Summary: He just needed to be reborn as someone new. Someone deserving of a second chance. And she needed to grow up, to understand pain and loss. Together, Astoria and Draco might just be able to grow together. Draco/Astoria Oneshot

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter...And it's this thought that wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

Rating: T for depression and not-so-violent violence

Soo...Been a while. I don't really consider myself a fan fiction writer anymore, not really. BUT, I have been writing this piece off and on for the past three years (I know...long time), and so, since it has been such a ridiculously long time, I thought this might be nice. My last post. I hope you enjoy!

Winter was setting over London like dusk. Day by day the air grew colder and quietness set over the high rooftops. The sky grew bluer by the day, as if the sun only had enough energy to light the air aflame with warmth, causing the colors to burn and smolder down upon the citizens, who stared wistfully atop, wishing for some heat to soothe their rattling bones.

No one wished for this more then a one, Draco Malfoy. The young man of twenty-one stood with his back to the oncoming wind, staring blankly at a boarded shop. The wood on each of the windows was bleached white with age, magical graffiti scrawled over the edges of it.

Draco raised his head—as fair as the bleached wood he'd been so intently staring at—and gazed upwards. The sky, which had been the miraculous, blazing blue for the past few hours, had begun turning a strange lavender grey color. He could only assume the days would begin to shorten soon, bringing frigid night with them. He groaned, kicked a pale grey rock upon the cobblestone road, and set off at a sluggish pace towards the Leakey Cauldron.

The Leakey Cauldron. Neither home nor Hell had ever seemed a more fitting place. Draco Malfoy, pureblood and proper, dignified in all respects, was homeless now. At nearly eighteen, all he'd known had been blown apart when Hogwarts had been attacked. At nineteen, he had fought with his parents and left home for good. For two years he had wandered alone, taking small jobs here and there to pay for food and a bed to sleep in at night. He had only just returned to England, poor, tired and so hopelessly alone.

The wind bristled under the incoming clouds, and Draco shivered. He raised his collar of his frayed and worn jacket over his ears, hoping to shield them from the chill, and blew into his hands. He stared at his fingers. Small holes had begun to appear in the grey material of his gloves. Wonderful.

Bitter and drained, Draco pushed open the door of the Leakey Cauldron. The sound of a tiny bell jingling welcomed him, along with the smell of bread and ale. His stomach tightened, and Draco suddenly became aware of how desperately hungry he was. He tried to recall the last time he'd eaten, but the only memory he could bring up was breakfast yesterday.

'You always had healthy meals at home,' whispered a snide voice in his head. 'With a polite little house elf to make sure it stayed piping hot…'

Draco shook his head, clearing his thoughts. No, the manor was not his home now. His home was nowhere to be found.

He sat down at a table in the corner and grunted his greetings to Tom, the bar tender. The old man came wheezing over, murmuring a quick word to Hannah Abbot, who had begun working at the pub last year.

"Evenin' Mister Malfoy," Tom rasped.

"Evening," Draco grumbled. "A Firewhisky and some soup…please," The last word was strained, and tasted odd upon his tongue. He wasn't particularly fond of its use, but he found people generally responded better to him if he stuck a pleasantry in his vernacular every once and a while.

Tom gazed at him out of cataract filled eyes. "Pay up front," he said.

"Can't you just put it on my tab?" Draco asked, annoyed. He felt weak and tired, all the strength he had was just trying to keep him conscious. Hunger can strike in you in odd ways. At once, it could create a ruckus of groans and gurgles, alerting all to your distress. But, at the very least, the movement could easily fill the emptiness by shifting the fields in your abdomen.

The bar tender shook his head, ignorant of his patron's distress. "Can' do it. Tab's too high."

"Can't you just ignore it?" Draco growled, clenching his fists under the table, his fingernails biting into his palm. His head was starting to ache just a little, as if each pulsation of blood that beat his brain was club. Worse than the audible turmoil of hunger was the consuming pit of black matter that could settle in your core, draining feeling of life from your blood. It forced the air of your body to the very tip of your lungs, till you felt as though you had run a marathon sitting down.

"Sorry," said Tom, not looking sorry at all. Draco ground his teeth together, but made no move to argue, and Tom walked away.

Draco turned to the wall, tracing the intricate work of wood with his eyes, to lethargic to be angered. Had he expected pity? A small touch of kindness to shock away the numbness in his body, the coldness that had settled in his heart and refused to leave?

It was as if a candle burned in his chest, the only light that kept him going. But while most candles burned bright and warm, giving a small circle of glowing warmth to lift ones spirits, this candle burned icy and white, and no comfort could be derived from that.

Draco let the darkness cloud his thoughts, swirling gray clouds drifting past his eyes. He couldn't even pay for a simple meal, what was he to do for his rent? No place in Diagon Alley would hire him, and the thought of writing home was torture.

'I need to leave again,' Draco thought. A part of him cringed at the very notion of leaving so soon after his return, but he had no choice. There was nothing for him here, only bad memories and deep grudges.

'I'll leave tomorrow morning,' he decided. But, where to? He didn't really care to live in France again—they were no better than his fellow Brits at releasing grudges—and he didn't know enough German to even think about trying his luck on the Rhine River. And—as the door of the Leaky Cauldron door opened and a fresh gust of early winter wind blew past—Draco decided Bulgaria was much to cold this time of year

'What about America?' Draco thought. America…they'd stayed very neutral in the war with the Dark Lord, as they always had in the past. No one would recognize him there; in fact he could even bare his arm to the sun without an uproar.

America…it was warm out west year round, wasn't it? Draco suddenly became overpowered by a strong urge to see the Pacific Ocean. It always sounded so big, so far away. Borderless, and a depth so great it stretched the edges of your imagination. You could just go there and that water—the saltiness and freezing temperatures overwhelming you, bring a sharp, unnatural clarity to your senses—could just wash away everything you were, rebirthing you as someone new. Someone who deserved redemption. Someone who deserved a second shot at life.

"Here you are, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco tore himself from his thoughts and looked up, reality and fantasy interweaving for the briefest moment in time. In front of his table stood a very pretty young witch with dark curly hair and shadowed eyes. A dark cloak covered her shoulders and in her hands she held a bowl of stew and a cup of ale.

Draco's stomach gave a lurch and looked instantly to the bar. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but Hannah Abbott looked murderous at the thought of food being delivered to his table. He glanced back at the witch. She had pale lips, curved upwards into a little smirk.

The silence between them was growing into something uncomfortably awkward. He wished he could break it, but Draco didn't trust himself to utter a single syllable without sounding like a complete fool. The witch too seemed lost for words, and finally realizing she would be receiving no cue to speak, she set the steaming food in front of Draco and sat down in the opposite chair. The candle sitting on the table threw her face into sharp relief, accenting dark, warm eyes set into pale, slightly flushed skin.

"Astoria," Draco breathed, feeling the shock rush through him.

Astoria smiled showing off straight, white teeth. She had a dimple in her right cheek, its pair in the left, absent. "Draco Malfoy," she said. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Had it? Draco tried to recall his last memory of the youngest Greengrass girl, but he came up blank. His sixth year perhaps, when he'd broken up with Pansy at the lake, all her friends watching on in disgust? Or may'be it had been earlier then that, fifth year, bumping into her at the library, scowling at the tiny creature for impeding upon his path. Could she have been at the battle of Hogwarts, dark eyes round with fear, the tender age of sixteen, nearly too young to comprehend the chaos around her? It must have been then, Draco decided. The image of dark eyes was a familiar memory from the battle.

Now Astoria's dark eyes were focused on his own, waiting. Waiting for a word. Waiting to hear his voice. Waiting for something.

"I can't pay for this," Draco burst, cursing his blunt tongue. He could feel shame coloring his neck.

Astoria raised her eyebrows, a mocking expression lighting her face. "Well that's obvious," she indicated lightly to his worn garb. "Which is why I took care to pay for it myself. And I know you don't normally accept charity," she said as Draco opened his mouth to protest. "But, I was hoping under these, er, circumstances you would allow me this one little act of goodwill?"

Draco felt his spine stiffen, affected by the insult. "Thanks, but no thanks," he said coldly. What little pride he had left bristled at Astoria's very presence. He would not sit here and let himself be mocked. "If you would excuse me," he stood and felt the blood rush from his head. A swooping sensation, a complete lightheadedness, fell over him. She caught his arm, maybe to steady him—had he stumbled? —or maybe to stop his exit.

"Don't—please, I-I didn't mean—would you please sit down?" Draco turned to tell her off, maybe dislodge his arm from her grip, and locked his eyes upon hers. All mockery had fallen away, and there was a genuine look in her eyes, almost remorseful, definitely ashamed. For a moment, he hesitated, then slid back into his seat, his hold body tense, face guarded.

"I'm sorry," Astoria said after a moment of silence. Draco raised his eyebrow, and she flushed. "Really, I am. It's just that, well, Daphne always seems to…and well, it always seemed to work, I, I just thought-" She put her palms up in defeat, her tone begging Draco to pick up the conversation. In that moment, she seemed so young, so inexperienced. Small in her youthful embarrassment. It was almost cruel of Draco to not speak.

But, Draco didn't say a word to help her. Let her boil in her self-fury, it was no bother to him. Instead, he glanced at the stew sitting between them, watching the curls of steam rise into the air and fade in the darkness just above their heads.

Astoria followed his glance. "Please, eat," She said, pushing the bowl towards him. "You look about ready to swoon."

"I'm not about ready to swoon," Draco snapped with annoyance. Astoria bit her lip, trying to hide her smile. It had an uncharacteristically cruel edge to it, as though she was still sharing some bitterly nasty joke with herself. And yet, the bitterness didn't reach her eyes, which were still alight in genuine remorse.

Draco pulled the bowl of stew towards him and took a small spoonful. It was thick with vegetables, hot and hearty. He took another small spoonful and a small sip of ale, feeling the warmth slide down his throat, coiling in his stomach.

"No need for being so proper," Astoria said after a moment or so. "You don't have to impress me. If you're hungry, eat."

Draco fixed her with a cold glare, but it did not frighten her. On the contrary, she matched it, with one easily as haunting.

"How did you know I was here in the first place?" Draco asked sullenly.

"Your mother told me," Astoria answered simply. Draco's face must have been the perfect picture of shock, for she continued. "Your parents invited my family to the mansion the other night for as a congratulatory dinner. As you may or not know, my sister was recently engaged, and your parents were kind enough to show us their hospitality."

"I'll bet they were," Draco grumbled sourly, taking a rather large swig of ale.

"Yes well, it was at this dinner that I noticed your absence. When I commented upon it, your mother burst into a fit of tears and left the room, leaving your father in an uncomfortable silence to explain to my gossip-hungry mother how you 'left to find your way in the world' and had yet to find it back home," She waggled her thin eyebrows, obviously amused. "Honestly, it was the highlight of my night. But Daphne was around Diagon Alley the other day when she spotted you, and she put two and two together."

"And what then?" Draco asked. "You just came here out of the goodness of your heart? Did you fancy yourself my own little pity party?"

Astoria's smile slid off her face, shock etching itself into the corners of her eyes. Then, her face grew cold and hard, as though it was sculpted of pale marble. "And what if I did?" She asked frostily. "Is it so bad that I felt sorry for you?"

"I don't need your pity," Draco growled. "I was doing fine on my own, thanks."

"Oh obviously," scoffed Astoria. Her strong voice wavered slightly, and as Draco glanced at her eyes, he suddenly saw the startled young girl he'd seen in his memory, so many lifetimes ago. For the second time that evening, Draco was astounded by her youth, her naivety. Did this girl know anything about the world? Or was she living in a romanticized reality, constructed on vein fancy?

Silence hung between them, uncomfortable. Electric.

"Eat," Astoria said, her voice icy. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "No use wasting good food."

Draco scowled, but picked up the spoon again and continued to finish his meal in complete silence. Astoria did not watch him now, but turned her head around and surveyed the tavern. A small smile played at the edges of her mouth as she took in the roaring brick fire place, the scrubbed wooden bar. She even gave a small inclination of the head to Hannah Abbott, who was still glancing over towards their table every few moments.

"Have you been here long?" Astoria asked, still refusing to look at Draco.

He shook his head, but then realizing she couldn't see him, replied simply; "No, not long at all."

"Have you been around England or…?"

"Around Europe," Draco said. "I just returned from France, to be honest."

"Oh, j'aime la campagne Francaise!" Astoria breathed, turning back to Draco. Her dark eyes sparkled. "Oh, it's beautiful there isn't it? I love France in the fall. Oh, I haven't been there in ages. It must've been at least four year since I've been back. I remember, because the war…" She cut off, looking slightly embarassed.

"Yes, well, when you go you probably have a nice roof over your head," Draco said, ignoring her last statement. "And a nice coat. For me, it was just bloody cold."

Everyone knew the Greengrass family had fled to the outer reaches of France when the Dark Lord returned. Greengrass senior had been too terrified of the Dark Lord's retirubtion to fall back into ranks with the rest of the Death Eaters. Maybe they had truly seen the errors of their ways after the first fall, maybe their guilt was real. Either way, whispers of the familiy's cowardice had not ceased to plague air.

"But…was that the coat you had in France?" Astoria asked her brow furrowing in disbelief. "But…but it's so ragged!"

"It got me through well enough…" Draco mumbled, staring at the broken cuffs of the old coat. He could recall a time the sleeve had been kept in perfect condition, a thick, coal black. It was dingy now, unkept, the color closer to a grey than black.

"Why didn't you just buy a new one?" asked Astoria.

"Buy one?" Draco gave a harsh, cold laugh. "With what money? In case you haven't noticed, Astoria, I'm not exactly living a life of grandeur at the moment."

"Then why France?" asked Astoria

"There was a job," Draco said. "Some Muggle company building a bridge. They needed hands for a few months, and the pay was decent enough to live on for a bit."

"Draco Malfoy, doing manual labor?" Astoria said, astonished. "Oh, I hardly believe that."

"Well, believe it," Draco said stiffly.

Astoria measured him with her eyes or some time. "Let me see your hands, then," She said quietly.

Draco paused, letting her request sink in. He stared down at his hands. The smooth white skin had turned stone hard and red, callused and repulsive.

He did not want her to see them.

The world had onced viewed Draco Malfoy as undamaged; perfect. The idea of ruining that image was almost physically painful. At once, he realized how foolish he sounded, what a coward he was being. That Draco Malfoy, had lost everything. In his place had been born this man, who couldn't even pay for his own supper.

And in front of him sat the woman who had showed him kindness, even if it was only induced by a childlike fantasy. And all she asked for in return was proof of the toils of his labor.

Draco hesitated, then, put his left palm on the table for Astoria to see.

He did not meet her eyes, instead, focused intently at the table. She took a deep breath, shocked, and he cringed at the sound. Draco made to pull his hand away, when he felt the lightest touch upon his outstretched palm. She was hesitant, but when Draco continued to keep his hand still, she seemed to gain confidence.

Astoria's finger gently explored the vast expanses of his hard, destroyed skin, to which was numb to all feeling save for the pressure she applied. She encased his hand in her own, tiny one. Her fingertips stroked the tips of his own fingers, feeling the inside creases there, tracing the life lines on his palm.

Draco shivered, blood rushing to his face. He could not recall the last time another human had touched him, let alone carassed him in such a manner. He wanted her to stop. He wanted her to continue. He wanted her to stop more then anything, but his hand would not move.

And then it happened before he could stop it. Astoria's fingers, which had been smoothing the creases around the heel of his palm, raced down his wrist to his forearm, pushing back the fabric of his sleeve. Her other hand pinned down his wrist as her fingers stroked the spot of the Dark Mark.

The force of Draco ripping his arm from Astoria was enough to make her fall into her chair, a strangled yelp ripping from her throat. He was out the door before a coherrent thought passed through his head.

The air was sharp and cold compared to the dense, warm atmosphere of the Calurdon. He felt sick, dizzy. His head was light. His stomach seemed to be protesting the food he had ingested. The ghost of Astoria's fingers stilled lingered on his cursed forearm.

He stared down at the skin, still bare to the night sky. In the pale lamplight of the road, the Dark Mark looked more like a twisted shadow against the palness. He knew that during the day, the scar would be bright red, but for now, he could hide it.

But not from her. How could he have been so careless to let her bare his shame to the world?

"Draco, Draco!" Her voice carried down the deserted street. The fast pace sound of clicking heels accompanied her ringing voice, and he wondered if she worried about falling on the uneven cobblestone.

He shrouded himself in the shadows of the alley, hoping she'd pass him. How could he face Astoria now, after the scene in the pub? He had never outright attacked a woman before. Not that he had meant to hurt her, in fact, he wasn't sure he really had. But the fearsome anger that had welled up inside him, directed at Astoria, was almost as frightening a thought as actually hurting her.

"I can see you hiding there," Astoria said, sounding partially exsasperated.

"I was not hiding," Draco snapped, removing himself from the shadows against his better judgemet.

They stood facing each other, orange lamplight bathing their silence. Her eyes, dark brown and sparkling in the flickering light, were locked onto his slate grey ones. Neither of them spoke. Each of them was daring the other to break and speak first.

It was Astoria who finally lost. "I'm sorry for what I did in the pub," She said. "It was brash and uncalled for, and I hope you'll forgive me."

Draco took in her apology in utter silence. Then; "I don't see why I should." It was childish and stupid, but it was the first statement that came to mind. He turned on his heel and continued his disent down the alley.

"Draco, please!" She was following him now, her voice sounding angry, as though dealing with a disobediant child.

"Stop following me," He growled, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. He'd left his gloves back at the pub, a mistake he was seriously regretting.

"Stop running and I might."

He pivoted to face her, a cruel remark dancing on the tip of his tounge. But his sharp turn and her speed worked against them both, and Astoria crashed into his arms.

Her nose was close to his. Very close. Her mouth was open in a shocked 'O' and her breath mingled with his own in a thin cloud above his head. It seemed to be pulling them closer together. Draco could see the reflection of the lamplight dancing in her dark, mirror like eyes.

Astoria's hands tightened around his forearm, taking his silence as a que to speak. "What are you running from?" She whispered. Her breath wafted up to him, enchanting and unfamiliar.

Something rose in Draco's throat. A torrent of emotions battering against his innards. Waves crashed inside his head, rocking him. He felt as if he'd fly apart at any second. "Nothing," he groaned, gritting his teeth. Astoria increased the pressure on his forearms, bringing herself closer to him. The warmth of her small form seemed to melt through his fraying jacket.

Astoria's dark eyes roamed Draco's face searching for an answer. They paused upon his lips. He supprsessed the urge to run, a battery of emotions still clawing their way up to his lips. "No, maybe not running," She murmered in agreement. "Hiding," She tore herself from his hold. "Which is even worse."

Hugging her arms around her form, Astoria took a few unsteady steps away from him, her breath blurring her face from view. She stopped abruptly, the street lights spilling over her form. She stared Heavenward, her dark hair falling down her shoulders.

Draco made no move to follow her. Cold air was trickling into the empty space in his arms. He found himself missing the warmth. "I'm not hiding," he said indignently. "Why do you have to make me sound like a coward?"

"Because you are." It was just a faint whisper. Draco wasn't even sure he'd heard her right. There was no fire in her voice, only pitying dejection.

She turned to face him, shadows hiding her eyes. "You're so ashamed of you're past that you've run from it. Your family, your heritage, your country, you've left those all behind as way to evade your deamons. You're not," she struggled for words, "you're not the Draco Malfoy who roamed the halls of Hogwarts any longer. That Draco would've had more sense then to hide from his fears."

"You're wrong," Draco said. "That boy was made of nothing but fears and cowardice. There was never a moment where he didn't hide behind his friend's muscles or his father's fortune."

The silence was unbearable. The shadow of Astoria's eyes never left his face, and his never left hers. He saw the truth now. "Did you come here looking for that Draco?" He asked. Astoria's silence answered, and the truth was cemented.

Draco made to moved forward a step or so. The words came tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. "The man you're looking for…he—he's dead, Astoria. He's gone. You have to know that—you have to know that. I mean…he couldn't survive this world. Hell, he couldn't survive his world, you know? He was so weak and—and he couldn't live with his choices…and somewhere he just…somewhere between the astrology tower and the Room of Requirments, he just curled up…and died. And…and he's better off that way, I think—I know. You didn't know him, Astoria, not really. I did. I know what a snivveling little bastard he was. He's…he's better off dead. Really."

There. He'd said it. After all this time, all those months clinging to his cold reality, Draco's past had caught up with him. The truth about it, how it was, and how he'd changed.

"Is that why you're here?" Astoria asked bitterly. Draco almost pitied her. How must if feel to someone you thought you knew broken down and shattered in front of your eyes? But he didn't fully understand her statement.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you here…" She paused, searching for the words. Her back was illumenated from the glowing lamp behind her, giving her an ethreal, halo like glow around her curls. "To redeem yourself? The dead you, I mean" she amended.

Draco had never thought of it that way before. Why was he still here? He wasn't living for anything, just the next meal. The next night of rest. He had no hopes for a future or amnesty of his crimes, so why was he still here? "I think so," he answered, unsure. "I don't know. I've never really thought about it."

He saw her head bob in the lamplight. "It's late," she said. She sounded weary. "I'd better go—"

"I'm leaving," Draco interjected. Astoria stopped short. "Tomorrow," he said, "I'm going away."

"Where?"

"America, I think," he said. "The Pacific ocean. I've never seen it." He sounded like an idiot, but he desperatly needed her to understand. He wanted Astoria to move on from him…the old him. He wanted her to destroy that ideal of him she was holding and just move on. That's why he was leaving. He desperatly, desperatly needed her to do the same.

Draco found himself caring, actually caring, about what happened to the witch in front of him. Would she be heartbroken? Could she move on? Why did she care so much to find the old Draco, when he had been such a git? Could she accept this new him, could anybody? He needed to know.

And that frightened him more than anything else. That is why he needed to leave.

"When…" Astoria paused, breathed in audibly, and began again. "When are you leaving?"

"Early," Draco answered. "I can't pay my rent…"

"Of course," Astoria said quickly. The space between them had not changed, but now, Astoria took a timid step forward. "Draco…I—"

Draco couldn't bring himself to listen. He couldn't bear to hear it. "Goodnight, Astoria." He didn't wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and walked away from her as quickly as he possibly could.

She made no move to follow him this time. She stood like the ghost of a broken soul under the glowing orange lamplight. "Goodnight, Draco," she called after him softly.

He wasn't sure he'd heard her say anything at all.

xXx

Dawn rose, bright and cold. A layer of frost had fallen in the night, and it coated the windows, making the early sunlight distorted and surreal. For such an early hour, the room was brightly lit. It looked new, washed and comfortable.

And Draco couldn't leave it. He stood, peering at the frost in the window, a napsack held in his fist, but he could not move. He was vaguly aware of the bloog tingling in his legs, the ache of his shoulders from his strict position. His eyes were barely focused.

He needed to leave before anyone else woke up. He told himself that one day he'd pay back Tom for all the rent he owed, but not now. Not today. Today he needed to leave all the memories behind and keep them locked up.

'It was a mistake coming to London,' Draco's head swarmed. 'It was bound to happen here sooner or later. You're goddamned nostalgia. It was a mistake.'

A door slammed somwhere down the hall, alerting Draco's senses. It was now or never. He readjusted his grip on the bag, feeling the blood rush through his fingers, and quietly stole out of his room.

The sun outside was bright and quiet. The clouds dotting the sky were thin and grey. Draco set off at an even pace down the road, looking for a good space to apparate. He was alone on the streets, just as he liked it. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he'd know it when he saw it.

He turned a corner at came to a crossroads. To turn one way would lead him down Knockturn alley, the other direction led him closer to the Muggle world. It seemed fitting enough.

Draco stepped into the center stone of the crosswalk, took a deep breath, and made to turn.

"Draco, Draco!" He stopped.

She sounded rushed, and a little hoarse. Her voice came from behind a building, and as she came into view, Draco's heart almost stopped. She had been running, that much was obvious. Her dark hair was windswept and her face was flushed from exertion. She had paused briefly as she had come around the corner, and having gotten Draco's attention, she had hurried forward.

"I went to the Leaky Cauldron but you had already left," Astoria breathed. Her dark eyes sparkled in the early winter light.

"Astoria," Draco sighed, half amazed by her appearance. He looked her over. "What are you doing here?"

"I…I want to come with you."

Draco stared at her, stunned. Had he heard her right? "You…I mean…you want to what?"

"Here me out," she had a small knapsack around her shoulders, and she adjusted the straps on her back. She was wearing a dark green sweater under her cloak, and the color made her look lovier than Draco could've ever imagined.

Astoria took a deep breath to calm her nerves, avoiding eye contact. "What you said last night…You were right. What I was looking for…it was just a schoolgirls fantasy. And you're right, I'm still just a girl. I'm spoiled and I don't truly understand pain, or loss, or repentance." She looked him full in the face. "But I want to learn. I don't want to be so sheltered anymore. I don't want to be foolish. I want to understand. And…and you're the only person who could teach me. I need you, I think…and I think you need me. Please, please," her voice quivered. "Please let me come with you."

Draco said nothing. There was nothing to say. He could feel the rays of early morning light warm the back of his neck. He shifted his feet and sighed. Something was pounding hard throughout his body.

"It's getting late," he said. He stepped forward and held out his hand. Astoria stared for only a moment, then intwined her fingers with his. Her hand fit perfectly with his.

Together, they turned on the spot and disappeared in the early winter's light.

Soo, you like? Review to let me know! Who knows, with enough reviews I might even write a little more. It might happen :)