Her mother says, Astoria, boys are fickle, but that Malfoy boy, he's different.
And Astoria's supposed to blush and smile and look modestly to the ground but when mum says this she looks straight at her with grey hard eyes and says Yes mum, I know, we were in a war.
But there's not that about Draco, the war, like there is in everyone else; everyone else has a little grey tinging them, but Draco's always had that, and it's like ink on a palm: it's spread across him in little cracks, branches, and he's so shattered and strange that Astoria wants him so much more.
Hello, says Draco, when he meets her outside a restaurant. He's taken her to a million ones like this, where the menus aren't in English and they have a queue to get in. Astoria likes them, because she can finally wear those clothes she used to think were ugly, the square necked black dresses that are like faint perfumes or tiny glasses of wine.
Hello, Astoria replies, and he takes her in, arms looped, because they always let Draco skip those queues. Their table is candlelit, beautiful, and there's someone playing a violin somewhere, which Draco is absent mindedly drumming his fingers on the table in time to.
Astoria says Something's on your mind, are you okay?
And Draco keeps drumming his fingers, frowning, and says Will you marry me?
Astoria smiles her words and they're all pretty yellow colours, her words, like poetry, or her bedroom walls. Draco's bought her a ring, but she doesn't wear it because it's huge and gaudy and makes her hand look slightly weighed down — so she loves it, but no one else does. Draco brings her flowers to work and they're yellow too, and all the ladies in the office congratulate her. She knows they don't mean it; Draco's not a war hero, he's the opposite, but Astoria feels like she's playing with fire. When she's with him.
Interesting choice, comes a dry voice, interrupting her paper, Draco Malfoy's an interesting choice.
Yes, says Astoria, and look up to see a twisted Ginny Weasley, all grown up. Ginny was never pretty, not really, and now she takes a yellow rose from Draco's bunch this morning and starts ripping petals from it.
Ginny tilts her head Are you really marrying him? It's so strange.
Strange? Astoria thinks Draco is beautiful, and she knows she is.
Someone told her, a boy at school, that she looked like Mia Sara, and she doesn't know who that is, but she guesses it's good.
Draco says Astoria I'm sorry I asked.
Astoria: Why?
Because I don't know if I love you, I don't know anything, I don't know if I can marry someone.
Astoria blinks, lips parted, Okay.
Draco screams OKAY? I JUST FUCKING SAID I DIDN'T LOVE YOU!
Okay, Astoria repeats. Calm.
What the FUCK Astoria WHAT IS YOUR problem why can't you get MAD! AT ME!
Astoria slaps him, but only because he wants her to.
They get married. Draco's in a suit with a yellow rose tucked into his pocket. When the vicar's saying whatever he says, Astoria doesn't care, she leans and whispers into the shell of Draco's ear: I can say no.
Draco shakes his head. I was drunk, he says, I was so fucking drunk and I love you.
He wasn't drunk, though. Astoria knows that, just like she knows who Mia Sara is, now. Draco's like the mirror she threw her wand at when she was fifteen, all shattered and splintered, but none of the glass fell out. So Astoria stared at a distorted reflection of herself for so long without blinking she cried, and then she cried properly because she'd broken her mirror.
Draco's like mirror with all the glass somehow kept in.
I do
says Draco
I do
says Astoria.
Maybe their happy ending is like the reflection in broken glass, because Astoria starts smoking. It's supposed to be glamorous but it's not, it's controlling, addictive.
Draco doesn't start anything, only fights, shouting. It's his outlet, his dealing with The War and after every fight he pours her a glass of Firewhiskey and rubs her back in smooth circles and says Astoria, honey, I love you.