The Art of Betrayal by katehathaway

Started to Say Sorry

- NOT MY STORY!! ALL CREDITS TO @katehathaway ON A03!!

24 December 1924

BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY

By Rita Skeeter

The official notice of Mr. Draco Malfoy as a missing person has rocked Great Britain to its core and we humbly wait for an update and have our fingers and hearts crossed for that news to be not only good, but the very best it could be. However, given the arrival of a healer to the Malfoy Manor this morning, as well as the continued lack of statement from anyone inside the Manor – namely Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy – it can be presumed that the young bachelor's health is in critical risk. So much so that he was too ill to attend the Christmas Gala! May we all pray for a speedy recovery.

As I have tried to make very evident, with the help of the Daily Prophet, Mr. Malfoy's presence in our society has been immensely positive and beneficial and we sincerely hope that he is well and will return to us as soon as possible.

Well, fuck.

Me too, Rita, me fucking too.

Here we are, at the very end of Rita's horrendous tribute to Draco. She wasn't entirely far off in regard to Draco's health as I'm sure it is very much the reason for his absence – though, again, I do hope I am wrong and that his life is not in as much danger as I fear it is. Mine, too. I want to believe that I can save his life, even if it costs mine to do so. I will try my fucking best, of course, not to die in the process which means I need to put this bloody paper down and get the fuck out of the car now.

22 December 1924

Hermione sank into the bathtub and let the steaming water soothe her sore breasts and muscles; this menstrual cycle coming up would be a brutal one if her current aches and pains were any indication. She twisted her chestnut curls into a messy bun atop her head and leaned her head against the cool porcelain, but just as she closed her eyes and began to feel the cramps subside, a voice caused her eyes to snap open.

"Here," Draco said, stepping into the bathroom and holding out a wine glass for her.

When she reached a bubbly hand out to take it from him, though, he pulled it back and arched a condescending silver brow at her. Hermione frowned; her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?" She asked, eyes trailing down the impeccable oxford clinging to his puffed chest as he pulled up a seat beside the tub. "Draco," Hermione warned, "Give me the glass."

"Not until you tell me what the fuck you and Astoria are hiding from me." He replied without missing a beat.

There it was.

The inevitability of them included the inevitability of fighting now, apparently.

Ever since Marcus' death, emotions had been running at an all-time high in the Manor. Where before the men and the women in the Manor's dark corridors, dripping in its expensive fabrics, had been in check of their baser needs, they were now incontrollable and volatile. Hermione wasn't immune to the new wave of hysteria, and she was no more willing to suppress it either.

She remembered a time when conversation between her and Draco had been intellectual and stimulating and full of secrets and plots. Now, it was more or less one argument or another, leading to either rough, senseless fucking or a string of unforgiving words. Always ending with a mutter – a choke – of I love you and I need you and I know. Spat out like venom and infecting each other just as similarly.

"Are we really about to do this again?" Hermione snapped. "Aren't you tired of having this argument, Draco? I know I am." She pursed her lips and tried her best to relax her shoulders so as not to give away the truth behind his accusations. The grey storm brewing in his irises was bad enough. He'd been onto her and Astoria for some time now; as if the death of Marcus had somehow woken a sixth sense of his and returned them to a time where she was no longer worthy of his trust.