The steely gray eyes betrayed a tad more emotion than usual, but the expression he bore was cold as ever. He swiftly disrobed, stiff and all business.
"Let's get this over with."
Astoria couldn't believe he was still like this. Their arranged marriage was over a year ago, and the only reason they had sex was to attempt to continue the family line. She was worried that because she hadn't been able to bear a child, their marriage would be short-lived. Despite the obvious qualities of the match, Draco never seemed to be enthusiastic.
She suspected there was another, possibly from his past, but she never asked. She was the perfect wife for him, aloof, rich, pureblood... But she could see he wanted something more.
Draco Malfoy stalked down the street, blond head covered by a cloak. He ducked into a seedy-looking inn, just off Diagon Alley, to meet her.
He couldn't believe she had actually agreed to meet him. It was a blessing. He was actually thankful. That disgusted him.
He checked in under an assumed name, of course, then waited.
And waited.
And waited.
She finally arrived, covered by a bulky black cloak, creamy brown eyes blazing with just a hint of amber.
He rose, and they silently glided down the hallway to their room, the usual, seventeen.
As soon as the door closed behind them, their demeanors changed. They became frenzied, the opposite of Draco's encounters with his wife.
After they were done, hot, sweaty, smiling, Draco fell asleep. His steely gaze was gone, replaced by one of youthful sleep. He was not plagued by dreams of the war, of his sham of a marriage, of his desire to have this woman for his own. He was resting.
She slowly put her simple green dress and shoes on, then picked up her heavy cloak. Shaking her head and smiling sadly, she pulled it on.
She glanced at Draco's simple form once more before leaving.
Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy both had unhappy marriages and responsibilities that consumed their lives. They felt their lives revolved around the things they thought were important when they were eighteen, twenty, not twenty-five, thirty. They had nothing to make them happy. Not really. But they had this.