Claiming Whats His
Hermione’s POV
The sun was barely up when she found him.
Draco stood outside on the Manor’s east terrace, hands braced against the stone railing, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair slightly disheveled from sleep. He looked like a storm dressed in silk—still, but only just.
She stepped beside him quietly. “You didn’t come back to bed.”
He didn’t look at her right away. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Hermione nodded, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch until she felt him relax. He always did, eventually.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said gently. “But I know when something’s eating at you.”
Draco exhaled through his nose. “He asked about an heir.”
She blinked. “Lucius?”
He nodded, jaw tightening. “Wanted to know how long he’ll be waiting to become a grandfather. As if it’s an obligation. As if we—you—don’t get a say.”
Hermione stared at the gardens below for a long moment. The wind picked up, and with it, something inside her shifted—something long-kept and quietly sacred.
“I’ve always wanted a family,” she said, her voice soft. “Even before this. Before you. Before the Ministry or the arrangement or the war.”
Draco turned to look at her.
“I never said it out loud because it felt… far away. Like something meant for other people.” She smiled faintly. “But lately, I’ve been seeing it. Clearly.”
His throat went dry. “Seeing what?”
She looked up at him then, and it wrecked him. So open. So sure.
“A little boy,” she said, her eyes shimmering. “White-blond hair. Big brown eyes—mine. Your smile. Mischievous already. And a girl—older. Clever. Quick. She has your eyes. Silver. Like moonlight when she’s angry.”
Draco’s chest tightened.
“I see them running through these halls. I see you chasing them. Laughing. Being the kind of father I never had. And I… I want that. With you.”
He couldn’t breathe.
Hermione reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw. “But not because your father demands it. Because we want it. When we’re ready.”
Draco closed his eyes. For a moment, he just stood there, her hand on his skin, her voice in his head, that image burned into his chest like a brand.
And for the first time in his life, he wanted it too.
He saw her vision—those children, those eyes, that laughter. Their laughter.
He’d never imagined a family for himself.
Now he couldn’t imagine one without her.
He opened his eyes and whispered, “I swear to you… when it happens, I’ll be better than what I came from.”
Hermione smiled, tears clinging to her lashes. “You already are.”
Draco’s POV
The gala was unbearable.
Not because of the opulence. Or the wine. Or the carefully veiled Ministry politics dressed up as toasts and smiles.
It was unbearable because Hermione was at his side, wearing midnight blue, her curls pinned up with silver starlight charms, and everyone kept looking at her like she wasn’t his.
She laughed at something Theo said—low, warm, easy.
Draco’s jaw tightened.
Blaise noticed. Of course he did.
“You’re practically vibrating,” he muttered under his breath.
“I’m not.”
“You are. Relax. She’s with you.”
Draco glanced at Hermione again, and something in his chest ached.
No. She wasn’t just with him.
She was his everything.
And he was going to make sure no one ever questioned that again.
It happened when they were crossing the ballroom toward the balcony.
Pansy.
Because of course it was.
“Well, if it isn’t the star couple,” she purred. “Still playing house, I see.”
Hermione didn’t flinch. She was far too used to Pansy by now.
But Draco saw the brief flicker of discomfort.
And that was enough.
He stepped in front of Hermione with slow precision. “Still bitter I didn’t marry you?”
Pansy raised a brow. “Please. I’ve upgraded since.”
“Then why are you still watching my wife like you want to wear her skin?”
A few people gasped. Pansy’s expression soured. “Don’t get possessive, Draco. We all know this is political theater.”
Draco took another step forward.
“No. It’s not.”
His voice rang out, calm but commanding.
“Do you want to know what this is?” he asked, eyes sweeping over the curious crowd forming.
He turned to Hermione—right in front of everyone.
“This is the woman who challenges me in every room and still makes me want to follow her out of it. The woman who owns more of me than I ever thought I’d give. The woman who, for reasons I’ll never understand, chose me.”
Hermione stared at him, heart hammering in her chest.
He reached for her hand.
“This isn’t theater,” he said. “This is mine. She is mine.”
A beat of silence passed.
Then Hermione smiled—soft and dangerous.
“And you,” she said, tugging him close by the lapel, “are mine.”
Draco leaned down slowly, lips brushing her ear.
“You could’ve just kissed me.”
She shivered. “You would’ve caused a scene.”
His smirk was sin itself. “If I had kissed you, Granger, I wouldn’t have stopped.”