Please note: This story is rated Mature and contains major character death, graphic depictions of violence, reference to infidelity and murder. If ANY of these themes offend, please do not read!
Astoria Malfoy's Guide to Good Housekeeping
Red stains on the carpet, white stains on the sheets. It really is all such a terrible mess.
Astoria Malfoy appraises the scene with a blinkered, unfeeling gaze. She finds she can think clearly now, in the eerie quiet of aftermath, having sent her son away with a warm firewhiskey and milk to line his stomach and a promise to ease his mind: that she will take care of this.
The rug is ruined - she can see that from where she stands, unmoving in the doorway. The ominous dark puddle will have seeped through to the floorboards and no cleaning charm or House Elf in this world could save it now. The bed linen she's disinclined to be so callous with, though. That particular set is Egyptian cotton, after all.
She takes a deep breath and toys with her wedding ring. There is a tang to the air, something metallic and wholly unpleasant which catches at the back of her throat and threatens with rising bile. She swallows quickly and decides to make quick work of the task at hand, lest her own stomach contents add to the list of bodily fluids she rather wishes she'd not encountered already this evening.
She takes a step into the room and pauses, wand in hand. Where to begin? It is curiosity, more than anything, which guides her toward the bed - toward the spray of bright auburn curls, tumbling out from beneath a crumpled pillow, almost down to the floor. Astoria fingers an eye-catching strand and sighs, wistfully. She'd always wanted red hair as a girl.
Lifting the dampened pillow with careful hands, she takes care to avoid the unseeing, blue-eyed stare, the unnatural angle of the slender neck, forced back against the mattress. Quite honestly, she's surprised Scorpius had the strength to so cleanly snap the bone. He's always been such a feeble, sun-shy child. It's a marvel what one can do with enough adrenaline in the system.
The girl's skin is almost translucent against the dark green sheets, unmarred except for the occasional enticing freckle and the set of brooding purple bruises that are already beginning to form at her throat, her collarbone and the very top of her thighs. Never one to discriminate herself, Astoria admires the girl's form. Wide mouth, tight waist, legs that disappear beneath the rumpled linen. Small breasts with perfect, dark areolas - hardened by the cool air sifting in through the open window. She can see why both her boys were so infatuated with the little chit.
Her eyes traverse the barely-there curve of willowy hips - unlike the rest of her clan, Rose Weasley was not made for birthing – and down to the dip between her thighs. There are stains here too. Stringy, white splashes that have dried, stale against the sheets and skin.
Astoria wrinkles her nose in distaste. Gods, how she hopes Scorpius did that before she went cold.
With a jerk of her wrist, the body rolls over onto its front. The garish yellow markings of a Hufflepuff crest, tattooed indelicately onto the side of one, globe-like arse cheek, brings a flicker of amusement to Astoria's otherwise detached gaze. She was under the impression that Hufflepuff's were supposed to value loyalty above all else. Perhaps, she muses idly, fidelity does not come under that same banner these days.
Then again - Astoria casts a glance over her shoulder at the bloodied, half-robed figure sprawled across her new cream carpet – her husband's Slytherin cunning appears to have failed him on this occasion, too. There must be something in the water.
Moving soundlessly around the foot of the bed, taking care to lift the hem of her dress out of reach of bloody spatter, Astoria observes her husband in the grip-hold of death. The green silk handkerchief tied loosely over his eyes, her anniversary gift to him the previous month. He would never have seen the blow coming.
And really, she has no idea where Scorpius could have got the knife from, but that aside, she finds Draco's violent end strangely fitting. The gash to his throat, the crumpling of the skull at his temple - such a brutal and unclean way to die. It reminds her of the manner in which he lived, the way he did business and the way he fucked whichever underage witch stumbled into his office each morning.
Astoria 'tsks' quietly as she picks up and methodically Scourgifys the bloodied blade. How many times had she told him to stop bringing his work home with him?
She wonders if it were idiocy or arrogance that led him to take the Weasley girl as his latest bit of skirt. Or was Draco just that uninterested in his son's life that he was simply unaware how very much she meant to him? As for Rose's part, well, her husband was an impressive man, she can understand. Still, it's a shame about the mess.
"M-mother…"
The strangled sob from the doorway announces Scorpius' return and Astoria feels her heart threaten to thaw at the sight of such anguish devouring her beautiful boy's face. He holds his hands before him in a gesture of helplessness and Astoria silently chides herself for the incriminating traces of red still glistening under his fingernails. She has forgotten one of the fundamental laws of cleaning charms – some stains are too damaging to be removed by magic.
She takes her son gently by the elbow, soothing him with whispered nothings as she leads him carefully past the desecrated body of his fiancé to the adjoining bathroom. Scorpius says nothing, his shoulders trembling as she begins to wash his hands clean. The water runs pink as it circles the plughole.
"What will we do with her?" he mutters inaudibly, eyes lost in his own reflection, thoughts elsewhere.
Astoria purses her lips. "I thought we might plant a new rose bed in the western gardens."
Scorpius turns sharply and vomits across the marble tiled floor.
Astoria sighs. It'll be murder trying to get bile out of this grouting.