"He's a pureblood."

"That no longer matters."

"It matters to us."

"His family's been disgraced."

"They still have a lot of influence."

"Not as much as they used to."

"Which is still a considerable amount."

"Not as much as –"

"That is enough! You will marry the Malfoy heir, and – as far as the public are concerned – you will be happy about it."

Smile. Laugh. Move on.

Don't talk. Never talk. She hasn't quite managed to master the art of polite small talk. She probably never will. It doesn't matter. No one notices.

Even at her own wedding.

She thinks maybe he's not that bad. Mostly, he just leaves her to her own devices. She appreciates that, enjoys it even. It's more space than she's ever experienced; not in the sprawling expanse of Hogwarts Castle where so many face their first taste of freedom, and certainly not in her parents cold and unloved manor house, more for show than accommodation. It was liberating.

She might even like him, actually.

And like could so easily turn to more.

He surprised her one birthday with a trip to Rome. She'd always wanted to go. She'd mentioned it once. A long time ago. At one of those upper class events her mother had always insisted on dragging her to. Before she'd learnt that staying silent would make them that much more bearable.

She didn't think he would remember. She'd forgotten.

After the birth of her son she knew that it was more than 'like'. She hadn't really wanted children, but she'd done it for him; out of a sense of duty – to him, his family, her own family – but mostly because when he smiled at her she just wanted to melt.

She hoped her son had that smile.

They re-took their vows on their tenth anniversary. Just them and their son and a few of their closest friends in a muggle chapel. Jeans. T-shirts. Converses.

It was perfect.