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Draco Malfoy knew that the day after her wedding, there would be a hole in his being, whether from the pain of separation, or from his recent obsession with a little lady named Firewhiskey.
He felt suspended in an abyss, and often times he would sit alone in his chambers, staring at the ceiling. Every emotion that coursed through his body, had ceased completely; in its place an overwhelming numbness.
Sometimes, he would catch himself drifting and busy himself in a pile of ministry paperwork. And others, he would just lay in bed, turning away advisers, falling back into his thoughts.
It wasn't because of her of course; it was from the massive workload that seemingly covered every surface of his office. But then again, that's what he told himself, and everyone knew Draco Malfoy was a liar.
Even himself.
The day he received a letter from London was one of those days where he was buried deep in his official work. Immediately, he felt a strange pang in his stomach. The letter was written on simple white parchment, the contents written in a rushed, sloppy manner.
Malfoy,
Hermione is ill.
-Ronald Weasley
On the back, a barely legible address was written.
Draco Malfoy released a deep sigh, dropping the letter onto his desk. He cradled his head in his hands before pushing his chair back with enough force to knock it on its side. Immediately, he grabbed his coat from its resting place on the back of a lounge chair and made his way through the door.
The smell of heavy duty, industrial cleaners filled his nostrils, forcing him to scrunch his nose in disgust. Immediately, he was led into a small room located on the 2nd floor of the hospital at the end of a seemingly endless corridor.
A number of thoughts were rushing through his mind, but he killed them with thoughts of the work awaiting him at home instead. His eyes had molded into a habitually weary state.
The dark circles beneath his eyes becoming a seemingly permanent structure. When he walked into the room, he was overwhelmed by the sight of dozens of bouquets. The majority of them being sunflowers. Her favorite. Despite the harsh, biting Winter, he was sure Potter had pulled a favor or two to have them sent from a foreign country. Tables were covered with 'Get Well' cards, and small trinkets. A few balloons with similar wishes remained anchored to the floor by weights.
"She always was everyone's favorite," he thought to himself with a smile.
There she was, his Hermione. His lioness. Except now, he hardly recognized her. Her crazy mane had been smoothed into a bun, an occasional stray standing out proudly as if to say, 'never forget who you once were.'
But her warm skin tone was completely drained and paled; the look in her eyes hollow. As he made his way across the room to sit beside her, a flash of red hair crossed his peripheral. Ron Weasley extended his hand, and muttered something, but Draco didn't catch it.
Quietly, he left the room, leaving the two former lovers to their angst.
"You look tired, Draco." She said the words in a sickly whisper, as if it were all she could manage.
He chuckled lightly, "you mean I look like shit."
She smiled a small smile, putting her hand on his own. Draco Malfoy felt every fiber in his body stand on end, electrified. He in turn ran a gentle hand through her hair, tucking a stray piece behind her hair.
"You're still as beautiful. Even in this state."
He inhaled sharply. "What have you done to yourself Hermione?"
The lingering veil of unspoken words and false pleasantries lifted immediately. She felt ashamed to look him in the eye. Instead, she withdrew her hand from his, gathering all her strength to sit up.
"The doctor says I have something called *Takotsubo cardiomyopathy."
She pronounced the condition perfectly, having had to explain it to countless well-wishers, no doubt.
For a moment, he just looked into her hollow brown eyes. He could feel the pain through them, something beyond physical, though of what, he was unsure.
Unsure.
It was a word that described his life for the past 10 years.
At first, the uncertainty was limited to simple, everyday dilemmas. Coffee or tea, though he disliked them both.
A red tie, or a black one.
Eventually, the magnitude of this uncertainty extended into far more serious matters. Whether or not to formally charge a powerful wizard for fraud, whether or not he should marry a woman, because she had warmed his bed for far too long, or whether or not he wanted to continue living with guilt in his heart and pain in every breath he took.
The truth was that Draco Malfoy had not been a happy man for many years.
Far longer than he had loved Hermione Granger. During their Hogwarts years, he had discovered the type of man he really was, one that he would not want allow himself the company to keep.
It pained him greatly, but the pain could always be suppressed with the company of his comrades. As of late, he was a lonely man, and his thoughts took over.
But Draco Malfoy was a coward. A coward he had made himself out to be, one that could never repent nor forget the sins of his past. He would never take his own life, instead he was tortured with the hope that someday he would die abruptly.
Ideally in his sleep, dreaming of worlds that never existed, with a woman that was never his.
"I still love you, Hermione."
He said the words as if he were talking about the weather. Almost as if he had said them so many times that the emotion had completely dissipated to anyone that would hear them. But the truth was, the pain in his heart was as intense as it had been the day of her wedding.
Sometimes he would awaken late at night, whispering the words to a dark room.
Hermione Granger pushed him away with what little strength she had.
"It doesn't matter anymore."
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm just a selfish man, Hermione. I always will be."
"It's nice to see you Draco, after all these years."
She changed the subject. A skill she had perfected over the years.
"Are you happy, Hermione?"
"I got an invitation in the mail today, apparently Luna is getting married. Isn't that splendid?"
...
"Why don't you talk to me the way you used to?"
"Dinner is getting cold, Ron, can we discuss this some other time? I'm famished."
...
"Why don't we make love as often as we used to?"
"I'm extremely tired. I had a long day at work. Did you know that they've fired several of the assistants? It's appalling. Some of these people have been working there for years."
And she kept up this charade up as long as she could, until one day he asked the one question she knew she couldn't avoid.
"Do you even love me? And…And don't dodge the question this time."
He was staring into her eyes with cold, distant orbs. He was a man that had finally reached his breaking point. It was evident in his voice. In the way he stood with his knuckles pale, fingers wrapped around the back of the chair.
"Of course I do."
"How do you expect me to believe that shit when you can't even look me in the eye?"
"Why are you doing this to me?" She muttered the words under her breath, half hoping he would just leave in an angry huff.
"Me? I'm doing this to you?" He jabbed a finger into his chest, the utter confusion marked on his face.
"You're not the one being blatantly lied to.
You're not the one sitting around sick with worry, knowing that your wife doesn't love you.
You are not the one that bloodies his knuckles punching in walls, knowing that you have thrown your life away, kissing the feet of the very same woman that is stabbing you both in the back and in the heart."
His voice cracked with emotion as he angrily pinched at the bridge of his nose. A single tear rolling down his cheek.
"Ron… I"
"Just go."
Her heart broke at the sight of him. She had never seen him so broken before.
So reachable, and distant at the same time.
Instead of inflicting further pain, she quietly left him to his thoughts. Knowing how utterly chaotic her own life was, and how much destruction she had brought into the lives of others.
I will be uploading the last chapter later today. It has already been written, there are just a few things I need to fix. Thanks for reading!
