He's driving too fast.
It was still strange to Hermione that Draco had ever succumbed to the way of the muggles and their "futile means of transportation" as he had so often referred to them. They didn't go out often, but when they did, it meant taking a reckless and very short drive: an activity he'd hold over her head for weeks to come if she so much as whispered an inkling of dissatisfaction with his lack of presence in her life.
"Draco I wish you'd come home more often, I miss how things were. I miss spending time with you." Hermione would begin, hopelessly pondering to herself that this wasn't exactly what she had expected from married life with the man who once filled every dream she longed for.
"I don't get why you make such a big deal out of problems that aren't even there, Granger, I really don't. We just took a drive together the other day, you ask too much of me." Draco had recently readopted her maiden name as a means of cruelty when he was upset with her. She had learned that if asking once didn't work, asking twice would only ever result in an argument she couldn't hope to cease once it began.
Her mind was at constant war with itself. It's not that she really wanted him home, as much as it was the fact that none of this was exactly what she had in mind when she had dreamt of a life with Draco Malfoy as her husband. He had once been an engaged lover: stealing kisses, taking her to dinner, and gazing at the stars as they fell asleep beneath them. Life had changed after the first two years. She watched her friends slip away one by one, her parents passed, leaving her the unfortunate dissatisfaction of no familial connections, and eventually, Draco Malfoy became all she had.
As Hermione's world crumbled around her, Draco began staying out just a little too late. Some nights, he didn't come back to the manor at all. His soft words slowly transformed into snide comments about her behavior: she talked too much, she was rude when she asked him a question, or she yelled just now (even when she could swear she didn't). When she tried to stand up for herself against his accusations—accusations she was sure were false—he told her she was hearing things wrong, or seeing things wrong, or even at times, just straight insane.
Hermione began to question everything she knew. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was just seeing it all wrong. She began to talk a little less, check and double-check her tone before speaking to him, and always made sure her voice was a touch quieter than it should be (just in case). Then: she wasn't cooking enough, the house wasn't to his standards of cleanliness, and she spent too much time on her own hobbies—which was incredibly selfish as he put it—so she began to cook every meal for him, cleaned vigorously throughout the day, and eventually dropped her own hobbies altogether.
Hermione had become a shell of a person, and of course, none of this worked anyways. Draco found more reasons to be dissatisfied with her: the food wasn't to his liking, she was being passive aggressive with her silent treatment (when in all reality, she was simply scared to talk), she was letting herself go—the list went on.
One evening, right after Hermione had stood to get out of the bath and was pulling a towel around herself, Draco Malfoy burst through the bathroom door and kneeled at her sopping wet form, down on one knee with a small box in his hands. She hadn't seen him in a week.
She had no idea where he'd gone, what he'd done, or why there was a glimmer in his eye and a shining smile on his face, but all she could hope at that moment was that he had finally had a change of heart, that this was it, their future was coming together and all of her hard work had finally paid off.
She said yes.
A few months after the wedding, Hermione would come to find that he had spent the past week with Pansy Parkinson—and they weren't just chatting.
Leaving didn't feel like an option anymore, even less so as the speedometer neared eighty and she flinched against a swerve in the road, bracing herself against the stitched leather seats of the vehicle as Draco neared a corner.
Perhaps he saw her flinch, or perhaps it was the small gasp of fear that had escaped her. Whichever it was, Hermione suddenly lurched in her seat, her forehead hitting the dash as that car came to a screeching halt.
She couldn't quite comprehend what was being said, but she knew for certain that Draco was yelling. Dizzily, and with a small stream of blood flowing down across her eyelashes causing her to blink frantically, she turned to stare at him. She watched in slow motion as he ripped off his wedding ring and threw it at her. He didn't usually wear it, only on the days he was trying to get her in his bed.
"—can't even drive without you being a dramatic, pathetic little shit! Your bitch ass can walk, get the fuck out of my car!" She reached toward the door handle, her head still spinning, his ring in her hands, the metal still cool. It had barely been ten minutes since he'd put it on.
She stumbled from the car, and in a mere moment, Draco Malfoy sped off, the tires screeching, and the tail end wobbling from the sudden burst of speed.
A short while later, Hermione parted one of the heavy doors to their manor, stepping inside as quietly as she could—not that it mattered really as Draco was reading a book on the couch, seemingly unfazed by her sudden appearance. She crept past him and made her way to the master bedroom. Her head was still spinning, and her vision foggy. Stepping into the room, she took in the sight before her.
Candles floated amongst a flurry of rose petals. The bed was dressed down in a set of velvety, burgundy sheets, a box of chocolates lay open upon them, soft music emanated from the air itself, and a sickly sweet scent assaulted her nostrils. Draco wrapped his arms around her from behind. His presence was silent, and yet it dared her to mention what had transpired between them only a half-hour before.
As his fingers crept under the hem of her shirt, she knew there would be no apology.