under his pillow, when he felt the force jump on his back. He let out a soft groan, ignoring the giggles and pleas for him to wake up.

When the body finally removed herself from his back, Draco lifted the pillow off his head and turned over to give a sleepy smile at his daughter, who sat, cross-legged, with two matching french plaits adorning her brown curls and a yellow sundress.

"Hi, sweetheart, where's mummy?" Draco mumbled, covering his yawn with the back of his wrist.

"She and Mr. Harry and downstairs," Orion politely said with a giggle.

She jumped down from the bed, running out the door with light footsteps and a swishing skirt, asking him to follow.

Draco rolled over to grab his wand and stick it in the pocket of his pyjamas before following his daughter to their living room, where, indeed, Potter and Hermione sat, laughing over something on the television.

"Ah, the sleeping dragon awakes," Potter drawled from the couch, smirking up at him.

"Shut it," Draco grumbled before walking over to his wife to splash a kiss on her lips.

Hermione turned away, leaving his mouth to reach her cheeks, and he pulled back in confusion.

"You have terrible morning breath," Hermione offered as an explanation with a smile.

Draco narrowed his eyes before plopping himself on the recliner by the couch, pulling Orion into his lap, who started babbling away about how excited she was to have James coming over for a playdate this afternoon when Aunty Ginny was bringing him. She so wanted to grab James and drag him off to her playroom to show him her new toys; and how she wanted to show him the flower she planted in their garden; and how she wanted to read Hogwarts: A History with him. Orion's eyes shined with beaming sparkles every time she talked about the Potter's messy-haired kid, and it took everything in Draco's power not to make a snarky comment.

"You sure like James Potter, don't you, honey?" Draco asked after Orion took a breath between her excited cries.

"Of course I do," she said with a furrow in her eyebrows. "I'm going to marry him, aren't I? Why wouldn't I like my betrothed?"

Draco snapped his head up to stare at his wife and her best friend, who looked way too smug for their own good. They exchanged a glance before hiding their laughs in their palms.

"Orre, you're only seven," Draco replied with a fake smile. "You can't possibly be about to get married."

"Dad, he asked me to marry him last week," she sighed, exasperated at his weary glance. "And I said yes. I love him. Like you love mummy."

"Potter," Draco gritted out. "When the fu— in the world did this happen?"

"Last weekend, at Ron's barbecue," Potter chirped. "He gave her a freshly cut gardenia. It was very sweet, can't believe you missed it."

"Isn't it sweet, Draco?" Hermione gushed. "They're the perfect age for each other. Childhood loves."

"My daughter, in love with a bloody Potter," Draco mumbled.

"Our daughter," Hermione corrected him with narrowed eyes.

"Our daughter."

It didn't sound so wrong anymore.