Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: Last part of my series, "The Blossom and the Dragon". Enjoy and thank you for following me all the way through this last instalment. You made my day. This was beta-read by QueenBtchoftheUniverse.

The Reason of the Snake

The air was cold, the wind was strong and the graveyard was deserted, and to Astoria it felt like she had made an incredible effort to Apparate at the main gate and walk all the way to where the Malfoys were buried, with a bunch of chrysanthemums in her arms. Much more effort, she felt, than Draco deserved.

Draco's gravestone was polished and shiny, the letters that spelled his name and all those set phrases that Scorpius had wanted were still jet black and perfectly visible on the white marble. The grass around it was green and manicured. Astoria stopped in front of the grave and looked at the stone with calm and cold eyes, as if the man buried under it hadn't shared her life for thirty years. As if she had barely known him.

She flicked her wand and a wool blanked appeared out of thin air. She grabbed it quickly and spread it on the wet grass near the tomb, sitting as gracefully as she could with her coat wrapped tightly around her body. She stretched a hand to lay the bunch of flowers against the stone, but withdrew it almost as if she had been hurt when she noticed the small, pretty bunch of fresh pansies tied with a green ribbon.

She swallowed and felt the urge to tear them apart and stomp on them. To set them on fire and make them explode, to tear petal after petal until only the naked stem remained. Instead, she bit her bottom lip and placed her flowers next to them, glad that the chrysanthemums, with their tall stems, towered somewhat menacingly on the little pansies.

She stuffed her hand into her pocket then, shivering slightly as the cold wind slapped her cheeks, her greying curls bouncing around her face. She lowered her eyes to look at the green grass and rubbed her legs together to try to feel warmer.

As an old woman with a tall, pointed hat walked past, Astoria couldn't help wondering if that was one of those days. One of those days when she just sat there in silence, until she felt like she had done her duty as a widow to mourn on her husband's grave long enough and could finally go home.

No, somehow, it wasn't one of those days. Somehow, she couldn't ignore the flowers once again.

"Does she come every Wednesday?" she asked coldly. "Is Wednesday a particularly day for the two of you? Does it have some mysterious meaning that nobody else knows about?"

The wind howled menacingly at her words, but Astoria didn't care. She felt rebellious and embittered. She had come every week for the past five years, and every single time there had been a fresh bunch of pansies on her husband's grave, as if they were scornfully letting her know that Draco wasn't hers even in the hereafter.

She sighed. If at least she hadn't left him pansies… If at least she had left any other flower…

"Does she cry on your tomb, Draco? Do the people that pass by think that she was your wife?"

She pulled a curl behind her ear and scowled at the gravestone. It was almost liberating to be able to talk to Draco without him talking back to her. She could tell him everything she felt and he couldn't laugh or retort at her confessions.

"Has she ever mentioned that she is married to Blaise?" she asked, a hint of pleasure in her voice. "And she lives at the Estate." Astoria lowered her eyes, her face dark. "You should see her, she is thriving like those pansies that she brings you." She bit her bottom lip again, some of her lipstick smudging on her teeth. "She is thriving like she had never done with you," she hissed softly.

She took a deep breath and shook her head softly, as if being mean towards her husband's tomb didn't bring her happiness after all. Sometimes she felt like she wanted to cry, not because she missed him or because that was what people did on the gravestones of their beloved, but because he had died and she had never told him what she had wanted to tell him. What her husband should have known about her.

After all, Draco and Lucius – whose tomb was only a few metres from his – and Pansy and Blaise, and all the people who knew the facts as they had happened, had never tried to understand her reasons, and nevertheless they loathed Astoria with a passion. The only person who understood her was Narcissa, and she had been a mother, a friend and a confidante to her when she spent those dreadful Wednesday afternoons alone at the Manor, while her husband was away, shagging Pansy Parkinson in a luxury flat in Diagon Alley.

And Daphne understood her, but Daphne only saw her a few days a year and she was always so absorbed in her three children and her adoring husband, that it seemed as if she didn't have time to spend on Astoria's woes. She was supportive, naturally, like only a sister could be, but she wasn't there nearly enough for Astoria. And Astoria herself was quite happy with that arrangement anyway, because she could only stand her sister's perfect family for so long. It hurt her more than made her happy that Daphne would have three healthy children, and now that they were all married to purebloods, Astoria simply couldn't bear to look at them. Especially when she compared them to Rose Weasley.

"She is pregnant again, you know," she murmured, "Rose, I mean. Did Scorpius tell you, last time he came?" She snorted and shook her head. "Another Malfoy tradition that you managed to break, Draco, by giving him your blessing to marry that Weasley-girl."

She closed her eyes for a moment and thought of her daughter-in-law. She was not bad per se, she was just unsuitable for a Malfoy. And Astoria knew perfectly well what that meant after having been forced into marriage with Draco. Rose was not a pureblood on her mother's side, she was not rich, she had no title to bring to the household. Yes, she was intelligent and pretty enough not to taint the good features of the Malfoys, at least, and she loved Scorpius and he loved her. And they were happy.

And that should have been enough, were it not for the fact that Narcissa had always told Astoria that no woman had ever been happy next to a Malfoy. And so Astoria was now consumed with jealousy towards her son and his wife. Every time they came to visit at the Manor she felt as if she was looking at Draco and Pansy rather than Scorpius and Rose. So their bliss made her heart ache, as if, somehow, they were another couple who was being happy at her expense.

"I just wanted to be happy," murmured Astoria, "just wanted to marry you, give you an heir and love you and wait until you loved me back." She looked away, towards an ancient oak tree. "And you never did." She shook her head. "You've never even tried, have you? Of course not. You were in love with her, and you've always been. And I was just…" She bit her bottom lip to still it. "I was just your wife. Who cares if we were married by the law, right? Because I was not her…"

She shivered slightly when the wind started to blow with renewed force and a soft sneer curled her lips as she imagined that that was Draco, who didn't want to listen to her words and tried to make her go away. Too bad that from where he was now he couldn't do anything else but raise a slight breeze.

She didn't care. If the wind became too strong and the temperature too rigid for her to bear she would continue the following week and the week after that and so on, until the day her son had to bury her next to his father and then she would continue vexing him on the other side. Because she was pretty sure that they would be together for eternity, in the unwelcoming heat of hell. Only he would be with the adulterers and she with the murderers.

She stood up and smoothed her robes with her white hands. Flicking her wand, she made the blanket disappear once again. She raised her eyes on the gravestone as she stuffed her hands back into her pockets.

"Since you don't want to listen to me, I'll see you next week," she announced softly, "I'll bring you lilies, if I can find them." She lingered for a few long seconds, looking at the stone as if something would happen, before she turned and started to walk towards the main gate of the graveyard.

Next week would be better, she would ignore her pansies.

oOoOo

The Manor was freezing cold. It had never been warm in the first place, but ever since they had no money for maintenance the place was almost colder inside than outside. Actually, it was definitely colder inside than outside and Astoria had to cast a Warming Charm as soon as she took off her coat.

She opened her mouth to summon a house-elf, but managed to stop before her voice could leave her lips. There were no more house-elves in that house, there hadn't been for years now, but Astoria had lived all her life served by those little creatures, and depending on them had been so eradicated in her being that even now she would call for them, before she remembered that they had to sell them all.

She shivered and walked into the drawing room. It had once been the warmest room of the Manor, and the one where they all went to drink their tea after dinner or to read a book by the tall window or to chat when there was nothing better to do. It had been the first room where they had brought her when she had first arrived at the Manor, when she was still a teenager, barely of age.

She sat near the fireplace and lit a creaky fire with her wand. Her hands stretched in front of her of their own accord, searching for the warmth that only the flames could provide.

She sat on the armchair closer to the chimney and sighed. If her parents had still been alive, they would have looked at her in horror and she would have died of embarrassment under their stares. She had come to that family with a dowry worthy of a queen. She had brought possessions and money and valuables and stocks, and when her parents had died, she had inherited half of their fortune, which would have been enough to buy a whole county.

Astoria snorted and shook her head. She had to admit, after all, that Draco had had a gift when it was up to squandering money. He had, in fact, managed to singlehandedly spend all her fortune and his own in a bit less than a quarter of a century, leaving them swimming in debts.

They had to sell their properties up north, Astoria's house in Diagon Alley and most of the furniture of the Manor, amongst which pieces that were worth more than anything Hogwarts could contain. They had to close their vault at Gringotts.

Astoria rubbed her palms together in the vain hope to warm them up. She was cold to the bones and in much need of a cup of tea, but the very thought of going to the kitchens to make one herself nauseated her. So she sunk in the armchair and Summoned a blanket to cover herself up. Outside, the wind was blowing menacingly, as if Draco had followed her home from the cemetery.

She really couldn't understand why he would still be angry at her, though. If anything she should have been mad at him. After all, he had left her nothing. After his death all his inheritance was an endless list of debts and a Manor that wasn't worth a cent anymore. Not to mention what he had left to their only son: the promise of those debts in case Astoria couldn't manage to extinguish them herself.

"But you haven't thought about any of this," she hissed to the fire, "any of this, when you tried to fill the void left by her."

Yes, indeed, because it had all been about that. Even Lucius would have agreed with her, if she had cared to ask him when he was still alive. And she was sure that Scorpius had the same opinion now that he knew some of the facts, and she knew that Narcissa was of the same mind as herself, because she had muttered her son's name and shook her head more than once every time Astoria had to bring her the meals she prepared herself or came to help her to go to the bathroom.

And Astoria had a feeling that Pansy agreed with her as well, but surely she only felt smugness as she realised that she had been the cause of the ruin of a whole family who had been around even before the Parkinsons had started doing magic.

She closed her eyes. If only Draco had loved her the way he had loved Pansy. Not all his life, she wouldn't have asked that of him, but enough to understand what he was doing to them. If only he hadn't tried to fill in the hole that Pansy had left in his heart with prostitutes and hotels and cars and luxury… If only he had understood that their breakup was the end of it, that he should have moved on. If only he had noticed that he had a wife who had tried to love him and a son that needed him…

But no, to Draco nobody but Pansy had ever existed.

And now they were all paying the price of his selfish love.

"Astoria," Narcissa's voice was a bare, hoarse whisper, "this cold is turning my feet to ice."

Astoria closed the door at her back and sighed. She walked towards the big, four-poster bed and sat on an armchair near her mother-in-law. She was quick and silent at casting a Warming Charm, just like the one she had cast on herself downstairs – she was an expert now. Slowly, she could see Narcissa's feet rubbing together under the covers.

"How was the grave?" asked the old woman, her white hair splayed on the pillow like a halo around her head.

"Clean and polished," replied Astoria, "as always."

"And Lucius'?"

"Clean and polished," she lied. She hadn't even cast a hurried glance at her father-in-law's gravestone.

"Has she been there again?" hissed Narcissa suddenly, her grey eyes sparkling as she looked at her.

Astoria tried to look as calm and composed as possible when she nodded her assent.

Narcissa growled softly. "You should talk to the grave keeper," she muttered, "tell him not to let her in."

Astoria took a deep breath and shook her head slightly. "It doesn't matter, Narcissa," she murmured, "not anymore."

Instead of telling her how stupid and weak she was, Narcissa kept quiet, and for a long time all that could be heard in the room was her difficult breathing and Astoria's occasional sneezes. It was cold indeed.

Narcissa's room was the master bedroom of the Manor, and it was probably the biggest room right after the living room. It was, indeed, larger than the drawing room and the dining room. It was ridiculously big and incredibly beautiful as well as stupidly cold. She had tried to talk Narcissa into moving into a smaller and more manageable room, but she had replied that she had slept there all her life, ever since she had married into that family, and she wanted to die in that room. Fine by me, Astoria had thought, even though the very thought of Narcissa dying and having to live in there all by herself – with Scorpius and Rose only visiting once a month – scared her out of her wits.

"It would have been so much easier if you had been ugly, wouldn't it?"

Astoria didn't look up at her, she closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Yes. It would have been.

"At least," continued Narcissa, her voice hoarse, "at least, you could have blamed his lack of attention towards you on your looks." She coughed slightly and Astoria raised her eyes to look warily at her. "But you have always been beautiful," rasped Narcissa, "and nonetheless he had always preferred her to you."

Astoria's eyes unfocused for a brief moment. Yes, there was no need to remind her what had happened. Despite having spent all their money on beautiful things, Draco hadn't seemed to care for the beautiful woman in his bed, but had rather spent his days thinking on the mediocre attractiveness of his slut. The joke was on Astoria, really.

"I've never told you," continued her mother-in-law, "but you did good when you killed his bastard. You did good, Astoria."

It was a lie. Narcissa told her every single day. She had always supported her, in a way that Astoria had never seen her support Draco, and ever since she had first written that letter to Mr Borgin, telling him to take action in case it wasn't his child the one that Pansy was about to deliver, Narcissa had approved of her behaviour.

Now, in hindsight, she wondered if it had been such a good idea after all. Had she not told Borgin to kill the baby, Draco would have never killed him, and they would have never had to go through Pansy's trial. And Pansy would have never left him afterwards and Draco would have never squandered their money in the vain attempt to feel better again. And Astoria wouldn't be there, sitting on an old armchair, in an empty and ruined Manor which was falling to pieces, alone with a sick Narcissa to take care of.

And yet, if she hadn't killed that baby, her life wouldn't have been much happier anyway. Her husband would have kept going to the other woman, and she would have been a laughing stock to all the people who knew.

"You're silent, Astoria," whispered Narcissa, her grey eyes lingering on her face, "is something wrong?"

Astoria shook her head, trying to stretch her lips in a soft smile. "No, Narcissa," she breathed, "I was just wondering when Scorpius would come to visit."

The younger witch understood that she shouldn't have said that the moment Narcissa's eyes narrowed to two slits. "I've heard he visits her at the Estate," she hissed, "every month, with his wife and child."

Astoria lowered her eyes and sighed. "Blaise is his godfather," she reminded her, "I highly doubt they go there to see her."

"Your grandchild calls her auntie," retorted Narcissa icily.

Once again, Astoria didn't reply. Once again, the joke was on her. First her husband and father-in-law, and now her son and even her grandson; Pansy Zabini née Parkinson had had the Malfoy men wrapped around her finger one after the other.

"Astoria."

She looked at Narcissa, her eyes wide. "Yes, Narcissa?"

"I'm hungry," she announced softly, "bring me something to eat, will you?"

Astoria took a deep breath. "Yes," she replied, standing up and making her way to the door.

"Astoria," Narcissa called her once again.

She stopped and turned to look at her, one hand already on the door. "Yes?"

"You did good, dear," she murmured weakly, "you did good."

FIN