Nothing could compare to the real Hermione, of course—a painting, no matter how beautiful, could not suck him off or curl up in his arms. But it was a strange, sensual thrill to have a copy of his wife and be able to keep her to himself without repercussion. Draco moved his grip nearer to his tip, giving fast, shallow strokes, teasing the glans. Precum leaked in a steady dribble from his tip and he used it to lubricate himself, moaning as he imagined his wife underneath him.