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Summary
“Now, is that any way for a wife to talk to his husband?”
Barmy, that was what Harry was. An absolute twit who had gone mad and lost the plot. Draco was the one who would suffer for it. The muzzle to keep the strongest wizard from losing it all and taking his rage out on the world that hurt him so.
“I’m s-sorry,” he rasped, bringing trembling hands up to grab at Harry’s wrist, fluttering his tear-soaked lashes at him.
Wishing that he had his wand to fight back against Harry, not that it would do any good, he pondered with a wince. All Draco could do was beg and hope to garner some mercy or sympathy from Harry.
But there was no pity or kindness to be found in those hollow eyes.
Draco would do anything for his mother. Even if it meant signing away his freedom.