Against the odds Dramione

Draco arrived home from the Ministry, his steps heavy and his mind in turmoil. His usual mask of calm, cool arrogance had shattered the moment he read the letter. Now, his face was pale, eyes wide, as though the ground had just been pulled from beneath him. He stood frozen in the foyer, clutching the same damned letter in his hand that had been delivered to Hermione only hours before.

His mind spun, trying to make sense of it, but there was no sense in what the Ministry had decreed. Forcing them—no, demanding—they have a baby? Within three years? His heart raced, his mind screaming with disbelief. This couldn't be happening. This had to be some kind of sick joke.

How could they? How could the Ministry just rip away their choices like this? It wasn't just about the two of them being forced into a marriage they hadn't planned for—no, that was bad enough. But this? This was another level of invasion. Another layer of control that Draco hadn't anticipated.

They hadn't even kissed yet.

And that thought hit him like a Bludger to the gut. He and Hermione had barely navigated the awkward waters of living under the same roof, let alone shared any form of intimacy. How the hell were they supposed to bring a child into this world when they hadn't even figured out how to exist together as husband and wife?

His stomach clenched at the very idea. A baby. The word alone made his head spin. How could they be parents when they were still figuring out how to be partners? What kind of twisted reality was this?

And then, an even darker thought surfaced, one he had been avoiding for years but could no longer hide from. Draco Malfoy—heir to the Malfoy name, pureblood legacy, all the privilege and pressure in the world—was a virgin.

Fuck.

His hands balled into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white. He could already hear the laughter in his mind, mocking him, taunting him. The irony wasn't lost on him—Draco Malfoy, who had always been the image of power and control, now completely at the mercy of forces he couldn't stop.

How could he even think about having a child when he had no idea what he was doing? He hadn't even been with a woman before, hadn't crossed that line of intimacy, and now the Ministry was telling him he had three years to figure it out or face the consequences.

No. No, no, no. Fuck, no.

He could feel the panic rising in his chest, threatening to choke him. His thoughts became a whirlwind of dread and anger. How the hell was he supposed to handle this? He wasn't ready. He and Hermione weren't ready. They barely even liked each other most days, and now they were supposed to create life together?

He stormed down the hallway, his mind racing, the letter crumpled in his grip. He had to see her. He had to talk to Hermione, to figure out how the hell they were going to deal with this. But a part of him was terrified—what would she say? How would she react to the knowledge that not only were they being forced into parenthood, but that he, Draco Malfoy, had no idea what he was doing?

Every step felt heavier as he approached her room. He hesitated outside the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

What if she laughed? What if she looked at him with disgust, realizing how unprepared he was for all of this? The doubt gnawed at him, but he pushed it down, knowing they had to face this together, no matter how impossible it felt.

He knocked softly, and the door creaked open.

There she was, sitting on the edge of her bed, pale and red-eyed, the crumpled letter lying on the floor beside her. Her face was streaked with tears, and the sight of her like that—so vulnerable, so broken—hit him harder than anything else.

Without thinking, he ran over to Hermione, kneeling in front of her. His heart raced as he searched her tear-streaked face, desperately wanting to erase the pain etched in her features.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

"So am I," she replied, her voice shaky as she wiped her eyes.

"Why would you be sorry?" he asked, bewildered.

Hermione looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. "That they chose me. That you have to be married to someone who is not a pureblood." The tears spilled over once more, cascading down her cheeks like a silent waterfall, and Draco's heart clenched at the sight.

"No, don't say silly things like that, princess," he insisted, shaking his head vehemently. "You are the best thing that came out of this horrific situation. You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

His words hung in the air, but they didn't seem to reach her. She continued crying, the anguish spilling forth in heavy sobs that twisted in his gut like a dagger. He couldn't bear it. In a swift motion, he pulled her toward him, lifting her into his lap with a gentleness that belied the storm of emotions raging inside him.

"Shh, it's okay," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her body against his. She straddled him, her head nestled against his shoulder as he cradled her, whispering soft reassurances. He kissed every teardrop that fell from her cheeks, his lips brushing against her skin with a tenderness that surprised even him.

"You are the best thing I've ever had in life," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with sincerity. "You give me hope, Hermione. You make all this madness worth it. I don't care about bloodlines or what the Ministry thinks. All that matters is you."

She looked up at him, her eyes glassy but filled with a glimmer of something—understanding, perhaps, or a shared resolve. "Malfoy," she said softly, "I never wanted this for us. I wanted to choose my own path, not be forced into something like this."

I know, love," he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil swirling around them. Determination surged within him like a tide, strong and unwavering. "And we will find a way. We have to fight against this decree together. You're not just some obligation to me; you're my partner, my—" He paused, the word hanging in the air, caught in his throat like a delicate butterfly. He knew it to be true, but expressing it felt monumental. "My everything."

His heart raced at the thought of confessing the depths of his feelings, but uncertainty gnawed at him. Why would he say something so profound to her? It felt like an admission that could either bridge the gap between them or plunge them into an even darker abyss. Yet, in his own little world, she was the universe. She was the sun that illuminated his path and the stars that guided him through the darkest nights. How did this happen? He couldn't pinpoint the moment it had all shifted, but somewhere along the way, Hermione Granger had transformed from an obligation, a duty thrust upon him by fate, into the very essence of his existence.

As he held her, he noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. She didn't even seem to hear what he said; she was lost in her own pain, a storm of emotions that threatened to engulf her. All he could do was continue kissing her cheeks softly, hoping to offer her some semblance of comfort amid the chaos of their lives. With each gentle peck, he tried to convey the strength of his feelings, to let her know that he was there for her, always.

Then, in a moment that felt like time itself had slowed, she turned her face toward him. He was taken by surprise as she captured his lips with hers in a sudden rush of passion. It was the most intense kiss he had ever experienced—raw and electric, igniting every nerve ending in his body. The world around them vanished, leaving only the two of them suspended in a beautiful, chaotic moment that defied all the pain and uncertainty they faced.

He felt her warmth envelop him, the taste of her lips mingling with the salt of her tears. It was as if the universe had aligned, bringing them together in this perfect chaos. He deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of his confusion, fear, and unwavering love into it. They were no longer two people burdened by fate; they were partners in this battle, bound by something deeper than obligation.

As they pulled away, breathless and wide-eyed, Draco searched her gaze for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Instead, he found a flicker of understanding, a shared recognition that they were in this together, facing whatever came their way as allies, as friends, and now as something more profound.

"Draco," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I—"

"Shh," he interrupted gently, pressing a finger against her lips to silence her worries. "No more worries, baby. We'll figure it out together. Just know that you mean everything to me."

But did she even hear his confession? The way her eyes seemed distant suggested that she hadn't fully registered his words. The heaviness in her heart overshadowed his declaration, and he felt a pang of frustration mixed with a deep-seated concern.

"Come, darling," he said softly, wrapping an arm around her waist. "I'll make you a relaxing bath. It'll help clear your mind."

"No, I don't…" she began, but he didn't let her finish. He could see the exhaustion etched into her features, the way her shoulders slumped under the weight of their situation. With a gentle yet firm resolve, he swept her up into his arms, ignoring her protests as he carried her toward the bathroom.

"Just trust me," he murmured, glancing down at her. Her expression was a mixture of disbelief and reluctant acceptance, but he could see the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. He knew she was worn out, and it was time to let someone else take care of her for a change.

Once inside the lavish bathroom, he set her down gently on her feet, waving his wand to vanquish her clothes with a flick. The water was already filling the deep tub, steam rising in delicate wisps, fragrant with lavender and chamomile—her favorites.

"There you go, princess," he said, his voice low and soothing as he motioned toward the tub. "Step in for me. I promise it'll make you feel better."

He watched as she hesitated, glancing between the inviting bath and his eager face. Her brow furrowed for a moment, but then she nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Alright," she relented, stepping closer to the tub.

As she slipped into the warm water, a sigh of relief escaped her lips. The tension in her body began to melt away, and Draco felt a sense of satisfaction wash over him. He moved to sit on the edge of the tub, leaning forward slightly to watch her.

"How does it feel?" he asked, a playful smile dancing on his lips.

"It's lovely," she admitted, her voice softening. "Thank you."

"I'm always here for you, Hermione," he replied earnestly, the weight of their earlier conversation still lingering in the air. "No matter what happens with that decree, we'll face it together."

She met his gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I know. And I appreciate it, truly. I'm just so scared."

"I get it," he said, his voice filled with warmth and understanding. "But you don't have to bear this burden alone. Lean on me, let me help you."

As she relaxed into the bath, he felt a sense of hope blossom between them, as if the act of caring for her was slowly breaking down the walls that fear had built. And in that moment, as they shared this quiet connection, he knew they would navigate whatever challenges lay ahead, hand in hand.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But every miracle has its limits, and for Hermione, that limit seemed to be about two days. Two days of quiet solace where the world felt a little less overwhelming, where Draco's comforting presence was enough to soothe the storm inside her. But reality, as it often does, came crashing back in. And with it, came the embarrassment.

The kiss. That kiss.

It had been impulsive, raw, and powerful. But now, in the unforgiving light of reflection, it haunted her. How could she have let herself lose control like that? She had practically thrown herself at Draco, and worse, she'd enjoyed it. Every second of it. The way his lips moved against hers, the way his arms tightened around her as though she were the most precious thing in his universe.

It had been more than just a kiss. It had been a surrender—a vulnerability she wasn't prepared for. Why had it felt so right? Why had she wanted more? More of him, more of his touch, more of that dizzying closeness that threatened to unravel her.

Stop thinking about it, she chastised herself, pacing in her room as her mind replayed the scene over and over like a broken record.

But she couldn't stop. The truth was, it wasn't the kiss itself that scared her. It was her reaction to it. She had wanted him. And not just in the fleeting, surface-level way. She had wanted him with an intensity that had startled her. That realization terrified her. Why him? Why Draco Malfoy of all people?

And worse yet—he'd kissed her back. Not with hesitation or restraint, but with a fervor that had matched her own. His lips had moved in sync with hers as if they were made for this. The sensation of his hands pulling her closer, his fingers threading through her hair—it had been electrifying.

But now?

"Ugh, gross," she muttered to herself, groaning in frustration as she flopped down on her bed. What the hell is wrong with me? she thought. The logical part of her brain was screaming at her to snap out of it. They weren't supposed to be like this. They were...what? Partners by circumstance? Forced allies? They hadn't even kissed before this. How had things spiraled into a kiss that made her insides twist in ways she couldn't control?

She was mortified. The rational, level-headed Hermione Granger had been reduced to a blushing, emotional mess over one single kiss. A kiss that she couldn't stop thinking about.

And so, because it was easier to bury those feelings than to confront them, she did what she did best: she built walls.

When Draco had come to check on her the next morning, a gentle look of concern in his eyes, Hermione had shut down. Gone was the vulnerable girl from the night before who had sought comfort in his arms. She was back to being distant, closed off—a fortress of sarcastic remarks and cold glares.

Draco had been confused, of course. The shift in her demeanor had left him reeling, unsure of what he'd done wrong. They had shared something special, hadn't they? He could still feel the imprint of her lips on his, the warmth of her body pressed against him. It had been real. But now, it was as though she had decided to erase it all, as if that moment had never happened.

"Good morning, princess," he had greeted her with a soft smile, his voice hopeful. "Did you sleep well?"

Hermione had barely glanced at him, her expression neutral, bordering on indifferent. "Fine," she had replied curtly, her voice devoid of any warmth. "Just...fine."

Draco had blinked in surprise, unsure how to respond. He had expected at least some acknowledgment of what had transpired between them. But instead, she was treating him like a stranger, like he hadn't been the one holding her in his arms, comforting her through her tears.

She had slipped back into her old ways—the cold, distant Hermione who kept him at arm's length. It was like she'd shut off all the warmth from the past few days, as if that vulnerable version of her had never existed. And it stung.

Draco felt the shift, the sudden chill in her demeanor. He couldn't understand what had gone wrong. How could they have gone from the raw, intimate kiss to this cold wall between them again?

"Princess, what's happened?" he asked gently, stepping toward her.

Hermione flinched, backing away as if his closeness burned her. "Don't call me that," she snapped, her voice cold and hard. "I don't want to be near you."

His heart sank. "What do you mean?" Draco tried to keep his voice steady, but the confusion and hurt bled through. "What happened?"

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, refusing to meet his eyes. "Why did you let me kiss you?" she demanded, her tone sharp and biting. "It was—" Her voice cracked, but she swallowed it down, her expression hardening again. "It was gross."

Draco blinked, stunned by her words. Gross? That kiss had been anything but gross. His lips still tingled from it, the fire of it still burned in his veins. "I wouldn't rate that kiss gross, Granger," he said, trying to keep his tone light despite the tension thickening between them. "It was...passionate."

"That's not the point!" her voice rose, frustration and self-loathing dripping from every word. "You don't want me. I don't want you. We're just stuck in this situation because of a stupid decree. Let's stop pretending anything's going to change."

Draco stepped closer, his jaw tight, trying to make sense of her sudden hostility. "Who says I don't want you?"

Hermione's eyes flashed with cold fury, her expression hard and unyielding. "I only kissed you because I was a wreck," she spat, her voice dripping with bitterness. "And I've always wondered what it felt like to kiss a Death Eater."

The words hit Draco like a curse, the impact of them stealing the breath from his lungs. His heart clenched painfully, shattering under the weight of her accusation. Is that what she really thinks of me?

Nothing more than a Death Eater. A monster.

His throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn't speak. The hurt swelled inside him, threatening to drown him. "I'm not one," he finally managed to say, his voice thick with emotion. "I was forced—we were forced. I never wanted that life." His voice cracked as he pleaded with her, the rawness of his pain evident in every word. "What happened to the girl who was always an optimist? The one who believed in second chances?"

Her face twisted with anger, her eyes blazing with a fire he had never seen before. "That girl," she hissed, stepping closer until their noses nearly touched, "died on your drawing room floor. And you—" Her voice shook with rage as she shoved a finger into his chest. "You let it happen. You stood there and watched it, Draco, and you did nothing!"

His heart felt like it was being ripped apart, her words cutting him deeper than any spell ever could. He winced, his body recoiling from her accusation even as he tried to reach for her, to explain. "Darling, please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You don't understand…"

But she wasn't listening. She couldn't. Her rage had consumed her completely. Before he could finish, she closed the small distance between them, her eyes blazing with hatred as she stepped right into his space. And then, without warning, she spat in his face.

Draco froze, the warmth of her spit shocking him into silence. He stood there, motionless, as the sticky wetness dripped down his cheek. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as he struggled to process what had just happened. The humiliation, the pain—it all crashed over him in a tidal wave.

He wiped the spit from his face slowly, his hand trembling. And then, forcing a hollow, bitter chuckle, he muttered, "Well, that was quite...pleasant."

But before he could say anything else, her hand flew across his face in a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the room. His head snapped to the side, and the force of it burned his cheek. His eyes squeezed shut as he absorbed the blow, the sting not only physical but emotional. The slap felt like a final judgment, her hatred of him manifest in that one violent act.

Her voice trembled as she hissed, "That's what I think of you, Malfoy."

Draco stood there, his cheek throbbing, the taste of bitterness flooding his mouth. For a long moment, he couldn't move. He didn't have the strength. Her words had cut too deep, her slap a painful reminder of the truth he could never escape—what he had been forced to become in the war. No matter how much he tried to explain, no matter how many years passed, to her, he would always be the boy who stood there, silent, while the horrors of war unfolded before them.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco was miserable. A dull ache settled in his chest that never quite went away, an ever-present reminder of the fracture in his soul. How do you make someone love you? How do you earn forgiveness when you're the villain in their story? These were the questions that haunted him day and night.

He was Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most powerful wizarding families, trained to be ruthless, to never show weakness. But now, here he was, reduced to a pathetic shadow of himself, desperate for something as elusive as love—her love. And the worst part? He didn't know how to reach her anymore.

He had tried. Merlin, he had tried. He sent her flowers every morning, each bouquet more extravagant than the last—roses, orchids, lilies enchanted to never wilt. Her room was practically a greenhouse by now, overflowing with blossoms of every kind. He'd written little notes with each one, though they never seemed enough to express the storm of regret and longing inside him. Forgive me, he'd scribbled in one. Please, just talk to me, in another. But they went unanswered. Unread, perhaps.

Next came the gifts. He had always been taught that wealth could solve any problem. So he sent her diamonds, strings of them, glittering necklaces and delicate earrings. He chose emeralds too, knowing they would look exquisite against her skin, jewels he could picture her wearing to some grand event, her arm linked with his as they made their entrance. And when that didn't work, he resorted to sending her the most exclusive designer clothes, silk and velvet gowns crafted with painstaking care, as if draping her in finery would somehow make her feel less broken. Less hurt.

None of it worked.

She hadn't come out of her room in days, and each hour that passed without her presence felt like a slow, suffocating punishment. He could hear her occasionally—footsteps, a door closing, the soft creak of a floorboard—but she never sought him out. Never acknowledged the gifts. It was as though she had retreated into her own world, a fortress of solitude where he wasn't allowed.

And it tore him apart.

Every moment without her felt like a thousand years. His mind raced with memories of the past, their arguments, her accusations. The kiss. Her words echoed in his head, loud and merciless, gnawing at his sanity. I've always wondered what it felt like to kiss a Death Eater. He winced every time he thought of it, the bitterness of that night still fresh.

He hadn't wanted to admit it, but her words had broken something in him. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was still that boy in the drawing room, frozen in fear and cowardice while others suffered. He had tried so hard to distance himself from the past, to create a new future, but it seemed like no matter how far he ran, it followed him. Haunted him.

What's the point? he thought bitterly, pacing the length of the library where he'd taken to hiding. The silence of the Manor felt oppressive, his footsteps the only sound. How do you make someone love you when they can't even look at you without seeing a monster?

He slammed his fist against the table, anger and frustration bubbling over. What more could he do? He could buy her the world, and it still wouldn't matter because the one thing she wanted, the one thing he could never give her, was the past.

He couldn't undo what had been done. He couldn't change the fact that he had stood by while horrors unfolded. He couldn't erase the memories of the war, the pain, the trauma. And no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't make her see him as anything but the Death Eater he had once been forced to become.

Draco collapsed into a chair, his head in his hands. He was spiraling, trapped in a loop of guilt and regret that had no end. He didn't even know how it had happened—how she had become his everything. Somewhere along the way, Hermione Granger had stopped being just his wife in name and had become the center of his universe, the very thing that gave his life meaning.

But she didn't know that. She didn't know that every time she avoided him, it felt like a knife twisting deeper into his chest. She didn't know that he stayed awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could possibly make this right. Wondering if she would ever see him as more than the sum of his mistakes.

He glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight, and still, there was no sign of her. Would she ever come out? Would she ever speak to him again?

Draco's mind wandered to the times before—before the decree, before the kiss, when things had been tense but manageable. When they could still sit in the same room without this unbearable weight between them. It hadn't been perfect, but it hadn't been this. Now it felt like they were trapped in some cruel game, where every move he made only pushed her further away.

You're losing her, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You're losing her, and there's nothing you can do.

But that wasn't true, was it? There had to be something he could do. He couldn't just give up. Not when she meant everything to him.

With renewed determination, Draco stood from the chair, his fists clenched. He would find a way to break through the walls she had built around herself. He would find a way to make her see that he wasn't the monster she thought he was. He had to. Because without her, without her love, he was nothing.

And so, as the night stretched on and the Manor remained eerily quiet, Draco made a vow to himself.

He wouldn't stop fighting for her.

Not until she realized that he was fighting for them both.