Five months.

Five months of tangled limbs, soft gasps, and too many mouths pressing against your skin.

The marriage contract was law, signed by the Ministry’s decree. But this—this—was something else entirely.

You were curled up now on the long velvet couch in your sitting room, drowning in cushions, skirts tangled around your thick thighs, one shoulder slipping free of your prim healer’s robes. It was warm in the manor, but not from the fire.

It was them.

You couldn’t breathe without one of them kissing you. Touching you. Gripping the soft, plush curves of your hips like they might disappear if they didn’t hold on.

Draco was in your lap, of all things. Platinum hair falling like silk across his sharp cheekbones, his silver eyes darkened, hungry, as he nuzzled under your jaw. His hands were already curled possessively around your waist, thumbs pressing just beneath the little swell of your tummy, like he loved that softness there.

“I don’t know how you expect me to think when you sit there looking like that,” Draco muttered, biting softly at the spot just below your ear. He sounded wrecked, unsteady, not the polished heir he used to be, not the cold boy from school. “You’re all—soft—and freckled, and… fuck, you don’t even know, do you?”

His voice was hoarse now, lips brushing your neck between words.

“You don’t know what you do to us.”

Theodore wasn’t far. He never was. Theodore Nott stood behind you, one long-fingered hand gently curled around your throat—not choking, not harsh—just holding, feeling the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm like it belonged to him. His royal blue eyes flickered with sharp amusement.

“Speak for yourself, Malfoy,” Theo murmured, leaning down to kiss your temple, lips dragging over the wild curls of your red hair. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

His hand slid down then, gliding deliberately over the curve of your breast, squeezing just enough to make your cheeks flush darker.

“You should’ve seen the way she walked into the room this morning,” Theodore whispered against your hair, lips brushing your ear now, dangerous and fond at once. “All curves. And that ridiculous healer’s robe—you wear it to torment us, don’t you?”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Sirius swept in like a storm. He didn’t ask. Sirius never asked. One hand on your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh there roughly, possessively, while his lips dragged along your collarbone with almost feral reverence.

“Godric’s bloody beard,” he growled, biting down—not hard, just enough to feel it. “You’re too cute. Too soft. How the hell did they let you out of the house dressed like this?”

It was possessive, rough, greedy—and you liked it far more than you ever admitted aloud.

And then—Remus.

Softest, kindest, hungriest.

He was kneeling between your knees now, hands smoothing up the outside of your thighs with reverence. His green eyes were burning, flickering gold at the edges, the wolf beneath the surface pacing.

“Breathe for me, darling,” he said gently, thumbs brushing over the sensitive crease where thigh met hip. His lips followed next—feather-light kisses against your inner thigh, his nose brushing freckles there, inhaling like you were made of something rare and sacred.

Draco’s breath hitched against your throat. Theo’s palm tightened around your breast. Sirius growled into your shoulder.

“I can’t get enough of you,” Remus whispered, voice breaking. “None of us can.”