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Draco Malfoy tried not to let the little things get to him anymore. After all, spending the best years of his adolescence on the wrong side of a war with a murderous psychopath taking you under his wing gave you a good perspective on things.

But this? This was serious. Beyond serious.

This was a disaster.

Draco Malfoy’s wife no longer wanted to have sex with him.

Usually, Hermione couldn’t keep her hands off him anymore than he could her. In the shower, against the bookshelves, on too-high tables and iconic green sofas and even once, memorably, in a sex club on the hunt for a murderer (but that’s a story for another day). 

Point is, Draco was used to his daily dose of Hermione Granger-Malfoy.

But tonight? 

Tonight she had said she was too tired

Draco worked hard not to make a sound of alarm, instead keeping his eyes blank and his face serious in that way he knew turned women on. Everyone thought he’d learned Occlumency when he was a you-know-what in the war, but actually it had been from some animated ice queen in a Muggle film Hermione had made him watch once. Okay fine, more than once. At last count Draco had seen it one hundred and thirty seven times. No, wait. One hundred and thirty eight? Who's counting? Anyway, he’d watched it a lot.

Hermione had smiled and kissed him and rolled over and fallen asleep, her squash-faced orange monstrosity of a cat glaring at him with malevolent satisfaction in the dark from the foot of their bed. Draco had lain awake for hours, scowling into the night and worrying that maybe he wasn’t enough for his wife anymore. 

When Draco woke up in the morning he chided himself for thinking such things. He was a Malfoy, for goodness’ sake! Of course he was enough. 

He was just going to have to go on the offensive.

Draco started off with flowers. Twelve dozen red roses, standard seduction 101. Hermione smiled in delight, kissed his cheek, put them in a crystal vase and then went to bed. 

To sleep.

The next day, it was chocolates and wine. Good wine, too, not the cheap stuff the Muggles drank. The finest elf-made wine he could find in the Malfoy cellars. Hermione screwed her adorable nose up, said she had a headache, smiled and kissed him, and went to bed. 


By this point Draco was starting to panic beneath his sexy, icy facade. Three days now, with no sex. Not even a hand job. He hadn’t even been able to lick a single nipple. 

Time for the big guns. 

When Hermione came home from work the next day, Draco was ready in the bedroom with lit candles, massage oils, rose petals on the bed. Hermione smiled tiredly, reluctantly let him massage her - but only her shoulders , like they weren’t even lovers - and rolled over in bed and - Yep. 


Draco had to start casting glamours to hide the violet bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep and worry. He sat at his desk at work, munching his way through a bowl of green apples, the sweetness of the fruit not quite as good as the taste of Hermione’s juices - when he used to be allowed to taste them, anyway.

What was happening? Had he lost his sex appeal? Was he ever going to have sex again?! His poor penis was waking him up every morning stiff and unhappy, and he was having to wank in the showers. Wank, like he was back in Hogwarts! As if he didn’t even have a wife. A sexy wife. A smart, sexy, sultry wife whose lips were like….

Dammit. Draco closed his eyes as his poor neglected dick started to harden. Think unsexy thoughts, Draco. Longbottom in a bikini. Weasel king pole dancing. Potter naked and making bedroom eyes at him - no. Wait. That one gave Draco a confused homoerotic flutter of arousal and he hurriedly thought about Weasley again. There we go, that did the trick.

It was no use. Draco refused to go a whole week without sex. 

Time for desperate measures. 

That evening, the whole house was lit with candles. So many Draco wouldn’t have been surprised to find a dragon making itself at home amidst the flames. Rose petals covered every surface he could find. Sexy music played on the radio, some Muggle singer crooning out of the speakers, and Draco was making Hermione’s favourite dinner: beef wellington. 

The first time Draco had made beef wellington for Hermione, they’d wrapped up in thick jumpers and eaten the food outside under the night sky. Draco had pointed out the stars that made up his name to Hermione, as well as his other favourites: Scorpius, Leo, Lyra - and maybe a fourth special constellation in case he needed a surprise extra one some time in the future?!

The pièce de résistance in Draco’s plan tonight?

Draco was cooking like a Muggle, and doing it naked. A pinny was the only thing covering his modesty, and his ass - the ass he knew was one of Granger’s favourite things about him - was unashamedly on display. 

Draco heard the Floo roar to life and hid a smirk as he poured a glass of wine for her. 

"Draco? Did we have a power cut?" Hermione’s voice was tinged with confusion as he heard the dull thump of her dropping her work bag in the hallway. A few moments later her footsteps approached the kitchen, and he turned to welcome her. 

"Draco!" Hermione came to a stop in the doorway when she saw him, her eyes widening as she took in his state of undress and the general chaos of the kitchen stovetops behind him.

"Hello, my darling," he purred in the sexiest way he knew. He worked hard on making his pupils dilate, a handy trick he’d discovered turned his wife on. "I wanted to treat you this evening. You’ve been working too hard recently."

He handed out the wine glass, but Hermione didn’t take it from him. Instead her eyes had narrowed suspiciously.

"Draco," she sighed. "I know what this is about. I’m just not in the mood right now, okay?"

Draco dropped the wine glass in terror, not even wincing as it smashed on the stone floor. 

"Again?" he cried out, his dick wilting unhappily. This was too much. It was all too much. He could feel his panic bubble over, his carefully-maintained emotions escaping his cool exterior. He couldn’t help the frustrated words that tumbled out of his mouth next.


Hermione’s eyes widened comically, and her lips twitched in the way they did when she was trying to keep a serious face. It was no use, and a second later a silvery peal of laughter escaped her beautiful mouth (the one that had, sadly, been nowhere near his tonkerdonkle for a WHOLE WEEK NOW).

As Draco watched, scowling, his arms crossed over his chest, Hermione’s laughter got louder and louder until eventually she wiped away her tears and came over to wrap Draco in a hug. He huffed grumpily, unwilling to be charmed by her non-sexual touching.

"Oh, darling," she said, reaching up on her tiptoes to drop a kiss on his cheek. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with your-er, tonkerdonkle. In fact, it might work a little too well ."

Draco frowned down at her, not really understanding, and Hermione took a little step back, her hand resting lightly on her belly.

"We haven’t had sex because I was waiting to see a Healer to make sure we were allowed. I’m pregnant, Draco."

For once, Draco was speechless.

Pregnant? They’d been trying for months now, and had been starting to worry a little bit. Hermione was pregnant? 

"We’re having a baby?" Draco said, aware his voice sounded dreamy and distracted. 

Hermione’s beaming smile answered his question. "Yes," she said, kissing his cheek again. "And I saw the Healer today, and the good news is-" she paused, "sex is back on the table. As it were."

Well. There was so much good news running through his mind that Draco decided he might as well abandon the chaos that was supposed to be dinner, and instead he swept his beautiful, clever, wonderful, brilliant wife off the floor into his arms, marching her towards the bedroom. 

Draco Malfoy’s tonkerdonkle was back in business.