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The first time Hermione and Draco have sex, they discover a kink that they share: apparently Draco has a fascination with impregnating Hermione, and she’s just as turned on by the thought of letting him. Luckily, Malfoy Manor has plenty of room for heirs. Now translated to Russian!

Hermione's lungs burn with each breath she allows, and flames of desire threaten to incinerate every last stitch of her self-control. “Please.” The word is nothing more than some slurred, slick replica of language, but he responds as though it holds untold power. “You’re doing so well, Pet.”

"I'll have you know, Malfoy, that they didn't lose interest in me. Quite the opposite, actually." She gestured to her jewel with a superior expression. "My charmed pendant went just as dull as it is right now." "Hmm." Draco's head tilted, his eyebrow rising along with the smirk on his face. "Is that so?" - Charms don't lie.

Hermione didn't want to see Draco shagging a witch on the couch in their shared Head Dorm, truly she didn't, but she couldn't seem to look away.

Returning to Hogwarts for her eighth and final year sans Harry and Ron was not something Hermione thought she'd be doing. Ready to take on the role of the only school Head, Hermione is surprised and shocked when Headmistress McGonagall appoints one Draco Malfoy as her partner - and fellow occupant of the Head dormitories. Even more unexpected is her attraction to him and the fact that even though she thinks he feels the same, he pushes her away at every turn. *** He stood abruptly. "Go ahead, Granger. Run your mouth. It still won't change a thing. McGonagall wants to help me, you want to help me," he was inches away from her face. Not yelling, no. Instead, his whisper was like a hiss that sent goosebumps all over her body. "Don't you see that there is nothing I can change? I am who I am and there's nothing you can do, but I'm stuck with you anyway," he stormed back to his room, flicking his wrist through the air and sending things flying through the room.

On nights like these, he takes her apart, piece by piece, then builds her back up in the span of a few hours, polished and panting and better than before.

Draco’s flat is sparsely furnished with little beyond basic necessities and pieces meant to be purely aesthetic. Nothing in here is personal, and it doesn’t look any different than it had the last time she’d been here. But something feels different. Something. Nothing. Everything. She isn’t sure which.