Four

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Draco's fingers twitched as he paced up and down the hall, his teeth grinding annoyingly as he tried to respect some semblance of his wife's wishes. For the past two years, that's all he seemed to have been doing: keeping Hermione happy, doing whatever she says, respecting her wishes. It had come to a point where she had started to eye him warily until he told her in no uncertain terms that he would be doing what she asked, what she wanted, exactly how she wanted him to do it, from any moment she let exhaustion overcome her.

Merlin, if he only knew this would be his life when he had been younger.

As he passed the double doors to his bedroom, Draco paused, his feet itching to take him closer. He hesitated only for a moment before he stepped forward and took the handle by hand. Then he let go of the brass handle instantly, knowing that even though he didn't want to let Hermione be alone at a time like this, a larger part of him didn't want to be in the same room where the altercation was taking place. He was a coward when it came to things like this, proudly so.

He spent the rest of the half hour pacing the length of the hall, his footsteps muffled by the ancient carpet and his long, pale fingers straightening and re-straightening the portraits of the former Malfoy family members as he waited. He waited longer than he needed to. He continued to wait when he had been expected to leave. Just as he thought to sod the lot and barge into his bedroom, the door opened slowly.

Draco straightened his back and waited, expecting the first thing that he saw be a fist hurtling towards his face followed by a punch that he would allow because he knew he deserved it. He would only allow one punch, though, nothing more than that. He wouldn't let his guest be too greedy.

But, Potter looked far from angry as he closed the door behind him. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes sad and resigned. His glasses were balanced precariously on the edge of his nose, as if he had been taking it off and placing it back carelessly. When green eyes met Draco's own grey eyes, he recognised the look instantly, and an unfamiliar sense of empathy settled deep inside his chest. They had been enemies once, and now they were barely acquaintances, but there were certain things that could bring two people who hated each other as much as they did, together.

"Fancy a brandy, Potter?"

Draco wasn't at all surprised when Potter readily agreed.

The silence was heavy between them as they seated themselves in Draco's study. It was once a cold room occupied by his father, a large mahogany desk standing at one end with a long, intimidating walk prepared for the person who was called in for a meeting.

Hermione had fixed that within the first week of their marriage. She had furnished the extra room with a couch, two chairs and a coffee table, telling Draco again and again how it was important not to have any room look too aloof. Draco had fought her tooth and nail at the beginning, grumbling about the changes as often as he could. What he never told her, what he failed to mention, was how he preferred sitting on one of the plush chairs she had chosen rather than the uncomfortable seat his father once occupied. She wouldn't have let him live it down if he had.

This is where he sat now, nursing his brandy in a crystal glass that was gifted to him and Hermione by one person or the other, while Potter seated himself on the couch. His guest finished his drink in one gulp, wincing as the liquid burned its way down his throat.

"She's sleeping," Potter said suddenly as he placed his empty glass on the coffee table. "She was talking to me and she just fell asleep."

"That happens sometimes." Draco swirled his drink, his mind occupied. "She's so tired these days."

Potter bent down and shook his head, his hands entwining behind his neck with frustration. "I could kill her!" his words exploded in the quiet room, causing Draco to take another sip of his drink as he calmly contemplated Hermione's best friend.

Ah! Anger! He remembered that feeling well.

"She waited two years to tell me! Two years! All that time when she said she was travelling, she was looking for a cure. We could have spent time together. We could have helped. She was selfish! So selfish!" Potter's eyes darkened as he fixed Draco with a hardened stare. "You could have told us."

"She forbid me—"

"Fuck that!" Potter said the words violently as he stood up and started pacing along the length of the couch. "She does things like this. She always puts others first. That's Hermione. But, that's not you." He rounded on Draco, voice shaking with anger. "I don't bloody care if she threatened to leave you, you should have come to me."

Just as the anger had burst forth, it fizzled, leaving Potter depleted as he turned away from Draco. "I have to go," he muttered. "I have to get Ron. He has to see her."

As Potter turned away from him, Draco glimpsed the quick movement of his hand as he raised his fingers to wipe away the streak of tears that had fallen unbidden down one cheek. Potter stormed out, his last words coming from him in such a low sneer that Draco couldn't help but hear.

"I won't forgive you for this, Malfoy. None of us will."

Potter left by slamming the door angrily behind him. Draco sighed before finishing his drink and placing his glass down next to Potter's. His wife might have been wrong this one instance when she had decided not to tell Potter and Weasley. At the time he had rejoiced at the decision she had made. All he wanted was to concentrate on finding a cure for the spell his aunt had placed on her all those years ago as she tortured Hermione in front of him, without having her best friends interfere.

And if he was honest with himself, he knew that the main reason he didn't want them to know was because they would have blamed him for not helping to prevent it. They had been locked in a dungeon, but he had been forced to watch. He didn't need a reminder that his failure had caused her to lose her life. That's exactly what Potter and Weasley would have done; they would have constantly reminded him.

How was this better? Draco wondered. Apparently, it was years later and he was still making the wrong decisions.

Draco put the crystal glasses away and magically cleaned one room after another, making his way across the main hall of Malfoy Manor as he headed to his bedroom. There had been a time when he had had house-elves at his disposal, but knowing Hermione had changed that fact drastically. She had managed to send them all away in tears. She had stood horrified that the creatures were in such distress while he had allowed the creatures to cling to his leg and beg for forgiveness. Draco smiled at the memory, despite how angry he had been at the time. She was a storm, his wife, breaking and mending things as she went through the world.

As Draco opened the door to his bedroom, he was surprised to see tired, brown eyes watching him intently.

"Is he mad?" she asked quietly. Her voice was hoarse. Draco conjured up a glass of water and handed it over to her gently.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Now go back to sleep."

Hermione sat up gingerly before taking a small sip of the water and handing the glass back to him. She leaned heavily against the pillows and eyed him warily. "I might have been wrong."

Draco smirked, causing the glass of water to disappear with a quick flick of his wand before he sat down on the bed beside her. "Might is an understatement."

Without preamble, she broke, her frail shoulders shaking as a series of sobs wracked her body. Draco didn't hesitate before calmly circling his arms around her and pulling her against his chest.

"He hates me," she muttered against his chest, a hiccup following her statement as her fingers clutched onto him.

Draco let his hands roam over his wife's body, his frown deepening as he compared her form to how she had been just a week before. He could feel her rib bones under her back that had once been smooth and soft to his touch. Her arms were thinner and much weaker than before. When he buried his fingers in her hair to keep her to him, he was dismayed further to note that the strands didn't feel as thick as it once had.

He kissed her temple quickly, letting his arms just comfort her for a moment. "He's angry at the right person, and that person is not you."

Her sobs stalled quickly, a sniffle escaping her as she pulled back to see him. "It's not your fault. You know that, right?"

He brushed aside the messy strands of hair that had fallen against her cheek, choosing to kiss her mouth lightly rather than answer her.

"Draco—"

He didn't let her talk. Bending down, he fastened his lips onto hers gently, kissing her slowly and languidly until her breathing grew uneven.

"It's time to go to sleep, Granger," he said sternly, using the name he always did when he wanted a conversation to stop. "Don't make me tell you twice."

She didn't look appeased as he helped her further under the covers, but she did do as he asked, because as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was dead to the world.

Draco inhaled a shaky breath before he composed himself. Some days were taxing more than others, and today had been particularly difficult for him and his wife.

He was exhausted, but he didn't want to wake her by sliding into bed. Instead, he sat down on the chair that Potter had occupied when he had spoken to Hermione and picked up the closest book so he could read until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

However, like the nights before, Draco didn't even bother to open the book that was placed on his lap, choosing instead to watch the gentle rise and fall of his wife's chest to convince himself that she was still alive.