Gazing Into the Abyss

By: Ning

Disclaimer: I do not own anything of Harry Potter.

Rating: Mature.

Pairings: R/Hr, D/Hr, RW/SM.

Words: 2,093.

Chapter One

The Living Malfoy

Draco stood with his back to the door, staring at the portrait of his family. Lucius was holding Narcissa's hand, a loving gesture that others would have completely overlooked. Narcissa smiled wanly at her son; right after the Dark Lord's defeat, their fate uncertain, she had rushed to have this portrait taken. Lucius' hair was long, the ends a little ragged, and his eyes had a faint hollowed look. Draco stood next to his mother, his hand on her shoulder, and here, the living Draco studied the young man he once was. Goaded by his own words and taunts, he joined the Dark Lord's forces, but only to save his family.

Draco smirked wryly. Up to the age of 15, he thought he had known everything, and even if he didn't, he could always rely on his father. The big, strong, influential man whom Draco had desperately longed to be – and impress. Perhaps if he had believed – or trusted – his mother more when she said they couldn't be prouder of the son they had, Draco wouldn't have thought he could be the one who would save his family. At the age of 16, that, Draco thought, is when his whole world crashed onto his shoulders before kicking him in the face.

Still looking at the portrait, his hand came to rub his chin, smooth, the way Astoria liked it. She would rub her cheeks against his, smiling, before kissing his lips. Where was his wife, anyway? She was probably in her study, reading an anthropological book. He had bought her one yesterday form Flourish and Blotts: Scorch and Burn: the Evolution of Various Curses and Hexes Used in South Africa and How to Avoid Them. They were planning on going to South Africa during the holidays; granted, if he didn't bring any more of his friends home. Draco shook his head, bemused: his son was much different than he was at 15. And yet, Scorpius would send letters back home complaining about a certain Rose Weasley who continuously beat him in almost every subject. Oh yes, Draco knew those letters! He could barely recount how many times he had written scathing letters to his parents about that bushy-headed Granger. His parents had even begun to finish his tirades for him before yelling at him to stop complaining and study harder. Which was, of course, almost exactly what Draco said to his only son.

There was a muffled sound upstairs. Draco turned towards the door. Was it a shriek? It could have been Astoria opening one of the old closets. He stood still, listening intently. There was nothing more. He furrowed his eyebrows. He must be becoming old – he didn't think he had ever spent this much time thinking when he was younger, a silly adolescent boy with opulent dreams of grandeur. He was so foolish and naïve at the time.

Mistakes of the young, Astoria always said often to comfort him, but Draco knew that he would never forgive himself for it.

For a long time, Draco was an immensely unhappy man. The war led to trials, trials led to physical and mental deterioration and taxation. To know that his life and his family's life depended on carefully selected words almost destroyed Draco's will. He hadn't recoveed from the night he saw Dumble – Draco pressed his lips firmly together. No. He would nto think that now. However, thank Merlin for his mother, and also, Potter's testimony. When the Wizengamot declared the Malfoys innocent, he swore he would be different. He would change, but not too much, of course.

He really should stop thinking so much. He was bound to get wrinkles much sooner than he wanted. He was about to walk towards the door when he began to hear a very familiar thumping. It was coming from the stairway. The same sound as when the Dark Lord had crucio'd his father…and his father's writing body landing on each step piteously… His left forearm tingled and he resisted the urge to clutch it.

Draco froze, a cold sweat enveloping him. His heart hammered in his ears, and there was a lump in his thought he could not swallow. He felt an immediate panic, all his sense heightened. He could almost imagine that the occasional scratching sound was nails against the wooden railing. The thumping sound came steadily closer as he deliberated. What about Astoria? He grabbed his wand from the desk and bracing himself, he cautiously headed to the door. He could almost hear his mother's anguished screams, echoing and bouncing in his head. There was a huge crash onto the floor, and Draco swung the door open, his arm raised as if in a duel before immediately rushing to the mass that was sprawled on the floor.

He felt insurmountable dread as he placed his hand on his wife's body. "Astoria?" He turned her over to face him, and he almost recoiled at the sight. She was bleeding copiously from her mouth, mostly because her mouth was a bloody slit, slashed at the ends of her lips almost to her ears. When she tried to say his name, blood spurted and tears ran down her face. The wound was pulsing still, and Draco knew that this was a Dark curse, something that he could not simply heal.

"Baby," he whispered to her, looking for her hand and clutching her fingers, "who did this to you? Do you know?" She nodded, and he mimicked the action. "Okay, you're going to be okay, you hear me? I'm going to try to stop the bleeding and then we're going to St. Mungo's. I promise you'll be fine, okay?" He was beginning to panic again, but while he searched for more injuries, he swallowed it down and called out for his house-elf, hoarsely. Blood was leaking everywhere; he couldn't stop it. If they didn't act quickly, she would soon bleed to death.

The house-elf appeared before him and stared in horror at Astoria. "Hoppy is here – My Mistress! My Mistress!" Draco barked orders for her to try to stop the bleeding, and though she tried, she said in a shaking voice, "Hoppy is sorry but this wound is too Dark of a wizard's magic."

Draco was thinking of what to do next: Should he move Astoria and bring her to St. Mungo's? Floo the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? He was considering telling Hoppy to send her immediately to St. Mungo's, but Astoria grabbed his arm weakly. Her lips were moving, and he leaned in closer to hear her. Wetly and with much effort, she was saying: "I…love…you…Draco…"

"Astoria?" He snapped his gaze towards her face. Already her eyes were becoming glazed. "ASTORIA!" He roared. "No, baby, please, stay with me, I need you I love you so much," he began to cry, holding onto her tightly, not caring about the blood, but pleading to a higher being not to take another woman he loved away from him. She continued the repeated mantra, and he was feeling her body lose energy, he felt her become listless, her eyes glssy, her fingers dropping slowly from his arm…

"HOPPY! TAKE US TO ST. MUNGO'S NOW!" The house-elf jumped, thick tears splattering the front o her silvery pink doily as she touched both of them, and they Disapparated with a loud crack.

The puddle of blood continued to spread, the color turning almost black and congealing. A piece of parchment had fallen out of Astoria's hand and was quickly becoming stained. The only words on it were: AND SO IT BEGINS AGAIN.

---

Scorpius gripped his father's shoulder and squeezed, and Draco attempted to smile reassuringly. It came off more as a sad grimace. Draco felt his lips move unnaturally to perk the corner up. They had just lain Astoria's body to rest. Many people had shown up to the funeral and some had followed him back to Malfoy Manor. Goyle, Pansy, and Zabini had decided to stay after to offer some brief comfort, along with some of Astoria's friends. Scorpius' friends had come to pay their respects, as well, and even some Hogwarts teachers had appeared briefly. Even the Potters and Weasleys were there.

Watching Granger – albeit, a Weasley, now – converse with Hoppy made him roll his eyes. The Weasleys – Ron and his sister – were staring at everything with a strangely contemptuous look. Potter's face was a mask of amusement, even though he was watching Granger and Hoppy speak. Hoppy seemed to be trying to slink away from Granger, but before Draco could go to relieve the house-elf, a girl of 16-years-old, dressed in formal black dress robes, with bright brown eyes and hair, came into his view. She was tall for her age, and her hair had a fiery tint to it whenever the sun shone on her.

"Mr. Malfoy," she began, breathlessly, "I'm a student at Hogwarts, the same year as Scorpius, actually, and I would like to express my deepest condolences for your loss." She spoke the words in a rush, the same intonation as her mother's. Ah, so this was Rose Weasley, the apparently brilliant spawn of Weasley and Granger. He bit his tongue to prevent a snide remark from escaping (old habits die hard!), and luckily he did for her parents sidled up beside her.

"Malfoy," Weasley inclined his head slightly. Draco returned the gesture.

"Draco," Granger started, "this is my daughter. We are terribly sorry for your loss." Her hand fell to pat on his shoulder awkwardly.

Taken aback by this strange gesture (the last time Granger touched him was by slapping him in the face), he cleared his throat to borrow some time. He called over Scorpius, and while gritting his teeth, thanked them for their concern. "My son." He draped an arm around Scorpius. The boy smirked, and Draco noticed his eyes lingered for a little too long on Rose's face. Ah, he thought, not so different after all.

However, before he could think of anything else to say, the Potter clan also appeared. Beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic with the appeareance of the Golden Trio, he noticed Pansy looking at him apprehensively. Probably trying to figure out if he was hiding his feelings unhealthily, so on and so forth. She had been coming over lately for the past few weeks that had caused Astoria to snap at Draco: "Doesn't she have her own husband to worry about?" Which, though Pansy was happily married to an Eastern European wizard who accent, she defended, was extremely sexy – she admitted that Ivan's business generally kept him away and she couldn't continue to travel abroad all the time with him.

At some point, while their children were talking (Scorpius throwing in a few veiled insults towards Rose, and everyone could see her temper rising), Draco noticed Potter was absentmindedly rubbing his scar as he thought, which reminded the former of something.

"Potter, could I have a word with you?" Draco tried to say this nonchalantly, and though the women hadn't acted as if they heard, Weasley raised his eyebrows as Potter looked at him inquisitively.

"Sure," he responded. Draco moved them a little further away so that no one could hear.

"Well, Potter, thank you for coming," he started out, stiffly. Potter looked a bit bewildered but mumbled no problem nonetheless. "I –" Draco found his breathing choke in his throat, he paused: should he continue? "I have a question for you. The night – the night I found Astoria, I thought I felt my mark burn. What do you – ? I mean, he – he is dead, of…course?"

Potter nodded emphatically. "Completely, Malfoy. There's no way Voldemort could be back."

Draco continued, "But my Mark. Or, wel, where it used to be – it felt…it felt like him. His presence. You have more experience at this than I do, Potter. What do you think?"

Potter was rubbing his forehead, thinking hard. "It's not Voldemort, Malfoy, that I know for bloody certain. I'm not really sure why you felt that, though… Do you know who's working on your case?"

Draco shook his head. "Whoever they are, they couldn't even get my name right. Well, I also wanted to ask you of a favor." Potter raised his eyebrows warily. "I want competent people on this case, Potter. Someone who will bring justice to my wife's murder. Someone," he added, cutting off Potter, "who won't be bigoted and blinded by the boy I once was."

Potter's eyes narrowed.

"I want Grang – Hermione on the case."