Draco isn’t quite sure when he became needy.
It might’ve been somewhere between the first time she rolled her eyes at him in a Ministry meeting and the first time she let him take her apart in his flat above Knockturn Alley. Or maybe it was the third time she said no to marrying him—no, Draco, not yet, with that maddening mix of patience and promise in her voice.
And yet, here he was—willing to do anything for Hermione Granger. A classic Malfoy trait, really, when it came to their wives. Well. Something like that. Future wife. Technically. Hypothetically. Eventually.
If she’d ever let him.
He’d even tried proposing while he was inside her once. Twice, actually. Maybe three times if you counted the night in Paris. She’d laughed, breathless and high on pleasure, red lipstick smeared halfway across her cheek. “That’s cheating,” she’d whispered, and kissed him anyway.
And tonight? Tonight she was going to kill him.
They were at some bloody Muggle fair—the kind with blinking lights and fried dough and shrieking children—and all of their friends were here. Potter, who still looked vaguely horrified every time he remembered they were together. Weasley, who had finally stopped looking like he wanted to hex Draco into oblivion and now just glowered occasionally. Luna and Theo were holding hands and talking to a goat.
And Hermione? Hermione was wearing a mini skirt.
A tiny, dangerous little thing that flirted with the tops of her thighs every time she moved. She had suntan lines on her shoulders, riotous curls haloing her head like some wild goddess, and that red lipstick again. The one that made him feel vaguely unhinged.
The humidity clung to her skin, made her glow in a way that should’ve been illegal. She was licking an ice cream cone and he was seriously considering proposing again, right here next to the funnel cake stand.
Because fuck, he loved her.
And he fucking loved that mini skirt.
He snags her close in the slow shuffle of the ticket line, one arm hooking low around her waist, the other sliding across her belly like he’s claiming her—and maybe he is. Hermione lets out a surprised giggle, warm and bright and utterly unguarded, leaning back against him without hesitation.
God, he loves how she fits against him.
Soft in all the ways that make his chest ache. Curvy in the ways she glares at in mirrors, muttering under her breath about metabolism and stress and “post-academic desk ass.” He’s tried to tell her, in words and hands and tongue and cock, that every inch of her drives him absolutely fucking mental. Especially now. Especially in this damn mini skirt that rides up when she walks and makes his mouth water when she bends to grab her bag.
Or in that puffy parka she wore last winter in the snow, cheeks flushed and nose pink and eyes bright, complaining about cold toes while he fantasized about bending her over a sled.
She hates the weight she’s put on since they left Hogwarts. Thinks it makes her less. All he sees is more.
His lips press into her cheek, just at the corner of her jaw, and she smiles a little, rolling her eyes as if she’s trying not to melt.
From somewhere behind them, Pansy lets out a derisive sniff. “Merlin, Draco, restrain yourself. People are trying to buy tickets, not witness softcore.”
She’s got her arms crossed and her nose turned up, but her own taller, broader boyfriend—Neville fucking Longbottom, of all people—is standing behind her with a hand casually splayed on her hip and a look of long-suffering amusement.
“Be nice, love,” Neville says mildly, dipping down to murmur something in Pansy’s ear that makes her cheeks color and her mouth snap shut.
Draco smirks against Hermione’s cheek. “I like him.”
Hermione laughs again, the sound vibrating in her ribcage as she leans into him, letting herself be held. “You would.”
Theo and Luna wander up just as Hermione starts licking the ice cream again, and Draco tries very hard not to groan out loud.
Luna’s got a stray bit of hay in her hair, like she’s wandered through a pastoral dreamscape, and Theo looks slightly dazed, like he’s still recovering from whatever philosophical barnyard conversation they just survived. Possibly about goat reincarnation.
“We’re going to do the bumper cars,” Luna announces dreamily, her arm tucked into Theo’s. “Theo thinks he can’t be beaten, but I told him his aura’s all wrong for competition tonight. It’s very… yielding.”
Theo shrugs, deadpan. “She said I was vibrating on a forgiveness frequency. I don’t know what that means but I’m going to crash into everyone anyway.”
Draco snorts. “Excellent. We’ll catch up later.”
Luna tilts her head and adds, “We’ll be at the Ferris wheel when the moon rises. If we’re not kissing, we’re probably talking to ghosts.”
And with that, they float off, hands entwined, into the thick crowd of shrieking children and neon lights.
Draco watches them go, then turns to Hermione, who’s now watching a spinning ride with mild interest and sucking thoughtfully on her lower lip.
He’s never been more jealous of a bloody mouth in his entire life.
“I’d like to go into the fun house,” she says casually, like she’s not delivering a line that rewires his brain.
He blinks. “Fun house?”
She nods, licking a smudge of strawberry ice cream off her thumb. “You know. Mirrors, moving floors, spooky lights. Could be fun.”
Draco furrows his brow. “All houses can be fun.”
Hermione lets out a laugh—bright, caught between exasperation and fondness—and pinches his side. “That’s not what it means.”
“Well, it’s a bad name, then,” he mutters, still genuinely confused. “You don’t call a house a ‘fun house’ unless it’s got a dungeon. Or at least a sex swing. That’s just… advertising.”
“Draco,” she says, in that tone like she’s about to pretend to be scandalized but is actually three seconds from laughing. “You cannot say ‘sex swing’ in front of children.”
“I can if they don’t know what it means.”
“They’ll ask their parents!”
“Excellent. Early education.”
She groans, laughing, tugging him by the hand. “Come on, you menace. We’re going to the badly named but actually quite whimsical and mirror-filled fun house.”
He follows without hesitation, because (again) she makes him so bloody needy.
***
The second they step inside the fun house, Draco knows he’s made a mistake.
Not because it isn’t fun. It is, in a bizarre, chaotic, Muggle way. But because Hermione grabs his hand with that sparkle in her eye, and the lights are low, and the mirrors are everywhere.
There’s music playing overhead, tinny and whimsical and just slightly off-pitch in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The floor tilts beneath their feet and the mirrored hallway seems to go on forever.
Hermione’s laughing as she walks ahead, one hand trailing along the wall, and Draco watches her reflection multiply—dozens of Hermiones, all in that red lipstick, all in that fucking mini skirt, turning back to grin at him over her shoulder.
“I see why you like this place now,” he murmurs, catching up and sliding an arm around her waist.
“Oh?” she teases, eyes bright.
He leans in, lips brushing her ear. “All these mirrors. I could fuck you in front of every one.”
She snorts, elbowing him gently. “You’re terrible.”
“And you’re obscenely fit,” he mutters, watching her reflection sway with the shifting floor. “It’s a miracle I haven’t dragged you into a corner yet.”
“Yet,” she echoes, amused.
They take a few more turns, laughing when they bump into mirrored dead-ends, and Draco doesn’t mean to pin her against the wall, it just… happens.
One moment she’s turning to say something, and the next he’s got his hands on her hips, backing her into a darkened alcove between the mirrors. The crowd noise is muffled, and no one seems to be nearby.
“You’re going to ruin my lipstick,” she whispers, breathless already.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, and kisses her.
It’s greedy, hungry…Needy, like everything with her lately. His hands slide up under the hem of her skirt, thumbs stroking the curve of her thighs as she melts into him. He can feel the heat of her through the lace and he growls against her mouth, already half-hard and aching.
“Draco,” she gasps, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes. “People could come around the corner.”
He glances at the mirrors. They’re surrounded by a hundred versions of her. Red lips. Swollen mouth. Skirt hitched high.
“I hope they do,” he says, kissing down her neck. “Let them see what I see.”
Her fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring him to her, and she lets out a low sound that makes his knees weak.
She arches into him with a soft, stifled moan, hands fisting in the collar of his shirt as his mouth trails down the side of her throat. The mirrors reflect every movement of her parted lips, the flush blooming across her chest, his hands possessive and reverent on her thighs.
He mouths at her skin just below her ear. “I want to see you come in every mirror.”
“Draco,” she breathes, “you can’t-”
“I can,” he growls, dragging her hips tighter against him. “I will. Just say yes.”
And fuck, she wants to. She wants to say yes to everything, to every dark, filthy promise he’s ever made while worshipping her like sin. Her breath is coming faster, her fingers tugging at his belt now, eyes fluttering shut-
“Oi!”
The shout slices through the spell.
They freeze.
Draco turns his head slowly, unwilling to move from her warmth. In the nearest mirrored corridor stands Neville, looking horrified, one hand clamped over Pansy’s eyes as she screeches, “Are you fucking kidding me, Malfoy?!”
“I told you we’d run into someone,” Hermione hisses, shoving at Draco’s chest, flustered and glowing. “Let me down!”
Neville makes a strangled noise and stumbles backward, Pansy cackling now behind his hand.
“You’re all very judgmental for people who just came from a goat séance,” Draco says primly, adjusting his shirt and trying to look dignified with lipstick all over his jaw.
Hermione glares at him, yanking her skirt back into place as her curls frizz rebelliously with heat and sweat and lust.
“You have a problem,” she mutters.
Draco leans in, voice low and amused. “And it’s you.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are still pink and she doesn’t step away.
“Ferris wheel?” Neville offers weakly, clearly trying to reroute the entire energy of the evening.
Pansy snorts. “We should hose them down first.”
Draco slips his hand back into Hermione’s, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. “We’ll catch up.”
“Not in the fun house,” Hermione says firmly, already dragging him toward the exit.
Draco, of course, grins. “Spoilsport.”
***
By the time they make it to the Ferris wheel line, Hermione has smudged most of the lipstick from his jaw with the pad of her thumb and a few muttered “hold still” commands while he grinned like the smug bastard he is.
Draco eyes the wheel thoughtfully, head tilted, as it creaks in slow rotation against the dusky sky. “So… how does it work? Is it like the Eye? That giant monstrosity on the river?”
Hermione quirks a brow as she uncaps her lipstick. “Roughly the same, yes. This one’s a bit faster because it’s not as large. Less sightseeing. More squealing.”
He hums, nodding quickly, as though he’s seriously absorbing this information.
And then he smirks.
That particular one—wolfish and devastating, the kind that always means he’s about to say something that will ruin her carefully reapplied lipstick all over again.
Hermione groans preemptively, twisting the lipstick tube back down and shaking her head. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“But I could.”
“Draco-”
“I’m just wondering,” he says, tone maddeningly casual, “if it’s faster, will we have time to… oh, I don’t know… Test a few physics theories?”
“Physics theories,” she repeats flatly.
“Well, yes.” He leans in, lips brushing her ear. “Like how many times you can come in one full rotation.”
She exhales sharply through her nose, counts to three, and then promptly shoves him with her shoulder. “You’re the worst.”
“Hard disagree,” he murmurs, stealing a kiss to her cheek as the couple ahead of them climbs into a gondola. “I’m fascinating.”
She shakes her head, but her smile is hopelessly fond as she rolls her eyes and steps forward into their ride.
The gondola jerks slightly as it begins to ascend, metal creaking underfoot and the fairgrounds falling away beneath them, a mosaic of lights and movement. Hermione exhales slowly, trying to get comfortable on the narrow bench, pretending she doesn’t feel Draco’s eyes on her like heat.
It only takes a moment.
The second the ground disappears from view and they’re swallowed into the dark, private hush of height, he's sliding to his knees on the floor of the cart with all the reverence of a knight going to war. The gondola’s got a roof (thank Merlin) and lightly tinted windows that distort but don’t quite hide them. Not fully.
“Draco,” she gasps, breath hitching as he pushes her thighs apart. “Someone could-”
“They won’t,” he says, low and certain, voice vibrating against her inner thigh. “They’ll be too busy screaming at rides or watching fireworks. No one’s looking up.”
And then he’s shoving her skirt higher, dragging his hand between her legs, his fingers slipping under her knickers with practiced ease.
She’s soaked. Embarrassingly ready. He growls when he feels it.
“Oh, love,” he murmurs. “You’ve been like this since the fun house, haven’t you?”
She tries to answer but her breath leaves her in a gasp when two fingers sink into her. Slow, sure, curling deep, and then his other hand is at her jaw, thumb grazing her bottom lip before he presses two fingers into her mouth.
“Bite if you need to,” he says, gaze dark and wicked. “But try not to. I want to hear you.”
Her eyes roll back as she sucks his fingers in instinctively, moaning around them as his other hand fucks her with deliberate, devastating rhythm. The movement of the Ferris wheel rocks them slightly, adding momentum, adding thrill. The lights outside flash blue, red, gold.
“God, look at you,” he whispers, thumb pressing against her tongue, fingers buried inside her, wrist flexing as her hips rock forward helplessly. “So fucking pretty like this. Eyes all glazed. Legs shaking.”
She’s clutching the metal railing now, panting around his fingers, tears prickling in the corners of her eyes from the sheer intensity.
“You’re going to come just like this,” he says. “Stuffed full, mouth and cunt. My filthy, brilliant girl.”
And she does—biting down on a cry, trembling around him, trying not to sob as she arches up into his palm.
He groans, watching her unravel. “Fuck. That’s a view better than any city skyline.”
He doesn’t even bother waiting for her to catch her breath.
As her thighs twitch and the aftershocks roll through her, Draco shifts on his knees, already fumbling with the button of his Muggle jeans. The metal clinks softly in the small space between them, the wheel still slowly rotating through the night sky.
Hermione watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, lips parted, flushed and wrecked and beautiful.
He hisses softly as he frees himself, hard and aching and already leaking at the tip.
“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, voice half-laugh, half-prayer. “I’m going to die right here. Heart attack. Public indecency. Perfect.”
She just smiles lazily, pushing herself up straighter on the bench with a quiet, amused hum. Then she shifts onto her knees in front of him, skirt still bunched around her hips, lipstick smeared but not gone.
And when she leans forward and wraps her lips around him-
He sees stars.
“Fuck,” he chokes, one hand gripping the back of her head, the other bracing against the side of the cart. “Hermione—fuck, fuck—”
Her mouth is hot, wet, glorious, and she’s moving with maddening grace, tongue swirling as she takes him deeper. That red lipstick is a crime. Smudged at the corners, staining the base of his cock as she sinks down again and again, cheeks hollowing like she’s trying to ruin him from the inside out.
He looks down at her, at his brilliant girl on her knees, lips stretched wide, eyes full of sin and satisfaction, and he knows, knows, he’s gone forever.
“You’re—” his voice cracks, hips bucking forward involuntarily. “You’re so fucking good. So good for me, Hermione. My perfect—Christ—my wife.”
She giggles on his cock (actually giggles!) vibrations shooting straight through him and nearly making his knees buckle.
“I’m not your wife yet,” she teases, pulling back just enough to speak, her voice thick with mischief, lips slick and stained red in the most obscene way.
Draco’s hand tightens in her hair instantly, not hard, but firm, the way he knows she likes. He nudges her back down with a rough, affectionate grunt. “You’re a menace,” he mutters, breath coming in ragged bursts. “A brilliant, insufferable, perfect fucking menace.”
She laughs again, delighted, and takes him deeper this time—like a challenge, like a reward. Her hands slide up his thighs as she sets a pace that’s utterly devastating, her throat working as she swallows him inch by inch, her eyes fluttering closed in concentration.
The gondola rocks slightly with the movement, slow and rhythmic, a metronome to the sound of his strained breathing and the soft, obscene slick of her mouth on him.
“Merlin—Hermione,” he growls, his voice rough, low, almost desperate. “Marry me right now. I’ll do it. I’ll get down on one knee in this fucking cart—”
She hums like maybe, like keep going, like you first.
His fingers curl tighter in her hair, hips barely holding back from thrusting as her tongue flattens against the underside of him and she takes him even deeper, jaw relaxing, lips tight around the base.
He looks down and sees her—lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed, red lipstick absolutely ruined—and he swears to every god that’s ever existed that he’ll marry her, ruin her, worship her, and never let her go.
Ever.
“Gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—” he warns, jaw clenched, hand braced against the bench behind him.
And then she moans, like she wants it, like she knows, and takes him to the hilt.
The cart creaks.
The wheel jolts them gently downward.
And Draco shatters.
She swallows, slow and sinful, and moans, a soft, satisfied sound that hums low in her throat as she pulls off him with a gentle pop. Her tongue darts out to lick her ruined lips, smearing what’s left of the red into a blur of desire and destruction.
And Draco stares.
Like she’s the sun and he’s spent his whole life in darkness.
“You’re—” his voice is hoarse, wrecked. “Merlin, you’re perfect. Brilliant. The smartest girl in every room. And you just—fuck. Hermione.”
She tilts her head, biting back a smug smile, though her cheeks are pink and her breath still shallow.
He pulls her up into his lap with a quiet groan, trousers half-buttoned, hair a mess, and presses a kiss to her mouth. Like she’s holy. Like he wants to memorize the taste of her on his tongue and never forget.
She melts into it, arms winding around his neck, her thighs still trembling slightly from earlier. It’s tender now, warm, sweet, even with the air still thick with sex and adrenaline and Muggle fairground humidity.
The cart shifts again. They’re descending now. Probably only a few more minutes (maybe less) before the ride ends and they have to step out into reality again. But for now?
They take this moment.
Ruined. Flushed. Grinning like sinners with secrets.
He kisses her again, gently this time, resting his forehead against hers.
“I love you,” he murmurs, like it’s not already written all over every touch. “And I’m going to marry you. Even if I have to propose with lipstick on my cock and your hair a disaster.”
Hermione snorts, breathless and giddy. “You’re a menace.”
“You like it.”
“I do.”
And then the cart lurches as it comes into its final rotation, lights from the fairground glinting off the mirrored windows. They scramble, laughing breathlessly, to pull themselves together in the final seconds.
Because they might be brilliant and reckless and utterly undone. But they’re still Malfoy and Granger, and if anyone can step off a Ferris wheel like they didn’t just defile it?
It’s them.
***
“Thank God for wands,” Draco mutters under his breath as they step off the cart, walking like they hadn’t just shattered each other at a hundred feet above the ground.
Clothes? Pressed.
Faces? Composed.
Zippers? Fully upright and locked.
Except for her hair.
Her curls are absolutely feral, wild from the heat and the friction of his very enthusiastic hands, and she’s trying to smooth them down with that little huff she does—half-annoyed, half-resigned, full-Hermione.
He, of course, thinks she looks like sex and starlight.
“You look perfect,” he says, grinning like a man who knows he’s about to be punished.
“Say that again and I’ll hex your eyebrows off,” she mutters, cheeks still a little too pink.
He leans in anyway, shameless, whispering, “Gorgeous swot,” like it’s a prayer.
She smacks him on the arm hard enough to make him grunt, and he has the audacity to look delighted.
Then, of course, they’re spotted.
“Oi!” Theo waves them over, cotton candy in one hand, Luna hanging off his other arm like a dream in motion.
“Finally!” Ginny grins, holding two bottles of butterbeer. “We thought you got lost.”
Hermione clears her throat, composure sliding back into place with effortless precision. “We were just—”
“Enjoying the view,” Draco supplies, tucking his hand neatly around her waist. “Very romantic. Very scenic. Some of the best… architecture I’ve ever seen.”
Harry squints suspiciously. “What kind of architecture is visible on a Ferris wheel?”
Luna, still beaming, says, “Emotional structures. That’s what rides are made for.”
Draco hums in agreement. “See? She gets it.”
Hermione sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, though she’s smiling, damn her.
And in the middle of the crowd, under the buzz of lights and laughter and the smell of sugar and fireworks, Draco pulls her a little closer, brushing his fingers across her hand like he’s already imagining the ring he hasn’t given her yet.
Because he will.
Oh, he will.
***
The night winds down in bursts of laughter and the last clinging stickiness of spun sugar and heat.
They’re all piling into Hermione’s absurdly large Muggle SUV, something she drives with an iron will and the sharp efficiency of a woman who doesn’t believe in letting other people touch her steering wheel. The thing is sleek and black and intimidating, like a bloody tank, and everyone who sees it marvels at how someone like Hermione Granger ended up behind the wheel of a car that looks like it should come with an armored escort.
Luna calls it a “land whale.”
Theo says it’s sexy.
Ginny wants one.
Ron looks slightly terrified every time he gets in.
Draco, predictably, is obsessed.
As the others argue over seats and wrestle with belts and drinks and leftover funnel cake, Hermione stands at the driver’s side, rummaging through her bag for keys.
And Draco takes the moment.
He steps in close, close enough that her back meets the car door with a soft thud and slides his hands to her hips, pressing her there, gently but firmly. The buzz of the parking lot fades, muffled behind car doors and half-lowered windows and the low hum of the Ferris wheel still spinning behind them.
He noses into the soft curve of her jaw, lips brushing just beneath her ear.
“You’re going to marry me,” he whispers.
She hums, not denying it, her breath catching as his fingers press tighter.
“Maybe,” she breathes.
“Maybe?”
“Maybe I’ll marry you one day.”
He pulls back just enough to look at her, his eyes shining with something fierce and unguarded. “Yeah?”
She shrugs, lips twitching like she’s trying not to smile. “I mean. You’d have to ask me. Properly. No sex bribery. No emotional blackmail via lipstick and mirrors.”
He leans in again, kisses her slow. Deep. A promise made flesh.
“No guarantees on the mirrors,” he murmurs against her lips. “But I’ll make it worth your while.”
She laughs, quiet and lovely, fingers curling into his shirt like she doesn’t want to let him go.
“Granger!” Ginny yells from the backseat. “Drive the beast! I want chips and air-conditioning!”
Draco rests his forehead against hers and grins.
“Tomorrow,” she whispers. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
He nods, stepping back and opening her door like he’s always belonged at her side.
“Tomorrow,” he agrees. “But I’ll hold you to it.”
And as she climbs in, radiant and real and his, he knows:
She already belongs to him.
He already belongs to her.
Maybe, definitely, forever.
Something like that.