Closer

Draco paced the foyer over a dozen times – back and forth. It had been a long, long wait. They were to leave the following day, and yet, there was a small part of him that wondered if his wife would return. After all, he wasn’t all she had – not anymore. The love of her life was out of Azkaban, and not without an air of vengeance he supposed.

Weasley was a threat to the entire plan, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“You’re going to grind holes into the marble if you don’t take it easy, mate.”

The fair-haired wizard turned and met eyes with his best friend and most trusted ally. “She’s late,” he said, agitated. “Why do you think that is? Tell me, Blaise.”

“She’s Hermione-fucking-Granger,” answered the young man, amused. “The girl is thorough. That’s all there is to it.”

Draco had tried to convince himself of as much, but it didn’t soothe the sickness in his stomach. “It’s not her I don’t trust. It’s him.”

Blaise narrowed his eyes, studying his best friend. “You like her.”

“She’s my wife.”

“No,” he said. “You really like her.”

“You’re mad.”

“You are – madly in love, that is,” joked Zabini. “I suspected something after you forbade her from taking part in the mission, but jealousy was never your common streak.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “You think I’m jealous?”

“I do. You think she’ll run off with Weasley and leave you hanging.”

“So? That doesn’t mean I’m jealous, or that I love her.”

“Oh, but it does.”

“Since when did you become such an expert?”

Blaise laughed. “The fact that you’re getting to riled up only solidifies my assumptions.”

Draco kept quiet. He knew his best friend would have a clever retort for every argument, but deep down the young man was running short. He couldn’t prove Blaise wrong. He could barely prove himself wrong. There was definitely something profound about his feelings towards Hermione Granger, but love only exists between two, and so far he was alone.