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The argument begins at dinner, although neither of you actually argue until you're upstairs. You know Draco well enough to recognize the moment his mood changes. One second he's sitting beside you at the long dining table, barely listening while Narcissa tells you about an upcoming Ministry function; the next, his wineglass pauses at his mouth when Lucius remarks that perhaps you ought to attend something smaller first. The suggestion comes with impeccable politeness, a mild smile, and an observation about how exhausting such an evening can become when one isn't accustomed to the attention of certain circles.
You understand exactly what he means. So does Draco. You answer before your husband can, thanking Lucius for his concern before mentioning that you've attended enough Ministry functions to know they're only exhausting because half the people there enjoy hearing themselves speak. Narcissa hides her smile behind her glass while Draco makes no attempt to hide his, though the satisfaction only lasts until his father finds another opportunity twenty minutes later to explain something to you that you already know.
By dessert, Draco has stopped speaking entirely.
You wait until the bedroom door closes behind you before turning to him. "You're sulking."
"I'm not sulking." Draco locks the door with a flick of his wand, sets it on the dresser, and begins unbuttoning his cuffs. The impatient way he works the first cufflink free doesn’t support his claim. "I'm contemplating whether patricide would make tomorrow's Prophet."
You remove an earring and set it on the vanity. "Front page, probably. Slow news week."
"Good. I'd hate to go to Azkaban without proper coverage."
A smile threatens despite your better judgement. "You're being ridiculous."
His eyes find yours through the mirror, the irritation he's been harboring since dinner settling more openly across his face. "My father spent the better part of two hours speaking to you as though you're an idiot, and I'm being ridiculous?"
"He was being condescending," you agree. "But I handled it."
Draco gives a humorless laugh as he pulls the second cufflink free. "I noticed."
Something in his tone straightens your spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He sets the cufflinks beside his watch before facing you. "It means you spent the entire evening smiling while he insulted you. You knew precisely what he was doing, and you indulged him anyway."
"I wasn't indulging him. I was refusing to give him the reaction he wanted."
"And that worked brilliantly, considering he continued."
You stare at him. "What exactly did you want me to do? Throw my wine in his face?"
"I wouldn't have objected,” Draco admits, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Mother might have, but only because you were drinking the '82. She would've given you something cheaper first."
The laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and for a moment, his expression softens with yours. Then he turns back to the dresser.
"You should've let me deal with him."
Your smile fades. "What would that have looked like?"
"I would've told him to stop."
"You would've started an argument," you correct.
He shrugs. "If necessary."
"He made a few shitty comments, Draco," you sigh. "I promise I'll survive."
His jaw tightens. "That's hardly the point."
"No, apparently the point is that I didn't react the way you wanted me to." You stand and cross toward the wardrobe, slipping your other earring out along the way. "I knew what your father was doing. I chose to ignore it because I don't care enough about his opinion to spend my evening fighting with him."
"You're making it sound as though I wanted some dramatic confrontation. I wanted you to stop sitting there politely while he spoke down to you."
"And I wanted him to realize he couldn't embarrass me. He ended up embarrassing himself, in the end."
“You are infuriating,” Draco mutters, loosening his collar.
"So I've been told," you reply.
"Yes. By me." Draco removes his tie. "Frequently."
You drop your earrings into the jewelry box, but instead of turning away again, you watch him. There's too much anger in him for this to be about one dinner. "This isn't really about whether I can handle your father."
His expression closes immediately. "Don't tell me what this is actually about as though I haven't been present for my own thoughts."
"That's not what I'm doing." You prop a hip against the vanity. "I'm saying you do this whenever he says something to me. You jump in before I can even decide whether it bothers me. Half the time I don't get to answer him before you're doing it for me."
"Forgive me for defending my wife," he says dryly.
"I don't need you to defend me from every rude comment, Draco."
"I never said you did."
"You don't have to say it when you keep doing it."
Draco doesn't seem to have an answer waiting for that. He looks away, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his wedding band, taking his time before speaking again.
"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sit across from him and listen to that?" Draco demands. "You hear a condescending remark and decide it isn't worth your time. I hear exactly what he's been doing to me for the past twenty years. I've heard every version of it."
Some of your irritation gives way. Draco turns toward the windows, restless now that he's begun saying what he actually means.
"He doesn't need to raise his voice. He doesn't even need to say anything overtly cruel." Draco turns back to you, his mouth drawn tight. "He finds whatever he believes makes someone lesser and picks at it until they start wondering whether he's right. I know what that feels like. I'm not interested in sitting there passively and watching him do it to you."
"He's not doing it to me the way he did it to you," you say gently, wanting him to hear the distinction rather than another challenge. “He can’t.”
Draco looks at you skeptically. "Why? Because you're uniquely immune to being insulted?"
"Because I don't love him."
Draco stops moving, his eyes locked on your face. You leave the vanity and take a few steps toward him, reaching for his hand. His fingers curl loosely around yours, but he doesn't move away.
"I don't need his approval," you continue. "I didn't grow up measuring myself against whether he was pleased with me that day. When he makes a comment about my family or whether I understand some stupid pureblood tradition, I think he's being an arsehole. I don't think I've failed him."
Draco's eyes lower to your joined hands. His thumb brushes over the side of your finger as he considers your words. His father has occupied so much space in his life that sometimes Draco seems to forget Lucius doesn't carry the same gravity for everyone else.
"I know you want to protect me from what he did to you," you continue. "But sometimes you end up deciding what I should be upset about before I've even had the chance to feel anything."
Draco’s thumb stops moving. “I’m not deciding how you should feel.”
“You told me I handled dinner wrong.”
“I said you shouldn’t have ignored it,” he corrects, though there’s less conviction behind it now.
“That’s practically the same thing in this instance,” you reply, unwilling to let him sidestep it.
His mouth opens, then closes again. You wait, watching him work through whatever argument he'd been prepared to make until his eyes drop back to your joined hands.
“What would you have me do?” he asks eventually.
“Trust me.”
His response is immediate. “I do trust you.”
“Good,” you say, a small smile on your face. “Then trust me to tell you when I need you.”
Draco’s brows furrow. “You want me to ask permission before I tell my father to stop being an arsehole?”
You laugh. “No, I want you to stop treating every shitty thing he says like it requires a response.”
“That sounds considerably less satisfying.”
“It’s not supposed to be satisfying, love.”
“For either of us, apparently,” he mumbles.
You raise his hand to your lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “If he says something that actually bothers me, I’ll tell you. If I want you to step in, I’ll tell you that, too. But sometimes I’m going to decide he isn’t worth responding to, and I need you to respect that.”
Draco considers you for a long moment, and you don’t need to be looking at him to tell that he doesn’t like it. There’s probably no version of this conversation where he does; ignoring Lucius’s comments goes against instincts Draco has spent most of his life developing and his entire adulthood trying to erase.
Eventually, he sighs. “Fine.”
Your brows raise. “That was suspiciously easy.”
“Would you prefer I change my mind?” he asks.
“No,” you answer immediately.
“Then I suggest you enjoy this rare and precious moment of marital cooperation.”
You smile, stepping closer. “Does this mean you admit I handled dinner perfectly well?”
Draco’s face sours. “Don’t push your luck. I agreed to your terms. I never agreed to humiliation.”
A laugh escapes you as you slip your arms around his waist. Draco lets go of your hand to rest his own against your back, pulling you closer without any of the tension that had accompanied you upstairs.
“You did handle him well,” he admits near your temple. “Infuriatingly well.”
Your smile presses into his shirt. “Thank you.”
“I still wanted to hex him,” he continues. “I still might.”
“Draco,” you warn.
“I said might,” he protests.
You pull back to look at him, and the innocence he attempts lasts half a second, his lips twitching into a smile.
“Terms,” you remind him.
Draco sighs. “Yes. Fine. Terms.”
“See? Marriage.”
“A ghastly institution,” he grumbles.
You hum. “You seem very committed to it.”
Draco pretends to consider it, his arm tightening around your waist before he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I am rather committed to you.”
You smile and crane your neck to kiss him, ending the argument before he can find some way to make that sound less affectionate than it is.