Summary: Draco Malfoy can't do anything, only turn away. But how he wished that things could have turned out the way he wanted them to. Reposted & Edited in 2014
She looks so much more happy there, with him.
With him.
What does he have that I don't? Where did I go wrong, and he went right?
Her children even look like him. Him and her. Product of their….their….
Well, you know what I mean. It curdles my blood to think of the pair of them being intimate.
I look at my own son, my Scorpius. Of course, I love him, like any father loves their child. But then I look at his mother. Astoria; oh, darling Astoria, I'd never set eyes on a more stunning woman, but Astoria doesn't have what she has.
Astoria is like an expensive work of art. She stands high-heeled, in her designer, pencil-skirt suits, wearing a permanent pout of dark red lipstick, painted eyebrows and her hair so full of spray it was hard to the touch. Astoria never smiles, she stares with a blank glare. Making love to Astoria was like entertaining a block of ice; cold, stiff and effectively untouchable. Making love to Astoria, was only for one reason. Procreation. Understandably, we haven't had sex since the nine months before Scorpius' birth.
I couldn't care less. I couldn't care less if we slept in separate beds.
Hermione has never looked more radiant, even nineteen years on. Lines trace her face, around her mouth and under her eyes, products of where she has smiled, but she hasn't masked them, like my wife does, with endless spells and ridiculous muggle treatments. She isn't dressed to impress, wearing only a knitted jumper (most likely, the Christmas gift from the oldest Weasley woman) and worn out, faded jeans. Her hair is flyaway and bushy as ever, trailing past her shoulders in a wild, fluffy mane. She turns on her heel, catches my eye, and…
…there's a moment. She remembers. She remembers the brushing of our hands in the corridors, the locking of our eyes across the Great Hall. Shy smiles. Fingers interlocking underneath classroom tables. Intimate notes sent in the middle of the night by owl. She confessed to me, how sick of me she was, how much she…she…hated me for how I made her feel. How she loved me. How she begged me, pleaded with me, that I could love her back. Of course I did, she knew that, she just wanted to hear it. The many times I snatched her hands when we were away from unwelcome eyes, and dragged her behind heavy curtains, our tongues dancing furiously…and momentarily…before I had to let her go again. Because we could never be together, her and I. She was full of good and justice. I was cowardly, immature and only settling for one thing. Darkness.
Now Ronald is staring over here too, muttering something. Potter nods at me, and I nod back curtly. Her mouth wavers into a soft frown, and her toffee coloured eyes fall to the floor. Ron's arm finds her shoulders, turning her to him, his mouth covering hers delicately, their two children slapping at their thighs, pulling disgusted faces at each other.
I can practically hear the cries of my heart breaking.
"How revolting…" I hear Astoria mutter. She sounds a million miles away.
Oh, how I wish she were.
But it's no use wishing, all I can do is turn away.