November 6th, 2004
I woke up to the sound of sloshing water. I squeezed my eyes tight, opened them to your blank stare, the planes of your face off-center in my field of vision. My arm was numb on the desk, my cheek wrinkled from the sleeve I had fallen asleep on, a wet splotch staining the fabric where my mouth had been open.
"I made you some tea," you said. "Breakfast is on the counter. I put it under a stasis charm."
I rolled my neck, tiny pops cracking as the bones righted themselves. "Oh, thank you." Medical journals were littered around me, one of them open to a case study about a muggle constable who developed multi-system organ failure. The patient is notable the healers reported for having been confounded multiple times over the years after continuously intercepting wizarding crime scenes.
Using my elbow, I pushed a textbook so that it slid over the notes I had been taking. "Have you already eaten?"
"I have to go out for a bit." You were dressed in pressed slacks and a forest green pullover, the half-moon of your polo collar lining the V of the sweater. "I'm not sure I'll be able to make dinner at the burrow."
"Oh, I'm sure Harry and Ginny will be disappointed." I could have said Ron, but I knew you wouldn't appreciate the lie. "Where are you going?"
"I have some business affairs to get in order."
I looked down at my watch. "And they'll take the whole day?"
"Yes," you exhaled, lips pursing. "It'll be a long day."
"You'll be in wizarding London?"
You blinked, and then: "Yes."
"Alright." I got up and moved towards you, stopping when there was only a forearm of space between us. I was going to squeeze your shoulder, a quick goodbye, but you were staring at me so intently I thought, Is he going to kiss me? How long has it been since he's kissed me? You leaned in, so I tilted my head, but then your lips skimmed my cheek, cold and fleeting, and you muttered, "I'll see you at home later."
You walked towards the fireplace. My fingers were pressed against my cheek, and I suddenly missed you so violently I wanted to tug you back, curl my fingers in the cashmere of your sweater and pull. But as you spun out of view, all I could think was: Why isn't he wearing robes if he's going to wizarding London?
I stopped by the hospital in the afternoon. After what had happened with Dr. Marron, I thought the room itself would look different. With the pretense sucked out, I thought I would finally see the scene for what it was: a ticking time bomb.
But everything felt the same. Dad slept, and his snores intercepted the pauses between the thump thump thump of mum's ventilator. A glare from the sun washed out and muted the colors of the TV. Two hearts beat out a steady rhyme across their respective monitors
I was staring out the window when the nurse walked in; I heard her squeaky shoes before I saw her, but when I looked up, she gaped at me.
"Oh," she said, and then she closed her mouth before popping it open again. "I think I must be in the wrong room."
She hurried out, her hand stuffed into the pocket of her pants, like she was holding on to something. I almost laughed; I knew the nurses were a bit scared of me, but I really had only yelled that one time.
Eloise, another nurse, walked in later while I was poring over a textbook. I had to hurriedly turn the page, hiding the moving diagram: the pale-pink sponges of the lungs contracting and expanding like a sideways accordion.
"Oh, hullo Hermione. I didn't expect to see you here." She walked to mum first, adjusting the various sensors threaded around her body. "You usually don't come on Saturdays."
I hummed, closing the pages around my thumb, but making no move to put it away, hoping she'd take the hint.
"No plans today?"
"No," I said, clearing my throat, "not today." I couldn't remember the last time I had come on a Saturday. Even after things had curdled between us, we always spent Saturday together.
I turned my head, burrowing further into the pillow. "Draco, it's so early, go back to sleep."
You chuckled, ghosting a finger further down my spine. "If you don't wake up soon, we'll be late."
I turned onto my back, opening one eye to glare. "Late for what? It's Saturday."
You tried to tug down the sheet, and I pulled back at it. "It's a surprise."
"I hate surprises."
I felt you smile against my collarbone. "You'll like this one." You pressed a kiss there, and then lower, and lower, until I forgot about sleep entirely.
Eloise didn't say anything else, moving across the room with a sterile efficiency. I tried to continue reading, but the words rippled across the page, and a dull pain beat on behind my eyes.
She was checking mum's vitals as I left, her body hovering awkwardly over mum's supine form. I glanced at Eloise's azaleia-pink scrubs, raising a hand in goodbye, but her back was to me, and my mouth felt too dry to say anything.
The door to the burrow lurched open before I finished knocking, and then Ginny's skinny arms were around me, squeezing too tight.
"Hermione," she said, "how are you?" Then she stepped back and took in the empty space beside me. "Where's Malfoy?"
"He had some business to take care of." George and Charlie passed by, each dropping a quick kiss against my cheek before moving towards the kitchen.
"On Saturday?" Ginny glanced at me, eyebrows pulled together in surprise.
I made a noncommittal sound, and she squeezed my arm. "That's alright. We'll just make sure you bring home some leftovers."
In the kitchen, there was the ritualistic exchange of hugs and kisses, Molly's lined hands on my cheeks as she clucked over how thin I had gotten. No one else asked why you weren't here, and I felt relieved, almost.
We drank red wine out of coffee mugs as we waited for dinner. At one point, Ron and Ginny left to set the table, and Harry and I were left leaning against the corner of the counter, shoulders at right angles to one another.
"How are they?" He asked, voice quiet.
I shrugged, rocking the mug and watching the wine lick the edges of the ceramic. "They're worse."
"I'm sorry." He reached out and wrapped his palm around my wrist.
I let it rest there for a moment, and then I pulled back to take a sip of wine.
"A colleague of mine," he paused, cleared his throat, "he married a muggle. His wife has some health issues, and he said he could give me the name of some clinics if..." his voice trailed off.
"Thank you," I said, and I wanted to mean it. "But it's not the hospital that's the issue."
Harry pursed his lips, but he didn't press the issue, and neither did I.
Over dinner, I caught him staring at me a few times, like he wasn't quite sure what to say.
During a lull in the conversation, Percy asked about you. I was raising a forkful of shepherd pie to my mouth, and the question made me put the fork down and clear my throat.
"Sorry, Percy, could you repeat that?"
He was sitting at the far end of the table, and he smiled, the corners of his mouth stained berry from the wine. "I was just asking how Malfoy's firm is going. It's been open for a couple of months now, hasn't it? The market is tough for now. Not a lot of mergers going on from what I hear."
The conversation around the table had dimmed self-consciously, as if everyone were embarrassed by the fact that they were listening in. A pea tumbled off the fork, and I watched it roll, feeling Percy's eyes on me. I opened my mouth to answer, and then closed it. I had no idea how the firm was doing; I couldn't even remember if I had asked.
You came home late that night, shutting the front door with a gentle click and pulling up short when you saw my silhouette on the couch.
"Merlin, Hermione," you cast a lumos and moved closer. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"
Crookshanks unwound himself from my abdomen and butted his head against your thigh, purring.
"I was waiting for you," I said.
"In the dark?" When I didn't answer, you frowned but didn't push. "Well here I am."
"There's some leftovers from The Burrow in the fridge."
You murmured something I didn't catch and walked towards the kitchen.
"Draco," I began, and then stopped.
"Hermione," you imitated my tone. I couldn't tell if your voice was begrudgingly playful or irritated; you were staring inside the fridge, the yellow light forming a crown around your head.
"Did you finish what you needed to get done today?"
"Yes," you pulled out the container of shepherd's pie, frowned, and then put it back.
"How are things at the firm? Does Theo mind that you're working predominantly from home?"
"We're partners, Hermione. He's not my boss. He doesn't tell me what I can do."
"I know...I was just wondering."
You grabbed the deli meat, tossing it onto the counter with a loaf of bread. I thought of the cold shepherd's pie. Had you always disliked it? Or did you just want something lighter tonight?
"Have you been able to find clients?"
You hmmed. Your back was to me, and I watched your short and quick movements as you spooned mustard out of the pot. The wet sound was obscene in the low lighting.
"And things are good, financially?"
You stilled. "What?"
"Percy mentioned that the market wasn't great–"
"–What does bloody Percy Weasley have to do with anything–"
"–I know that it was a large investment," I paused, anticipating your interruption, but it didn't come. "I know that you had planned to use your trust, but then your father–"
"–Hermione," your voice was very low. "I don't want to talk about my father."
"I just wanted to make sure everything was all right," The words rushed out, tripping over one another. "That's all."
You were silent for a beat before turning to face me, fingers gripping the counter behind you. "It's fine. Everything is fine."
"Okay," I nodded. "All right."
You went upstairs, and I watched the light from your study turn on, a trickle of gold seeping out from under the closed door. I don't know how long I stayed like that, rooted into the couch cushions, staring at your study door like it would give me the right words. When you finally finished and left to get ready for bed, I pretended to busy myself in the kitchen, waiting until I knew for sure you'd be asleep.
At the doorway of our bedroom, I stood for a moment, like a visitor, before padding inside and into the bathroom, the cold tiles a shock against my feet. The room smelled faintly of your body wash; your clothes were strewn in front of the shower, exactly where I knew they'd be.
"For someone who loves tidiness," I picked up your sweater, let it hang from my index finger, "you're awfully forgetful when it comes to remembering where the hamper is."
You turned, fingers hovering over the waistband of your trousers. Then you smirked and pulled at the zipper. The slow drag of it made my ears burn, and I looked away, studying the bottles of lotions and aftershave on the counter.
"For someone who hates finding my discarded clothes," there was the soft thump of fabric hitting tiles, and I looked over instinctively, "you are awfully interested in watching me take them off."
I picked up your polo, fisting the collar in my hands. Glancing at the door, I froze, wondering what I would do if you woke up and saw me standing there. What would you think? The rigid rows of cotton blurred in my vision as I closed my eyes and buried my nose in the shirt, inhaling around the bunched fabric. There was nothing, just the familiar scent of your cologne: tobacco, citrus, and cedar. Not a trace of perfume.
Relieved, I bundled your clothes into a tight ball, stuffing them in the hamper. In bed, I traced a finger down your spine, skin barely skimming the surface of yours. You shifted, turning to face me, mouth slack with sleep. The moonlight made your skin appear almost phosphorescent, and I wondered what you were dreaming about.
November 12th, 2004
The days have been bleeding together recently. I wonder if you feel the same way. A whole day can pass without interaction between us; I sometimes feel like a supporting character in my own life.
We eat dinner together, and then diverge to our own studies. I've only been in yours once since the renovation, just to admire the wall-to-ceiling bookshelves you keep organized alphabetically. In the lulls between my reading, I sometimes thought about bringing you a cup of tea–two sugars, a dash of milk–but then I would think about the logistics. What would I do after you thanked me for the tea? Would I stick around, perch on the edge of your desk and ask what you were working on? Even in my imagination, I can see the slight frown on your face, the way your fingers would tighten around the quill, an unspoken Yes, but not right now in your posture.
I told Susan about this. You were late for our session, but I kept the door cracked open for you. I always believed you would show up; you hadn't proved me wrong yet.
Susan and I sat across from each other, like we were waiting out an impasse. I started talking so she would stop studying me, and then I couldn't take the words back.
"Hermione, you mentioned that you sometimes feel like a 'supporting character' in your life. Where do you feel that comes from?" She was wearing a jade green dress, some sort of silky black insert placed where the V of her neckline dipped too low.
"I'm not sure," I said. She clutched her quill in a way that made me nervous. "Sometimes I just feel like things are happening at me instead of to me."
"That's an interesting statement," she leaned forward and her glossy black hair followed. "And do you feel that way in your marriage as well?"
"Pardon?"
"Do you ever feel like a 'supporting character' in your marriage'?" She said the phrase so crisply, her inflection precise and clean.
"I–Draco isn't selfish. Really, he's not."
"I never said he was." She tilted her head. "Why do you think I was making that implication?"
"Because," I felt like an insect under a microscope, turned on my back with my legs jerking against the bright light, "the implication is that he's the lead then, sucking all of the attention away, drawing all the focus. But it's not like that, and I don't want you to think that."
"Why don't you want me to think that?"
"Because," I looked up, incredulous, "What kind of question is that? This conversation makes it sound like it's his fault that we're here, and it's not."
"Are you saying you think it's your fault?"
"I'm saying that marriage is like an equation," she hmmed at that, and I ignored her, "you need the right elements to find equilibrium, and I'm the one who went and introduced a new variable," I closed my eyes. "Now that equation is unstable, and we're here to try to fix that."
"The variable you're referencing," her voice had grown gentle and conciliatory, "that would be your parents, correct?"
I was silent, and she continued, "And you think Draco hasn't changed at all? That the other parts of this 'equation' are stagnant? Do you think your parents are the only new variable?"
"Yes," I said, then, "No." I thought about me in the bathroom, sniffing your shirt like a pervert, and my neck prickled. "I don't know."
"Which part don't you know, Hermione?"
There was a long silence. The sun suddenly dimmed, casting her face into shadows. I thought she could only be considered beautiful under certain slants of light.
"Draco isn't selfish," I repeated. "But he's...impenetrable."
"Impenetrable?"
"I never know," I touched the back of my neck, "what he's thinking."
"And has it always been like this?"
"No, not always. Draco is a very skilled occulemens, but he rarely used it with me."
"When did you feel him become 'impenetrable'?"
"Around 6 months ago, maybe. Around," My head throbbed, that dull pain starting again behind my eyes. "the time my parents got sick."
She made note of that, her quill shooting across the page.
"And were there any other significant events happening at that period?"
"Draco started his firm. He partnered with a childhood friend."
"How did you feel about that?"
"I was happy for him. He really is brilliant, but we both knew the ministry wouldn't hire him."
"But it was a smooth transition overall?"
"There was a lot of stress. I had just gotten hired at the ministry, but I then my parents were ill and I had to take a leave of absence. Draco started working long hours."
"So, outside of work, how do you and Draco spend time together? What activities do you two do?"
"We...we haven't been doing much together. He's often very busy."
"With work?"
"Yes, I think…I'm not too sure. He's leaving tomorrow for a business trip. A week in France."
"And how do you feel about that?"
I shrugged. "Fine, I suppose. Nervous, maybe."
"Nervous?" She prompted. When I didn't bite, she tried again. "What do you feel nervous about?"
"I'm not sure."
"Do you worry that he'll be hurt?"
I shook my head. I knew you could handle yourself.
"Do you worry about being home alone?"
I laughed outright at that, and even Susan smiled, like she knew how ridiculous it was, but then her face neutralized and she leaned in and placed her elbows flat across the desk. "Hermione, do you trust your husband?"
"I–" the words suggested themselves to me, but I couldn't say them out loud. There were boundaries in relationships, I thought, and if you crossed one, you couldn't ever go back; it would always just be there, a phantom marking where you had ruined something irreplaceable.
"Go on, love," both of us turned. Your voice was coming from the door, where a sliver of light from the hallway peeked in. We watched as the door creaked open, your shadow spreading across the floor. "Answer her question."
"Mr. Malfoy," Susan stood up, but didn't move. Her voice sounded calm, but she was fisting the material of her skirt. "It is entirely inappropriate for you to have bee–"
"–inappropriate? I'm the one who pays you for couples' healing to 'facilitate communication,' but just now I walked in on what seemed like a very secretive conversation–"
"–what your wife and I talk about is confidential–
"–confidential?" You barked out a laugh. "The door wasn't even fully closed–
"–this disruptive and irresponsible behavior–
"–I understand that this is your home and maybe you're just very comfortable, but really, this is subpar professional protocol, even from you–"
"Draco," I interjected. My voice was high-pitched and panicked around the edges. "How long have you been standing there?"
Your lips thinned, hands curling into knuckles at your thighs. "Long enough. So tell me, Hermione, what is the answer to that question? Do you trust me?"
The world felt like it was spinning."I–" I glanced at Susan, but she was glaring at you still. My tongue felt heavy and thick inside my mouth.
"So what is it? Do you think I'm off cavorting with Death Eaters?"
"What? No, of course not–"
"–Off practicing dark magic? Terrorizing house elves?"
"Draco, that's not what I thought at all."
"Well?" You were leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Hermione," Susan said, "you don't have to answer that."
"Like fuck she doesn't!" He walked into the room, footfalls fast and furious on the hardwood floor. "Like fuck she doesn't have to explain why she still doesn't find me trustworthy–"
"–You cannot tell Hermione what she can or cannot feel–"
"You're never home," I said suddenly. Both you and Susan turned to me. "I just...you're never home, and I don't know where you go."
"I work from home. I'm always home."
"Last Saturday–"
"Oh for christ sake. I knew you were upset I missed the Weasley dinner."
"There are other times too, hours where you're gone and I just...where do you go? Where do you disappear off to?"
"I told you. I had a meeting. I had business to finish."
"And next week?"
"We've talked about this. There is a high-profile client that Theo and I are meeting. These are the things I need to do for the firm."
"You always say that, and I never know what it means," I swallowed. "Or who you're with."
You squinted, and then your mouth parted slightly, and you let out a short, clean laugh devoid of warmth. "That's what this is about? That's what you think I'm doing? Going out and fucking other women?"
"Your language is vile."
"Oh, now it's vile. You didn't used to mind when I whispered it into your ear at night. In fact, you made these little noises–"
"Draco," I put my hand up, "don't."
Susan looked at a loss, and I put my hand on my neck to hide the burning skin. The only sound in the room was your breathing.
As you exhaled, you slid your fingers through your fringe and said, very slowly: "It has been more difficult than anticipated to start a firm without my father's," you voice grew sharp around the word, "support and guidance...Hermione, I am trying my very best here."
"Draco, I–"
"And if you honestly think that everything that's happened–after all that I've given up for you–if you really think that another woman could mean anything to me," you looked up, huffing out a sound between a chuckle and a scoff, "then you not only don't trust me, you don't know me."
My fingers were clumsy around the collar of my blouse, tugging so hard I thought the linen might rip. You studied me, head tilted to the side. "Your problem is that you only ever see what you want to see."
I licked my lips. I didn't know what to say. As if sensing that, you nodded, and then with pop, you disappeared.
We didn't eat dinner together. I set out a plate for you, watching the clock and listening for the sound of your steps on the stairs. But they never came; after an hour, I put the stew under a stasis charm and went upstairs, passing by your study. I could see the movement of your shadow under the door, pacing back and forth across the room.
In bed, I drew my wand through the air, sending up a river of sparkles for Crookshanks, who arched and clawed at the display. I wondered if you would come.
When I woke up, I had tossed my wand onto your side; The sheets were cold under my forearm, the duvet neat and untouched. In the kitchen, there was a cup of tea waiting for me, a note placed next to it. I'll be back on Friday, it read, I've left the floo information below.
At the very bottom, you wrote: You can reach me, anytime. The ink bled and trailed on the "e," like you were going to include something else and then thought better of it.
