Moonlight Sonata
Nothing mattered anymore. It was all a waste. She was dead. She was dead, and now there was nothing left for him. He could have any girl he wanted, he knew that. But none of them were as beautiful, none of them were as poised, none of them were as flawless or intelligent, none of them were as passionate as her. And so none of them would do. Only she. Only she could make him feel so powerful, so smart, so special, only she could make him feel so satisfied, so filled, so loved. And now she was dead, and he would never feel that again.
He would never feel her soft skin beneath his fingertips, he would never feel her warm breath against his collarbone, he would never feel her wet heat surrounding him again. It scared him to think about that. It scared him to think about the fact that he'd never wake up next to her again, she wouldn't be there to nudge his side and wake him up for work. She wouldn't be there to make his breakfast, or wish him a good day. She wouldn't be there to send him small notes of romantic phrases during his lunch hour, or surprise him with a visit to his office in the middle of the day. She wouldn't be there when he came home, she wouldn't have dinner on the table, and a fresh pair of sweats for him to change into laid out on the bed. She'd not be there to sip tea with, or play idly with his hair as he read in bed. She wouldn't be there to kiss goodnight, to cuddle with into the wee hours of the morning. She wouldn't be there to welcome their son home from school for the holidays, or send him off with a teary farewell.
No. Astoria would never be there again. And he was going to have to live with that. He didn't want to. Oh, how he wished he could just end his life and be with her in the afterworld. But there was his son to think about. His brittle son, who had refused to cry at the funeral, or even at her deathbed. His frightened son who had locked himself in his room for the rest of his summer holiday, only emerging for meals, and speaking never more than 'Thank you' or 'it was good, Dad'. His gentle son, who had let more of his emotions show to his best friend, than his own father.
Draco tried not to take it personally. He knew the Slytherin mentality Scorpius had was so much like his own, trying to keep everything hidden from others, so as not to be vulnerable. But he just wished his son would prove himself worthy of having been sorted into Gryffindor, and would come out and say how he felt, be the brave boy he knew his son was and let it out, be himself in the open and be fearful of no one's judgment. Draco hid his feelings of grief and despair to the outside world, so he couldn't blame Scorpius for doing the same, but he just wished that inside the safety of their own home, the two Malfoy men could be themselves, and help each other. Astoria would know how to help. She would be the one to pull Scorpius bodily from his room, shove him into an armchair and demand he open up. But she couldn't now, and she never would again. So it was up to Draco. It was up to him to get through to his son, and that was the only reason he lived now. To take care of Scorpius.
"Scorpius?" Draco knocked lightly on the closed door to his son's room. Waiting for an answer, a sound from inside to prove his son still lived. But none came. He knocked again. "Scorpius?" He almost said, 'please', but you see Malfoys don't beg. When no reply came, he took a deep breath before saying "Scorpius, if you don't open the door, I'm coming in myself." He waited. And waited. He didn't want to impose on his son. He didn't think it right for a parent to barge into their children's rooms. His parents had always respected his space in this sense, and he always wanted to do the same for his son. But now he had no choice. Scorpius had skipped dinner, and made no excuse, and was now not answering, or letting his father enter the room. So really, Draco had no other option.
He turned the knob slowly, allowing his son a small warning that he was, in fact, about to enter, and then pushed it open. He was met with the worst image he'd ever been privy to (which was saying a lot, considering he had been involved in the Second Wizarding War, and had participated in many a raid and torture under the Dark Lord's orders). The entire room was in shambles. The bed unmade, the sheets and duvet tossed carelessly onto the floor. The chair to his son's desk was overturned, as the items which usually sat, impeccably organized and neat, on the surface of the desk lay scattered around the floor. The drawers of Scorpius' dresser were all open, and clothes were strewn about, making the wooden floors invisible beneath them. There was broken glass near the foot of the bed, and the mirror over his dresser was cracked. The doors to his closet were flung open, and the robes and expensive dress clothes were also on the floor, or hanging weakly off hangers. The paintings which hung on the walls were the only things untouched, and they hung in all their glory, neat and beautiful on the walls.
It took Draco a moment, but he finally noticed Scorpius. His broken son was huddled in a corner of his room, clutching a small teddy bear which had been his since birth, tears streaming freely down his scrunched face, his eyes shut tight, his body rocking back and forth. Next to him, a record player was turning, and the achingly beautiful chords of the Muggle composer Ludwig Van Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata' rung through the room. A chill ran through Draco's body as the music twisted and turned around his son's form; the song had been one Astoria would play for him when he was young. At first, she would put on the record when he was in bed, and it would soothe him until he fell asleep. Later, he would ask her to put it on, and when he learned she could play it on the piano herself, he had begged and begged until two things happened: Astoria gave in, and played it for him, and Draco fiercely reminded Scorpius that Malfoys do not beg, nor plead, nor grovel, and that he needed to be more dignified. She continued to play the song for him whenever he felt like hearing it, and had proceeded to teach him to play the first few measures. The song had been a sentimental item for them, something which had made their bond so strong, and Draco used to watch from doorframes, or armchairs with a content smile and warm feeling in his chest.
Now however, the song tugged at his heart for all the wrong reasons. His son was the image of pain, his room the setting of anguish, and the song the soundtrack to agony.
He wanted to comfort his son, to hold the Gryffindor tight, and never let go. He knew as a father it was his duty to do so. He wanted to run over to him, and cradle him to his chest, and cry with him. But beneath him, his legs gave out, and he crumbled to the floor. He looked over to his son, his sight blurry from the unshed tears. Piercing, heart breaking silver eyes stared back at him, and he blinked to clear his vision, the tears falling down his cheeks. His son stopped shaking, and then, hesitantly, began to crawl toward him. It took everything in Draco not to breakdown at the sight of his fifteen year old, Gryffindor son crawling to him with a teddy bear in hand, eyes red, face wet, and cheeks flushed.
Scorpius reached him, and collapsed against him, his face crashing into Draco's chest as he heaved and sobbed, Draco's arms automatically circled his shoulders, and he pulled him close. He pulled his legs from under him, and rocked his son back and forth, the two Malfoy men crying together. It took a while for them to calm down, and even when they did, neither moved. It was what both needed, what both wanted: to be close to each other, to embrace each other, to be together and never apart. Draco took a deep breath, swallowing the lump in his throat, his eyes closed as he took in the warmth of his son's body pressed against his. Scorpius lifted his head, locking gazes with his father, an unreadable expression on his face.
"You're supposed to keep it together. You're the Slytherin." He said in a detached voice.
"And you're supposed to be brave and solid. You're the Gryffindor." Draco retorted, his voice cracking.
"You're the father."
"I am, aren't I?"
Scorpius nodded. "You kind of fail."
Draco could make out the amusement, and the sarcasm in his son's voice, but the words were too much, and new tears formed in his eyes, falling unrestrained onto his face. He closed his eyes tight, shook his head and whispered "I'm so sorry, Scorpius. I'm so sorry."
"Me too, Dad."
The song ended, leaving them in thick silence.
"I want her back." Scorpius choked out.
"Me too, son." Draco's hold on his son's shoulders tightened, and Scorpius buried his face further into his chest. "It seems life is meaningless without her."
Scorpius nodded. "The paintings." He whispered. Draco looked over to the wall, where the beautiful landscapes stared at him. "They remind me that she was real. That she was here."
"Is that why you left them on the walls?"
Scorpius nodded. "And the song."
Draco nodded.
"I wish I could have made more time for her to teach me-"
"Shhh now. She knew you had more important things to do." Draco's hands began to move in soothing circles across his son's back.
"No. That's the thing. Every time I blew her off, it was just to hang out with Al. He's not so important. Not now, anyway."
"Scorpius, he's your best friend. And trust me when I say that right now, he is going to be more important than ever. You'll need him, as you will me, to get through this. You'll need others who love and understand you to be able to live, and get past the pain."
"Will we ever get past the pain?" He sounded so innocent, so childlike, and so lost. In that moment, Draco's heart broke.
He squeezed him tight, swallowing the lump in his throat again. "I'll not let it consume you, Scorpius. I'm here, son. I'm here, and I am not going anywhere, and we WILL get through this. Together."
He felt Scorpius' arms circle around his torso and squeeze him back. "Promise?"
"I swear a Wizard's Oath to you, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, that I, Draco Abraxas Malfoy, am going to be here for you always, and that together we will get through this, we will be alright."
Scorpius nodded, tightening his hold on him. Draco knew in that moment that he had everything worth living for in his arms. His son was his world now, and he'd be dammed if he didn't help him, if he wasn't going to be there for him, if they didn't heal together. Astoria was part of their world, and now she had been taken from them, but they would not let it all fall away. No. Draco was going to hold fast to the rest of his world, and he was going to hope to whatever higher power there was that he didn't fail him. It would take time, and energy, and pain, but together they would be alright. Together they would grow, and live. They would never forget her, for she was lover, mother, wife and friend. But they would keep her close to their hearts in this time of grieving. It was like Astoria always said: A cut needs only to be nursed properly, so it can heal itself over, and sink into the skin, fading with time, but never truly disappearing.
A/N: I know I should be working on 'Secret Lust', but I've hit a wall. Today I was listening to this song, and I opened Word, and my fingers just went with it. I had no idea what I was writing, until it was done and I looked over it. Let me know what you think, please? This one is dear to my heart right now. Thanks for reading.