A/N: It's no secret that I'm not exactly Draco's biggest fan, and yet here we are. I hope I did him and Astoria justice. This was written for Ollivander's Challenge by simplypotterheads on tumblr; the prompt was "You don't get to pity me." Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling because even with three jobs I'm still pretty broke.
When it comes down to it, the whole thing is more or less an arranged marriage. There's no other reason Astoria's mother would shove her in a room with Draco every time their families visit. And she's the second choice, too - Daphne is actually his age, but she's also flat-out refused to spend any time with him. So Mum sends Astoria, instead.
It isn't altogether unpleasant, really. They've known each other since they were young, and polite, pleasant conversation flows easily between them. After awhile, he'll usually summon a couple of books from his father's library, and they'll read in silence until their mothers have decided enough progress has been made in their courtship for the day.
The frequency of these visits picks up when the war ends, like they're trying to make up for the time they'll never get back. The house is different now, quiet and haunting. Astoria knows the Dark Lord himself made use of the very room she's sat in now. She knows that the Malfoys were Death Eaters, and she knows her mother doesn't care in the slightest. Her own sister would have joined up if she'd been able to summon the courage.
And Draco…Draco broods. Their conversations are clipped, cut short by whatever it is that's hanging over his head - and Astoria supposes the weight of it could damn near break a man.
But nobody mentions it, until the day she does.
"I'm sorry." Maybe they aren't the best words to use, but they're the only ones she can find when she sees him sitting there, his head held up only by his hands, his elbows resting on his thighs as he leans over, his book lying forgotten on the floor. "I'm sorry," she repeats, "about your father."
Draco tilts his head, his eyes sharp as they meet hers. "What about him?"
"I heard about his sentence," she clarifies. He turns away again, but she continues. "I know it's not easy on you or your mum, and I just wanted to say-"
Draco laughs, but there isn't a trace of humor in his tone as he snaps, "Yeah, well, we'll take your sympathy into consideration next time we decide to have a good old chat about our feelings."
A few years ago, she might have recoiled, but growing up with Daphne has given her a certain patience - no, resilience - that has afforded her the skill of communicating in the face of insolence. So, she merely raises an eyebrow and asks, "Does this make you feel better, then? Cutting off anybody that tries to care?"
"Oh, don't patronize me." Draco stands abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over as he begins to pace back and forth. "You're here because you haven't the backbone to stand up to your mummy."
Astoria has half a mind to ask what he could possibly know about backbone, but she isn't quite ready to sink to his level. "I'm here because you're generally more pleasant company than the other occupants of this house," she says coolly, watching as he comes to a stop in front of the fireplace, staring at the dying flames. "But it's not easy anymore, is it? And if you'd rather pretend-"
"Stop." He turns to face her again, and she thinks she sees the slightest hint of pain flash across his eyes. "You don't get to pity me."
She observes him for a moment, his shoulders hunched and his jaw nearly locked. "You're a self-righteous bastard, do you know that?" she says finally.
His brow furrows in bemusement, but he only says, "I don't think that's the word you're looking for."
"No, I'm quite certain I mean it," she replies, rising from her seat and retracing his steps from a few moments before. "Maybe not in the traditional sense of the word, but Merlin, look at you! Standing there like you are, like nobody else in the world could possibly comprehend your suffering-"
"You don't know-"
"Like there's simply no cure for the darkness that's spread throughout your broken soul," she continues, rolling her eyes as she turns on her heel and begins to walk toward him. "It's quite pathetic, if you ask me."
"I didn't," he points out, crossing his arms in defiance.
She stops about a foot away from him, watching again. When he doesn't flinch or meet her gaze, she asks, "Is this how you plan to live? Staring straight ahead, your face as stony as the wall itself, and pondering how very unfixable you are? Or are you waiting for somebody else to do it for you?"
"I don't suppose you'll listen if I tell you that you don't know what you're talking about."
"For all your faults, you remain rather clever." She pauses again, then sits in the armchair nearest to the fire. "But you didn't answer my question. Is this really the way you plan to move forward?"
"There isn't much I can do, you realize." His expression is stoic, and the tone of his voice betrays little more. "I might not be in Azkaban, but I've been banned from using magic. Three years."
"Well what did you expect would happen?'
He finally snaps his gaze toward her, and she can see the anger in his eyes. "Excuse me?"
"What, did you really think Voldemort was going to win?" She laughs, because she knows it will bother him. "They never do, those power hungry types. It's always a matter of when they'll fall and how much damage they'll do, really. They'll get in their own way if nobody else does the job."
"So it's my fault, then?" Draco throws himself into the chair across from hers, leaning his elbows on his knees and facing her like a stern schoolteacher might an unruly pupil, always with an air of knowing much, much better. "It's my fault that he'd have killed me or my parents if I hadn't complied?"
"Quit feeling so fucking sorry for yourself." Astoria crosses her legs and leans toward him, mirroring his position. "Everybody has a choice."
"Do they? And you know this how? You were never even involved." He laughs, in a manner so unhinged she might think him a madman if she didn't know better.
"I never said my own choices were particularly courageous or honorable," she replies, shrugging. "But I still made them, didn't I? I chose not to participate in a war that might have killed me. Hardly incomprehensible, considering I'm not yet of age."
"So yours can be explained away, but mine are sins?" Draco lifts an eyebrow, challenging her.
"There may be a very good reason behind the choices you made, but it doesn't necessarily justify them."
"So what? I can't very well take any of it back - and I can't very well say that I would."
"Of course not. All you've got is the aftermath." She shifts again, leaning back and watching as he ducks his head, rubbing his temples. "Can I tell you something?"
"You're going to anyway," he acknowledges, but the way he looks straight back and waits for her to speak shows a certain vulnerability she's never quite seen in her sister.
"You need to do away with this 'dark, misunderstood soul' act. Sulking helps nobody, least of all you," she says firmly, observing with some satisfaction the subtle shift of his demeanor from defensive to resigned. "And you need to understand that there isn't an easy fix. Nobody's going to be your fucking angel, and nobody's going to be your path to redemption. If you're waiting for somebody to come along and heal your wounds, kiss your scars, and put you back together again, you'll be static the rest of your life - especially considering your inability to talk civilly to somebody that's trying to be polite."
She pauses a moment, but he remains silent. Still, the difference between brooding and contemplation is obvious, and she knows she's at least done him some good. "The choice to be a better man is yours and yours alone, Draco. Your past has nothing to do with your future."
She reaches over to pat his hand gently, then rises and walks toward the door. His hesitant voice stops her just before she opens it. "Astoria?"
"Yes?" He is watching her intently, a barrage of questions he isn't ready to ask written so clearly across his face, she wonders if this is even the same man she'd been sitting with an hour ago.
"I think that someday," he says slowly, drumming his fingers against his knee, "I might be ready to thank you."
She offers him a small smile. "I look forward to it."
They nod in parting, and she makes her way to the parlor to collect her mother, as she has many times before. But something is different today.
Perhaps her presence in Draco's life has been an arrangement all along, but today…today is the real beginning.