AN: Its been a long time since I've written anything on here, and I decided to start back up with a new multi-chapter story, now that I've finished my high school experience. I do not own Harry Potter. Enjoy.
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He is stiff and sore in places he doesn't think are humanly possible, but at this hour, all he cares about is sleeping in his safe, warm bed. His tired feet carry him up the spiral stairs after his Apparation into the foyer, and Draco Malfoy can barely count down the steps until he turns the knob to his shared bedroom. He rounds the corner, and a muffled shriek stops him in his tracks. After a few heart pounding moments, Draco realizes it's coming from his room.
He grabs his wand from his coat pocket, and advances, slowly, tired mind suddenly alert. Astoria is in trouble, he thinks. There's an intruder in their home and he's hurting her. Five feet until he gets to the doorknob, and Astoria shrieks again. Draco's blood suddenly runs cold. It's no shriek of pain. It's a shriek of pleasure.
Anger and confusion propel him forward, and there's no turning back as his shaking hands wrench the doorknob open. Astoria, his friend, partner, wife, is tangled up in their bedsheets, head dipped back in pure bliss as a sigh escapes her lips. Draco stands there, hurt and speechless, the image burning into his skull. Her eyes part slightly, and from her upside down view, Astoria gasps. She has been caught. The game is up.
The next few minutes are a blur. The sheets rustle; the lover Disapparates; Astoria runs around with just a sheet wrapped around her thin frame, trying to explain herself; and Draco swears and yells, and swears some more.
In the mess, eleven year old Scorpius appears in the doorway, awaken by the commotion. His calm grey eyes widen at the sight in front of him, his mother clad in nothing but a thin piece of linen and his father screaming at her, tears streaming down his pale cheeks.
Both sets of adult eyes turn on him, and Astoria makes a mad, hysterical dash Scorpius' way. She manages to get within inches of him, before an invisible forcefield blocks her. Her head snaps toward her husband. Draco is seething. "You don't get to touch him!" he screams at her. "You don't get to touch him ever!"
"Draco, please—"
"Shut up! You don't get to talk! You've ruined my life!"
He gives her until dawn. That's two hours to pack up every belonging she owns, and get out of their manor. Or more precisely, his manor. Draco doesn't care where she goes, who she tells, or how she gets there, but he knows one thing for certain: she won't be living with him anymore.
By sunrise she is out, and his mother is in, consoling her grandson in his room, while trying her best to appear calm and collected, even though her mind is in a tailspin. As the sun rises in the air, the sky muddled with colors of pinks, and reds, and yellows, Draco has yet to emerge from the study, where he has taken refuge since his wife's flight.
Scorpius tries to coax him out, an hour after the sky has turned blue, but Narcissa knows it's of no use. Her son is heartbroken, damaged beyond repair and no one will be of any help. She steers her grandson away, after his prepubescent voice becomes desperate, and he starts to cry again.
Draco can hear them, but just barely, over his own cries of anguish, his own screams of pain. He has torn every book from its shelf, so that they sit around his hunched position like fallen petals to his withering flower. Everything hurts, and he can't breathe, and he wants nothing more than for all of this to be a bad dream.
But in his heart of hearts, he knows it's not. This affair has ruined him.
…