August 15 2016
The dead of the night is the only place that Draco can allow himself to think, and to feel, with all the emotions that he kept locked inside until letting them bleed out was as painful as it was cathartic, stupid as it was necessary. It is a pain that time has lessened, the dull ache now in the back of his mind, rather than one stabbing through him with every breath that he takes, and intensifying with every breath that he doesn't, until every moment is an agony worse than the last. He can hardly remember that pain anymore, focusing fully instead on the one that he is able to breathe and to live around. In fact, were someone to ask him, Draco would reply that he was content with his life, that even though he saw the grandeur of his childhood for the myth that it was, and even though he was utterly wrong more often than he was right, he was luckier than most. He had a house to come home to every night, and a wife inside, who still called out his name in her breathy, high pitched voice, that spoke volumes of the total submission she offered him as he raked his hands across her curves aimed to please him, his lips pressing against the hollow of her collarbone, or the corner of her mouth as he found solace in the petty, every day miseries of his life.
Greater than all of this, what makes him content, and lucky, and sometimes even happy is his son, whom Draco has made sure to raise in an environment so utterly different to the benign neglect of his own. He can see the differences between them, even now, and even though his son is still so young that his character can, and will change, Draco can see that he is a better person. There is an odd pride that fills his chest as he watches his son, with his expressions of genuine delight and humility as they flit across a face pale, and pointed enough to be Draco's own. Scorpius still possesses the Malfoy ego in spades, because Draco has never been able to relinquish his own, but with all that is good about him, the child manages to soften it, so that it is bearable, and even lovable.
As Draco's mouth softens to a smile, memories of his son as a baby, and a toddler, and then as he is now, counting down the days that he is able to attend Hogwarts with the excitement that Draco once did, he finds himself fighting the pang of regret for never having another child. He'd wanted one, the first time he'd held Scorpio, and allowed his fingers to trail over a face so perfect, with skin softer than any he'd ever felt, but his wife had disagreed, had complained over the state that her body had been left in, and for one of the few times in their marriage, Draco had reneged to Astoria's wishes. If he could do it again, he supposes that he'd have spent longer trying to persuade her that another child was what they wanted, that their family had room in their hearts for another child, to scrimmage with their first, to teach in the ways that they had never been taught, and to love, in a way that Draco had not before considered possible. Astoria had never seen it as he had though - she loved her son, but he had also been a duty, an heir to carry on the Malfoy name, and so with him now borne, she had been happy. More than that though, with the illusions of a second child shattered, the wizard had also been forced to bed the dreams and hopes for a future that he'd once held in his hands, and then stupidly, full of pureblood arrogance and righteousness, had tossed aside.
January 9, 1999
The Muggle world had become a refuge for Draco, whom could scarcely walk down the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley without being sneered at, sullied or on a particularly bad day, hexed. It was something that the wizard didn't think he could ever get used to, plummeting so low in society in such a short space of time, the hisses of Death Eater that shattered the quiet around him, even though the Wizengamot had cleared him of all charges, and the downright terror in some people's eyes. Once upon a time, he'd revelled in the fear, and bore the title of Death Eater proudly, but now he couldn't stand it, and the only other place he'd been able to go was the muggle world, a place where he was considered no different from the next person on the street, save for the haunted look that had lurked in the corner of his eyes, a mark that he'd been one of many children forced to grow up and accept the weight of adulthood long before his time.
Perhaps, he often mused, if half his tormentors saw the way that he could juggle muggle money nearly as easily he could Gringott's gold, something that very few wizards could do even as they cried for equality, they'd rethink what they were screaming at him. He kept his mouth shut though, the retort tucked high in his cheek, because to scream it back wold require an explanation, one that he didn't feel like giving, and one that he had no real need to. Besides, the peace and quiet, the anonymity of it all was rather refreshing at times, and he'd grudgingly begun to respect the muggles for how it was that they managed to survive without magic. Wizardkind was still much better, evidently, if only for the ease and efficiency that magic allowed them to lead their lives with, but they were admirable for at least trying.
He had been wandering down a street not much bigger than Diagon Alley was, somewhere in the outer suburbs of London, when she'd first caught his eye. It hadn't been much; a glimpse of rich, chocolate curls cascading down the back of a woman whom was tiny, both in stature and what he could see of her body; frail, and overly skinny, but Draco had been intrigued, entering the coffee shop without a second thought. Even though he had no real taste for it, he ordered a coffee, thankful that the place was legitimately busy, therefore allowing him to share a booth with this stranger with some legitimacy. He paused for a moment, letting the drink disperse its heat into the palm of his hands, finding the courage he was barely acquainted with, before slipping into the seat across from the woman. "You don't mind, do you?" His tone now, was carefully modulated, voice deep and calm, a far cry from the arrogant boy he'd grown up to be. Not even a Malfoy, Draco had been sure at the time, could cloud themselves in the arrogance he'd been taught when the world that he'd been told he was better than was now belittling him so much.
It was another piece of evidence that he was in the muggle world that the woman nodded vaguely, barely sparing him a second glance as her eyes continued flicking across the page of the rather heavy looking book she was reading. For a moment, he paused, sucking on his lip, before moving for the cup of coffee, drinking, before trying again. "Interesting?" His voice was as mild as he could make it, but he couldn't help but think he doesn't really belong here; in this coffee shop, this world. She nods, though, and Draco decides that until he has her, he can make himself belong. "What's it about?" The book is as much in his attentions now as she is, the tome not only thick, but ancient looking, and slightly puzzling. "It's none of you-" he hears as her voice break off abruptly, and his eyes move back to the face of a woman who's obviously spent some time making sure she looks perfect, "Malfoy?"
How she knows his name is a mystery to Draco, other than the fact that she [i]must[/i] be a witch to know it, and he pauses himself, waiting for the torrent of insults to come flying from her mouth. "Never thought I'd see you here," there was no screaming, no threats of a hex, only a mild, slightly amused voice, Draco becoming even more determined to meet this woman – this witch. "Where else do I have to go?" Beneath his own modulated tone, there is the deep abyss of sorrow, and regret, and maybe she knows this, or maybe she feels like torturing him, but, returning to her book, flipping a page, she gives the response, "Your Manor seems plenty big enough." What he doesn't miss though, is the way her hand moves – probably subconsciously on her part, fingers running over her neck, and Draco finally placing the witch that he'd never have recognised otherwise, "Granger?"
Maybe he was a horrible wizard, and his father would have hexed him for it, but he was still interested.
December 16 2002
Once he is no longer seen as a blood traitor; once Hermione is no longer at the Manor every time someone dares to drop by, and once his forays into the muggle world have stopped for good, the society in which he grew up is disturbingly quick to accept him back. The Malfoy name still means something, it seems, and combined with his Black heritage - the insanity of his aunt still the forefront of everyone's minds, and the fact that his housemates had never really been able to think for themselves, there is no hesitation to re-instate him into pureblood society, with no explanation needed other than he was disturbed, and needed to spread his wings.
He keeps his opinions to himself; that he is disturbed now, by the relapses he made, and that sinking back into this world is his self-imposed punishment. It is a deceptively pretty world, one where women stand straight, and groom themselves well - in ways that even after hours in front of the damn mirror, Hermione had never quite achieved – and one where manners are still of great import, provided that you are accepted. They are some of the richest people in the wizarding world, and a great many of them are devastatingly beautiful, even without the work that goes into making them so.
He knows now, the deceptions of this world; that the love is only skin deep, and the people are so pretty because they marry on the basis of producing pretty children, while injecting new blood into their family. He is aware as well as many of them are that in a few generations, their children won't be so pretty, or so full of magic, but it is his duty to ignore it, and leave for his children's children to worry about. Once he can put his scorn out of his mind, Draco begins to enjoy the party, champagne in had as often as it is not, conversation light on dark topics as he mingles with both his school friends, and his father's, the women's touches stirring in Draco feelings that he had considered put to bed.
Best of all, though, there was Astoria, a girl so pretty she could have been a doll, and so fine-boned that Draco spent the night worrying that his grip was going to break her as they danced, even though her eyes were shining with happiness, and her tinkling laughter sounded often. She was the first witch who managed not only to stir the fire, but also to wipe Hermione from his mind. By the end of the night, the pair sneaking amongst the shadows, he'd stamped his lips over hers, and her breathy gasps satisfying him in ways he couldn't comprehend, he'd made her his.
November 3 2002
He didn't want to be here, cloak wrapped tightly around his body as if clothing could ward off the cold of misery, glowering as he stalked his way into the wizarding prison. His father's last request; that was what they had told him, and it was the only reason that Draco had come today, letting Dementors suck at his soul and bring all that he'd rather forget to the forefront of his mind. Years of effort had gone into removing himself from the identity that he was about to once again don, and his face falls grim, silver eyes depressingly flat as he hands his wand to the poor sod at the gates of Azkaban, stepping into the prison and doing his best not to cry.
His father's cell is not hard to find; once upon a time it had also been his mother's and Draco had visited the pair often, before his visits had stopped abruptly, and even though it's been a handful of years, and even though his mother's grave is now an unmarked rock on a gravelly hill, they have not yet moved his father. Draco can feel that his movements are stilted as he moves forwards, stopping a foot from the bars, and trying not to flinch when his father flies at them, hair long and greasy where it has not fallen out, nails brittle, and curled over themselves but still sharp enough to inflict damage, evidence of which he can see in the web of scars over his father's pale, vein-ridden skin. The man is deranged, and even though Draco can barely understand his father as he speaks, he knows that it is about the Dark Lord, blood pride, and probably even what it means to be a Malfoy. Even in front of him, Draco cannot help but snort quietly, because the Dark Lord had hidden from all of them that he wasn't pure himself.
Quietly, Draco waits for his father to wear himself out, for this is when he is at his most lucid, accepting that he can no longer know happiness to comment on it. It is disturbing just how quickly his father settles now, an omen that his end is near, and Draco is not sure whether he is upset or relieved. A little of both, he thinks, because this is the man whom lied to the Wizengamot, convinced them that Draco had been imperiurised under his hand, and added eons to his sentence so that Draco would not have one. He is also the man who forced his only son to bow down before a man deranged, and selfish, and ultimately wrong. Once upon a time, Draco had been proud to be wrong along with his father, but now, he only has pity, and perhaps it is pity that means his father's whispered, "It's up to you now," strikes a chord in him, and reminds him of who he is.
October 30 2003
A tiny, pale hand is wrapped around his arm, as Draco stands, emotions ripped to shreds, and trying to comprehend the contents of the owl on his desk. His father is dead. He can't say that he's overly surprised, he's been expecting it for months now, his last memory of his father still bright, and painful in his mind, the consequences of it still unfolding, to this very day, to this very moment. It is the ties he has to his father though, the memories of than man who brought him up, who loved him in his own way, Draco was sure, that mean the news still comes like a blow to the stomach, the man unseeing, unhearing, and unfeeling save for that pale little hand.
Astoria, doing as she has been taught, stays with him, unmoving save for the absentminded way the pad of her thumb traces circles on the skin of his arm, until Draco is ready to talk. It is not what she expects though, there are no tears for the man that had raised him, no anger that he's gone; there is nothing reasonable from finding out your father is dead. What there is instead, is a proposal. She doesn't miss the flash of resignation in his eyes, and she does her best to keep it out of hers, because, despite everything else, she loves him, and what can she do but say yes?
June 19 2001
She'd always needed to have complete control over her own life. It was something that, in the beginning, had irked Draco somewhat, but the more time he spent with her, the better he understood. She was a brilliant witch, that was something he'd always known, and she could be found printing notes from some near indecipherable tome more often than not, but she'd become near overbearing in so many other facets of her life. She wouldn't let him crawl into bed beside her unless his discarded clothing was folded neatly, preferably in the laundry basket, and wouldn't touch him until they were bathed in darkness. She'd taken complete control over finances, until the questions over something new had turned to an interrogation and Draco had stormed from the room, door rattling in its frame behind him.
Most disconcerting of all these things though, was her appearance. The Granger he remembered from Hogwarts had barely seemed to notice that it looked like someone had been rubbing a balloon against her head, fobbing him, or anyone else off whenever a comment was made about it, but when he'd first seen her years later, he hadn't recognised her. To start with, in their relationship, he'd been in awe of how well put together the witch had become in the few years since Hogwarts, and then annoyed, as his hand was swatted away every time it moved for her hair, and finally, concerned, as he woke one morning barely past dawn to find her seated at her dresser, wand flicking about her head. He'd called her back to bed, patting the space beside him invitingly, but she'd only gotten annoyed, and then he had, and it had degenerated to shouting. It wasn't until much later, hand nervously tracing the heavily glamoured scar on her neck, that she confided in him her need to look perfect, as sullied as she'd been. He'd held her as she cried, soothingly rubbing her back, and silently cursing his Aunt, the Dark Lord, and whoever else had been instrumental in this woman's pain, himself included.
February 16 2004
From the beginning, Astoria had made it clear that this was Draco's household, and everything that he wanted done could happen, without contention from his wife. The witch was docile, willing, and ready for everything that he may throw at her, always with a quiet smile on her face, and gentleness to her that Draco couldn't help but admire. She was almost childlike, really, and because of this, Draco took great pleasure in spoiling her, silly little pieces of jewellery that cost him more than they were worth, long, overdrawn trips to whatever fashion boutique she felt like that day, roses, and chocolates, and dinners in fancy restaurants. He felt like he needed to protect her, and watching her face light up with joy, her hands occasionally clapping together in delight, was enough to make Draco think he had achieved that.
His wife's life was wholly uncomplicated, he knew her pleasure in the simple gifts he buys a pleasure only because it is something different in her day, of mingling, and being the society wife that Granger could never have been. She is happy with it though, and he can see that, how this is nearly all one big game for her, save that he loves her, and supposes that she must love him too. Her only concern is to look pretty, and she does it for him, face glimmering in anticipation as he lavishes compliments on her, mouth grazing against her red lips before pressing again, harder, before finally, Draco reminds himself where he has to be and leaves. In all the time he has known her, she reminds him of a little doll, and Draco is glad to call her his.
November 20 2002
"Don't you think that these things happen for a reason?" Her voice was heavy with some unnamed emotion, as her eyes sought out his. Draco couldn't bear to look at her though, his own pale eyes staring resolutely towards the napkin he was twisting between his fingers. "Draco," her hand was on his now, warm and soft, and the ex-Slytherin couldn't help but look up, quickly lost in a stormy sea of chocolate brown. "Your parents sacrificed everything to give you a future," her voice broke here slightly, a lone tear falling down her smooth, pale cheek before she caught control of herself, "Don't give this up." He could see the hurt in her eyes, and the hope, neither emotions weak enough to be masked by the witch in front of him, and Draco could only hate himself for being the one to snuff the better of the two. "My parents were protecting their bloodline," his voice was steady, even as he felt himself breaking, gently extricating his hand from beneath hers, "and it is my duty to protect it also." He could see the protest forming on her lips, brow furrowing slightly as he prepared her attack, and Draco forced himself to continue, "You wouldn't understand, Granger," she'd always hated it when he called her that, but it felt natural now, after so many months of whispering her true name against silk sheets, "You're only a mudblood."
It had been a lapse of judgement, a word he'd never meant to say, and before he could even consider correcting himself, Hermione had turned, the last glimpse he had of her one marred by her deep betrayal. Draco sighed, leaning forwards and swiping the half-drunk coffee she'd left behind, raising the mug to his own lips. He'd hurt himself just as badly as he'd hurt her, but it had been necessary. She could never understand.
January 7 2009
Draco cannot explain his concern when he steps out of the floo to find the parlour empty. All he knows is that his wife is not where she has stood every afternoon since the year he'd married her, and this sudden deviation from her carefully planned routine is completely out of character for her. He cannot hide the fear that is bubbling in the pit of his stomach as his briefcase is dropped on the floor and the man begins searching his stupidly large house, his wife's name on his lips. He passes his son's room, the boy clapping his hands as a house-elf performs its special kind of magic for him, something that only increases the worry building in the pit of Draco's stomach. Astoria hated letting the elves spend too much time with Scoripus, maintaining they were filthy creatures who were too silly to care adequately for her son. Instead, he is normally seen to by a nanny, who should still be here, her absence only further cause for his fear.
Finallly, he finds his wife, curled up in his study, memorabilia from the time before he knew her spread on the floor, tears tracking the carefully made up planes of her face. His stomach drops, and twists as he realises exactly what it is that has caught her attention, and he hurries forwards, gently taking the photo of himself and Hermione – from what feels like a lifetime ago – from the hands of his pretty, pale wife. That was the box that he'd gotten down only just the other night, to thumb through photos, and letters charmed never to crumble, letting memories of the heart he'd broken stab through his own. And now, he'd just managed to break another one. "You know you're not supposed to be in here," It is a light admonition, and the wrong thing to say, but it is all Draco knows to do, having never imagined his wife reacting so strongly to something that was firmly in his past.
"Come on," he feels awkward now, as he bends to lift his wife off the floor, something that he has not done in years, but used to do all the time, a trip to their bed usually following, "Lets get you a cup of tea." He feels rather boorish, because he remembers that Hermione used to laughingly tell him of Ron reacting in the exact same way whenever she started crying and then he feels angry, because she settled for that anyway, but he forces himself to continue towards the kitchens, the weight of his wife a reminder of who he'd chosen to be.
He waits until whatever strange, sweetened blend of tea she drinks is in her hands, considering asking for the coffee that over his time with Hermione he'd become so addicted to, and then deciding against it, instead waiting for his wife to calm slightly, before pressing ahead, "You know that was a long time ago, Ast. You knew about her." Merlin, the entire wizarding world, save for her friends, knew that there'd been something going on between himself and Hermione Granger. Hermione Weasley now. He just hadn't thought that people still had such a problem with it.
He can see his wife struggling for words, just before her chin ducks, and the cup is raised to her lips, buying them both time as she struggles with the revelations she barely dares to speak. It gives way to a pregnant, awkward silence, in which neither dares to look directly at one or the other, before Astoria finally speaks, her voice relaying just how crushed it is she feels, "You never looked at me like that." Her admission brings Draco's eyes crashing onto hers, the turmoil of his own heartbreak unable to be hidden before Astoria catches sight of them. It should be enough for her, that he is so upset that she is, but it isn't, because he hasn't denied a thing, and that is just as damning as if he'd affirmed it.
Quietly, without another word spoken between the two, she stands, vacating her seat, and opening the rift in a relationship that will never be truly healed.
August 8 2004
For the second time in a year, Draco opens the paper to find mention of Hermione, his heart stinging as if someone has rammed a burning hot poker through it as he does so. A baby, this time, where there was a wedding in the previous, and although some part of him screams in jubilation that clearly Hermione only married the Weasel because she was carrying his child, it is not enough to overshadow the facts. Weasel has Hermione. He has her in marriage, and the law, and he has her through the blood of their child. He has whatever Draco left of her heart, when he broke it, giving her his so that she had some approximation of a whole left, while he had nothing. So, the Weasel has Draco's heart as well, if his is full of the witch.
Breakfast is forgotten, pale fingers reaching out to caress the black and white photo that is not even close to the real thing. It is the only thing that he can concentrate on though, the rest of the paper forgotten as this superficial version of Granger holds her daughter to the cameras, visibly tired, but triumphant. That could have been him, it almost had been him, tears biting at the back of his eyes as he is forced to remember. First, the jubilation, coming home to see her the happiest she'd ever been, swinging herself into his arms. "We're having a baby," she'd whispered, her eyes as bright and smooth as honey, the most life Draco had seen in them for months.
He'd panicked at first and he could remember it now, the fear coiled in the pit of his stomach like a cobra, ready to strike at the smallest of threats. He'd stumbled his way through such fears, his questions as naive and clumsy as a child's, all coming back to the big one; "What if I'm no good?" It had seemed a legitimate fear to him, for his own parents did not deserve the title, but Hermione had only laughed, stretching up on her toes to stamp a kiss on his lips. "There's a difference between family and breeding Draco. And you've found it. We've found it." By Merlin had it seemed profound then, a confidence that Draco did not know he had instilled by her words, which had proven to be false. Only a few short weeks later, flowers in one had and chocolates the other had he returned home to find his Hermione wooden and lifeless, their baby gone.
Often, he has wondered and finds himself wondering even today, what could have happened. There is no question as to his course of action had Hermione managed to carry their child to term, or even for so long that they could be saved, for no matter what his father had told him, he'd have stayed. He'd have begun his own family by then and so he could have turned his back on his father's. The real question lies in what would have happened if Hermione had not been pregnant in the first place, if he hadn't so nearly lost her with the loss of her child, the witch a shadow of her already shadowed personality. The answer scares him, for either way he is still an awful man, and might haves don't matter, for she has moved on and become a breeder.
If as he rifles through the newspaper, hiding this face from his wife's view that he learns he has become one too.
September 1, 2016
It was the first time he'd had the opportunity to see her, to really see her since the day she'd left, and rather than stare at her the way he wished he could, Draco's attention had been focused on his son, whom would today join the long list of people to leave him, and his wife, whom he'd rather suspected had left emotionally years ago. Not that he could blame her though, Draco wasn't sure that he'd ever been there for his wife in emotionally, as well as he'd provided both physically and financially. And so she'd so soon become just another number on the list of people he'd betrayed over the years, the first being the woman he'd betrayed for his wife. Wishing that he was closer, and on better terms with the group of as a whole, Draco hadn't been able to stop his eyes from straying. He found himself studying the way she interacted with her red-haired daughter, hair as frizzy as her mother's had been (Draco had been able to hear her lament as audibly as if she'd been standing beside him, as if it were their child she was wishing had inherited their father's hair). Potter, noticing his gaze, had nodded, and even though it was meant for Granger, and his eyes were lingering on her form, he'd nodded back, watching only for a few more moments, as her great oaf of a husband swung his arm around her, before turning away, once again and for the last time.
He had his own family to worry about now, one to pass on the values that Granger, had incidentally passed onto him, and not minding, for once, the expense of his robes, Draco had squatted down, drawing his son into a hug and ignoring the slight embarrassment with which he returned it. "Now listen, Scorp," voice was quiet as he administered his last piece of advice to the boy in front of him, eyes straying once again to Granger, "that red-headed Weasely?" He waited for his son's nod against his shoulder before he continued, "Listen to her. She'll know what she's talking about."