"I can't keep doing this with you."

"What are you talking about Hermione?" Her husband's gaze remained firmly fixed on the potion he was brewing as she stood in the doorway of his workroom.

"This—" she said, motioning between them. She raised her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, willing herself to be calm, patient. Give him the benefit of the doubt Hermione. Give him a chance to tell you himself. "Draco… Is there anything you want to talk about? About your trip? Or… anything?"

"Nothing that we haven't already discussed." He didn't even sound like he believed himself when he said it.

Her scoff only increased the tension that hung in the air. They had exchanged maybe 20 words since his return from the International Auror Conference in New York yesterday. Though, she admitted, that wasn't completely out of the ordinary for them these days.

Realizing she wasn't going anywhere, he finally raised his eyes to meet hers, and she saw the guilt that resided there in an instant. "Hermione, love, you're not making sense. What—"

"Don't you dare 'LOVE' me Draco!" she heard herself shout at him. "You don't get to call me that. Not when you're FUCKING someone else! And don't you dare pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." So much for giving him a chance.

His hesitation was all the confirmation she needed of her suspicion. She spun on her heel and left, not needing to hear anymore. She stopped a few paces down the hall when she heard the sound of his footsteps behind her.

"Who told you?" he asked simply, though she didn't miss the break in his voice as he asked it.

He wasn't going to even try and make excuses this time? He was as tired of this as she was. Why didn't he just divorce her and then they could stop doing this? She turned to face him. "Well, technically, you just did, love. But these did as much."

His eyes drifted to the pair of red lace knickers she pulled from the laundry basket he now noticed was balanced on her hip. He simply nodded and sighed in recognition, running a hand through his silver blonde hair. What could he really say at this point?

"As clever as you are Draco, I'd have thought you'd at least have remembered to clean out your pockets. Now you're just being lazy... I hope she was good. Anyone I know? Or did you have to travel all the way to America to find someone you hadn't already been inside?"

He flinched at her words, and she knew they weren't lost on him. She was hurting him, and she didn't know if she should feel grateful or disappointed about that fact. She wanted to hurt him after all, but she knew as long as she was able to, it meant he still cared. And as long as he still cared, she wasn't sure if she would ever be able to leave him. She considered pushing him further, saying the things she knew would rile him up. But they had been there so many times, at this point their insults were just uncreative. What she wanted more than anything, was to finally understand why.

"Draco, you promised," she whispered as traitorous tears slid down her face. "Why am I… why am I never enough for you?" She hated showing this kind of weakness in front of him. She hated that after everything he'd put her through, his betrayal still affected her this strongly.

He said nothing as he made his way slowly down the hall towards her, piercing her with that icy grey stare that had brought her to her knees too many times to count. Apparently he was tired of fighting too. She turned around and tried to find the strength to walk away. She would be stronger this time. He couldn't keep treating her like this.

Fifteen years of marriage. FIFTEEN years! And in that time she had withstood so much. Three pregnancies, countless dinners with his parents, ruthless articles in the papers, enough screaming matches and carelessly hurled insults to last a lifetime, and then there was the partying, the alcohol, the smoking, and of course the affairs. She had sacrificed so much. Her reputation, her career aspirations, her friendships. All for him. She'd done all of it, for him. She deserved better. She deserved so much better than this.

Yet, when he came up behind her and gently wrapped his arms around her waist, buried his head in the curls around her neck and told her how sorry he was, she flinched, but she let him do it. And when he kissed his way down her neck across her collarbone and moved his hands to caress her stomach and breasts beneath her blouse, she told him to fuck off, but ultimately she let him do that too.

When he plied the knickers from her fist, tossed them to the floor and whispered that the girl was no one, that he'd royally fucked up and that she didn't matter to him, she told him she didn't believe him, but she did. And when he pressed her up against the wall, slammed into her from behind and promised that she was the only woman for him, that he would be better for her, she called him a fucking liar, but she believed that too.

And when he refused to hold her after they'd finished, when he'd left her panting in the hall like a commonplace whore, saying that he just needed to go out for a bit to clear his mind, that he loved her and they'd discuss this more later, she found herself in the same place she always did, regretting every single bit of it.

She pretended to be asleep when the floo roared and their bedroom door slammed opened later that night. But she didn't have to look at the clock next to their bed to know it was 2:00am and that if he'd been a minute later she would have called the police.

He didn't even bother to change his clothes before he slid into bed next to her, and the heavily steeped smell of beer and smoke told her all she needed to know about his evening. She found herself warring between yelling at him and checking to make sure he was all right. She'd decided to just be grateful he was safe and save the rest for the morning—Merlin knew they both needed sleep—when she felt their bed begin to shake and heard his muffled cries.

She immediately turned and wrapped him in her arms, burying her face in his back as she whispered how much she loved him, how much she forgave him, how much she believed in him. She knew she should feel guilty, ashamed of how quickly she bent to him, but all she could concentrate on was that he was hurt and he needed her. She let him sob until his pillow was soaked, his breathing had calmed, and she was certain he was asleep.

"What do you see in me?"

She started at the sound of his voice. "Draco, love. You're drunk. Go to sleep," she said as she stroked his spine.

"After everything I've put you through. Why don't you just leave me?"

"Is that what you want?"

"No."

"Then why do you keep doing things that push me away?"

He was silent.

"I love you Draco Malfoy. You are the father of my children, and you have been my best friend for the better part of the last two decades, and 15 years ago I made a promise to love you for the rest of my life… in sickness and in health. I don't know if you took that vow seriously, but I did."

If it weren't for the pounding of his heart in his chest, she'd have thought he'd finally fallen asleep. When it was clear he wasn't going to say anything, she continued.

"I believe that the man I fell in love with at 18 is still there. I see glimpses of him now and then: in the way you teach our children, in your diligence to your work and promoting justice, when you're just being yourself around the house and playing with Magnus and you think I'm not watching but I am…"

He turned to face her then, and she felt like she was seeing the real him, no pretenses, for the first time in years. And it fucking terrified her. The man who lay before her was broken, and she was beginning to accept she didn't have the ability to fix him.

"And the rest of the time?"

She sighed. "It's like you're someone I don't recognize anymore. And it…"

"It what, Hermione?"

"I'm scared, Draco… And I'm hurt. And I'm just really fucking tired… And I want to have the strength to tell you to leave and never come back so that I don't have to feel this anymore, because it fucking sucks Draco! It fucking sucks. But I can't because I still love you, and I'm afraid of what will happen to you, and I just can't—I can't… I just can't."

She was gasping for air between sobs by the time she finished, and for the first time in years he held her, really and truly held her. He didn't pull away, he didn't look at her face, and he didn't try to kiss her. All he did was wrap her up in his arms and hold on tight without an ounce of selfishness to it. And even though she knew he was drunk and probably wouldn't remember most of their conversation in the morning, it still gave her hope. And she was able, for a moment, to pretend that maybe they would be ok.