The Way He Looks at Her
Draco’s POV
Draco had never given much thought to mornings.
He was a creature of precision, of habit—wake, shower, dress, work, repeat. But lately, mornings had become… something else entirely.
He stood in the doorway of the breakfast room, coffee cooling in his hand, watching her.
Hermione sat at the long mahogany table, her legs curled beneath her in that casual, barefoot way that still managed to knock the wind out of him. Her hair was twisted up messily, curls defying containment, and she wore one of his old jumpers—slouching off one shoulder like it belonged to her now.
It did. Everything did.
She was reading. Of course.
Mouth faintly parted, brow creased in concentration, one hand idly stirring her tea without looking.
Draco had fought wars with less intensity than he felt watching her read.
She glanced up, catching him staring. Again.
“Either you’ve forgotten how to speak, or you’re trying to melt me with your gaze,” she said, sipping from her cup.
Draco smirked and walked in. “Wouldn’t dream of interrupting your torrid affair with The Magical Histories of Post-War Reformation.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s called being well-read. You should try it sometime.”
“I am well-read,” he countered, settling across from her. “Just not when it comes to Ministry-approved doorstoppers written by men who think the war was a minor inconvenience.”
That earned him a grin. “Touché.”
He leaned on his elbow, resting his cheek on his fist as he watched her. “You always do that.”
She blinked. “Do what?”
“Curl up like that. Like you own the space you’re in.” He said it softly. “Like you belong.”
Her teasing faded. For a moment, she just looked at him.
“I do,” she said quietly.
Draco swallowed.
Right. That was the problem.
She did belong here.
And now that she did… he didn’t know how he was supposed to survive the thought of not having her near.
They ate breakfast together. Argued over the Prophet. Shared toast. It was absurdly normal.
It was perfect.
And it was doomed the moment Lucius Malfoy arrived.
Draco knew his father’s mood from the sound of his footsteps alone—measured, echoing, deliberately loud enough to announce his presence.
He appeared in the archway like a thundercloud dressed in custom robes.
“Draco,” Lucius said coolly.
“Father,” Draco replied, instantly exhausted.
Hermione glanced between them. “I’ll leave you two—”
“No,” Draco said quickly. “You don’t have to—”
But she was already rising, offering Lucius a polite nod. “I’ll be in the library.”
When she left, Lucius moved to stand by the window, inspecting the Manor’s grounds like they offended him.
“I take it things are going well,” he said, voice dry. “You look... attached.”
Draco didn’t answer.
Lucius turned, fixing him with that sharp, pale stare. “Then I assume it won’t be long before we have an heir.”
Draco froze. “I—what?”
Lucius arched a brow. “You didn’t think marriage was the end, did you? A union means legacy. Continuation. I’m not getting any younger, and I expect a Malfoy heir to be raised properly.”
“Are you serious?” Draco’s voice was cold now. “You think this is something we owe you?”
“I think,” Lucius said calmly, “that your mother and I did our duty. And it’s time you consider doing yours.”
Draco stood, hands clenched at his sides.
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“You are having it,” Lucius snapped. “You married for the name. For the protection. For the future. And the future, Draco, includes blood.”
Draco’s breath came shallow.
He thought of Hermione, barefoot in the morning light, teasing him over toast.
He thought of the way she said I do belong.
And he hated that Lucius could tarnish that with a single demand.
“I will not bring a child into this world like it’s a transaction,” Draco said finally, voice low and sharp. “Not as a chess piece. Not as your legacy. And not because you asked.”
Lucius studied him for a long moment.
Then he gave a small, infuriating smile.
“I suppose she’s changed you more than I thought.”
He left without another word.
Draco didn’t move.
He just stood there, fists aching, jaw tight.
He didn’t hear Hermione return until her hand was brushing his arm.
“What did he want?” she asked softly.
Draco didn’t answer right away.
He stared ahead, heart pounding with everything he hadn’t said.
“He wants what he always wants,” he said finally. “Control.”
She looked up at him, something knowing in her gaze.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she said gently. “Not yet.”
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
At the way she stood beside him without demanding anything.
At the way her voice wrapped around the silence like a shield.
And all he could think was:
This. This is what I’ll protect. From everyone. Even him.