Obscene

Me and My Husband

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SENSITIVE CONTENT. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

Without further adieu, I present to you...

Me and My Husband

Lucille Granger

"Draco," I spoke softly, knocking on our bedroom door, "Have you eaten yet?"

He grumbled. Disregarded my question and took another glass of bourbon.

"Draco?"

"I haven't," he replied flatly, sipping on his glass shortly after. "Have you?"

"I have," I said. "Jack came a few minutes ago. Dropped off some sweets from Belgium. Narsa, too. Do you want me to bring you some?"

"No, I don't want to eat anything."

I sighed, closed the door, and pressed my back against it. I refuse to cry. Nope. Not doing it. I take another deep breath before heading downstairs.

I've always hated this new home. I can never get used to this fucking house. This isn't the house that Draco built. This isn't the house I designed.

The creaky floorboards, worn-out furniture, the horrible color schemes. Picture frames with no bloody pictures.

This isn't home.

I decided to clean up the kitchen, hence that I have nothing else to do. I look around to see if there are any messes I haven't gotten to yet. Turns out I've done almost everything.

Great, now I really have nothing to do.

I can hear the footsteps of my husband descend the stairs. Reluctantly, I hold my breath preparing for whatever is about to come.

His hair is dull. He's wearing a white t-shirt and worn-out Christmas pajamas tied together with a pair of slippers.

"You said Jack came here? Narsa?" Draco mumbled, inching closer with the glass in his hand. Please don't break that glass. Please don't break that fucking glass. "Did they even want to say hi? Did they leave me a postcard? Nothing? Just dropped off some fucking sweets from fucking Belgium?"

"They send us postcards every time they see a new location, Draco. I show you all the time—"

"Those bloody postcards never have my fucking name on it! They're for you! They're not for me!"

"Draco, you're being irrational—"

"Oh, would you just shut it? Admit it, Lucille. They hate me."

"They don't hate you, Draco—"

"Lie again—"

"They don't—"

"Lies—"

"Draco, why would they hate you—"

"Fuck's sake, Lucille! You and I both know that our children hates me! Oh, but they just cherish you! What do you have that I don't?"

"Well, maybe it's because I don't have alcoholism, Draco. Ever thought of that?"

And there it was. The fuse that met with water.

Draco clenched his jaw and his hand around his glass. I had nothing to fear anymore. Younger me would've been at the edge of my seat.

With four kids and two homes with Draco, he couldn't scare me even if he tried.

"You don't mean that," he gritted through his teeth, inching closer. I stood still with my arms crossed, looking right at him. "Take that— back."