Really odd; after last battle; married.
I don't knowwwww, I was feeling creative.

DON'T FRKN OWN HARRY POTTER, GOSH

Mrs. Draco Malfoy

She smiled, one of those sad little smiles that hid secrets but didn't quite conceal her pain.

It's all mine now. The fortune, the glory, the future, and him. He's mine now.

She frowned, one of those bemused little frowns tucked in her smooth brow.

But he isn't really mine, is he? And in the end—without him I have nothing.

She laughed, one of those bitter little scoffs she couldn't help.

He watched her, her smile, her frown, her laugh, and wanted to say something but couldn't. He couldn't pin down his thoughts long enough to form them into words. He never could anymore, sometimes he didn't even know if he was still alive.

He had so much to say to her, all he asked for was one more day, one more clear day for him to tell her everything she deserved to know. But that day never came.

And he slips farther into his haze as the hours go by, farther into the insanity that killed her as much as it did him.

She's waited for him for two years now, married to the shell of the person he once was. And she knows she'll wait for him for as long as it takes, she knows that that means she'll be waiting forever. But she doesn't mind, because she sees the strain in his eyes on those rare occasions when he parts his chapped lips in a sad attempt at speech. And she puts both his little hands around one of his cold, slender ones, pressing it to her lips and murmuring—

"I know, love, I know."

She doesn't, she really doesn't. Because he doesn't love her, he really doesn't. Even if he could speak he would never tell her he loves her. Draco Malfoy is a Slytherin, his heart as cold as the blue of his eyes. Yet at the same time, Pansy Parkinson is a Slytherin, her mind as strong as his was weak. She understood that, she understood it perfectly, and even though she knew he could never love her, the small part of her that was still a girl, still a hopeless romantic, still human likes to think that maybe, maybe he'll grow to be affectionate of her. Grow to be fond of her. To enjoy her company, perhaps.

Whatever, at least he can't leave her this way.

He knew that she thought he doesn't love her and never would, never could. She was right, of course, and he wished that she wouldn't love him as much as she did. Because he could see it hurting her, and it was no fault of his!

Of course not.

It was never his fault that she was so thick as to believe in love and romance and all that bloody nonsense. Damn that stupid girl for thinking he wasn't as frigid as the rest of the world liked to believe.

Damn her for being right.

And he was lying, to himself, to her, to the whole bloody world.

Because he loved her, and he was too good for her, too. He was a Malfoy, she wasn't worth it.

But oh, oh she was.

And he wanted to tell her that because he could see her pain even when she was strong, strong for him.

Sometimes Pansy hated her Dark Lord for doing this to her Draco. Sometimes Pansy was glad that that Harry Potter had killed the Dark Lord. Sometimes Pansy was glad her own parents were dead because they helped in the torturing of her Draco.

Her Draco, hers.

Sometimes Pansy wanted to die because she wasn't there to stop them, and now she's bound indefinitely to this Draco who really isn't Draco and thus not hers.

But most of the time, she chose not to think about it.

And she would tell you their story but she doesn't have the time, she's taking Draco to St. Mungo's this afternoon for his last checkup. They can't do anything for him, they've made that point painfully clear.

And later this evening she'll hold his hand and sit on the balcony of the Malfoy Manor that was theirs now, after his father's death and his mother's disappearance. She'll tell him stories of when they were children and kiss his forehead, so cold, so cold.

She would shake him and cry when he wouldn't shove her aside roughly, like he used to. Then she would slap him and scream at him, hoping he would do anything, anything. Even hit her back, it wouldn't matter.

And he won't respond, but his eyes might come alive again, just for a moment, almost too quick for her to notice.

She'll notice though, she notices everything nowadays.

And she'll be okay because he's by her side and she knows that he's still in there, somewhere, somewhere. And he'd be back, if she was patient.

Pansy Parkinson is not a patient person, but in this case—patience is all she has left.

He would try again tonight, as she lay her head on his chest to sleep, just to hear his heartbeat and remind herself he's still alive, barely. He would try to feel the weight of her pretty little cheek pressed against the nape of his neck, he would try to pull a hand through her dark hair.

And maybe tonight he would be able to do it, to revive himself.

If he can't—well, there's always tomorrow. She'll wait, he knows she will, and so he's okay too. Or at least he'll be okay, someday.