Against the odds Dramione

They had been married for three agonizing weeks. Three weeks of silence, bitterness, and the slow, crushing realization that their lives had become something unrecognizable. It was an abomination, this forced union, a cruel game orchestrated by the Ministry in the aftermath of the war—a desperate bid to ensure the continued "purity" and survival of the wizarding world through forced alliances. Sacrificial lambs, that's what they were, thrown into this cursed institution with no thought for their pasts, their desires, or their futures.

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, bound in marriage, the first test subjects in what had become a twisted social experiment. Patient Zero. And it was a disaster.

The initial shock had given way to seething resentment. How could they—two people who had spent years on opposite sides of a bloody war—be forced into something as intimate and sacred as marriage? The idea was laughable, if it wasn't so utterly devastating. They had never spoken more than a few civil words to one another before this; their history was tangled with loathing, accusations, and violence. But now, here they were—Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.

The days passed in a haze of awkwardness and stifling silence. Malfoy Manor, once opulent and filled with life during Draco's childhood, now felt more like a tomb. The grand halls and lavish rooms echoed with emptiness, making the tension between them almost unbearable. The house, too large for two unwilling residents, felt like a prison neither could escape from.

He had seen his so-called wife a grand total of two times in those three weeks. The first time, she had hurried past him in the hallway, eyes fixed on something far beyond him, her hair wild and untamed, as if she couldn't bear to be in the same air as him for longer than necessary. The second time, they had nearly crossed paths at the entrance of the library—his mother's old sanctuary—and she had exited without so much as a glance in his direction. It was like he didn't exist to her, like he was a ghost haunting the manor rather than the man she had been forcibly bound to.

She didn't look at him. She didn't speak to him. And, somehow, that was worse than the screaming matches he'd envisioned. Silence gnawed at him in a way insults and curses never could. It left him hollow.

He was bored. And more than that—he was miserable. Trapped in his own ancestral home, a place that had once been a symbol of power and pride, now a cage where he felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life. It was suffocating. And Hermione's deliberate avoidance of him only deepened the wound.

He spent his days wandering the manor, trying to fill the long hours with anything to keep his mind off the pit that had formed in his stomach. He roamed the corridors, poked through ancient relics in forgotten rooms, and spent far too many hours staring at the fire in his father's old study, lost in thought. Anything to stave off the gnawing sense of failure, of emptiness, of loss.

He was an orphan now—barely nineteen and already an orphan. The war had taken everything from him. His parents were gone, swept away in the storm of Voldemort's defeat. The once-powerful Malfoy family had crumbled, and he was left to pick up the pieces of a legacy he no longer knew what to do with.

Orphaned, but not alone. Not technically. No, he had a wife now. Hermione Granger, the golden girl of the Order, the witch who had saved countless lives and fought for justice, was his wife. But it didn't feel real. It felt like a cruel cosmic joke.

She had made it clear, without ever uttering a word, that she wanted nothing to do with him. Her absence was as palpable as a slap to the face. And Draco… he was too proud, too wounded, to try to bridge the gap.

What could he say to her, anyway? "Sorry about all those years of torment and bloodshed. Fancy a cup of tea?" The very thought was ridiculous. No, he would let her keep her distance, let her retreat into the one place in the manor that wasn't stained by his family's dark history—the library.

He stayed away, respecting the unspoken boundaries they had somehow established without a single conversation.

But the quiet ate away at him.

On the surface, it was easy to blame her for all of this. It was easy to resent her for the coldness, the way she pretended he wasn't even there, like he wasn't suffering, too. Like he wasn't trapped in this horrible situation right alongside her. But deep down, beneath the layers of pride and bitterness, he knew she wasn't to blame. None of this was her fault. She had been dragged into this nightmare just as unwillingly as he had. She had lost things in the war, too—her childhood, her innocence, friends, family…

And yet, it didn't make the reality of their marriage any easier. It didn't make it any less unbearable to be stuck in this grand, empty house with a woman who wanted nothing to do with him.

A woman he had once despised. A woman he still wasn't sure how to feel about.

As the days stretched on, a realization began to take root in his mind—a realization he couldn't quite shake, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

He was lonely. He was deeply, achingly lonely. And for all the distance between them, for all the silence and avoidance, she was the only other person in this house. She was the only other person in his world right now.

And that… that terrified him.

Because despite everything, despite their history, despite the forced marriage, despite the crushing weight of his own misery—he was beginning to wonder what it would be like if things were different. If they could actually speak. If they could break through this unbearable silence.

But Draco Malfoy had never been good at reaching out. And Hermione Granger was nothing if not stubborn.

So they remained in their separate corners of the manor—two people bound together by law, by circumstance, but utterly and completely alone.

Three weeks. Three endless, painful weeks.

And there was no end in sight.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione Granger felt like a prisoner. A well-dressed, well-fed prisoner locked inside the gilded walls of Malfoy Manor. Three weeks of this—three weeks of stifling silence, endless corridors, and the weight of an unwanted title. Three weeks had passed since her life had been turned upside down by a law that treated her like nothing more than a bargaining chip in the post-war reconstruction. The Forced Marriage Act. It sounded ridiculous, even thinking about it now. But it was real. She was living proof of its cruelty.

She had no freedom. No control. No choice. All of her autonomy, all the things she had fought for during the war, had been stripped away the moment the Ministry issued the decree. Hermione Jean Granger—hero of the wizarding world, war heroine, and the brightest witch of her age—was now Mrs. Malfoy. A title that made her stomach twist with revulsion every time she thought about it.

The war was supposed to have been the end of their suffering, the end of fear, oppression, and pain. But here she was, in a different kind of battle. Not for her life, but for her sanity.

She was bored. Miserable. Malfoy Manor, while grand and lavish, was suffocating. The same dark stone walls, the same pristine floors that gleamed under the chandeliers—it all started to blend together, becoming an oppressive maze she couldn't escape. Time passed sluggishly, every hour bleeding into the next, with nothing to do but read books and talk to the house-elves, who, as kind as they were, couldn't fill the gaping hole that loneliness had carved inside her.

She missed her friends. Desperately. Harry and Ron had been her pillars of support, her family in every way that mattered. But now they felt so far away, as though they existed in a different world entirely. Sure, they had tried to reach out, but she couldn't bring herself to respond to their letters. What would she say? That she felt like she was losing her mind in the very place that had once symbolized everything she hated? That she was married to Draco bloody Malfoy and didn't know how to handle it? They wouldn't understand. How could they? They were off living their lives, free from the chains that bound her.

She missed her parents too, more than she could put into words. Even after the war, she hadn't had the chance to fully reconnect with them. She had been too busy rebuilding the wizarding world, trying to make things right again. Now, the ocean between her and her parents felt insurmountable. She longed for the warmth of her mother's embrace, the calming voice of her father, the simplicity of being their daughter rather than the girl who was stuck in a loveless, forced marriage.

She had nothing here. Just the endless expanse of Malfoy Manor's cold, empty halls and the knowledge that her life was no longer her own.

She avoided him on purpose. Every time she thought about him—her so-called husband—a wave of anger and loathing surged through her. How could they do this to her? How could he have agreed to this? She was forced to marry the one person who embodied everything she had fought against for years. Malfoy, with his pale sneer and his haughty arrogance, was a symbol of everything she despised. He had tormented her for years at Hogwarts, made her feel small and inferior simply because of her bloodline. And now, they were bound together in this twisted parody of a marriage.

It wasn't just that he was a former Death Eater, or that he had stood on the side of the enemy during the war. No, it was the fact that he was Draco Malfoy—a boy who had bullied her, sneered at her, and represented the very worst of pureblood supremacy. The fact that the Ministry could bind her to him in such a way felt like the ultimate betrayal.

She loathed him. Every inch of him. Every glimpse she caught of his pale face reminded her of the years of insults, the years of disdain he had shown her. It was like being shackled to her worst enemy, and she couldn't stand it.

But Malfoy wasn't around much, and for that, she was grateful. The manor was large enough that they could avoid each other without much effort. She hadn't spoken a word to him since the day of their "wedding," if it could even be called that. They had stood there, side by side, exchanging vows in front of a cold, emotionless official, neither of them willing participants, neither of them looking at each other. It had been a farce.

Since then, she had only seen him a few times in passing. He spent most of his time hidden away in some other part of the manor, and that suited her just fine. She didn't want to speak to him. She didn't want to look at him. The mere thought of having to endure a conversation with Draco Malfoy was unbearable.

Instead, she retreated to the only place in the manor where she could find some semblance of peace—the garden.

The garden was, in many ways, the only saving grace of Malfoy Manor. It was grand, sprawling, and beautifully maintained. A labyrinth of blooming flowers, carefully trimmed hedges, and ancient trees that seemed to whisper in the breeze. It was a place of life and light, a stark contrast to the gloom that permeated the rest of the manor. And, most importantly, it was a place Malfoy never went. Not once had she seen him there.

It was almost as if he were allergic to sunlight, preferring to brood inside the darkened walls of the house. Hermione found that ironic, given his pale, ethereal appearance. He looked like he might actually melt if the sun touched him.

But the garden… oh, how she loved the garden. Every morning, she would slip away from the suffocating halls of the manor and make her way outside, relishing the feel of fresh air on her skin. It was the one place where she could breathe, where she could feel like herself again. She spent hours among the flowers, the greenery, and the buzzing of bees, losing herself in the serenity that the natural world provided. It was a refuge from the chaos of her mind, a place where she could forget, even for a little while, that she was trapped.

Sometimes, she brought a book with her and sat beneath the shade of the towering oak tree in the center of the garden, its branches stretching out like protective arms. Other times, she simply wandered the paths, letting the quiet of the garden soothe her. She would sit by the fountain, watching the water ripple and dance, and imagine a different life—one where she wasn't bound to Draco Malfoy, one where she was free to live as she pleased, surrounded by the people she loved.

But the garden, for all its beauty, couldn't change the reality of her situation. No matter how much she tried to lose herself in its peace, she couldn't escape the fact that she was trapped. The silence of the manor was always there, waiting for her when she returned inside, and with it, the weight of her unwanted marriage.

Three weeks. It had only been three weeks, and already Hermione felt like she was losing herself. How much longer could she endure this? How much longer could she pretend that she wasn't falling apart, piece by piece?

She didn't know. But for now, all she could do was cling to the small moments of peace the garden offered, and hope that, somehow, she would find a way to survive the nightmare her life had become.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She lay sprawled out beside the fountain in the garden, the cool stone beneath her back a welcome contrast to the warmth of the sun that kissed her skin. The air was fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers, a mixture of jasmine and roses that lingered in the breeze. It was the kind of day that should have brought her peace, the kind of day where her mind should have been clear, her heart light. But even with the sun shining brightly above her, she couldn't shake the weight that sat heavy in her chest.

She closed her eyes, letting the sunlight bathe her face, trying to focus on the sound of the fountain's gentle trickle. The water, clear and sparkling, danced in the sunlight as it splashed into the basin, creating a soothing rhythm. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine that she was anywhere else. Not in Malfoy Manor. Not tethered to this life she hadn't chosen. She pictured herself on a beach somewhere far away, the sand warm beneath her toes, the salty sea air tangling in her hair. Somewhere she could be free.

But the moment was fleeting.

The Manor's garden had become her sanctuary, the only place she could truly relax. It was vast, almost unnaturally so, sprawling acres of lush greenery, ornate topiaries, and paths lined with perfectly manicured hedges. There were corners that seemed forgotten by time, hidden nooks filled with overgrown wildflowers, and statues that seemed to watch her with silent, stony eyes. It was a strange contrast to the dark, cold grandeur of the house itself. Here, in the garden, things felt alive, vibrant—things grew here. In the house, everything felt frozen in time, trapped in the past along with the memories of a family now shattered.

She sighed, her arm resting lazily across her forehead as she tried to focus on the sounds of nature around her—the rustle of leaves in the light breeze, the distant chirping of birds, the occasional buzzing of a bee drifting past.

And yet… something felt off.

A prickle ran down the back of her neck, and her brow furrowed slightly beneath her closed eyes. It was a subtle sensation, but unmistakable—the distinct feeling of being watched.

At first, she ignored it, pushing the thought away. It was absurd. Malfoy Manor, with all its protection spells, wards, and charms, was impenetrable. There wasn't a chance in the world that someone could simply sneak into the garden unnoticed. The house was layered with defensive enchantments, centuries-old magic that was as strong as it was unforgiving. No, it couldn't be an intruder. It was impossible.

She shifted on the blanket she had spread out beneath her, trying to shake the unease. She told herself it was probably nothing. Maybe one of the house-elves had wandered by. They had a tendency to appear silently, always hovering just out of sight until they were needed.

But the sensation grew, gnawing at her peace. It wasn't a fleeting feeling—it was persistent, lurking at the edge of her awareness, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She could feel it, a pair of unseen eyes fixed on her, watching her every move.

Her pulse quickened, and she opened her eyes, squinting against the brightness of the sun. She lifted her head slightly, scanning the garden around her. The hedges stood still, the flowers swayed gently in the breeze, and the statues remained unmoved in their eternal watchfulness. Nothing appeared out of place. The garden was just as serene and peaceful as it had been moments ago.

But the feeling wouldn't leave her.

Slowly, she sat up, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. She glanced over her shoulder toward the house, half-expecting to see a figure lurking in the shadows of the grand stone manor. The large, arched windows of the house stared back at her, empty and cold. The doors were closed, and there was no sign of movement.

Hermione frowned, her mind struggling to reconcile the strange feeling in her chest with the peace of the garden around her. It didn't make sense. She was alone—or at least, she should have been.

But then she saw it.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and her gaze snapped upward, following the source. There, perched precariously on the edge of the roof, like some sort of brooding gargoyle, was Malfoy.

Of course, she thought dryly, her frown deepening. His platinum hair glinted in the sunlight, a sharp contrast to the dark slate of the manor's roof, and he seemed completely at ease, legs dangling over the edge as if it were perfectly normal to be sitting atop a house like some deranged bird of prey.

She squinted up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun. "What are you doing up there?" she called, her voice carrying across the quiet garden, breaking the stillness.

He glanced down at her, his expression unreadable from the distance, but his lazy posture made it clear he wasn't in any rush to move. "Just thinking, princess," he replied, his tone smooth and indifferent, but there was an edge to his voice—sarcasm, as always.

She snorted, rolling her eyes. Princess, he called her. Always with the nicknames. As if he could somehow reduce her to a title, a label, something simpler than who she really was.

"If you're planning to jump," she shouted back, her voice dry with mockery, "at least do a backflip. Make it interesting."

His laugh echoed down from the roof, dark and sardonic. "You'd love that, wouldn't you?"

"Very much so," she shot back, her lips curving into a smile she didn't quite mean.

He was infuriating—arrogant, self-centered, and maddeningly indifferent to everything around him. And yet, even in these moments, when he perched on the edge of the world like he didn't care if he fell, she couldn't deny that there was something about him that made her pulse quicken. Not in a way she liked, of course. Not in a way she would ever admit.

From his perch, he sighed dramatically, his gaze sweeping over her as if he were bored of the conversation already. His eyes, sharp and assessing, flicked from her face down to what she was wearing—or rather, what she wasn't wearing. She was in nothing but a light summer dress, thin straps and a hem that barely grazed her knees, the fabric clinging to her skin in the heat.

"What are you even wearing?" he asked, his voice laced with judgment. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest, his posture the picture of casual disdain. "What if someone sees you like that?"

She raised an eyebrow, bristling at his tone. "And what if they do, huh?" she shot back, standing her ground even though a part of her was annoyed at herself for letting him get under her skin. "It's not like I'm parading around the village, Malfoy. I'm in a garden. Your garden, in case you forgot."

"They can't see you like this," he muttered, his voice quieter now but still dripping with that same irritating condescension. He looked away, his gaze drifting to the horizon, as if the very thought of someone else catching sight of her was some sort of personal offense. "And… whatever, Granger."

She glared up at him, folding her arms across her chest. "Get off the roof," she demanded, her tone sharp with exasperation. She wasn't in the mood for this—his cryptic remarks, his judgmental gaze, the way he always made her feel like she was under some sort of scrutiny.

For a moment, he didn't move. He stayed there, perched on the edge, the weight of his silence hanging between them like a leaden cloud. His expression shifted, something unreadable passing across his features before he let out a slow breath, almost as if he were releasing some unspoken tension.

"Fine," he muttered, more to himself than to her, and with a lithe grace that always surprised her, he stood up from his precarious spot. Without another word, he turned and disappeared from view, retreating back toward the house, his silhouette fading into the shadows of the Manor's towering walls.

Hermione let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her heart still pounding from the unexpected encounter. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum beneath her fingertips, trying to calm herself. She shouldn't have let him get to her like that—she knew better. After three weeks of this bizarre arrangement, of living in the same space as Malfoy but barely seeing him, she should have been used to the way he made her feel.

And yet, every time they did interact, it felt like stepping onto a battlefield—each word, each glance, a weapon in the war they hadn't chosen but were now trapped in. A forced marriage, a twisted fate. Neither of them wanted this, and yet here they were, bound by the same invisible chains, forced to exist in each other's orbit.

She shook her head, turning her gaze back to the fountain, watching the water ripple and shimmer in the sunlight. The peace she had felt earlier was long gone, replaced by a strange tension that knotted in her chest. She knew she wouldn't be able to relax now, not with the memory of his piercing gaze still lingering in her mind.

But as much as she hated to admit it, a part of her couldn't shake the question that had been gnawing at her ever since the day they were married:

What was he really thinking?

Because despite all the snark and the cold indifference, despite the distance he put between them, there was something in the way he looked at her just now—something she couldn't quite place. And it bothered her.

She picked up her book, intending to distract herself, but the words on the page blurred, her thoughts drifting back to him up on that roof, his sharp features silhouetted against the bright sky.

Whatever it was he was thinking, she knew one thing for certain: she couldn't afford to care. Not about him. Not about what he thought. Not about them. Not if she wanted to survive this twisted arrangement with her heart—and her sanity—intact.

With a frustrated sigh, she closed the book and lay back down, closing her eyes against the sun. She would not let Malfoy take any more space in her mind than he already had.

But deep down, she knew that was easier said than done.

Draco was livid. Seething, really. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, but he didn't care. He stormed down the manor's stairs, every step a manifestation of the anger boiling in his chest. He had been minding his own business, indulging in what he had reluctantly termed his "daily depression hours"—those long, quiet stretches of time where he could sit on the roof and brood. The isolation, the height, the precarious balance on the edge of it all made him feel... something. But then she had the nerve—the audacity—to tell him to get off the roof.

That woman. 

His mood darkened just thinking about it. Laying there in the garden like she didn't have a care in the world. Like she hadn't just walked into his life and upended everything with her stubbornness and her principles. And to make matters worse, she was practically sunbathing in her bloody underwear, as if that was somehow acceptable. He hadn't even been able to stop his eyes from lingering on her, watching the sunlight dance across her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. His pulse had quickened, and for a brief moment, all he could think was how stunning she looked, like some sun goddess lying on the fountain.

No, not stunning. Gorgeous.

No, not gorgeous... Delicious.

Wait, what?

He stopped dead in his tracks, his mind screeching to a halt. Delicious? What the hell was he even thinking? His breath caught in his throat, and for a second, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, loud and insistent, as if it were mocking him for even letting his thoughts drift that way. Granger, of all people? Gorgeous? Delicious?

He felt like he'd been hit with a Confundus charm.

Pull yourself together, Draco, he scolded himself, trying to shake off the treacherous thoughts that had wormed their way into his mind. She's Hermione bloody Granger. Not someone you admire. Not someone you—

But before he could finish that thought, the image of her flashed across his mind again—this time, even more vivid. The way her hair spilled across her shoulders, a cascade of wild curls glowing in the sunlight, and the way her dress clung to her, barely covering the curves of her body. He swallowed hard, heat rising to his face as his mind replayed the scene like a broken record, refusing to let him forget how absolutely perfect she had looked.

What is wrong with me?

He shook his head, frustrated beyond measure. He needed to stop thinking about her. Now. His mother would roll in her grave if she knew what sort of thoughts he was having about the insufferable Granger. He'd been raised better than this—tutored better. He was supposed to despise her, wasn't he? She was the epitome of everything he had been taught to disdain: Muggleborn, sanctimonious, insufferably clever, and now, his wife—though that last part was the Ministry's doing, not his.

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that she was the enemy, his thoughts kept circling back to her. To her smile—well, the one she rarely showed to him, at least—to the fierce fire in her eyes when she was determined, and now, apparently, to her gorgeous, delicious body.

Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT, he commanded himself, as if sheer willpower could put an end to the madness that had taken over his brain.

Yet, the more he tried to suppress it, the more the image of her seemed to blossom in his mind. Her body, lying out there in the garden, so serene, so perfect. It was driving him insane. He was supposed to hate her, but now here he was, standing in the middle of his own bloody manor, wrestling with the fact that he couldn't get her out of his head.

He ran a hand through his hair, groaning in frustration. Maybe it was just the forced proximity. That had to be it. They were trapped here together, stuck in this damned marriage neither of them wanted. It was only natural, right? The mind playing tricks, trying to latch onto something familiar—something that was always in his sight, something to distract from the crushing loneliness. Yes, that had to be it.

But, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, you don't even see her that often.

And that was true, too. In fact, he had only seen her a handful of times since they were married—twice, to be exact. She avoided him, and he was more than content to let her. They were like two ghosts haunting the same house, passing each other in silence, pretending the other didn't exist.

Except for today.

Today was different. Today, he couldn't stop noticing her. Not just her presence, but everything about her—her hair, her body, her damn eyes. And that terrified him.

He let out a slow breath, leaning against the cool stone wall of the corridor, trying to ground himself. He couldn't let this continue. Whatever this... this attraction was, it had to stop. He couldn't afford to let himself be distracted by her, not when they had both made it perfectly clear how little they wanted to be part of each other's lives.

It was just the situation. The forced marriage. The confinement to the manor. That was it.

Yet, as he stood there, staring at the ornate floor tiles, he couldn't stop thinking that no matter how much he tried to rationalize it, some part of him was undeniably... drawn to her.

And that scared him more than anything else.

With a frustrated sigh, he straightened up and began pacing again. He had to get out of the manor, away from the oppressive weight of her presence, away from the maddening thoughts that wouldn't leave him alone.

But deep down, he knew that no matter how far he ran, there was no escaping Granger.

Because she wasn't just a problem he could solve or a challenge he could outwit. She was his wife.

And whether he liked it or not, some part of him was starting to feel something for her—something dangerous, something real.

And it was only a matter of time before he would have to face it.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco paced back and forth in his room, fists clenched at his sides as he tried to shake the image of Granger out of his head. It was infuriating. Ever since she had arrived at the manor—his manor, forced into marriage by that damned Ministry decree—she had been nothing but a thorn in his side. And yet, today... Today was different.

It wasn't just her stubborn attitude or her know-it-all tendencies that got under his skin. No, today it was something else entirely. It was her body—her stupid, gorgeous, delicious body—that had him in knots. He cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried, and failed, to control the thoughts racing through his head.

She had been lying by the fountain in the garden, wearing what he could only describe as some kind of... underwear thingy. He didn't even know what to call it. It was certainly something Muggle, that much was clear. But why did it matter? He couldn't stop thinking about it, about her.

It had all started with her yelling at him from below when she'd spotted him on the roof, brooding, as he did almost every afternoon since their forced marriage. His time alone on the roof was his "depression hours," as he liked to call it, the only time he felt free from the suffocating weight of expectations and the ghost of the manor's dark history. But then she interrupted him, mocking him like it was all some kind of joke.

He had brushed her off, of course, but when he climbed back inside, something had shifted. He couldn't stop thinking about her, about the way she had looked lying there in the sunlight, her skin glowing golden, her wild hair spilling over her shoulders. She was like something out of a dream—no, a nightmare, because there was no way he should be thinking about Granger this way.

He growled, pacing faster now, trying to banish the mental image. But it was impossible. The curve of her body, the way the sunlight had kissed every inch of her skin, the way her bikini—whatever the hell that was—barely covered anything at all. He felt a sudden, undeniable heat surge through him, and his traitorous body responded in the most embarrassing way possible.

He stopped in his tracks, looking down in horror. "Oh, for Merlin's sake," he muttered to himself. He was hard—rock hard, like some hormone-addled teenager who had never seen a woman before. It was humiliating.

And then, just when he thought things couldn't get worse, she stepped inside.

Granger.

Still in that tiny piece of fabric she called clothing, her body gleaming with a light sheen of sweat from the sun. She walked towards him, her eyes briefly flicking over him, but she seemed entirely unfazed. Meanwhile, Draco was frozen, absolutely mortified and unable to move. His brain was screaming at him to turn away, to leave, to do anything, but his body wouldn't listen. His cock was painfully hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers, and all he could do was stand there like a fool.

She can't see me like this, he thought in a panic. But it was too late.

She stopped a few feet away from him, her face unreadable. "Your suicidal moment is over, Malfoy?" she asked, her tone casual, as if they were discussing the weather and not his ridiculous rooftop brooding.

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a strangled sound. "Uh... yes."

He felt like a complete idiot. His face was burning, and he could feel the tension in his body coiling tighter, especially as she stood there, practically glowing in that damn bikini, looking entirely unbothered.

Without another word, she turned and walked past him, heading toward the stairs. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her as she moved. The sway of her hips, the smoothness of her skin—it was like his brain was on fire, every rational thought he'd ever had disappearing in a cloud of heat and desire.

STOP IT, he screamed at himself internally. This is Granger. You hate her. She's your wife in name only, for Merlin's sake. Get a grip.

But his body wasn't listening. He was still standing there, rock hard and completely mesmerized as she disappeared around the corner, leaving him standing in the middle of the hall, a wreck of confused emotions and lust.

He let out a long, shaky breath, running a hand through his hair again in frustration. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Because for the first time since they had been forced into this sham of a marriage, he realized something terrifying: he wanted her.

And that thought alone was enough to send him spiraling into a whole new level of confusion and rage.

How did this happen? How had Granger, of all people, gotten under his skin in this way? He had spent years despising her, mocking her, telling himself she was beneath him in every possible way. And now... now he couldn't get the image of her out of his head.

He felt trapped—trapped in his own house, in his own mind, and worst of all, in this twisted attraction to the one person he had never imagined he'd want. It was maddening.

He needed to get a grip. He needed to pull himself together. Because whatever was happening between them—this strange tension, this undeniable pull—it couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen. They were nothing more than strangers, bound together by circumstance. There was no future for them, no possibility of something more.

But as he stood there, still trying to will away his arousal, he couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could resist the temptation that was slowly, steadily pulling him toward her. And that thought scared him more than anything else.