Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
He sits there and watches the fire, chewing at a thumbnail that is already bitten down to the quick. His thoughts are racing, leaping between his wife (warm, moving, alive) and his wife (cold, still, dead.)
Astoria, Astoria, Astoria. Why did it have to end like this?
He stands up, stumbles over to the desk and pours himself a glass of Scotch. Oh, how she hates, no, that's not right...it's hated now, must get used to calling her in the past tense, hated, yes, she hated the taste of the alcohol. Hated the smell, hated the look, hated everything about it. Poison, she used to call it.
Honestly, if it was poison, he wouldn't mind. Because at least he would be with her.
He takes a drink, wincing as the sharp taste burns his throat, before taking another. And another and another.
If he drinks enough, he can forget that his bed isn't cold, that when he wakes up he won't find her in the kitchen, and oh, he just needs a moment to forget, a moment to fall back into the past, back to where all was well and his heart isn't buried six feet into the ground.
He walks over to his chair again, sits down, turns his gaze back to the fire. Takes another sip of his drink before standing up again. Can't sit still, must keep moving to escape memories of cold skin, and cheeks flushed with fever and the dreaded "I'm sorry, there's nothing more we can do for her."
He passes around the room, tries to avoid looking at the pictures of her that hang on the wall but can't.
Frozen reminders of happier times, beautiful blonde hair and laughing green eyes.
Feels an odd prickling behind his eyes that he rubs away with a hand. Can't do that now. Can't do that at all.
He pauses by the window, looks out at the snow.
She always did like the snow.
He starts his pacing again, feeling like a trapped animal.
Glances at his watch, feels a sharp pain his chest when he remembers that she gave it to him last year, wonders how his son is doing.
Scorpius is at Hogwarts and while normally he would have been home now for Christmas break, he's still at the school, deciding at the last-minute that he would rather stay there this holiday.
Not that he blames him for that. If given the choice, he would be anywhere other than this house.
But, he can't be because leaving home would be too much like running away and Malfoys don't run away.
He gives a brittle smile. But it's also been said that Malfoys don't have hearts but that's not true. Astoria is proof of that.
He pours himself another glass of Scotch, walks over to the window, thinks dully that he can still smell her lingering perfume on the air.
He walks back to his chair, sits down, takes another sip of his drink, presses his glass to his temple.
Oh, Astoria, why did you leave me? he thinks, not for the first time, not for the last.
The odd prickling feeling behind his eyes is back, more persistent than before. He angrily wipes a hand over his eyes. Can't cry. Not allowed.
Some days, he wonders what it would be like to cry, to let the tears run down his face, to tell the world that he's not okay, that his grief is threatening to drown him. But he'll never know. Because ever since he can remember, his father has reminded him that crying is a weakness and Malfoys don't do weakness.
Malfoys don't cry.
A memory stirs. A time in his sixth year. The Dark Lord. A lapse of judgement. Tears cascading down his face. Was it weakness? Or was it a desperate boy finally breaking?
Even now, he's not sure.
A slightly hysterical laugh escapes his lips. At the time, he thought working for the Dark Lord was the worst thing imaginable. But now that he's lost Astoria, he knows better.
He's heard that over time, the loss eases up somewhat, that it gets better, that eventually he'll learn to live without her, that the pain will slowly go away with time.
He's not sure if it's true. He's not sure if he wants it to be.
Because the pain, the loss, the emptiness, the despair, maybe it's his punishment for his sins.