So here is a third one-shot for the six remaining rounds of the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge on the HPFC forum: DracoAstoria. My longest one-shot ever, baby! ;)
Named after the Nightwish album. It seemed fitting ;)
October
She walks in the common room with her sister on her arm, her hair ruffled by the cool breeze of the dungeons.
He is leaning against the fireplace, dark silhouette crowned with gold, pale eyes deciphering patterns on the carpet or seeing macabre things way beyond her imagination. Her lungs flutter, but she keeps a firm grip, her voice not even wavering as she chatters and strides on, pretty, perfect, composed. Once he always occupied the best seat, the one in the middle, perfect view and all. Now his gestures are brisk, restless, and he can't seem to sit still. Eyes bother him, too, gazes he once received with the offhand arrogance of a prince, and so she doesn't seem to pay attention as with Daphne, they walk into his field of vision.
Zabini glances at them from his seat, Crabbe and Goyle briefly gawk, and Pansy smiles – just a twist of her lips, quick and fake. Part of her wants to stay on good terms with the sisters – power games, a second nature for the Slytherins, if not their whole. Because Pansy's power has faded in pace with Draco's smugness, more feeble with each silence and each scowl – because Tracey and Millicent are off plotting somewhere, and beautiful, classy Daphne is busy with her now perfectly matured, delicate and graceful younger sister. Astoria would want to smirk, her newly-acquired beauty and charm upsetting Pansy's world so – yet she finds it quite impossible to be overly gloating, for part of Pansy frankly doesn't care about her limited influence and wavering public image. For part of Pansy is entirely and thoroughly focused, tuned on the boy against the fireplace, the nearly-fallen prince, the – Death Eater. Her breathing paced on the rhythm of his, her head turning with every twitch of his hand – and though she spots his lack of reaction from the corner of her eye, though she knows, somehow, that the time has (almost) come, Astoria feels on the wavelength of Pansy's hopes and grieves, and things deep and unknown at the very pit of her are aching with vicious twists of too-early possessiveness.
Patience, little girl.
With just a nod at the group they walk on without breaking stride, still discussing animatedly. Eyes are drawn to them, heads tilting their way, more or less discreet signs of male attention. Zabini appears focused on his book, and so Daphne's eyes briefly linger on him, haughty disinterest slowly edging into a wholly different game. Astoria spots the tiny smile on the very corner of Zabini's mouth with smug satisfaction. This one play appears liable to last for a while – all the better. If Daphne dwells and Zabini smirks, if Pansy observes and gossips whisper... her own interests and motivations might remain veiled, until the right moment comes.
All the better indeed...
Look up, look up, look up as she starts up the stairs, flicking her hair with a small laugh – and he doesn't. Andreus Selwyn from her year does, Zabini's dark eyes flicker to them again, and Pansy sighs for one reason or another while many a girl in the common room is fighting a scowl. Astoria disappears, the smirk on her lips breaking free.
Fame, power, her sister's wry gazes and words, and Draco Malfoy.
Rule One of the Slytherin Common Room, as she well knows: blood and looks are everything.
November
Astoria's gaze is clouded, her shoulders stiff, her hair a mess as she rushes out of the classroom, out into the corridors, clutching her wand in her pocket hard enough for her dainty fingers to ache. She strides in pace with the beating of her heart, pounding, maddened steps, breaking or sliding through the crowds of students, not looking back, not looking anywhere – until a too-familiar silhouette catches her attention, nearly ripping a gasp from her lips.
Draco Malfoy leans against the wall in a little alcove, his gaze on the wand he's twirling idly between his fingers. She could still walk on, no damage done, yet she turns sharply, intending to just pass him by. Look up, look up, look up while another voice in her mind screams no, not now, what are you doing – look-up-look-up and he does, grey orbs widening, taking her in. She knows then that he's noticed her before, and though she always expected it – ever the confident queen – her heart spasms and her lungs flutter, regardless. She meets his eye, just once, in what could look like a random glance, and she's past him, his gaze on her white neck, telling herself that the incident is, after all, nothing short of positive –
"What happened to you?"
And she whirls around. Too fast. Edgy, expectant – a bad sign. Quickly, she overlooks her wild hair, tames her breathing, widens her eyes ever so slightly – raised eyebrows, slightly parted lips – and calls smoothly:
"I beg your pardon?"
Draco cocks an eyebrow of his own. "I asked what happened to you," he reiterates without a break, and that's so much for Rule Two of the Slytherin Common Room: straightforwardness is rare, and either a spurring of instinctive spontaneity or one move in a carefully thought-out plan.
Either way, the next move is generally to back off.
Either way, don't trust it. Don't let your guard down.
"Oh, rough set of classes," she retorts, her voice ringing clear, a quick, amiable smile playing on the corner of her lips. "Nothing of great importance, I assure you."
He nods. "I am well acquainted with those," he says somberly, and for a minute Astoria is totally, terrifyingly thrown. She doesn't know whether to excuse herself or stay, whether to play coy or to take some risks to push the situation further – she doesn't know herself and her power over this, doesn't know the way she appears, and faintly suspects that her subtle games might not be sufficient to dismiss the darkness in his eyes.
"Well, good day, Astoria," he says, and his voice sounds collected and definite, sure around her name, but something intense is lurking beneath his pale eyes and her breathing is so out of hand. She wants to reply with confidence and grace, to speak his name as though it were any other word, and relish the small echoes that breathe that it is not. Her control is slipping, no – her control has slipped, and with horror she finds herself blushing deeply.
"Good day," she croaks, dismissive, turns on her heel and stalks off.
A small, unfamiliar chuckle rings out behind her as she hurries away, cheeks burning, chest searing.
December
"May I sit here? The other tables are crowded."
She looks up. The excuse is conspicuous. "Crowded" is an overstatement and two students alone at a library table a tangible fact that may bring on rounds of gossip. She thinks of Andreus, of Pansy, of Daphne – and of Christmas.
She says yes. Just that. Yes.
He slides into the seat, his eyes boring into hers. "Thank you. Dreadful amount of homework, isn't there?"
"Very," she agrees, "one would think that the teachers would be more compliant with the Christmas spirit. Then again..."
He chuckles.
"Christmas spirit. What an adorable idea," he taunts, flipping one book open.
"Do you seventh years have terrible homework too?" she asks with fake candidness.
"More than your fifteen-year-old brain cells can fathom," he shoots back, his face smooth, and she gasps in mock outrage.
"You are not quite as advanced as you think you are, Mr Malfoy."
"Oh, really?" he murmurs, smirking.
"Really. I am quite sure I could beat you at chess," she goes on in the same breath.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Interesting."
She smiles an easy smile, looking down at her piece of parchment. "My family is hosting the New Year's Ball this year," she adds, seemingly at random. "Will you attend? I could challenge you to a few games."
From the corner of her eye, she sees his mouth tighten. "Not this year."
"Oh," she simply comments, shock flooding her lungs for a second. "Well, that is too bad."
"Too bad indeed," he mutters, and then glances up again. "Your first ball, isn't it?"
"Indeed. What a tremendous occasion for a young lady," she responds, smiling now. "You don't have sisters, so you cannot imagine... I still remember looking for Daphne all night from the top of the staircase, at thirteen, with my heart hammering. You were at this one."
"My first ball," he recalls. "My first society ball, that is. I do not worry for you... You can have Selwyn, and the crowds of admirers. You will not get bored."
"As you had Pansy," she agrees.
Neither of them speak for a while then, being here to work after all. Astoria concentrates on her Charms, aware of the strands of dark hair falling into her eyes once in a while, aware of her quick moves to brush them back, and of Draco's own awareness, from the corner of his eye. She leans over her parchment dutifully, smiling to herself – until Draco's head snaps up.
"Hey, Draco," a familiar voice calls, breaking the silence. "I was wondering where you'd be."
"After today's classes, what is there to wonder about," he replies, and she looks up in time to see his pale hand sweep over the stacks of books. "Hey, Pansy."
"Astoria," the girl says, nodding to her. "Can I join in?"
"Do you see room elsewhere?" Draco shoots back wryly, and Pansy swats him on the head while taking a seat by his side, facing Astoria.
She's just ruffled his hair, and she's only half-smiling now, tilting her head. Red lipstick and dark eyeshadow, pale, thin face and messy middle-length hair, Pansy Parkinson gives off confidence, life – and as she stares her down, Astoria suddenly feels her stomach lurch, picturing herself as a beautiful, breakable doll in a golden box.
She might be a lady, but Parkinson is a woman and Draco is hers. It is plainly written out in her eyes, in the curve of her lips, in her casual voice and the way she flicks her hair. It is a heady heat as their wrists brush above the piled-up books – or is her imagination running wild? Very white and cold, Astoria swallows. Pansy smiles and opens her own bag, chattering lightly.
Both of them are well acquainted, of course, with Rule Three of the Slytherin Common Room: everybody will try to claim what is yours. Let it happen, and you're dead.
January
They walk into the common room together, holding hands, and she can feel the stares and the glances shot at her, surprise, acknowledgement, speculation. Eyes follow Daphne, too, as she makes her way towards her dormitory, alone for once; Astoria pictures her standing in the middle of the room, breathing slowly, reunited with herself – getting ready to become one half of an item, probably. Thinking things through, ever so thorough, ever so Daphne. Warm fingers squeeze her own, and she squeezes back, wondering if she can still call herself that cautious, that level-headed. Her eyes scan faces unconspicuously, not appearing to search, merely to notice as she walks by. Zabini cocks an eyebrow at her. Pansy is nowhere to be seen.
"Let's sit," Andreus murmurs, and she smiles lightly, nodding.
They find armchairs in a corner, and he grins devilishly at her as she drops gracefully into her seat, brushing her hair back and crossing her legs at the ankles. His hand lies on his own armrest, fingers spread as if to reach, and something familiar and yet unknown bubbles into her stomach as she surveys him. Best choice, she decides. Pureblooded, reasonably well-off, handsome, intelligent, from a family of influence. His voice is pleasant, his manners flawless, his conversation interesting and they look good together. Her first suitor. She chose him well... Best of her year, certainly, and the sixth years don't get much more appealing. The Greengrass girl has taste, people will think – being together can only be beneficial for both of their images. Rule Four of the Slytherin Common Room, she recalls: run with the right crowd, and always choose the best, with a cool mind and a critical eye. Yes... This is just what she did. Very clever.
He smiles a lot, leaning slightly towards her, body language obvious. She smiles back and toys with her hair, slight nervousness tugging at her self-control. Did she choose him for those perfectly valid reasons? Certainly – and she really enjoys his company... And yet control evades her, taunting voices whisper: was it such a rational thing?
"Let's take a walk," he says suddenly, and she realizes with a jolt that she hadn't been listening.
"I thought you wanted to go right back to the common room," she replies carefully.
He flashes a grin. "I changed my mind."
Quickly on his feet, he offers her his hand – and somewhere between the eagerness in his darkened hazel eyes, the warmth and reality of his touch and the way things curl at the very pit of her stomach in response, she nails down what has been bothering her. She chose this boy, and he chose her; she hadn't been counting on the butterflies and the confusion in her mind.
Not love, she thinks dimly, reason, reason. Not love, not like that, not yet. But he squeezes her hand tighter, and she gives a mechanical smile. "It's so cold out there. Are you sure? I have to study a little..."
"Come on," he says, "just a stroll."
"Later," she decides, "after dinner." Later is safer, further away from the flame in his irises and the knots in her stomach. "Did you do all of your homework?" she probes. "Be honest. I know that the celebrations have stolen my focus."
He laughs. "Homework it is then," he sighs, "I bow to your will."
"Quite the gentleman." She frees her hand. "I'll go fetch a few books."
"Hurry back." His fingers brush her cheek, and subconsciously she bites hard on her lip.
"I will," and he leans in and kisses her quickly, unexpectedly.
Her legs wobble as she turns away and starts towards her dormitory. It's not him, she reasons. His voice, his laugh, his smile please her, without disturbing her. He is the best companion she could want for now, handsome, agreeable and charming... She's not losing her mind. It is something else, something more. The searing light that sometimes crosses his eye, his touch on her skin... his lips against hers, urgent, fierce, greedy...
Being wanted. Not as a porcelain doll or a pretty, faraway thing, not a fantasy, being wanted – touched, moved, owned.
Blinking, she glances up – and for a second, freezes. Someone is staring at her, and it's different. Not the average Slytherin look, assessing and calculating. Neither gossip nor jealousy, and certainly not attraction. Something else, like a scream or a slap – lightning-quick, painfully unexpected, ever so brief and lingering with painful echoes.
Pansy Parkinson is openly gaping at her from the stairs, staring down fixedly. Astoria feels her cheeks flaming red, wincing – nearly physical discomfort upsetting her under the gaze of Draco's girlfriend. Then Pansy jumps, blinking as though snapping back to reality, and leaps down the steps in a hurry. The world around them catches up, and something cold floods Astoria's lungs at the dishevelled hair, the ruffled skirt, the swollen lips. Pansy, slightly panicked, turns towards her own dormitory. Astoria turns away.
Ten seconds, one single look. Nothing suspicious. Ten seconds and nobody noticed anything. Walk less quickly – no. Quicker.
Andreus raises an eyebrow. "What about the books?"
"I changed my mind," she says, and her lips crush down upon his.
Being wanted, she thinks numbly, tasting madness on her tongue. There's something sour, bitter about his hands on her skin and the stares at her back, and she's craving more.
February
"Oh, and Draco and Pansy are broken up," says Daphne casually, glancing at her perfectly manicured nails.
Astoria doesn't look up from the cup of hot coffee in her hands, slowly, purposefully taking a sip.
"Oh, really?" she eventually says. "One less Slytherin It-couple, then?"
"Actually, there are only two now – Blaise and myself, and you and Andreus. The sixth years are all too plain to trigger much interest... Draco and Pansy always did steal the show, but their relationship was a little bit conspicuous, and strained. It wouldn't have ended up with a wedding, or a very short-lived one. Can you picture Pansy in a room with Narcissa Malfoy?" Daphne smirks. "Don't answer that. I love Pansy, really. But she has attitude – not class."
"Too true," Astoria says quite neutrally. "So Blaise and yourself are next?"
Daphne smirks again. "Everybody's been muttering about us these days. Well, those who aren't too busy betting on Draco and Pansy getting back together, or wondering who they'll get with next. But somehow people find time to juggle with the subjects."
"And are you considered wedding material?"
"That's the best thing about it, nobody's got a clue!" She laughs lightly. "Some of them are way too dumb, really. It's not even funny anymore. They're already picking bridesmaids and baby names."
"You've got to be kidding!"
"I swear not."
"What about you, Miss Greengrass?" asks Astoria more seriously. "What does your cunning little brain tell you about these two?"
"I think they're really not considering marriage," she replies, grinning. "They're way too busy assessing one another, playing mind games. Time will tell what happens of those lovers."
They laugh together, and Astoria leans her head against her sister's shoulder, relaxing.
"What about this Andreus fellow and that angel-faced princess he's been parading with?" Daphne wonders, wrapping a strand of her sibling's hair around her finger. "What do you say? Are they serious?"
"Why, they certainly do look good together," she replies, grinning. "They're causing an awful lot of jealousy, aren't they? They have everything."
"True," Daphne agrees. "But rumour has it that soft-spoken little lady is quite the ambitious thing. She won't settle with anything but the best, I've heard."
"That sounds correct," Astoria speaks calmly, her heart beating a bit faster all of a sudden. "The question is, is Andreus Selwyn the best she can do?" She shoots a little smile at her serious sister.
"He could very well be," Daphne says coolly. "It is a good match. Balanced, fulfilling... safe."
(Safe.)
Astoria nods slightly, not looking up, but nuzzling her face against the velvet of Daphne's dress as though sleepy. In one tiny word, a point has been made.
(Andreus is safe. Andreus is young with white arms and his affection reads clear in his eyes.)
The sisters might be so close, but Rule Five of the Slytherin Common Room isn't any less true in their game-like talks, quite the contrary: Take a hint. Read between the lines. Use everything you notice. And you'll get to the top.
"We really are alike," Astoria whispers with a chuckle, and Daphne ruffles her hair.
"I hope so, little sister."
And don't give your trust – select it. Place it. Don't ever let it become granted.
"Trust me, we are."
March
Today, we shall speak of power.
"Can we talk?"
"Sure."
Andreus raises an eyebrow, a smile playing around the edges of his mouth. They are taking a walk on the school grounds, holding hands, strolling around in the slowly melting snow. Astoria watches her breath create tiny clouds. Change is coming, she can feel it under her skin.
"What about?" Andreus probes, his voice light and playful.
"Let's go sit by the lake," she suggests.
"You'll ruin your dress."
That much is true.
They stop at the very border of the lake, and Astoria stares at their reflections. Beautiful. Andreus, grinning, staring at her image, and herself beside him, pale and lovely.
Choose the right moment.
"Will you hear me out?" she asks, turning away from the water.
He nods, turning serious.
"Of course."
She nods briefly. "All right," she begins. "Those three months with you have been amazing. Without a doubt, we make for a really good match." He smiles at that, and she doesn't smile back, watching him with clear, honest eyes. "I feel content to be with you, and I am under the impression that you are extremely content with me. Is that right?"
He nods fiercely.
"Which brings me to my point. I think that we should take a break to think things through, Andreus. We're not going anywhere together. All we do is be satisfied."
And watch your effect strike.
Andreus blinks, slowly turning whiter. He stares, incredulous.
"You want to break up?" he manages, stunned. "You just said that we were perfect."
"No, I said that we were content. That is quite different."
"Your point?"
"We are worth as much together as we are separate. We connect, but there is no challenge. Think about it. Do you want to spend your life that way? We could do better."
"It's been three months!" he rants. "We're bloody fifteen."
"If you think we are going to have plenty of time to figure out and get what we want, with the security that comes along with it, you are deluded."
"What the hell do you mean?"
Her gaze on him is exasperated, this time.
"Ria, please – "
"Don't call me that."
"What brought this on?"
"I'm the only one of us who thinks about the future. That seems to be it."
"The future is us."
"You are too simple for Slytherin, I see."
The first flicker of something ugly breaks out on his face. "This is not about me or us or the future at all, is it?"
"Do tell me what you think it's about, then."
"We could do better. Too right. And you already know where you're going next, don't you? Who is the target this time, Astoria? Draco Malfoy?"
Keep your face smooth.
"All I know is the way I feel. And I do not feel challenged, nor even fulfilled. We both deserve better. I'm sorry, Andreus."
He shakes his head, silently choking.
"You're sorry."
"Yes."
Silence settles. Astoria glances up at the clear sky. No wind, a standstill.
"You're never going to get him," Andreus growls, "he'll spend his life shagging Parkinson because he's that stupid. He still does, you know. And if you do get him, he'll break your ambitious little heart. He'll shatter it. And I'll be there to watch."
Take the blows quietly.
"You make me sick, Astoria Greengrass," he spits, stalking away.
March morning, melting snow, shifting world. Astoria stands there and sees brief images in the clouds and beneath her eyelids. Images of blond princes and lipstick-coated smirks, of dresses and rings. Her neck is prickling from the paranoid feeling of being watched as she inhales deeply, trying to calm herself.
Enjoy your victories. They may taste quite bitter.
She needs to get back to the castle before Andreus has time to do much damage to her reputation. She needs to look grave, serene and innocent. She is all of these things after all.
Rule Six of the Slytherin Common Room might be the clearest one for her: all is fair in love and war.
(and don't kid yourself: every second of life is a war.)
April
"Why did you leave him?"
The question comes, harsh and unexpected, from behind. Astoria whirls around, startled.
"Draco?" They are running late, dangerously close to curfew. Night is close and they are rushing towards the looming shape of the castle, on their way back from Hogsmeade. She thought she was alone.
"Answer me," he simply, coldly says.
"What is it to you?"
"That depends on your reply, so I suggest you give it to me."
She stops, staring right into his eyes. "We were going nowhere together," she says flatly. "So I dumped him."
"Rumour has it that you may have had someone else in mind..."
"I thought you would know better than to listen to the rumours."
"Actually, I do think I would know better than them."
They are standing quite close to one another now, very much alone. Part of Astoria's mind is calculating the time left before curfew, and the potential punishment – what they would do to Draco and herself is another question – while another part is working on keeping her smooth composure, and the last, most important one is shaping a subtle, precariously balanced equation from Draco's dark, rigid posture and the distance between them. A casual wave of her hand, or one quick step forward – "Did you have me in mind, Astoria?"
Too straightforward, he catches her off guard, yet again – and takes her breath away. "This is not a very appropriate question to ask."
"And you are certainly so very appropriate, Astoria," he retorts. "Answer."
Here she feels her moment coming. Squaring her shoulders, staring straight into his eyes – "Yes."
He breathes deeply, shaking his head. "Very well."
She cocks an eyebrow, waiting for him to look her way again. After a minute he does. "No," he says, the word thrown, quick, sharp and precise, from his lips, "we are not going to be together, Astoria."
She stares for a minute, feeling faintly cold. "Do forgive me," she says at last – slowly, carefully – "but I don't see why not."
"Astoria, I don't want you." His voice is harsh, designed to hurt, his cold eyes searching hers as if to find her conviction and burn it to ashes. "You're a lovely little girl. That is all."
Now this does hurt quite a bit, but she does not let it show. "We would be perfect together. And you know it," she utters instead, perfectly calm. Surely he knows Rule Seven of the Slytherin Common Room: everything comes down to business, and agreements. Live your life like a politician. Never forgive, never forget – but know what and when to overlook.
"I know nothing," he spits. "I don't know how you can be so naive, for one. But I do know that I don't want you, nor, at the moment, anyone." He pauses. "And I don't want to go through hell for breaking curfew, either. Be a clever girl. Hurry up and keep your mouth shut."
She remains frozen on the road, while he strides past her and disappears into the darkness.
Be a clever girl.
Strangely enough, she can't quite seem to process the words.
May
"Miss... Greengrass, is that it? What a lovely surprise."
Astoria takes a deep breath.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Malfoy. I am here to see your son."
Narcissa Malfoy raises one elegant eyebrow at this, her eyes sweeping over the young woman. "I see," she says slowly. "Very well, then. You may come in."
Quite acquainted herself with wealth and luxury, Astoria endeavours to keep all reaction toward her lavish surroundings from showing on her face. Narcissa Malfoy leads her smoothly from the grand hallway to a small, beautifully decorated lounge where she gestures for her to sit. The young woman observes her from the corner of her eye, all graceful elegance and distant charm, her perfection untouched by the war, or so it seems. She feels small and young herself, but also oddly confident, as though at the very beginning of a long yet secure path.
"I shall fetch Draco for you," Narcissa announces. "Perhaps you would enjoy something to drink?"
"Oh, thank you, but no thank you," Astoria replies pleasantly. "I do not wish to bother you. I apologize for the disruption."
"There is none," answers Narcissa with a dismissive move of her dainty hand. "Please do make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you," repeats Astoria, to the woman's retreating back.
And then she is alone. Her heart starts beating alarmingly faster, thoughts swirling through her head, but she sets her breathing to a slow, controlled pace, and busies herself observing every item in the room, one by one, noting their unique singularities and yet the way they all fall smoothly into the spirit of the place, harmonious to the eye. Everything here is precious and costly, chosen with taste and flawlessly arranged. It is a haven of careful perfection, and still its beauty feels breathtakingly natural. Astoria doesn't quite know whether to feel humbled or heightened by such surroundings, yet the slowly-blossoming feeling of belonging appeases her nervousness regardless, and her smile is a serene one when the door flies open, and Draco strides in.
"What are you doing here?" he breathes.
Astoria steels herself. "I came to see you," she says calmly, evenly.
"What for?"
"Do I need a reason?"
He exhales into a heavy sigh. "Don't try to fool me, Astoria. You always have a reason."
"Wanting to see you is something I deem reason enough," she responds. "I did not think up any further plotting, don't worry."
He takes a small step forward, as though to sit, but remains towering above her. "It's not like we were friends," he says a bit harshly. "Like we were ever friends."
"What were we, then?" she counters.
"But we were nothing, Astoria. That is exactly my point."
"You are the one fooling yourself by now," she defies quietly.
He grits his teeth, but gives no reply.
"Did Pansy come to see you?" she continues, daring.
He glares at her as though in warning.
"Pansy and I are long broken up," he reminds.
"But it didn't always stop you," she amends matter-of-factly.
He scowls, half-turning away, and her breathing catches as her suspicions turn into certitude.
"I don't want you, Astoria," he says, the words sounding old and empty of meaning to her. "I have nothing to give to you."
"So you think – "
"You don't know the first thing about me," he snarls. "You don't know the things I've said or done. You don't know the people I've killed, Astoria. No one does."
Under his searing gaze, she blanches and swallows hard. "Draco – "
"Astoria," he cuts her in, "do I need to show you out?"
"No," she manages in an even voice, "that is quite unnecessary. I can find my way, thank you for your concern."
He holds her gaze, unflinching. "Then leave."
She doesn't stumble as she makes her way outside, into the wide grounds of the manor.
Yet no reasoning nor rules can distract her from the bitter taste of failure.
June, one year later
Astoria leaves the Hogwarts Express for the last time, silent goodbyes in her wandering eyes as she takes the platform in. Her sister will be waiting for her, she supposes as she weaves her way through the crowds of people, feeling oddly strong. They are hosting a ball soon, to celebrate her eighteenth birthday as well as her NEWTs, and they will be in need for gowns –
Astoria's body hits a tall, warm shape, the shock knocking the breath out of her. She stumbles, and fingers close around her wrist, holding tightly onto her as a smooth voice speaks: "My apologies, young lady."
And Astoria looks up into the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.
She gasps, cheeks flaming and lungs tightening all of a sudden, flooded by surprise and quite a few memories, not all of them pleasant. He looks only ever so slightly less pale and a weaker eye probably wouldn't catch the nuance, but she does. He's smirking an edgy smirk and staring down at her without a word.
"What is it?" she has to ask, though dreading a "What do you mean?"
He releases her, cocking an eyebrow. "You've grown."
And a light-headed kind of relief washes over her, without warning.
"Where have you been all this time?" she says in a would-be casual voice, fighting to control her head and her nerves.
He chuckles. "Places," he retorts, maddeningly elusive. "I'm just back in England. I guess I felt like dropping by, and having a look at you."
She has to remind herself of harsh words from the past at that point, to control the silly excitement bubbling into her stomach. "Why would that be?" she demands. "I thought you wanted nothing to do with me."
"I told you, you have grown," he simply replies. "And very conveniently, so have I," he adds under his breath.
She stares up at him as though trying to run him through with her eyes, feeling like a squealing schoolgirl and an almost-woman at the same time. So she plotted and plotted, graceful smiles and half-shaded words, for nothing – and here he comes back, out of the blue. She's wearing a ring on her finger, an engagement ring that belongs to Theodore Nott, and she's gazing at Draco Malfoy, who embodies everything she's ever wanted. The head and the heart, diamonds and butterflies – and choosing on impulse terrifies her, of course.
Wordlessly, she raises her left hand, holding it up before his face.
"You never waste any time, do you?" he murmurs. "I won't give you a better one, not right now. But I think you're more than cunning enough to get one out of me someday, somehow. At least we both know that you more than deserve it." He holds her gaze. "Is that enough for you to wager on?"
She keeps watching her own hand. Then she slowly lowers it, brushing against his – just brushing. She doesn't take off the ring, she just withdraws and smiles a slow smile.
"Will you come to our ball, Mr Malfoy?" she asks. "I am to be queen of the evening."
"I certainly will," he says with a light bow, "now, I wouldn't miss that for anything in the world."
"Are you walking me to the barrier?"
"Actually, I think your sister is waiting for you..."
He half-turns, gesturing behind him, and there stands Daphne, a few feet away, eyeing the two of them coolly, thoughtfully. He smirks, and Astoria breathes deeply, smiling.
"It was lovely to see you again," she tells Draco.
"Likewise," he replies smoothly. "I will see you soon, Astoria."
"Soon," she echoes, and he catches her hand as she raises it unthinkingly, bringing it to his lips.
She squeezes his fingers nervously, on a whim. He lets her go.
She walks past him in a kind of daze, heading towards her sister. Daphne steps away from the column she was leaning against, a cryptic little smirk playing on her lips. The future, Astoria thinks, reaching her hand out, her left hand – and she curls it around Daphne's arm, twining their limbs together and resting her head against her sibling's shoulder. Daphne drops a ghost of a laugh against her younger sister's hair, guiding her forward.
She thinks of Draco watching her leave, and her heart beats a bit quicker. She doesn't know if she's fleeing from it, or embracing it – the future, she chants in her head, stepping through the gate and leaving a little girl behind.