summary: "he is a ruined boy." :: Draco Malfoy has lost all hope in life, and his dreams are plagued every night. a forevermore interaction with longtime enemy and old friend's little sister just may change that, because you can always begin again. :: [ASTORIA/DRACO] :: MULTISHOT::
[chapter i word count] : 7,174 words
[date published] : january 1st, 2018
THERE IS NO DENYING THAT THE MALFOY BOY IS GORGEOUS.
His pale blonde hair glints in the light, combed neatly to perfection, not a hair out of place. Astoria rather thinks that his face seems to be carved from limestone—but if it isn't, she decides that she'll settle for being carved out of white rock, because it certainly does look to be sculpted out of rock. His high cheekbones are sharp enough to cut paper, and Astoria wonders if that's because he's starved himself. She hasn't seen him in years, nor has she looked at him properly whenever she happened to stumble across him at bar or on the street—for he has become a sight for sore eyes to her.
It isn't that his looks have withered. He is just as perfect—if not more—than he was back at school. But there is something about those eyes—those melancholy, grey eyes. She remembers how they used to be so arrogant, looking down his nose, his gaze sharp and piercing, to whomever he wanted. He used to ooze confidence, and he used to walk with a swagger. Now—now everything has gone. He does not strut anymore when he walks. He walks normally, politely, but Astoria swears that it looks like he is dragging himself, pushing himself to move. His face may be carved, so white and so pale and so perfect, and he may sneer and snigger - but his eyes tell a little bit of the story.
He is a ruined boy. A ruined boy that has turned into half a man.
"Astoria dear?" Astoria is careful to not jump at all when she is addressed by her soon-to-be mother-in-law, and yet, the high, icy voice similar to her husbands has a wave of something akin to gentleness lurking underneath. Astoria slowly lifts her head from her plate, and smiles gently at Narcissa Malfoy.
"How would you like to settle down at Malfoy Manor after your honeymoon? It's been abandoned ever since we moved out, but it's still our property, and if you would, we could give it to you and Draco." For a moment, Astoria is at a loss for words. No, she most certainly does not want to settle down in Malfoy Manor. She knows what has gone on there, how filthy it must be—and the building has intimidated her since she was a child, and it intimidates her even now. No, she does not want to settle into Malfoy Manor—but how can she deny her mother-in-law?
She gives it a second, and then another second, and now, every head is turning towards her. Her sister, Daphne, is urging her with her eyes to speak, to not embarrass the family further, but those icy blue eyes—she has never denied them, and now, she can not look at them. At one end of the table, she can feel her mother's body tense without even having to look, and at the other far end of the table, she can feel her father burning bullets into her head with his eyes. Lucius Malfoy's eyes are not kind—they are dark and they are dull. They are cold. Narcissa Malfoy is waiting for an answer, and she is watching her patiently—and finally, Draco Malfoy is observing her, giving her his half-hearted attention, yet his gaze is indescribable.
And he is the one to save her.
She is just on the edge of giving her mother-in-law a gracious smile, and thanking her for the offer, when his voice unexpectedly rings in the room.
"Mother, I don't suppose we can take another house? Malfoy Manor is rather big, and Astoria and I will be a new couple. I don't think it will suit us nearly as well." His voice is meant to charm, and charming it is, for her mother relaxes, her father stares at her for another moment before looking away, and even Daphne's gaze softens. Lucius Malfoy does not look at all surprised, and Narcissa Malfoy is watching her son. As for Astoria—Astoria is rather surprised at the way he utters her name, and she could have sworn that he looked at her quite intensely when he did so. It was almost—sensual, really, the way he said it, his voice caressing her name.
It is highly inappropriate, and though Astoria keeps her face temperature at normal, she is sure her body starts to heat up. And looking up, she finds, for a moment, Draco giving her the slightest of smirks, his lips tilted just barely in one direction—and she realizes. The game is on again. She feels as if he knows, he knows what effect he has on her at the moment, and the idea that he must have done it on purpose does not escape her.
"Well, that seems wonderful, Draco. What say you, Astoria?" Astoria is pulled in two directions. Either she faithfully follows her soon-to-be-husband's direction like she is expected to do, for her family is old-fashioned and takes no notice how much the wizarding society has changed today, or should she show that she has just as much power as him and show him that she can rise to his level, answer him back - but he knows that already, does he not? Millions of encounters have proved that to him, when they still had them in school. When he was still unaffected, unmarked.
If she does that, she will have to suggest they live in Malfoy Manor, and she most definitely does not want to. She decides that she will prove to him that she will not be an obedient little wife in their own times, and stick to his suggestion right now.
"I agree with Draco," she says quietly and gently, and when Narcissa (unexpectedly) gives her a genuine smile, a smile she most definitely does not understand, she softens, wondering what her in-laws are really like. They have had many dinners, but the wedding was never mentioned, the arrangement never brought up, and so Narcissa Malfoy's sudden change of behavior is quite surprising.
"Well, that's settled, isn't it? Now, Aira, I am going shopping for their dresses next week, and I'm bringing both Draco and Astoria with me. Would you like to come?" Astoria notices how she doesn't ask her whether she wants to come along, so she is sure that she doesn't have much of a choice. Her mother-in-law stands balanced with her own mother, so her order is just as good as her own mother ordering her.
"When would you like to go, Narcissa? I must check my schedule." Astoria almost looks at Daphne as amusement erupts in her. Her mother's schedule?
"I suppose as early as it goes. Considering the wedding is just next month—well, there's lots to do. What do you say about next Tuesday?"
"Next Tuesday?" Her mother repeated; and they said she was a disgrace to the family. "I—yes, I am free that day." The way her mother says it, it gives away no hint that she was acting self-important. Her mother most certainly did not have a schedule.
"Well then, I am looking forward to it." Narcissa lifts her napkin to daintily wipe her mouth, her eyes straying to the grandfather clock situated behind Astoria. "Oh my, it has almost struck eleven. We certainly do spend the time rather fitfully. Now," her gaze strays carefully to Astoria, and Astoria feels that she will not like what comes out of her mouth next. "— there is barely a month left until the wedding, and I realize that we have given Draco and Astoria almost no time to get to know eachother!" As Narcissa stood up, Lucius followed, pulling her chair back, and as if setting off a chain reaction, her mother, her father, she and her sister all rose up in their seats. Draco got up last for reasons unknown.
"Why, are you leaving already?" Her mother asks, sounding surprised. "Stay for some late night tea!" Narcissa shook her head, smiling. "I'm afraid I can't, Aira, there's too much to do at home. You do understand, the wretched Ministry officials have told us to clean up our properties, and alas, even as the years have passed since things have gone horribly wrong," there is a minuscule pause here, and tension starts to brew in the air. "—our mansions and as such, need to be cleared. There is much to do, not to mention what's left at home." Her gaze again strays to Astoria. "As I was saying, I was hoping for my Draco and Astoria to get to know eachother better. From what Draco tells me, the two have already met at school," Astoria finds that her mother-in-law sounds most amused, and she wonders faintly at what she knows.
Meanwhile, her gaze connects with Draco's, whose grey eyes are intense, and watching her thoroughly as his mother speaks. "—and I was wondering whether they'd like to spend some time together tonight?" Evidently, Draco had already known this was going to come up, so he does not look surprised, but Astoria, expecting it, still just about keeps herself from wincing.
"That sounds like a wonderful idea, Mother." His voice is still oh-so-charming, and for a moment, she can feel the arrogance radiating off of him, and she hates it, because she has always hated it and she still does. He walks around the table gracefully, his limbs long and delicate, and Astoria pretends not to notice how Daphne averts her gaze. She steps out of her chair just as gracefully, knowing what will come, so she is not surprised when Draco steps over to her and holds out his elbow like a gentleman. The action seems very much mocking.
"Shall we?" He smiles at her delicately, but to Astoria, it looks more like a crooked smirk. She takes it because she had no other available choice. "We shall," smiling back just as prettily.
As they walk towards the end of the hall, their steps stiff, Astoria hears the two women exchanging compliments about what a beautiful couple they are, and embarrassingly, what beautiful children they will bear. Unknown to onlookers, as their backs are facing the guests, Astoria's face starts to heat up. "Don't stay out too late, Draco dear." Narcissa calls out, amusement ringing clearly in her voice, and Astoria does not doubt that what she thinks her mother-in-law is trying to say is really being said. Not having missed this, Astoria can feel Draco smirking at her side.
Astoria does not know who is leading who.
She suspects Draco does not know his way around her family's mansion. He's been here many times, of course, but that certainly does not mean he knows the complete layout of it. He may have seen the garden before. but she is almost sure that no one has shown him around it. He is half walking, half dragging, his usual walk, as she has learned. She wonders if it is because he has lost hope, in himself, in his life, in the world. And suddenly, at that thought, he is far more interesting than usual.
They walk, step in step, as they approach the garden, which looks luminous in a pale sort of way, moonlight shining down upon them and the garden. There is a swinging bench, and letting go of eachother, they both take their seats, a respectable distance away from eachother. Roses, sunflowers, magnolias, even trees filled with blooming cherry blossoms fill the garden. The smell is exotic, but Astoria finds her attention drawn to a wilting water lily in a nearby pond, the dark blue water glimmering abnormally in the moonlight. The water lily reminds her of death, of self-destruction, of a human falling from grace.
She does not know why she says it. Maybe it is because of the beauty that surrounds her cannot go uncommented on. Maybe it is because he is the only companion she has at the moment next to her, and maybe it is because she just can not stand it; she has to tell someone. Or maybe it is because the wilting water lily, half drowning, half submerged in the dark blue water, somehow is related to the man she is to marry. But whatever the reason, she points it out to him.
"You see that water lily over there?" She asks him, her voice soft, and she can tell, without looking, that he is surprised beyond words. Of course he hadn't expected them to have this conversation; they were mortal enemies, and they had always been. Draco Malfoy was not a boy who looked at beauty; he may have understood it, but he did not care. His mind directed him towards booze, sex, and the best things that life has to offer, she was sure of it.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough at the edges and the grace is gone from it. He is taken aback and so his voice is raw.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" She is having an almost decent conversation with a man that taunted her when she was young, a man that she taunted back. A man that she has never gotten along with; a man that she has always hated and vice versa. And she can not believe it. And yet, she can not stop herself.
His voice is honest, a trait that she has never seen before in him. "It's wrinkled. It's dying. It's leaving the world. How is it beautiful?" There is an inch of wonder in his voice, and she wonders what he is wondering at. Her sudden change of behavior, and her words? Or the flower?
"True." She agrees. "It is leaving this world. It is crumpling. But do you know what it reminds me of?" She turns to him, forgetting all pretense, and looks into his eyes, the endless expanses of grey, of beautiful, intelligent, fragile, broken grey.
"What?" It is almost as if he can't stop himself for answering in such a way. His voice seems ragged for some reason, and he stares back at her, wonder and surprise lighting his broken orbs.
"It reminds me of man falling from grace." He looks stunned momentarily. His grey eyes are wide, his full lips slightly ajar, his pointed face tilted a bit. His hair ruffles in the breeze, and she feels the sudden urge to ruffle it, play with a strand of silky hair. She feels her own hair lift from the where she has tied it at the nape of her neck, lifting from the back.
"Why are you telling me this?' He asks, and his voice is hoarse for a moment. She sees the remains of a shattered, shell of a man in his eyes, and she knows she isn't wrong when she thinks that he is a ruined boy. Not a ruined man, but a ruined boy. A broken man is not a man until he is whole. He has not fully observed boyhood, and was turned into a man too early, and therefore he has backtracked, and he is a boy. He may look like a man, but his nature was that of a broken boy's. A beautiful nature, she saw for a second, before he ruined it, his eyes hardening.
"I don't know," she says quietly, trying to savor the human that showed for a second, a human that she is most interested in. She preserves the memory in her heart for as long as he is vulnerable.
Which is a mere three seconds.
"Stop spouting nonsense at me, Greengrass. The flower is dying. That is all there is to it." She smirks knowingly at him, bringing back all pretense. The time for being gentle with him had gone. She did not want a gentle boy, she did not want a gentle life. She wanted this broken boy, she wanted to play around with him like he would to her, and then maybe she could fix it.
"I'm sure there is, Malfoy." She is sure he is fuming beside her.
"It seems as if you are as irritating as ever, Greengrass." She just keeps on smirking at him. She has seen some of him today, she has figured some of him out. And she shall use it against him.
"And you, Malfoy, are as dodgy as ever."
She's gotten tired of looking at pieces of revealing lingerie and gauzy wedding dresses of different colors. She doesn't even know why there is lingerie in a bridal shop - unless they not only prepared brides for their weddings, but also for their wedding nights. Her nose wrinkles at the thought of her own wedding night.
At her side, trying to keep a respectable distance between them but failing horribly because the rows are so narrow, his bare shoulders brushing her bare ones, was Draco. Today, she did not see a shattered soul. Not like the last time they had met for dinner. She saw an arrogant prick, the same arrogant prick she had gotten used to in her early school years, and lost sight of completely in her fourth and fifth year, and then, after she had completed school, only seen in bars and in the streets.
She suspected that he had just been vulnerable and dealing horribly with a recent issue, and his inner demons had shined through. He had learned his lesson though, and today, it seems as if he has come prepared. For she sees that strut back in his walk, that mischievous sparkle in his eye when the time comes for it, and the utter boredom and arrogant carelessness that he had otherwise. He had barely looked at her since she and her mother had met up with him and his mother, and yet, she could see him eyeing the pieces of lingerie and then eyeing her with contempt and pursed lips. Both the lingerie and her.
She finds that quite curious because most men admired lingerie - they did not look at it with loathing. She wondered what he thought of when he looked at it. Another bad memory, perhaps? She shook her head. There was no point in dwelling on him. If she were to be honest, she'd been quite disappointed, when she had seen that his expression hadn't been open and ready to be dissected. She'd found him quite interesting, and had forgotten her previous contempt for him, and had sort of looked forward to this meeting with him. Her light eagerness had horrified herself.
But it seemed that all he would do today, would be to brood. So there would be no point. No point in dwelling on it, she reminded herself.
Again, they come face to face with a set of hot pink lingerie that shouldn't even be there because there's little to no cloth involved, and again, Draco shoots her what he probably thinks is a conspicuous glance of disdain. She catches it this time, raising her eyebrow.
"Can I help you, Malfoy?" She purrs, aware of the disregard lurking just underneath her words. It's always been a game, her parents have taught her so, and she can sprinkle the right amount of anything she wants on any word she utters.
"It's so bloody hot." He mutters, looking away, surprisingly not looking the least taken aback at the attention she had finally given him.
"I can help you with that how?" She'd meant it as a retort, because what was she to do if he fried underneath the glare of the brutal son that had showed up today? At her side, Draco smirked, having gotten the answer he had wanted, and Astoria, sad to say, didn't seem to know what she had done, or rather, what she had said.
Well," he starts, sounding very much amused, and she can't say she understands why. "Well, you could take my clothes off of me, for starters."
She is so utterly grateful that her mother and his mother are walking and talking loudly several yards away from them, while they dragged themselves in the back, because her face starts to prickle with heat, and it doesn't help that it's so bloody hot today either. The bastard.
"Sod off, Malfoy," she fumes silently, careful to be quiet, because if her mother overheard, she'd have her mouth washed out with soap for the rest of her lifetime.
"Oh my," Draco feigns surprise. "Is innocent little Astoria—" They way he says her name, it's as if he is savoring it, and this most definitely does not help matters with the heat at all. "—getting a dirty tongue? When has my precious little wife grown up?" He sneers, and Astoria can't help herself, because how dare he?
"When you were off killing people, my dearest husband," she says, and he is silent for a full second before chuckling darkly.
"Ooh, fiesty," He smirks at her, but Astoria knows that there is no authenticity behind it. His words are carefully controlled, pushed under a mask of arrogance, but he is snarling underneath. She hears it in the undertones of his voice, how slightly tense his words are, and she catches herself wondering about when she has started to read Draco bloody Malfoy so well.
"I suppose," she says, her voice closed off, and he falls quiet. For a few, long moments they walk in quiet, following the laughing, giggling (giggling?) women up ahead, and then it's another few long moments before Astoria realizes that she has left Draco behind at some point.
"Malfoy?" She asks the empty air, and she turns to look around—and finds Draco a considerable amount of space away from her, at least three to four yards, inspecting (more like staring) at a long wedding dress. Astoria doesn't really spare the dress a glance, but calls to him, "Are you going to stay there, Malfoy? I'm sure we can make arrangements to replace the dress as your bride instead of me. I would be most pleased." He scowls at her deeply, giving her an ugly look, before saying, "Call Mum please."
"Whose Mum?" She asks innocently, knowing perfectly who he is calling. His scowl becomes more pronounced.
"Our Mums, Greengrass." She fakes horror.
"We're siblings? Oh, then why are we getting married then? Oh, this must be a horrible mistake," she fretts mockingly. "Our Mums must be alerted immediately."
"Greengrass." He says, his scowl becoming even more pronounced, but now sounding very much exasperated. She ignores him, turning around and walking quickly to reach the two women. At first, she doesn't know how to address them, but when they both turn at the sound of her footsteps, she realizes that she doesn't have to.
"I think Draco's found something at the back. He wanted you to come and see it." The two women exchange glances, before cooing in unison. "You two have been looking at dresses together?" She stutters momentarily, not knowing how to break it to them, but she's saved by them turning their attention towards Draco, and backtracking.
Astoria follows behind, wondering what could possibly have caught Malfoy's gaze. It was a miracle that he hadn't made a single joke concerning her and the endless rows of lingerie, but she couldn't afford to think like that yet. Who knew what sort of skimpy piece he had come up with?
And yet, when she does approach him and the dress (the him part stubbornly avoids her gaze, and she wonders if he could possibly be blushing) and when she approaches the two women who are staring, she is stunned into silence.
The dress he has chosen out seems to be made of pure silk, or a material just as soft and heavenly looking. The neckline is agonizingly revealing, because there is barely any neckline. Instead, intricate pieces of the soft material form into swirls an flowery prints and such, with no other material at the side, and that is at the chest, where the dress starts. There are two pieces of that, only slightly connected, most probably coming together underneath one's cleavage, and it connect completely with the piece joining it, similar to the one at the chest, The intricate prints - which are see-through, mind you - go down, curving into a V, and underneath that, it is all a simple shade of dark green. The arms are just as lacy as the scrap that is at the chest - and though it is both revealing, it is beautiful, and the only flaw Astoria can find is that Malfoy chose it. The solid dark green goes on until her feet, and something about it is elegant and graceful - and Astoria hates herself for finding it beautiful.
Before anyone else can say anything, she says, "Won't my chest show?" There is no fight in her voice, dammit.
"It's beautiful," Narcissa says, her voice holding awe, and Astoria's mother nods in agreement. And Astoria rakes the dress up and down when he speaks, "What do you say, Astoria?" And he's smirking, his previous shyness gone, the bastard. Without missing a beat, she says, "My chest will show. It's see-through." Draco opens his mouth to say something most probably inappropriate, but his mother interrupts. "No dear, look - " She carefully slides her hands underneath the material at the breast, and it can be seen but then it can't. "The material is soft, but there is something to prevent it from being horribly see-through. It's gorgeous."
Without warning, she rushes at her son, who is taller then her, mind you, and hugs him tightly, saying, "My boy, my beautiful boy," and something of that sort, and Astoria has to look away. Pulling away a few, long moments later, Draco's face is red but his expression is soft, and Narcissa declares, "We shall buy this." Then, remembering that it's Astoria's wedding and not her's, she shoots her an inquisitive glance. "What say you, sweetie?" Astoria smiles weakly. "It's beautiful," and her voice is weak as well.
While the two women rush off, talking excitedly all the way to the counter, Astoria faces him with a murderous look, to find him smirking. "You'll look beautiful in it, I'm sure," and she glares, a plan formulating inside her head. He slides over to her, standing so close that their shoulders touch completely, and he slings a hand over her shoulders, leaning down a centimeter to breathe in her ear. Heat rushes throughout her body. "For me, of course. Given the wedding night a thought yet?" And fuming, she acts without thinking. Hearing voices near closer to them, she quickly slides to stand in front of him, slinking her hand around his neck, so his hands drop down to her hips, looking surprised. As the voices near closer, she nears closer to him, breathing in his ear, "Of course I have. And now that you've chosen my dress, I'll choose yours." A horrified look crosses his face. "You'll look beautiful for me too, I'm sure."
She moves her mouth to his jaw, and just lightly presses her lips to it, feeling him tense against her. And when she turns away, she most certainly catches how his eyes are a bit darker, how his face is contrasting between a light white and red, between being threatened and seduced.
She ignores it, moving to stand next to him as their mothers step near them with a worker in tow.
They schedule her dress fitting the same day they schedule Draco's search for his wedding suit. So she knows the next time that she will have to face him is the next Wednesday. Instead, they find eachother on a Friday night, in the Shrieking Shack, which has been replaced as a bar—of course, the history is being tainted by grinding bodies and bottles of whiskey, and no one seems to notice.
Daphne and her friends had forced her to come along—and yet, they had not been able to force her into a dress that went above the knee. She remained stubborn, but had still ended up in what seemed to be a very skimpy, red piece. And it did not go above the thigh, yes, but it ended just at the thigh. Her legs felt bare, naked, but warm, because the half-clothed grinding bodies around her were creating enough body heat for a snowstorm. The sweetheart neckline, she feels, plunges too deep - it's deeper than most sweetheart necklines. It is also quite suffocating, for her face is burning because of both the heat and the obscenities going on around her, her feet are tapping the floor consistently, and she's standing near the food table, doing the only thing she knows how to do at the moment: eat food.
Her right hand is about to slightly brush a pack of three marshmallows, something barrels towards her, and something is groping at her stomach - what? - and a second later, a leering, teetering witch is standing in front of her, dangerously imbalanced.
'What a pretty witch," he sneers at her, and his eyes are red, she can see, but he looks to be middle-aged. His hair is greying all over the place. Astoria's hands quietly fumble for her wand.
"Get the fuck off me," she murmurs at him, before kicking him off of her, and he growls at her - it sounds incredibly like a pig - making an attempt to get up and get back to her. She takes out her hand, and lazily points it at him. not feeling any remorse for what she is about to do.
"Petrificus Totalus."
The man goes as still as a stature, and she puts her wand back in discreetly, hoping that nobody has seen this encounter. She turns back to the marshmallows while kicking the man's body under the table as subtly as possible, pushing him away with her heel, and when the man's body slides in perfectly when she isn't even putting in much effort, she looks down, startled. And there he is, the magnificent, bratty boy, with hair of pure white, his head bowed as he concentrates on shoving the man in quickly. She quickly turns away, her mind on only one goal: to get away, but the moment she stepped in to mix with the crowd, a beautiful, chilly feeling spread up her arm, as slender, cold hands grasped her wrist and charmingly backed her up against him. His other hand snaked around her waist, and his voice breathed in her ear, so close he could bite, sending chills down her neck. She looked up at the ceiling resolutely, her lips pressed into a snarl.
"I didn't know you could do such a thing so recklessly," and his voice is not angry; on the contrary, it is quite caressing and strangely proud. She shoves against him, annoyed. "Sod the fuck off, Malfoy," she says angrily. "I didn't come here to see your irritating little face."
"That sounds quite immature, Astoria darling," he clucks disapprovingly, pressing his lips against the spot right underneath her ear, making her shiver with a feeling that hadn't quite been awoken in a while. What makes her shiver is the way he says her name, the smooth away he says it, as if tasting it, rolling it around on his lips, saying it with a sensual caress. She goes stiff on him for a moment, before angrily clamping her left hand on his right hand, wrapped around her wrist.
"Get your slimy hands off me, Malfoy," she snarled. She tries to push her hand (she knows she could easily stun him, she wasn't exactly being held completely against her will, but something was forming at the bottom of her stomach, pulling at her, and she found that she didn't want to pull away from his hold) out of his grip. He laughs softly against her.
'You aren't even making the effort." And then lowly, "my little spitfire," and it is these three words that nurtures a raging, blazing fire inside her empty hearth, makes her both angry and her eyes darken. The way he says it flames a desire she hasn't felt in a very, very long time, and makes her very, very angry - because these words are also words she hadn't heard in a long time. And, as if knowing exactly how angry it made her, he pulled her tighter against him, and she struggled silently.
"Get your slimy hands off of me," she seethes quietly through gritted teeth. He buries his head in the crook of her neck, and she can feel him smirk and grin against her neck, breathe against it. She can feel it all. She gets angry at him, but does not make much of an effort to move him much.
"Dance with me, my darling," he purrs quietly, and suddenly twirls her around, and laughs, his voice as smooth as the scales of a snake, and as cold and inviting as siren, as he takes note of the expression on her face. And as she is facing him, she suddenly realizes his state. His eyes are bloodshot and red, and there is a faint drawl to his voice, a limping gait to his dance.
"You're drunk, Malfoy," she says, knowing no better thing to say. His face is inches away from her's, looking at her intensely, looking at her with desire, a look much more intense than how it used to be.
"I suppose I am, my darling," and she takes note of his words with a faint feeling of fear. My darling. Not just 'darling' which would have been annoying but something she was long used to, but 'my darling' as if she is his and he is her's, and that would make absolutely no sense at all. She doesn't realize that she's muttering 'my darling?' underneath her voice, until he smiles a wild, blank, but slightly sinful smirk at her. "Yes. My darling. Mine."
She sniffs disapprovingly, hiding how much this unsettled her.
"I never realized how possessive you seem to have gotten, Malfoy," and she doesn't realize how his name rolls of her tongue, savory and sweet, until he looks taken aback, his eyes looking deeply unsettled, and until he steals a look at her lips, smirking. She stops for a second.
"Malfoy," she murmurs warningly.
"Hmm?" He is still staring at her lips, and he smiles salaciously, deliciously, at her. Her chest tightens, and so does the bottom of her stomach. She feels an entirely different warmth start to course through her. It is when he leans towards her, not stopping, never stopping, that she has to say something. She does hate herself so, because she almost wants exactly what he wants.
"Malfoy," she says suddenly, loud and sharp like a slap, even amongst the music and the pounding bodies, and she pushes him away from her. He looks surprised at the intrusion. "What?" His voice his snappish, annoyed.
'What are you doing?" She asks, pushing him away from her, and she swears she sees a flash of hurt cross his face.
"Darling, we're married now—" And there is a peculiar, childish type of exaggeration in his voice, as he blatantly ignores her warnings, and slides his hands around her hip, and she is taken aback, she feels taken aback. She hasn't felt this in so long, this desire has remained dormant for such a long period of time, and when it rises up in her once again, it takes her breath away. "—and I want you," and his voice is low and seductive and broken—and he isn't thinking clearly. He is in pain and he is drunk and he just wants to forget and Astoria will not allow herself to be treated as such.
"But who says I want you?" She asks back quietly, but it isn't rude or sharp—and the undercurrent in her voice goes unnoticed by him because he is in his drunk state. And yet, if his head was clear—he had always understood her much more than she had wanted him to, and she had always understood him much more than he wanted her to—
His hands wrap tighter against her, and he pulls closer to her. "I do," he breathed. "I can see it in your eyes.." He trails off, and their eyes meet, grey against brown, grey against brown. It is then that she realizes that they are swaying to the music—they are dancing—and his grey orbs are entrancing, they are, beautiful and fragmented and broken—He pulled closer to her, and she inhales his strong perfume, and she is almost taken under, but then, she shoves him away when there is a particularly loud pulse in the music ringing in the bar.
"Malfoy," she states. "Malfoy, you're drunk. You are not capable of making decisions at the moment." He does not answer, but simply stares at her, his grey eyes boring into her brown ones and—"We should get you home," she says hastily, before reaching out to grip his wrist tightly and pull him through the crowds, until they reach the entrance.
"Who did you come with?" And she does not realize how loud the music was until know, how they were in their own personal bubble and could hear eachother perfectly fine. But they are a distance away from the pounding music, and when he stares back at her, blank, she roughly pulls him outside. The breeze is a relief to her, and she resists the urge to sigh in relief—but she isn't out of the danger zone yet.
"Who did you come with, Malfoy?" He stares at her, his eyes curious and blank.
"Come with?" He asks woozily, tipping to one side, and she reaches out to firmly steady him with her left hand. "I came with...Crabbe. Crabbe and Goyle." His face screws up in concentration, and then he frowns childishly. "Crabbe...and Goyle. No, not Crabby. That - that can't be right. Crabbe is..." And he trails off, realization setting in his features.
And then his eyes turn abruptly glassy.
"Crabbe is dead?" He asks, and he stares at her, stating his voice as a question. Astoria does not know what to say. She is astonished that she has just seen Draco Malfoy show something akin to emotion, and now, he is looking at her as if his life depends on the answer to his question.
"I—" His eyes are bloodshot, he is staring at her with raw emotion, and this is not the Draco Malfoy she knows. "Malfoy, we have to get you home." She says, ignoring his gaze. Of course Crabbe was dead, he was long dead, and only his ashes had been found in the aftermath of he war. What—what in Merlin's name was she supposed to tell him? She slips a hand around his waist, and his head immediately comes around her shoulder, and she starts to drag him towards a potential place where she can Apparate.
"Can you Apparate, Malfoy?" She asks suddenly, realizing that he might not be able to. He looks back at her blankly.
"Apparate where?" He asks drunkenly, staring at her as if she is an alien.
"Home. Malfoy Manor." She turns her gaze away from him, preparing to Apparate, but suddenly, his grip on her is suffocating. She turns to him, surprised, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot and pleading.
"No, no I can't go back in there—Tori you—can't make me—" His voice fades off into murmuring, but he is still staring at her desperately, a young, broken boy, and she sighs, ignoring the urge to pull a hand over her face. She isn't surprised my his display of emotion, she has seen him far too many times to be surprised. She is also surprised that she nearly pities him. It is a brutal thing to do, to Draco Malfoy of all people, but she pities him and she is ruthless in her pity. "Youu aren't going to Apparate to the Manor, are youuuu, Astoooriaa?"
"No, Draco, I'm not." And defiantly ignoring the incoherent mumbling that spills out of him, guilt and a fierce regret already brewing in her abdomen, she Apparates to her own home, right on her bed. He sprawls out sluggishly, and quickly, as quick as she can possibly move, she bounces off the bed and locks her room, shutting the lights off as she does so (without magic, mind you.) She jerks out the pins that are holding her hair together, refusing to turn around and look at Draco.
But when she drops the pins and finally turns around, he is snoring softly, his previously bothered face now a holy halo. She tries to avoid how rather handsome he looks. Draco has always been quite handsome. And sexy. His blonde hair is bothered, ruffling in the breeze, and his delectable pink lips jut out magnificently. Definitely sexy. Yes, she knows, and no, she does not care. It does not matter to her. It never will matter to her.
They can resolve the unbridled sexual tension when they get married. No matter.
Feeling very much like murdering him for having her think these thoughts and come to this conclusion, and have to bring him to her bedroom in the first place, she stalks towards him, rips his shoes off his feet without bothering to look at his serene expression once more in fear that she would be captivated for a moment too long. She pulls the covers around his neck, and he snuggles into them, murmuring something about green—and she hears her name.
Tori.
And then she is gone, whipping off her heels and waltzing towards the bathroom, as if she had never heard anything in the very first place.
Damn the Malfoy boy.