A/N: Thanks to respitechristopher for even telling me about this challenge in the first place, and to Sara Winters for beta-reading. This is rated M for language, very mature sexual situations, and allusions/non-explicit descriptions of rough sex. You've been warned.
For LiveJournal's hp_unfaithful no pressure, laissez-faire challenge. I chose to write about an established pairing-Draco/Astoria, and an infidelity pairing-Draco/Daphne Greengrass. I'm bolding this because, judging by at least one review of this story, I think that the purpose of me even writing this piece was lost on one reader.
Also, apologies for the formatting. I had put lines in this piece to keep the segments separated, but they didn't come through properly or FFN mucked it up!
The prompt was, "Welcome to the family". And for any "From Hell" readers, there are mentions of Michael/Daphne in the past. Hope you enjoy!
Draco Malfoy disgusts Daphne Greengrass. This has always been the case.
She abhors hearing "Mudblood" this and "Scarhead" that, but because she finds it savage, childish and stupid. She doesn't know whether she believes in pure-blood superiority, but she keeps her doubts quiet. Instead, she walks around with an air of haughty indifference.
Until their seventh year, when it can no longer be ignored.
It doesn't surprise her when she hears Malfoy has taken the Mark in their sixth year. Nor does it shock her when Malfoy's role in Dumbledore's death is revealed. Daphne herself refuses to fight, preferring to watch from the sidelines. She waits to see who is triumphant, not caring who wins so long as one life is spared.
Of course it's not. And it leaves her broken inside.
Her relationship with Astoria is close but complicated. Astoria represents the best of the Greengrass family; she carries herself with great dignity. She is their princess, the daughter whom Virgil and Queenie dotes on. Astoria is the bright, shining promise of the future. Those associated with Slytherin point at her and say, "Look! Not all of us are bastards. We can be like her too!"
Daphne knows this. The terrain she navigates regarding her sister moves between constant worry for the youngest angel of the Greengrass family and envy that she is the centre of the world, not only of her parents, but of her peers as well.
Daphne Greengrass is best forgotten about.
However, two years after they leave school, six months into his burgeoning relationship with Astoria, Draco and Daphne realize they share a proclivity to turn gold into shit.
The first time they fuck, they are at a dinner at Entwhistle Estates. It is October 2000. The dinner is a random gathering of Hogwarts alum, and Malfoy goes with Astoria, both of them hoping to rehabilitate his family's name and legacy.
Daphne goes too and drinks far too much. As she does whenever she's around far too many Ravenclaws. They are still alive, doing simple things like eating and drinking and talking about intelligent things like Ministry happenings and art—
And he cannot.
He is gone.
She is drunk within an hour.
For some reason, so is Draco. And when they find each other alone on a balcony some floors up high, they attack.
"You're a bastard!"
"And you're a whore," Draco states simply. He grins and polishes off his drink.
She saunters up to him, her glass empty. She considers smashing it into his face. "Why my sister, huh? Why do you have to taint her too?"
"She's grown up around you, Greengrass." He walks closer, his horrible smirk stuck to his face. "I'd say she's immune to fuck ups."
She bares her teeth at him. "I know you, Malfoy — you can't breathe without finding a way to mess it all up!"
"The slag is one to talk about making mistakes." He laughs derisively. "What've you been doing all night, Greengrass? Looking at all the Ravenclaws, getting your knickers all wet?"
"Don't you dare!" She stares him down. "He was ten times the man you could ever wish to be!"
His breath is on her face. "You wouldn't know anything about the man I am, would you?"
She wants to tell him to piss off, but instead, she grabs and twists his arm, forcing him to look at it.
"Well, there's this, for starters." Her sneer is triumphant as the Mark shows beneath her fingers.
For a split second, Daphne isn't sure whether he might slap or strangle her. There is more yelling, more warm breath hitting skin, more swearing and more insulting—
And before Daphne knows it, his lips are millimetres from hers; his warm breath, musky from drink, touches her mouth. There is a pause, infinite in length, and she realizes that they will do this thing. They will screw each other because it is wrong, but that is who they are.
"Fuck you, Malfoy."
"Fuck you, Greengrass."
Their lips meet. Bitter. Hungry. She shows him just how big a mistake he is for Astoria by hiking up her skirt and wrapping her legs around his slender waist. She unbuckles his trousers and releases him so he can thrust himself inside her, taking them both fully into hell.
As she bucks against his body, as she hits the stone wall, as he drives into her, a single thought repeats over and over in her mind—
Michael, Michael, Michael.
It is after she comes, her body spent and sweaty, that she whispers in his ear—
"Welcome to the family."
They meet regularly. Daphne finds she is addicted to the sensation of thisiswrongsoverywrong.
There is a rush when they see each other. It sends a shiver through her core when she watches him and Astoria together, knowing that she will be with him later, either against a wall or on the floor or a piece of furniture, and they will take their bodies and do whatever they want with them. She knows it won't stop for either of them because they're both failures, destroying everything that falls into their laps.
She is on his now, and they are fucking hard and fast. The bed is not enough; he carries her and slams both of them against the wall. They use bindings to tie the other down. They only use them to obstruct their need to touch.
One thing is clear — the more violent, the more destructive their sex, the better it is for Daphne. And she is fairly certain it is better for Draco. There is no mistake; their union is base and brutal. There is no missionary here, no softness or tender moments.
There is only a struggle for domination.
He looks at himself in the mirror, pale and nervous. He flexes his arm, staring at it like he stares at her — a mixture of repulsion and desire.
"Do you love her, Draco?"
He glares at her. "I thought we agreed — no first names."
She sighs and rolls her eyes. "Answer my question, Draco. My sister, do you love her? Even though you and I have this little thing we do?"
He turns and walks back to the bed. Lying down, his eyes lock on her face and his hands trace down the length of her body. He finds the soft folds between her legs and slowly Draco strokes her. She rolls against him, unable to breathe, unable to think or talk.
He lowers his head, biting and sucking her skin.
"Fuck you, Greengrass."
And he does again.
Four years after the battle, Daphne's heart is still shattered.
After their trysts, after Draco leaves the room, or as he lies spent on the bed, she reaches into her purse and unfolds a picture, a gesture that has become as familiar to her as eating or drinking or breathing.
It is of a tall, lean, dark-haired wizard. Freckles lightly dot his smiling face. He wears the robes of a Ravenclaw and she grins as his picture winks at her.
Just below, the caption is ripped, but Daphne can still read:
"—Corner, who died at the Battle of Hogwarts, May 2, 1998."
She almost hopes that there is no journey after death, because she would hate to know what he thinks of her today.
After two years' worth of carnal knowledge of the bastard, Daphne is hard-pressed to find any shared tenderness between them. There are moments, but they are few and far between.
Sometimes, she will catch him glance at her in an odd way, or he'll touch her face, her hair, or her body gently, as if there's a momentary desire to make love to her.
But it passes. Daphne reckons he suddenly remembers it's her and not Astoria that he beds in those moments.
After another couple of hours of rough shagging, they put their clothes back on.
Daphne doesn't see the picture fall from her purse — but Draco does.
There is silence; she doesn't notice it until—
"You carry a picture of him?"
A chill runs down her body and she turns around slowly. Draco peers at the picture, but not in the way she anticipates. He studies it and his brow creases like he's deep in thought. He says nothing for a moment.
"Do you want to know?"
His voice shakes her out of her stupor. "Know what?"
"How they killed him."
Her breath stops. Her body trembles. "H-how . . . why in the world would I w-want to know that? Why would you ask me that?"
Draco lets the picture fall on the bed. "I'm not the one carrying a dead man's picture with them everywhere. There are some that would say that's unhealthy."
His voice is dry and detached. For Draco, she knows it is as much compassion as he can muster. However, all Daphne hears are insults, because she knows that he could give fuck all whether he hurts her.
She tears up in front of him; this was not supposed to happen. He is only ever supposed to know her body. But now, he is inside her.
And that is unacceptable.
She points at him, her finger shaking. "You have no say! You don't get to say what's wrong with me. You screw me. That's – it!"
She snatches the remnants of her clothes, covering herself as she slams the door behind her.
He hates who he is.
Draco does not dare tell anyone this, lest someone uses it against him. The closest he gets to reveal this to anyone are these—
Whatever it is he does with Astoria's sister.
It's so hard to do the right thing, he thinks. But fucking things up? Draco knows he's turned that into an art form. Perhaps that's why this thing he does with Daphne feels like the only thing he's good at. Because it's certainly not staying loyal to his supposed sweetheart.
He takes another swig of firewhiskey and looks at the Mark on his arm. A stranger could mistake it for just another tattoo; some ink that fades because time passes and sunlight touches it.
It is anything but.
It used to mean power. It used to mean purpose. It used to mean he belonged, that they found in him a like-minded soul who was willing to give up everything for their cause. It used to mean everything he and his family believed in was right and real and true.
But he failed. He always fails.
Draco finishes his glass and places it back on the bar. He knows she'll be coming soon for their date with destiny, and he doesn't want to be late.
If there's one thing Draco wants to get right, it's his penchant for doing wrong.
The sex with Daphne, Draco prefers it rough. Messy. Tangled.
There is pain whenever they please themselves. They can't have it any other way, or else it gets too complicated. Too confused.
But the glass is breaking and Draco can see the cracks. There are times that he finds himself touching her hair and her face far too gently. There are times when he stares at her too long because he notices just how sad and broken she is.
The realization is unbidden and unwanted. He realizes that Daphne is a person. Human. Soft, lush with curves, she uses her body to shield herself from reality. She doesn't want to think about the war, about what she had that is now gone. She doesn't want to think about the Ravenclaw who stole her heart and lost his life. Draco then realizes that sympathizing with her is at odds with the tattoo on his arm.
He doesn't like that he sees her, but he cannot help it.
He watches as she pulls out his picture because she thinks he is not watching. He sees her wipe her face and touch the photograph as it smiles and winks at her. The creases marking the picture are deep and pronounced; Draco knows she does this, probably every day, every hour.
And he knows, whatever she does, that Corner cannot be far from her mind.
After two years of watching her silently with the picture, of realizing that she hurts, he starts searching. Why, he does not know.
But he is restless and he needs to do something to calm his soul.
"Do you want to know?"
"Know what?"
"How they killed him."
Draco sees her shake.
"H-how . . . why in the world would I w-want to know that? Why would you ask me that?"
The clipping falls onto the bed. "I'm not the one carrying a dead man's picture with them everywhere. There are some that would say that's unhealthy."
He is surprised at how dry and detached he sounds. He tries to keep his voice mild; he can feel his annoyance, his anger gnawing at him because she is not taking this the way he intended. He's about to throttle her, but then he backs down, remembering the times she would hold that picture and cry.
Instead, he musters all the compassion he is capable of and watches her tear up right in front of him.
"You have no say! You don't get to say what's wrong with me. You screw me. That's – it!"
After she slams the door, he kicks at a chair and punches the wall.
"For fuck's sake!"
He growls and runs his fingers through his hair. This is not going how he imagined it would. He reaches into his pockets and pulls out a small, palm-sized bundle. He taps his wand on it.
"Engorgio."
A brown box appears in his hands. He starts leafing through the documents inside, his lip curling as he thinks that he will have to do the thing he's been dreading to do.
Draco knocks on the door. He comes unannounced, and he contemplates covering the peephole with his thumb.
There is a very good chance they won't open the door for him.
Knowing these stuck-up, self-righteous pricks.
The door opens. Draco watches Lavender Brown's normally friendly face darken into a glare. She steadies herself with her brace; the scars from Greyback are faint, but they give her an intimidating look.
"You've got some nerve—"
He sucks in a breath and somehow manages not to roll his eyes. "I come in peace, Brown."
"It's Goldstein now."
He stares at her with pursed lips. "I didn't get the announcement. Sorry."
"Lavender, what's going—?"
Anthony Goldstein walks up behind her. His stare is icy, and Draco wants to back off. Yet, he manages to match him, cold glare to cold glare.
"How dare you come here, Malfoy! Unannounced even."
"I'm glad to see that our society's promoting tolerance and open-mindedness, especially after everything that's happened," he drawls sarcastically.
"You're one to talk!"
Draco shakes his head. "Look, as much fun as trading insults with both of you would be, I . . ." He sucks in a breath and grits his teeth. "I need your help. And it's something only you can provide."
He pushes past both of them, uninvited, because they are too stunned at the request to talk—
It is one hour later and Draco taps his long, pale fingers on the table in front of him.
Anthony gapes at him. "You're kidding."
"I can assure you I'm not."
Lavender walks towards the kitchen, letting Draco and Anthony hash everything out.
"Malfoy, I would've known about it. I was his best mate! How in the world did you find out?"
Draco gives him a flat look. "Her sister is my fiancée."
"But Mike was my best friend. He and Terry both were. And he never told me about any relationship with Greengrass. He would've said something."
"Apparently he didn't. You'd be surprised the things we keep from those who are closest to us." That he manages to say this without so much as a cracked voice or flushed face surprises Draco. He thinks he should be given an award for this performance.
Anthony stares at his wife. "Maybe you and Astoria, Malfoy. Lavender and I tell each other everyth—"
Draco's hand flies up and he hisses. "I didn't come here to hear about the great love you share with Wife! Now, can you help me? Actually, can you help her?"
Anthony slowly nods, a dumbstruck expression still on his face. "I'll get in touch with his family and I'll go through the things I have of his. Give me a couple of weeks, all right?"
He merely nods and without another word, he leaves.
Almost two weeks later, Anthony comes to Malfoy Manor.
Draco looks at what he brought with him. There are pictures of the three Ravenclaws at Hogwarts, on the Quidditch pitch, in the common room, at their homes over the summer. There are a couple of robes, a small Wireless device, some Weird Sisters' music.
And below all of this is a smaller box, the seal freshly broken, labelled with one letter—
D
Anthony reassures him there is nothing indecent inside.
"But I was shocked. Mike looked . . ."
Draco raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.
Anthony shrugs. "Happy. With her."
Draco nods silently and looks at the contents. "And she looked happy with him," he says as he flips through the pictures. There are notes too, written in Daphne's hand. Draco makes a note to examine them later.
Anthony is just about to leave, but he stops with his hand on the doorknob. Slowly, he turns, reaches into his robes, and pulls out a brown pouch. He walks back into the room and hands it over.
Draco opens it. A vial falls into his hand. It's filled with silvery strands swirling around, iridescent like liquid pearl.
"This vial was in my possession. Just before the battle, Mike, Terry and I learned how to extract our memories. Even though we didn't have a Pensieve, we wanted to preserve memories that were special to us. So we put as many as we could into these vials, and whomever survived would keep them."
Anthony lowers his head and scratches his nose. "I never looked at Terry's or Mike's. It didn't feel right. But after I opened that box, after I looked at everything, I borrowed one of the Ministry Archives' Pensieves . . . and . . ."
His voice trails off. He coughs and regains his composure.
"If she's hurting as much as you say she is, you should show that to her."
Anthony finally leaves and Draco walks over to a cabinet, unlocking the door to pull out a thick stone basin covered in runes.
"What is this all about? Why the hell did you bring me here?"
Draco is very close to hitting Daphne with a Muting Hex. But he restrains himself.
"We're inside Malfoy Manor." He keeps his voice calm, controlled. "I found out about some things that might interest you."
"Interest me? What're you on about? The only dirty secret I have in my closet right now concerns you, me, and screwing around behind my sister's back."
They stare at each other, their eyes narrow, sharp daggers. Instead of spitting out the insult that is on the tip of his tongue, Draco pivots and opens up a cabinet. He Levitates to the desk the Malfoy family's heavy Pensieve.
She stares at it gormlessly.
"It's a Pensieve, Greengrass."
"I know what a Pensieve is. Are we taking a merry walk down Memory Lane?"
Draco smiles slyly at her. "We aren't. You are."
Her mouth falls. "Me?"
He holds up the vial of memories. "Before the battle, your—" He stifles a gag. "Your boyfriend figured out a way to extract his memories and store them away for preservation. These," he says, giving the vial a small shake, "are his memories."
His words hit Daphne hard. She falters and blinks rapidly, trying to regain her composure. "Michael's?" Her whispered question comes out in a strangled tone.
"Goldstein had it in his possession. And he thinks you might want to see them."
"He knew about us?"
"Well," Draco says, shrugging, "he does now. You do figure prominently in his memories." He uncorks the bottle and holds it above the basin. "What's your answer?"
Minutes pass. She says nothing, but nods slowly. She watches as he tips the contents out, staring mesmerized as the memories flow and undulate inside the basin.
She's about to jump in, but she hesitates. She can't make herself move. Rolling his eyes, impatiently waiting for her to do something, Draco pushes her from behind. Startled, she falls right in, and he follows behind her.
He watches again the scenes from Michael's life as scenes fly past him, one after another: playing with his mum and dad, riding on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, meeting a vulgar Terry and a bookish Anthony.
Michael cheering on Ravenclaw against Slytherin.
Michael getting drunk with his mates. Michael messing around with them during classes and in Ravenclaw's common room.
Michael kissing Ginny . . . and Cho . . .
Draco knows it's coming.
He sees the flashes of Michael and Daphne together: studying Arithmancy; kissing in Vector's empty classroom; stealing moments in broom cupboards and vacant rooms; snogging each other senseless. In several memories, Michael makes her laugh so hard, she snorts and cackles and swats at him. And he laughs right back.
Draco looks at Daphne. She watches enchanted, staring at each scene through a lavender and blue haze. Her eyes tear up as Michael awkwardly defends her honour to his friends. He does not reveal anything about their relationship, but he tells Anthony and Terry that they "are being very rude".
Her tears fall as she watches their seventh year unfold.
Michael thinking about her as Carrow tortures him.
Michael recovering, writing a letter with excruciating effort. Her name is at the top of the parchment.
Michael and Pensieve-Daphne together in a room.
She holds her breath, blushing through her tears. "This was our last time together. The last week of April that year."
Draco groans. "Too much information," he mumbles.
Pensieve-Daphne sleeps peacefully, a blanket covering her body. Michael lies awake behind her, grinning as he touches her hair. With a shaking hand, the real Daphne reaches out to touch his face, her hand passing through his cheek.
Michael leans forward and whispers in her ear. "You awake?"
The real Daphne presses her fingers against her mouth to keep herself from sobbing. She hangs on every word.
"That was awesome." Michael says, kissing her ear. He looks at her face and sees that she's completely gone.
"I should tell you — er, no. Not after what we did. Would seem like the only reason I said it is because we just, y'know." He stumbles over his words, touching her face and her bare shoulders with his fingertips.
He sighs. "This isn't good timing. Life's really short, innit? Life during a war may be even shorter, and here we've started something that we probably shouldn't have." He snorts, but he's smiling at the same time. "You probably have no idea what I'm talking about, and I'm just rambling really. But something's going to happen, Daphne. I know it is. Something's coming for us. And when the time's right, I'm going to fight, and I dunno what's going to happen after that."
He squeezes her gently and she stirs, but does not wake. "Maybe . . . maybe I should say it. I've never said it before. It seems stupid to be right here, possibly at the end of everything, and go through life without ever having said it. Sad really. I should, right? Just get it out right now, while you're sleeping so you won't think I'm just saying it because we had sex or anything."
He hits himself lightly, chiding himself for his incoherent prattle.
The real Daphne watches as he shuts his eyes and kisses her temple. "I love you." He rubs her cheek gently with his nose, but she still sleeps. "Yeah. It's true. Hey, look at that. I said it and the world didn't end." Michael smiles. "I love you, and when we're done fighting and everything's better, I'll come find you and tell you that myself. And hopefully, you'll be awake."
The memory finishes. It swirls around them, and suddenly both Daphne and Draco are back in the study.
Daphne collapses, pulling her lips in. She is desperate to not cry. Her entire body shakes as her resolve fails.
For once, there is no snide comment on his tongue. Draco simply kneels besides her.
"Do you need anything?"
She barely registers he's even there. Her tears spill out, and she sobs. He's about to stand up, but she grabs his arm.
"D-do you know how he died?"
Draco is shocked by the question. It wasn't what he was expecting. However, he knows the answer, because it was the first thing he pieced together. He nods. "He was defending the main doors outside the castle. Terry Boot was with him." He swallows, his throat drying out. "There was a battle; it was violent but short. During the skirmish, they were both killed by Rodolphus Lestrange and Darius Mulciber. The Killing Curse."
Her eyes drift to the ground. She weeps, clutching her stomach with her arms. She cries tears that hurt not just the person shedding them, but anyone who watches them fall.
And then, she howls.
There is pain in her scream, pain that comes from deep in her guts. It pours out of her in an endless stream, four years of pent-up sorrow that never knew release.
Draco tries to get up and perhaps get her something to wipe her face off. Instead, she clings to his robes, pulling him back down and she sheds tears on him, burying her face in his shoulder.
It is the 18th of May 2004.
Draco and Astoria join together in holy matrimony. And Daphne stands beside them the whole time, sharing in their special day.
Towards the end of the evening, she shares a dance with her new brother-in-law. They waltz together uncomfortably.
"You'd think this would be easier since we've done things to each other that would be considered illegal in this part of the world."
Draco cocks his eyebrow. "I'm guessing because we've done all those things that it's awkward acting all proper and respectful with you."
She smirks. "Touché." She leans in closer to him and whispers in his ear. "I don't really miss it."
"Bollocks. There were some interesting aspects that we learned about the human body during our sessions together."
"Right. Just don't do those things to my little sister. Understand?"
Draco glares at her. "Not telling you about that! Just like I don't want to hear what you've been getting up to with that Smith prat."
She guffaws. "Jealous?"
"Of course I'm not jealous. Just stating a fact, is all. Zacharias Smith is a prat. And," he nods towards the former Hufflepuff, "he's glaring at me."
Daphne turns her head. Indeed, Zacharias is staring at them like he's trying to make Draco's head explode.
"I think it's sweet he's so protective."
"So help him if he kills me on my wedding day—"
"Draco?" Her voice is serious. "Thanks."
"What for?" He forces himself to sound casual, but he knows what's coming. It's must be part of her normal routine — get up, get dressed, thank Draco, and go on with the rest of the day.
"For Michael." She allows a smile to flicker across her face. "For letting me see what I didn't before."
"Well, the thing between us had to end at some point."
"Draco."
She only ever says his name like this when she's serious. "Do you finally feel like you did something right?"
"I'm Draco Malfoy. Do I ever make a mistake?"
"Nobody's perfect."
"Speak for yourself."
She stares him down with a serious expression. "I'm starting to forgive myself for everything. Have you?"
He swallows, realizing that, despite the fact he is with Astoria now and he and Daphne have moved beyond their thing, there will be this connection between them. It is something that he does not share with his spouse.
Daphne knows him in a way that no one else does. It scares him, but he refuses to allow it to show.
Instead, he pulls her closer to him and leans towards her ear.
"Just dance with me, Greengrass. Before I go find my wife."
Fin.