The Yellow Shirt
Astoria Greengrass glances in the mirror, twisting this way and that as she surveys herself. She is wearing a pair of dark grey trousers, a matching robe, and nude heels. Her shirt is lemon yellow – sleeveless, with a collar, and small pearl buttons. It's slightly too long for her; the hem reaches down to mid-thigh.
Her mother would tell her not to wear the shirt. She'd say it's too bright, too informal for an interview, but Astoria disagrees. It's exactly the kind of thing she needs. The yellow reminds her of the sunflowers that bloom in the fields of their country estate; of fresh, gently sparkling lemonade; of the sunshine glittering on the surface of the Hogwarts' Great Lake. She thinks the shirt represents beauty and comfort and confidence: all the things she wishes she had.
She is eighteen, fresh-faced and straight out of Hogwarts. The first thing she did upon graduation was change her hair. The long brown curls that reached down to her waist are gone, replaced by sleek, straight shoulder-length locks. Her mother had sobbed when she came home from the hairdressers, reaching out for her phantom waves.
A stab of guilt runs through her at the memory. She may be of age, but she doesn't have it in her to truly defy her parents, not after what they've been through. Her mother still instructs the house elves to set the dinner table for four. Astoria can't bring herself to leave, so she lives at home and plays the part of dutiful daughter perfectly, but there is a falsity, and emptiness to all of it. She can only assert herself through small, simple acts of defiance.
Like wearing the yellow shirt.
(x)
The witch behind the desk surveys her. Astoria thinks she sees approval in her eyes. It must be the yellow shirt. People love her when she wears the yellow shirt.
"Name?"
"Astoria Greengrass. I'm here for an interview with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
The approval disappears, replaced by confusion and suspicion. Astoria does her best to maintain eye contact, though she can feel the edges of her lips tiring as her smile becomes fake rather than genuine.
"Mister Cuttleworth is expecting you," says the witch, her voice deadpan. "Second floor, first left, first right."
"First left, first right," Astoria repeats with feigned cheeriness. "Got it. Thanks."
She can feel the witch's eyes on her back as she walks to the lift, and it's all she can do not to sigh and walk out the door.
(x)
James Cuttleworth is a tall, brusque man, with cropped dark hair and a smattering of stubble across his chin. He has a firm handshake and a firmer gaze; he does not once look at his interview notes, nor pause to write something down. Astoria feels as if he isn't looking at her, but through her – through her skin, her demeanour, straight into her mind. It unsettles her, and she brings her hands together on her lap, running her thumb absentmindedly along her index finger.
"Why are you applying for this job?"
A question she's expecting. She releases a breath she doesn't know she's holding. "Well, I've always been interested in magical history – I took History of Magic at N.E.W.T. level." She doesn't mention that she received top marks in case it makes her seem like she's showing off. "The history of wizarding law fascinates me. But there are so many gaps in what we know –"
"No, no," he cuts her off and she looks at him, confused. Her thumb trembles, tracing a shaky course on her skin. "Why are you applying for this job?"
She doesn't get it at first, but he continues to stare at her, and, as if telepathically receiving the message, it begins to dawn on her. Still, she says nothing, and he clarifies:
"One perfectly placed call by your parents, and you would be hired. I wouldn't even have a choice in the matter."
"I wanted to get this job on my own merits," she says, in what she hopes is a confident tone. She straightens her shoulders and adjusts her robe, letting the artificial sun streaming through the window catch the yellow of her shirt.
He snorts; her stomach sinks. "Your own merits. Right. And what are those?"
"Well, I got straight O's –"
"You ran away."
"What?" She doesn't understand.
"You ran away," he repeats, and his face is a contortion of anguish and anger. "Like all the other Slytherins."
Her lips part and her eyes widen as it hits her. No, she wants to say. She didn't run away. She was scared and confused; her whole world was slowly coming apart at the seams and crumbling down around her, and she was only a girl of fifteen. Her older sister had taken her arm and run with her, and she hadn't looked back, blindly following her lead, trusting that she knew what was best. She hadn't even known that others had stayed to fight. Not until after.
"I – " she begins, thinking the words will come to her as she goes, but she never even has a chance.
"My brother died."
She is dumbfounded; this was the effect the man was going for.
"He was only fifteen." Tears glisten in the whites of his eyes, but they do not threaten to spill down his cheeks. This is calculated. "Like you."
Cuttleworth. In a flash, she remembers him vivdly, even though they never spoke. Lanky brown hair, on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, good at Charms – the only lesson they had together.
"Unlike you," her interviewer continues, "he stayed to fight, even though it wasn't allowed. While you ran off to your cushy mansion, he was murdered on a cold, open field."
"I'm sorry," she said genuinely, hoping he could hear the pain, the sorrow in her voice. "I understand how you must feel."
"No. No you don't understand."
I do, she thinks, staring at him with beseeching. My sister isn't dead, but she might as well be.
Cuttleworth doesn't budge. Instead he glares at her with eyes filled with strong, undiluted hate. "My brother died," he repeats, and she cringes for each time he says the word 'died', it's like a hundred tiny knives are slicing into her arm. "He died because of people like you, and you have the nerve to sit opposite me in that gaudy yellow shirt and ask for a job?" He laughs – it's cold and cruel, not unlike a villain from a children's storybook, only this is real life. Astoria is paralysed, stuck in place as he leans forward predatorily and whispers: "Tell me, how much does it cost to look so cheap? How much does it cost to rid your hands of innocent blood?"
Her breath catches in her throat and her fingers go numb. He's looking at her like she's his prey, relishing every fearful glance, every tremor that runs through her. The moment feeling returns to her hands, she grabs her handbag and stands up. She wants to say something snarky, something her sister would, but it's been so long since she's heard Daphne's voice that no words come to mind.
She runs out of the door and into the lift, trying to hold back tears, clutching her bag like a lifeline. The whole way out of the Ministry she feels as if everyone is watching her, as if they somehow know the humiliation she has endured. She glances down as she leaves through the visitor's exit and catches a glimpse of her bright yellow shirt. It no longer reminds her of the sun at midday, of the colour of her sister's hair, of lemons and ice water. Instead, it looks lurid. It marks her out in the sea of grey, black, and white as different. As guilty.
She sprints to the nearest bathroom – in a tube station just around the corner – and vomits violently.
(x)
Going home isn't an option.
To walk through the door early would be a surrender, a sign that she had failed to strike out on her own, as she had wanted. Her parents would be comforting, but smug, 'I told you so' written all over them. She couldn't face that.
Instead, she sits on a stool at the bar in the Leaky Cauldron. The place has seen better times – the woodwork is scuffed and in dire need of a good polish; the glass bottles behind the bar are coated in a thin layer of dust; and the lights flicker on and off, but there is still a timeless charm to it all. She orders a glass of water and sips it delicately, keeping her face down and her robe tightly wound around her. The yellow shirt is completely hidden.
She is so absorbed in her own mind that she doesn't see him approach, nor does she feel the air next to her scatter as he sits down and rests his hands on the dark wood of the bar. She does not see him glance at her once, and then again, longer, a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes.
"Astoria?"
She jumps and looks at him, and its' as if she's back in the Great Hall, watching her sister and her friends from down the Slytherin table. He's the same: chiselled features, blonde hair so pale it might as well be white. Only the eyes have changed: they were always grey, but now there is a misty depth to them that she can't quite figure out.
"Draco." It isn't a question.
His forehead is creased with worry. "Are you alright? You look flushed."
She looks down at her hands, and notices for the first time that they are practically white. Shoving them quickly into her pockets, she forces a smile. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"I don't believe you."
Daphne would snap at him. Her eyes would flame and her voice would take on a cruel, sardonic edge. Astoria briefly considers reacting similarly, but she can't bring herself to do it. She isn't Daphne, no matter how much she sometimes wants to be.
"Astoria," says Draco softly, and she sighs. Her hands fall out of her pockets and lie limply on her lap.
She just wants someone to talk to.
So she talks to him.
She tells him everything: defying her parents in the little ways she can, Cuttlefield, the weight of failure on her shoulders, the swirl of nausea in the pit of her stomach that is always there. She half expects him to get up and leave – he has better things to do, she is sure, than to listen to the problems of a new graduate, but he stays and listens. There isn't a single moment when his attention wavers; his eyes stay trained on hers, nodding, blinking, sympathetic.
When she finishes, she breaks eye contact and stares into her glass of water, unsure whether he'll say anything – whether there's anything left to be said.
His voice is soft, so unlike the Draco she knew in school. "It's a new world order."
She scoffs; her voice takes on Daphne's sardonic quality. "Really? I hadn't noticed."
He withdraws slightly, and she regrets it instantly. The bartender comes over and Draco orders his drink: firewhiskey, with warm water.
Daphne used to drink firewhiskey. Astoria never has.
The bartender leaves and they are alone again in the corner of the dilapidated pub. He glances at her, and this time, she is keenly aware of it.
"How have you been keeping?" he asks. The 'otherwise' hangs in the air like a long-lost friend: just out of reach, but clearly in sight.
She doesn't know what to say, so she shrugs instead. "All right."
There is a heavy pause, and then Draco says: "It's hard to believe she's gone."
Astoria looks up at him, surprised. He is the first to face it head on: people always skirt around the topic of her sister, like it's a rotting corpse shoved into a wardrobe that they think will go away if they ignore it. He doesn't say anything more and she knows almost instinctively that he's waiting for her, waiting to see whether she wants to talk about it, and she does.
She's been waiting two years to talk about it. Two years of silence, of bottling up her emotions and trying not to let them explode out of her.
"How have you been keeping?" the otherwise hangs in the air like a long lost friend – just out of reach, but clearly in sight.
She shrugs. "All right."
"It was hard for her," Draco murmurs. "The shock of it all – the anger towards us…the deaths."
"No harder than it was for you." She looks at him and for the first time, realises what has changed. The misty quality his eyes have taken on – it's experience, pain. His actions weigh heavily on his mind. His wand may not have cast the curses, but he played a hand in so many deaths, and he hasn't forgiven himself.
Her gaze unsettles him. He ducks his head and looks up again, but the expression isn't gone – just masked. She wonders whether it'll ever go.
"I wrote her a letter," he says. "It came back, unopened."
"It isn't you. She won't reply to any of mine either."
He nods. "Do you think she'll –"
"No." It's the first time she's voiced it out loud, and she realises she's certain. "No. She's gone."
The bartender comes back, carrying a glass of dark, swirling liquid. He places it in front of Draco with a thud. Draco reaches for it and brings it to his lips, letting the liquid hit the back of his throat. Astoria wonders what it tastes like – whether the burn helps him forget.
"You always liked her better than me," she says as he puts the glass down.
"I'm sorry?"
"Daphne." You two used to go off and play without me."
A flicker of a smile. "Sorry," he says.
She shrugs. "We were kids."
More silence. Oddly, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, filled with lost voices and lost time, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
"I like that," says Draco at last.
She stares at him. "Huh?"
He points at her chest, and she looks down. She is no longer holding her robe together, and it has slipped away to reveal a glimpse of her yellow shirt. Her cheeks colour and she moves to hide it again, but he stops her.
"Your shirt. It's a beautiful colour."
She lets the robe fall away.
"You really think so?" she says, almost doubtfully, as if he's playing a trick on her.
"Yes." His voice is firm, confident. "It reminds me of sunflowers."
Sunflowers. She glances at the shirt and sees it, as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Him, eight years old, mischievous and innocent. Her, six, delighted to be alone with him, her sister confined to the house for giving their mother cheek. The sun bright above them, the field endless, the yellow petals of the sunflowers against her skin. She looks up, wondering if he remembers and sees in his eyes that he does.
"Would you like to go for dinner, sometime?" he asks, like it is the most casual thing in the world. He cannot know how her heart thuds, her stomach lifts.
A smile spreads across her face – the first smile since this morning. "Absolutely."
As she leaves the pub, she takes off her robe. The yellow shirt glows in the midday sun.
A/N: I know what you're thinking - Nymphie, this isn't next-gen! But it is post-Battle of Hogwarts, so I'm not too off-brand. Regardless, after the mammoth undertaking that was Chapter 16 of The Lost Children, I needed a palate cleanser, so voila! Here we are! Hopefully you enjoyed it and aren't thinking, wow, you should really stick to what you know but let me know either way - reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated!
Written based on prompts for The Golden Snitch (Beauxbatons, Melusine):
World Doll Day – McDonald's cashier: write about a character's first year after graduation; Optional prompts: character: Astoria Greengrass; quote: "tell me, how much does it cost to look so cheap?"; colour: yellow
Through the Universe – Nova (character): Astoria Greengrass/Malfoy