Part IV

seen the best of love, the best of hate

They are married in Greece, in a pure-white village stark against the vivid blue of the Mediterranean Sea. Their sole witness, the housekeeper of the magnificent seaside villa Draco's bought Astoria as a wedding gift, speaks just enough English to congratulate them.

Draco is very uncomfortably aware that this is the easiest part. Spending long, near-silent hours with her in the bright sunlight, admiring every night the new contrast of her skin against his (her fair skin tans beautifully golden in the Greek sun while he keeps carefully shaded under charms lest his pale skin burn red), the way she tastes of sea salt and white wine…it's all delightfully simple and uncomplicated, and what few people they encounter when they abandon the villa for the small town a few miles away don't know who they are, don't care at all.

And even 'easiest' is not easy. He bandages his arm carefully every day, covering over the ugly black mark (still stark, ever unfading) so Astoria need not see it, that the black-inked skin might not ever brush hers, even by accident.

She picks at the tape on the fifth night of their honeymoon; her face is pressed into his shoulder and he's so distracted by the gentle scrape of her nails down his arm that (for a moment) he doesn't even notice her turned attentions. He starts, pulling his arm away from her fingernails and accidentally smacks her across the face. Her head snaps back and he's quite wordless in horror; he's always regretted the Mark, but never so much as now, if only because it's made him cause Astoria pain. What a silly, petty reason amongst the horrors; an accident, a bloody nose healed in a moment and almost as quickly forgiven and forgotten…and it somehow means more. If he was anyone less (or more) than a Malfoy, he might feel shame at the thought, that this pain (however slight) is more real for its proximity, because it is Astoria, because she is his.

Her nose bleeds and she catches crimson in her palms, saving the cream lace and blush rose satin of her nightgown from the dripping, ruinous red. There's no apology, there never will be, but there is regret and disgust in his eyes and she reads it there and it's about what she expected.

She rips the bandage off his arm (the tape rips skin along with it; it stings and he hisses in surprise) and uses it to stem off the blood, tilting her head back and awkwardly untangling herself from the bedding with one hand. Astoria cleans herself up in the bathroom, sparing her nightgown and the silk bed sheets.

The gauze and spellotape is in his hand to redress his arm, but a stark, imperious, "Don't," from the doorway stops him. Astoria looks like some stern angel, backlit from the sconces in the bathroom. "That doesn't go away just because you bandage it, Draco. Live with your shame, don't you dare cover it up any longer."

He bandages it anyway, somewhere between defiance and humiliation.

She won't come back to bed. If they were Ron and Hermione, it would be a huge, screaming row. It's the same sentiment running in the undercurrent, but shame veneered over with pride keeps Draco quiet, and Astoria gilds her anger with cold, well-mannered words and frosty absence. He tries to come after her, to bring her back (these few first nights curled around her, his hand in her hair, face pressed into the faint remains of perfume and salt at her neck, the complete contentment of possession bred into his Malfoy blood, is enough to convince him he could happily spend every night for the rest of his life like this, and he cannot give it up so easily) but she flits away from his arms and he is far too cowed to lay a heavier hand to take her back.

She sleeps in one of the villa's other bedrooms and locks the door behind her (Seals it, in fact…not that he tries). He has a wretched dream that night. He forgets it by morning, but it will come to him years later in another night alone and he will recognise it: he holds Astoria in his arms again, in his bed in Malfoy Manor, cradles her as she cries and trembles, soothes her and strokes her hair with his right hand while his tattooed, traitorous left draws a knife across her throat. Her eyes are terrible when they're true sea-glass, dull chunks of cloudy green tumbled around in the ocean too long, empty and dead.

He wears long sleeves the next day, but he does not bandage the Mark. She's taking breakfast on the beach, a mug of tea on the arm of her lounge chair as she sits in the morning sun on their private beach.

One by one, she unbuttons the white shirt and her presence, the press of her lips to the line of his collarbone, is only just enough to still his instinct to fight her, to pull the shirt back and snap and sneer and push her away.

Draco only forgets when Astoria casts the shirt down to the sand and leans into him, the golden cast of the sunlight bright across the bridge of her nose, scattered lightly with freckles, her long dark hair in sea-salt-waves over her shoulders and lit through with sun bleached bronze.

"I won't settle for being less than that," she says, her words backed by the roar of the sea.

"Less than what?" he asks, already playing with the ties on her top and entertaining thoughts of reconciliation in the sand.

"Less than that," she says, tracing her hand over the black Mark. Draco flinches, pulling away slightly. "Less than your pride," she clarifies, pursuing him, her hand clasped over his forearm. "That'sdone, Draco. Let it go, let it just be a stupid mistake, a stupid tattoo and let it go. You already are something else; if you were still that Mark, I wouldn't lo…settle for you." (She'll never say it first, it's her own piece of pride. She'll never say the words because she'll never say them first, and she'll find she doesn't need to.) "So stop covering it up and move on."

With a haughty look (and insecurity in her eyes, he heard that slip, he's getting better at reading) she looks up at him. "I don't settle for anything, Draco. You're not that Mark, and if you won't—"

"I will," he cuts in, some of his confidence returned at her uncertainty, her slip (there's a little bit of him that's ready to gleefully taunt her, you were going to say you loved me! ha, I knew it, but he's just as skittish of the word as she is).

"You will?" Astoria's voice is solemn, and Draco has the idea that this is their vows all over again.

"I do," he smirks. "Thought I'd already said that, Story, but if you want…"

With an exasperated sigh, she bats him playfully upside the head and he laughs and the moment is over (they're both relieved, Astoria's glad to be allowed to act twenty again and not have to remember all the little broken pieces that make them older), pulling her up against him again and finding the spot on her neck expressly engineered to drop her feet out from under her.

Curled up in the morning sun with her on the rapidly warming sand, he tells her (in all seriousness, but he buries it in a joke because, despite it all, the words are too much for him to be said in any other way) that there will never be anything to outshine his princess, that he will let the world fall down and throw away his dignity before he betrays her.

She's almost irritated at the words, they're so deeply steeped in false mockery, but she just curls her arm tighter across his chest and consoles herself with the fact that she loves the stupid bastard, God help her, and that's more than she ever thought she'd get. This is the closest to a fairy tale happy ending that anyone gets, anyway.

Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing! Lavinia, Anomalous Anonymous, TheRavenclawNinja, cutemara, deathlyhallows777, miriamimus, slythandromeda, Calendar, respitechristopher, Cuban Sombrero Gal, Aria Gray, and The Sushi Monster.

There are seriously not enough hearts to express my extreme gratitude for your kind and encouraging words. Y'all kind of rock. :)

I'm definitely in love with writing these two. I hope I'm keeping up and not disappointing with Draco's characterization...I'm trying really hard to keep him true to canon yet believably developed into adulthood. If you have any suggestions (on anything, really), I'd love to hear them!