He was alone. He was alone and lost in the deep, dark abyss of his thoughts. He had sacrificed everything for the war. He had tried to protect everyone he loved. But what had he gotten in return? His parents were not talking to him. Switching sides was just an act for them. They saved Potter knowing his weakness. Knowing that he values love. Knowing that he would pay them back. It was just what Slytherins did best: self-preservation. But he? He wanted to change. He was sick of always having his parents plan out everything for him. And he had wanted to be good for a long time. His parents disapproved. His parents kicked him out of the Manor after the war.
With the gold he had, he had still managed to score a pretty nice place. He was always alone, unless it was the holidays. Then she would be back. She. She was the source of his happiness, but she was still in school. Her final year at Hogwarts.
She tried to be there for him whenever she could—the weekends, right after exams, and holidays. She was there to heal his wounds, both mentally and physically. She would always smile. She was always kind. In his opinion, she had the heart and the looks of an angel. He didn't know how he had managed to find her.
All he remembered was that after the war he had sat in the catastrophic Great Hall. He was crying silently. The first time he had actually cried since 6th year. Under normal circumstances, nobody would allow him to cry. It was a sign of vulnerability. It was weak. Bellatrix would think so. Voldemort, his father, and his mother would think so. But he had lost so much. He lost Crabbe. He lost many of his other friends.
And that's when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. He whirled around in surprise. She was looking at him with those warm brown eyes of hers. And she was smiling. Draco knew her. She was the younger sister of a friend, but he had never spoken to her. She had sat down next to him and took him in her arms. And he had cried. Cried for hours, for days maybe. But he didn't care. He felt safe in her arms. When he was with her, he felt like a good man. He felt as if he were a warrior, not a coward. He wouldn't have nightmares of being tortured by his Aunt Bella or Voldemort. He wouldn't have nightmares of the screams of all those people's deaths he had witnessed in the Manor.
Instead, he dreamt of the two of them dancing in fields of flowers. She was laughing and pulling him along. The sound of her laughter brought goose bumps to his pale skin. The good kind of goose bumps. The kind you get when a good singer sings. And it would make him smile. A genuine smile. One that held love and true happiness.
Astoria was a gift to Draco.
She was his beam of sunlight. She was his warmth. She was the catalyst of his turning point. She was his.
They were right for each other, despite their differences. Yin and Yang. Light and Dark. Whatever you want to call it. They were perfect and indestructible.